I’m From (Poetry Piece)

Posted on by

Emulated from Where I’m From By George Ella Lyon

I’m from a land of shadows and gloom

Blood splattered walls and shattered sanity

I’m from a place of unknown struggles and cries of pain

I’m from a darkened mind which begs to be understood;

Forever trying to reason with others but always failing to do so

Beaten memories and broken dreams line the walls of a carnival fueled by my ideas.

Entrails coat the crumbling walls like blood dipped streamers

caused from a past birthday party of mine, in which no one showed

Tossing about the brittle bones of victims,

which are taken forcefully by my slender hands

Long winter nights filled with my silent screams fading into the endless void, never to be heard

I’m from blistering flames of envy and fear

I’m from the shambles of love and death, equally balanced on the scale of my life

Busted blood clots and soft, pink cotton candy dreams violently interject each other within my mind

causing mental hurricanes which leave my head in ruins and tears upon my cheeks, burning into the skin like acid

I’m from a normal family- unlike me

The odd one out

Always the freak that spends her time alone

Writing about the suffering of herself and others

and never telling anyone about her pain

They would never understand me; I was always aware of that fact

I am the weird one in every group

No one wants to talk to me unless they have to

She is a blank face that hides so much emotion

I’m from a realm of unrequited love

Always a crush

and never anything more

One day I will understand that I will always and forever be alone, as I should be…

If it is true that I am crazy

I will be my crazy self with pride

Nothing can change me

——————————————————————————–

My inspiration for this piece was my personal struggles with my own state of mind. I often have conflicts with myself, believing that I am indeed crazy. My brain contradicts itself often and it sometimes leaves me is emotional turmoil. It makes me feel better that I can write it down in a form that others can read and understand.

Bloody Ladybird Rose By Anonymous

http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=128176&picture=bloody-ladybird-rose

P IS FOR POTHOS

Posted on by

Requirement: Write about where it sits and what’s next to it. Write about this plant as you would about a new pet you’re about to take home. Ask yourself: What will it be like when it grows? How well will you take care of it? Who else will care for it? Take it home and keep a regular diary about its development.

A-Z Post: 1/3

Day One

The aesthetically pleasing to the eye,

Mother stood and watch the potho in awe,

And so did I,

In varying tints of greens – the stem in hooker’s green,

And the leaves of forest green,

We were eager to purchase it from “Home Sense”,

So then – we brought it home

Our new member…

Our newly plant potho.

One Week

Only thirty centimetres long,

Same length from the day we bought it,

The broad leaves extended out of the pot,

We had replaced the old pot from the store with a new one,

Mother had hanged the potho against the ceiling with a steel chain tied onto the hook,

Which protruded out from the two sides of the rim of the pot,

It looked fine and healthy,

However – watering it was a trouble,

Whenever we watered it, water would seep through the soil,

Fall from the bottom of the pot,

And land on the ground,

So, we had to wipe it everytime we had to quench its thirst.

One Year

It has been a long time,

It has grown to thirty-five  centimetres long,

So slow its growth, but extremely delicate,

We had achieved its survival for one year,

A great accomplishment, indeed,

Two Years

Triple the year – it has been great three years of growth,

The leaves branched out and extended to,

Sixty centimetres long,

I gazed at it – our effort to keep it growing,

Just an amazing result –  long and beautiful leaves of nature,

Motionless, yet can hear,

Just like us,

So I talk, whispering to it,

Gentle and careful,

I was only fourteen – but I had the colossal imaginations of all,

So I whispered,

As if it was a human who I eagerly was talking to,

The leaves showering in rain from my water-dipper,

As I poured it onto them,

Newly green –  but a fresh one,

It was enjoying the rain and the swallowed water.

Three Years

Too long – it has grown to one meter and a half,

A colossal length, I must say,

Looking at it was satisfying,

To see our family’s effort on it – my mother, sister, and I.

It has grown against the wall, weaving through its own stems,

Finding its way through to exceed more,

So we let it – we tied strands of yard onto the lengthy stems and and pulled it upwards,

To let it grow taller and safer against the rigid wall,

To decorate our wall with the alluring patterns of the leaves,

Intertwining with each other,

Creating a net of green nature,

Easy as a piece of cake to bend the stem and break it,

But – I would never do that,

Even if I did, I would dig a tiny hole on the same soil,

And plant the broken stem onto the new area of new growth,

Then – it would elongate with the other ones,

And reveal a chemistry of nature – a new one,

And an original one,

Now, we have three separate pothos,

Each, in different places in our home,

Revealing their beauty of green nature,

The beauty of the pothos.

This free verse poem was written based on a plant –  which are called “pothos”. These plants are extremely long in length when they are taken great care of. For now, we have three separate pothos in our home, each in different places. These are one of my favourite “green” plants I have ever kept. Pothos are a very unique plant – taking into consideration that they take a long time to grow and are very beautiful. We purchased our first potho when I was nine-years-old. Since then, my love for pothos grew more over the years as me and my family took care of it. Through this free verse poem, I have described the pothos over the day, week, and years and how it has developed as a plant and how I have a deep connection for these plants in my home.

Image Citation: http://jenbosen.com/2016/03/houseplant-week-pothos.html

My Glimmering Light

Posted on by

This poem conveys certain emotions I have never really expressed verbally to my glimmering light, as I tend to shyly peer at them from underneath my lashes; however, I did not want to hide what I felt and decided to write a poem of endearment to them instead.

I cannot bear to hear the
sound of my own heartbeat,
It should be a beautiful phenomenon;
a sign that you are still living,
breathing,
but I am afraid.

There is a low thump
that quickly hastens its pace,
my anxiety heightens,
my breath seizing.

It is as if
my heart will burst out of my chest-
I’ll bleed to death
or maybe my blood pressure will soar-
a pulsating headache ready to explode;
It hurts,
Why does it hurt so much?

My sleep apnea
has me gasping every night
for air,
erratic thuds
creating a lullaby of dissonance
with each
inhale and exhale.

I stumble
in my lightheadedness,
there is nothing for me to hold on to,
to keep me from losing my balance,
the metronome within me will not
stop ticking.

Gravity pulls me through
the surface of the Universe,
the echoing of the drums grow distant
but the vibrations never stop-
my bones
tingling.

I am slowly falling into
an abyss of darkness-
and I open my mouth to
scream,
cry,
but nothing comes out.

The dark abyss of the night
is starless
with the exception
of a single, glimmering light;
in the moment, I forget
about the incredulity of
my fleeting, palpitating heart
and begin to
find myself drifting
across the thin
mist of clouds.

“Please help.”
I beg,
reaching out for
an outstretched palm
coming into vision,
my grasp of hope-
I am compelled to run into those
vast open arms,
my embrace of acceptance-
I am caught up in a pair of
chocolate brown eyes,
my refuge.

I am no longer falling apart
into a void of destruction,
but rather,
I am falling into place
seeming so right-
a shooting, incandescent body
being drawn to another;
a contradiction to
the ending of a
tale between two
star-crossed lovers.

I take the leap
and feel my soul
aligning with his,
this is the gift of the Universe-
tears are streaming down my face and
I can finally breathe!
I hold on so tight;
never wanting to let go,
a sob escaping out of my lips
as my chest uncontrollably surges
with relief.
I screamed until my voice had become hoarse,
felt everything that needed to be felt
because he allowed me to-
and
I am no longer in pain;
he has taken my hurt away.

I press my ear to his chest,
hear his heart beating just as fast-
a rhythm matching mine:
Calm and comfortable
in the deafening silence.

I then realize that
I am no longer afraid
of the beating of my own heart.

Featured Image

My main focus was to depict the journey of how my untuned heartstrings (“I cannot bear to hear the sound of my own heartbeat.”) initially felt until they were adjusted and able to create music again by a gentle strum of affection (stanza 9). It has always been a struggle for me to think that I was deserving of anyone’s attention at all- let alone be offered with intentions from the heart, and being with this light has brought so much warmth, comfort, a place to belong, and impacted me such that I am slowly gaining more confidence (“I can finally breathe.”), and the idea of  being accepted as well as deserving to receive what they have given me. I took inspiration from the song “Light of My Life” by cvmel, with the specific lyric, “You light up my life even when it’s dark”, to symbolize him as a light.  Love can be scary (referring to why I was afraid of my own heartbeat), but as a certain phrase goes, “Choose love over fear.”, and that is what I have chosen to do (“I take the leap”).

Cicadas

Posted on by

Clink…clink…clink

The metallic sound was grating. It wrapped around the girls ears. Bled into her skull and out of her ears like a lazy centipede. The intangible sensation of liquid noise leaking out of an aperture.

Clink…clink…clink

It had started out as this deafening obstruction. Something which screeched and howled and battered itself around. A gargantuan metallic presence. But it wasn’t living. It was just a machine. At least the girl had thought so…but that had been several hours ago.

Clink…clink…clink

It had to be eight hours…maybe nine…no it was probably ten. The shifts lasted twelve hours. Yes it had to be ten hours so only two more to go. No three. Maybe four if she miscounted. What if it really was only seven hours?

 The girl didn’t know anymore…she didn’t focus on the minutes so much now because her head had started to feel weightless again. Her hands turning into something synthetic and separate from her body moving with the mindless shuffle of boxes being folded around her.

Clink…clink…clink

Mouth full of invisible cloth. Soaking up the moisture. If there was even any left to spare. Eyes rocking back and forth ever so subtly as they hummed to themselves. The girl let her head roll forwards as the buzzing in her head mingled with the sound behind her eyelids. Cicadas were trapped in her skull flapping madly and now they wanted out. So they were going to carve there way out of her eyes. Escape in a flurry of bright hypnotic noise and wet glittering wings.

Her head snapped back and she rubbed her eyes furiously. Her neck grew taunt as she felt it crack and she crumbled in an instant. Her hands scrabbling at her sore neck, jabbing at her eyes as she let out strangled gasps which clawed out of her throat so a scream could rip up the stagnate atmosphere.

She writhed on the ground, screaming because maybe then she could override the gentle humming behind her eyes. Thrashing because maybe she could shake the cicada’s out of her ears instead. The grey scale room blended into a smudged abstract blur, the awful rustling noise beating into her head like a metallic heart. Hands digging into flesh so the pain could make everything else stop.

” GOD JUST MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP, MAKE IT STOP! “

There was the muted shuffle of anxious feet and the girl in all her writhing and tossing around felt hands grasp at her. Latching on like a vice and pulling her from the ground. Sight came back to her in a paralyzing lurch as she hoisted to her feet the room returning to her like color bleeding into a light sketch.

The room. In all of it’s horrendous monotony. Bulky and indistinguishable metal contraptions  and churning gears made up the backdrop of a city full of conveyor belts, automatons and people clothed in a sickly white folding boxes. The girl pressed her fingers gently to her eyelids. They fluttered briefly and she pulled her hand back, fog starting to surround the edges of  her mind. She thought she had heard someone scream but when she looked around she was met with blank stares and a few terrified gazes.

A familiar hand grasped her from behind breaking the surreal moment . The girl whipped around heart clamoring up her chest. She struggled briefly before recognizing the face in front of her.

Anna.

Her dark eyes stuck out on her gaunt face making her look like an emaciated owl and her olive skin felt clammy against hers.

The girl ceased her rickety movements and slumped into her arms the faint feeling in her head finally swelling over. She felt Anna lean her against the frigid rail of the conveyor belt before stepping cautiously back in case the girl lost balance again.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

” I…I think so. But someone else isn’t. I heard them scream. We should get help.”

“That was you.”

The girl shook her head partially out of confusion and partially because it still felt foggy.

“No I heard her…just now.”

Anna placed a skinny arm on her shoulder.

“Winona…your not well…you can’t go back to work. You need to rest.”

The girl almost didn’t recognize her name. No one used their real names. Some days it seemed like Winona was an imaginary friend who was rarely mentioned because she was no longer real or interesting to the one who made her up. Anna was the only one who used her name. However it could be a perilous thing to just causually blurt out such things so these moments were fleeting and far between.

“I have to! I’m already behind as it is!” The girl then leaned forward to whisper in Anna’s ear.

“I’ll get in trouble…again.”

“I’ll take the blame…I don’t care just please rest for a moment.”

In that moment she felt another fluttering sensation in her skull. The cicada’s. Restless and desperate for open space which the confines of her mind could not provide. Perhaps the scream she heard was from someone who had them as well but could no longer keep them inside. Could not longer block them out. Anna didn’t understand what was going on but she did. Oh god….this may be worse than she thought. And the worst part. This was happening inside so who would believe her.

” I’m fine Anna…”

The girl turned her back on Anna’s lanky figure and resumed folding the boxes sliding tiredly past her as if they had grown sick of being handled. Touched. Confined and controlled. She felt bad for whatever may be inside the rough cardboard exterior. Imprisoned within wrapping paper and held down by elastics which served as cruel little corsets without the lacy allure grasping at the ribs. Holding flesh against bone and cutting into it’s contours not as sharp as knives but tight enough to make it feel like knives.

There was an echoing sigh before the distorted sound of retreating footsteps resounded from behind her. Her fingers grasped at the edges of the box the sharp bits of the board cutting into her palms granting her focus. She pressed harder drawing a few pinpricks of blood which spiraled down her hand. Miniature rivulets running serenely down. Ruby streams carrying along invisible fish with sweeping tails which fanned out in a wave of bejeweled scarlet and fiery orange before folding back again. An ornate koi posing as a living breathing fan.

The girl continued folding and packing letting her now numbing hands gain a consciousness of their own once again. Only once did she pause to survey around her for she worried that perhaps she really had been imagining the girl she thought she heard scream. But there was nothing. Only the usual line of people pressed up in a claustrophobic inducing cluster around her, robotic as ever. Maybe the girl had gotten up and just resumed her work like nothing happened? Generally everyone here was very proficient at returning to their duties no matter the disruptions temporarily jarring their concentration.

The girl held on to this nagging perplexity as she turned back to the boxes. Questions sometimes cleared the fog in her head. Masked the flapping of iridescent wings beating around like her skull was a crystal they tapped against. The pattering of tiny anxious legs which would occasionally scuttle atop the softness of her brain. It was often ticklish enough but it was also very uncomfortable turning something silly into a nuisance, which eventually divulged into another headache.

Clink…clink…clink

The metallic monster was at it again. But her head had cleared enough that she could confirm it wasn’t alive. But she had four more hours to go still, perhaps this concept would change once more. The girl shook her feet trying to get the blood to flow a little as she had forgotten to give them a good stretch several hours ago and as they settled back onto the concrete a crunching noise met the heel of her worn shoes.

She lifted her foot in one creaking motion and stuck to the bottom among bits of sharp pebbles and chalky dust was a shimmering wing crushed into an emerald glitter between two globs of dirt.

It was the missing wing of a cicada.

Image:

Αυτή η δεμι-θεά είναι η ουσία της ποίησης

Posted on by

The eye of the universe

bats its lashes at a

a single sliver of splintered light

blinking boastfully in the opaqueness–

a crescent m☽☽n is birthed,

carved by the Huntswoman’s

    ➳silver tipped arrows➳

on the night I–

a demi-goddess-

am born.

 

And this Hunstwomen,

my heavenly mother,

my celestial nurturer,

Artemis

plants antlers atop my

hairless skull in the hopes that I,

her daughter,

will grow wild

as the deer Her Greatness

has vowed to protect;

as the cypress whose limbs

swell with greenery;

as the moon who must wax

as surely as it must wane;

as Artemis herself,

whom they call

“Lady of Wild Things.”

 

And I too

am a Wild Thing,

for I am a women

of extremity.

 

How can I not be,

when I come from a long line

of deities,

whose veins palpitate

with the very atoms of chaos.

 

How else am to explain the fire

the seethes inside of my soul,

a fire kindled by Zeus,

the Lord of the Sky,

the God of all Gods.

 

Lightning bolts play hopscotch

across my collarbone,

crack against my ribcage

like Poprocks crack against tongue.

 

Some days,

these flames enable

the crusade of my passions,

accelerating me onwards,

like the wheels of

pegasus drawn chariot.

 

But there is such as thing

as being too passionate,

for with great passion comes

great emotion,

and with great emotion comes

the capacity for great heartbreak.

 

I love with the catastrophic magnitude

of a category five hurricane;

it’s no wonder no other mortal man

is capable of reciprocating my musings,

for there is no emulating this storm,

there is no matching the desires

of Aphrodite’s offspring.

 

 

And you should see my heart

when it’s broken–

the way it snaps so eloquently

like the neck of a swan,

how it metamorphosizes,

scorching itself

to a point of  αγνώριστος 

  (unrecognizable)

blackness.

 

In the pit of my

cracked palms,

I hold the charred

f

00000000000r

00000a

g

00000000m

000000000000 e

0000n

000000000t

s

of my heart–

kaleidoscopic shards

jagged enough to draw blood.

 

When the palpitating ache

in my chest proves to be unbearable,

I sprint to the riverside,

well aware that it is the closest

I will be able to get to the ocean

on such short notice.

 

I take off my socks and

my worn down Doc Martens

and wade into the water.

Entranced by its

refreshingly cruel coldness,

I baptize myself in its

precarious currents and beg

Poisedon to extinguish the fire in me.

 

He douses me in his spirit

in an attempt to console the embers

that lick at my heels.

But this attempt proves

to be unsuccessful;

for there is no way of curing

the daughter of Olympus.

 

Fire and water merge,

imposing on to my being

a molten existence.

 

0000000000000 I    l~i~q~u~e~f~y.

 

Tendrils of lava crawl

up my oesophagus,

sear the impression

of a laurel atop my head,

burn so violently,

they turn purple.

 

“Dear Gods,”

I plead

“Take away this body,

this mind,

this soul–”

 

“Child,”

a lyrical voice

echoes back to me.

“You must not forsake yourself

like this, ”

she declares.

“The mark of the Parthenon,

of I,

your third mother,

Athena

dwells among your fingertips–

There is

p

o

e

t

r

y

in your bones,

an emblem of my wisdom,

of Apollo’s bestowal of enlightenment.

 

And so you,

my demi-goddess,

must carry on the legacy

of your ancestors through

your wildness

your extremity

your chaos–

your poetry.

 

For you were made

in the image of the Gods.”

Taylor Swift Safe and Sound Gif (n.d). [image] Available at: https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/203999058099857154/?lp=true [Accessed 21 June. 2018].

Sonder

Posted on by

n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own

Both the Water and City excerpts are written in relation to the Sky. I recommend reading that one before each of the other two.

What: Write about movement. Sit and watch the world go by. Notice the differences between land and water and sky.

-s is for sky-

From here, I can see everything.

I can see the way that things weave into one another without losing their individuality. Complimenting each other while standing completely beautiful alone too. Nothing compromising its integrity to become more suited to its surroundings.

And nothing.

While everything is seen, nothing comes with an explanation. No specifics. Its like I’m looking at the cover of a novel with no idea about the stories it holds. Devoid of detail, it’s hard to tell whether the world is more or less beautiful.

The big picture but not details.

Although it’s difficult to determine how its beauty changes with distance, I can say that: from up here, the world seems so small. The farther away from something you get, the less meaning it seems to have. Maybe this air of mystery is why I love the sky.

Up here, I’m gliding among the clouds and stars.

Like the clouds, I’ve floated upward only to be returned to the ground. And like the stars, you’ll see me only if you’re looking.

Both ever-present even if they’re unseen.

Existing up here in different ways- as silent observers and the silently observed. As they look down, they are also looked up to (by only the most curious of eyes).

Up here, its like life pauses for a while- taking that break we all wish that it would.

Looking down, everything seems to be moving in slow-motion. No struggle is visible, only movement. Its impossible to tell who, or what, or why. So, I make my own stories.

Time passes below you yet not around you,

So I look down add meaning to the movement. Giving it a purpose in my mind, making it relevant again- but in a way different than it truly is. This way that makes sense to only me, and only in this moment.

the sky doesn’t live on a clock, it creates it.

The days pass as it dictates. Whether they be bright or bleak. It forces open tired eyes as it chooses and bodes them farewell as it casts shadows over the world, returning the sun to its resting place for the night.

What: Write about movement. Sit and watch the world go by. Notice the differences between land and water and sky.

-w is for water-

Below the sky, lies another force.

This one seemingly less impactful in its presence.. Seemingly. This sky on land is one just as strong and sure of its capabilities. Fostering life in a completely different way.

It too flows.

Mirroring the appearance and sentiments of the sky in itself, yet also contradicting them. It’s like an alternate universe. In its generosity, it gives life to everything the air cannot, but snatching it from others. In small quantities, it essential to even our survival, but in abundance, it can prove to be detrimental.

Often, it’s seen as nothing more than scenery.

So selfish so many of us are, to think that its presence is for only our viewing pleasures. As we lock up its inhabitants in glass boxes, giving their life no other purpose than to be beautiful. We ignore everything that it is and everything that does.

But it exists as so much more than that.

Down here, seeing it up close, it’s easy for me to forget how it’s essential to the life of everything, and everyone. It’s easy for me to get caught up in its movement. And so I, looking at its depth with my shallow point of view, reduce its existence to superficiality.

Looking past it surface, examining it more closely so much can be seen

This is how I know, while distance lets me skim over imperfections and struggle, it takes away from the real beauty: the experience.

From far away, nothing is important, but up close- everything is.

As the distance grows smaller and smaller, the real story becomes more visible. And that’s what water teaches me about life: From a distance, every story a figment of my imagination. Only as I come closer will I be able to see what is real…BUT even then, I won’t necessarily understand it.

While the sky provides the comfort of distance, water brings me into close proximity with life.

From afar the world’s mystery is enchanting. But looking closely, I realise that none of that mystery is lost. My knowledge is still limited.

Both of them, they’re home

Not for me, but to so much other than me. It’s a world just as unexplored as space, I can only wonder what lies within it- who and what and how. And even if it’s not home, it’s homely. Providing comfort to all those that seek it.

There are so many questions… But on earth and in the sky these two bodies exist only to give life. What comes of it is up to us. I am subject to the whims of their flows yet free to create a life of my own. Those around me do the same, I will just never know how, or what, or why.

What to do there: Write about shapes and signs. Write about angles. Explore how people and traffic use the intersection – if you can view it from a bird’s-eye view, great; if not, write what you imagine it would look like from above. Describe how the roads connect and how the intersection is organised.

-c is for city-

The people,

Falling in line with the whims of the sky, they live their lives. Around a clock they cannot control, they plan their days and night. Some live and some just survive.

while from here they are unseen, their actions are not.

None of them think too deeply about it, neither do I. We all forget that nothing is meaningless. Like dominoes, all of our lives crash and fall into one another’s. Each moment has an influence on the rest, most times without ever having been in contact.

Lights flicker on and off, following people

Light follows where there is life, even the sky can’t control that.

Whole skylines are illuminated with a simple flick

I realise just how much power we have, I have. We break the consistency of the sky, from the ground, without ever really trying to. With light, and so much else, we take control over our lives. We make our own clock.

Putting the old travelling stars to shame,

killing them a second time.

Having come so far to see us, they are let down. During their long travels, we have found a replacement. They are no longer noticed or needed. The world is too occupied to see them.

Highways weave through the fabric of the land,

Breaking apart land to bridge people. There we go again, changing the world built for us to make one we can control.

looking so much longer from up here.

I guess you can never really how far you’re going till you’ve gotten there

Hindsight…or down sight, in this case, is always clearer.

So much is gained from stepping away and looking back. The sky teaches me that.

From up here, everything seems so peaceful,

From up here, seemingly everything is perfect. Nothing makes noise or causes trouble.

so simple.

Devoid of detail, the world goes silently on by.

None of the gears show.

Without having to look too closely, everything seems to fall into each other so perfectly. No hitches.

Only the clock ticks,

In a world we have begun to control, this remains the only constant. Returning us to out rightful place. This consistency reminds us of how powerless we truly are.

and only because the sky lets it.

As we begin to believe that we have full control over our lives, we discredit all of the forces that influence it. We are products of everything around us. This impact is left so easily forgotten because it slips in through the shadows. Nobody has ever seen it coming, even while expecting it. The world and the people around us leave us forever changed. It doesn’t matter who or what or why or how. The only thing that matters is the recognition of its existence

A little clarification:

For as long as I can remember, my lack of insight into the lives of those around me has always been hugely apparent. During one particularly aimless internet adventure, I stumbled upon the word “sonder”. Never had I encountered something that encapsulated this exact feeling so perfectly in such few words. Since then, this idea/emotion/realisation …whatever… has become an obsession of mine. So, finding a connection to it through each of these various locations was fairly easy for me.

As I wrote this piece, it really had no direction, I wrote freely hoping to gain inspiration from just word vomiting. From that word vomiting came this piece. The italicised descriptions are meant to depict my thought process and analysis of each line. Without these side notes, the piece still stands- maybe you can add your own analyses 😉

 

Mauerbauertraurigkeit

Posted on by

Mauerbauertraurigkeit
n. the inexplicable urge to push people away, even close friends who you really like.

Dear Best Friend,
This is a goodbye I never had the courage to tell you.

You know me well enough inside out
That I trust you to understand why this is
The fall-out I never had the will to fight
Because lately, our friendship has felt like
Walking on eggshells.

Once upon a time,
We were each others safe space,
Where nothing other than us mattered.
We were there for each other, supporting and respecting
Through every changing phase
From nails to hairdos
From dresses to sweats
And of course from school to boys.

And then it all stopped.
To be specific, I stopped.

Perhaps, I’m “paranoid” as you say
But as the text replies came less
And the seenzone-ing came more,
I grew insecure.

I feared that one Tuesday morning,
You’ll wake up before me
And instead of texting me good morning,
Your mind is going to start realizing all my flaws.
My crooked nose, chapped lips,
Stretch marks across my thighs and arms,
Just like the ugliness spread across my personality.

You’ll get tired of my jealous remarks,
The fact that I complain too much,
My judgmental comments, or
Just how selfish I can be at times.

You’ll walk into your kitchen,
Brew a cup of coffee,
Stare at the pale morning sun rays
And come to the conclusion
That for no particular reason at all,
You don’t love me anymore.

As my paranoid self kicked in,
I tried to act insensitive towards you.
I tried to not care,
When there seemed to be more
Genuine laughter tumbling out of you,
In the company of another.
As much as that stung,
My heart warmed at every sight of your smiling face.

I’m going to let you you go,
Because I love you.

I know I mean the world to you
And it won’t be easy.

It’ll be difficult,
But I need you to find yourself.

I need you to discover who you are,
Without me.

I need you to uncover
The power and magic that
Lives beneath your bones.

I need you to learn
How to walk away
From anything that
No longer deserves your presence.

Love,
Your forever grateful friend.

________________________________________________________________________________
I first started writing this poem in bits and pieces this past summer but never came around to finish it as I was having trouble getting my thoughts across in just the right words. In class, when we were asked to pick and work with one of the 23 emotions that we all feel but can’t describe, the feeling “mauerbauertraurigkeit” stood out the most to me and I decided to weave it in my poem that I had started but abandoned as a result of lacking ideas.

Gratitude

Posted on by

I had never known what being strong meant before you
And maybe that is why holding your weak hands in the steady ones of my own,
In this way too familiar hospital room
Grants me the serenity to finally let go.

As you sigh in your painful sleep,
I think back to the time
You came to rescue
When life pushed too hard,
When my own skin became so
foreign.

The same fingers wrapped around me back then,
Which are now tender and ready to rest
That used to shake me out of my trance
when I used to travel into the world of nothingness,
Where I used to stay quiet,
Only to scream in my head that
I am nothing but
small
soft
and weak.

At times when I was no longer myself,
And turned into water
You held me up from drowning within myself.

When darkness used to come over,
As days turned into nights
And seconds turned into minutes
And anger turned into self pity,
When I used to crumble,
You jumped in to put me back together every single time.

When I used to forget to feel the pain
Because the hurt had been there for too long
And my heart had grown accustomed to the constant pain,
You taught me how to rebuilt and reset.
You taught me how to press pause
Only to press resume again.

When I had given up,
because the burden had become too hard for me to carry,
You taught me that everyone feels pain but
We are not meant to carry it forever.
We are meant to hold it so closely,
That over time we become certain that
Pain belongs to us just
As much we belong to pain.

Countless times, when life’s claws had been around my neck,
You were there to remind me that
I am still here.
That I am a fighter and
I am a survivor.

And maybe that was your role,
Maybe you were only sent to save me.

Maybe you were sent to help me love myself,
And make me feel like at home in my own skin.

I don’t have a lot to say,
But if I never see you again,
I want to thank you for saving me.

I want to thank you for showing me how to find the light
So whenever the world gets dark again,
I can overcome any shadow that falls upon my path.

I want to thank you for forcing me
To dance to this broken melody,
Because it has now mastered into my life line.

I want to thank you for teaching me how to be gentle and soft
And teaching me to be everything that this world urges me not to be.

I want to thank you for dropping me off
At the right exit,
And for that I can now find my own way around.

I want to thank you,
For making a difference,
And I am now ready to take it from here.

When I initially started writing this piece, I had my grandma in mind. The thought occurred to me during our weekly FaceTime when she mentioned her weak health and how I owe her a visit because from here life is uncertain for her. The idea of her getting old and me eventually losing her threw me into a frenzy and this piece was born. As my writing progressed throughout, I found myself reflecting on more than just one person. The “you” in this poem is not limited to one person but to everyone who has helped me hold on to this deary life and stay sane. For me, this poem has transformed into something very important, that I will always hold close to my heart as it was a reflection upon the idea of how I would react if I lost someone important.

That Day

Posted on by

That day

 

Your hands felt like peaches, smooth and soft

 

You would hold my hand so I wouldn’t fall down

 

Time changed

 

It was like a test

 

A test that would help me stay happy

 

You yelled at me when you got mad

 

But I still stayed happy

 

You told me never to talk back when I wished to

 

But I still stayed happy

 

You taught me to always care for the old

 

One day you became very sick

 

But I still had faith and stayed happy

 

You held my hand

 

That day was different

 

I saw you at your weakest moment

 

So sick it felt as if you were going to die

 

I prayed and prayed to God to help you

 

When you would come back from the hospital

 

I would stay beside you the whole time

 

I would never eat alone

 

In a worry that something might happen to you

 

I didn’t tell you this because I didn’t want to see you cry

 

All I need is your love and prayer so that you and I can walk in paradise together

 

Wordless

Posted on by

Something inside needs to be said but

cannot be pressed with pen into paper;

dissonant chords and jarring staccatos

and lyricism of tears once they break –

these I can not lay flat and linear

 

Something inside won’t be coaxed into form –

by silvery layers of cross-hatched lines

nor with wire, water, blunt knife, and two fists –

from the muddled slab to something ornate.

 

It won’t be spoken in twists of the tongue,

refuses to glide upon open air

for it is a snarled tangle, lodged too deep –

too deep in my lungs to be loosed without

catching on airways and sealing my lungs

starting to strangle me from deep within.

These knots too tightly bound by fists yanking

the wrong strings in the wrong way and causing

the tangles to tighten, becoming dense

masses of interwoven filaments –

interlocking, indistinguishable,

inhabiting my body in knotted

muscles and tension encasing my spine.

 

Strings.

 

I find release in the ways my fingers

beat against ebony and ivory,

as if wordless emotion, needs unnamed

become tendons driving my fingertips,

dictating the piano and forte.

With instinct, they find the notes they needed,

ones that resound with thunderous timbre,

and always linger on A minor as

it reminds me of tender, spring rainstorms

 

Finally – like a symphonic cloudburst –

trickling down veins in my forearms and

seeping out from under my fingernails,

that old unsaid Something comes screaming out

and, though the release is short-lived like the

sun’s sudden gold and prismatic raindrops,

the peace of music lingers – whispering,

the slipknots sunk in my windpipe dissolve

as I wordlessly speak – loud as lighting.

 

 

What the heck you just read:

(topic)

 

I was inspired to write this on a day when I felt the inexplicable need to express something, though I wasn’t sure what the thing was. I tried writing, waiting for the feelings in me to spill onto the page. They didn’t. So I pulled out my sketchbook, which is usually the solution in such a situation, and I waited for a form to take hold of my hands, sketching itself across the paper. It didn’t. And then I tried music; I played piano for about two hours and I just couldn’t stop because it was exactly what I needed. Whatever I was feeling was wordless, could not be expressed with anything but music – which is something I can’t fully explain.

I find that the emotions I experience take different forms; some are logical and can be expressed linguistically, others are best expressed visually, and still others can only be conveyed with sound. When I feel the need to creatively express my emotions, I often have to play a bit of a guessing game, experimenting with the best method of expression.

 

(stylistic choices)

 

The free-verse poem itself is written in a ten-syllable quantitative meter. This means that each line (with two exceptions, which I will explain later) is written with ten syllables. It is quantitative because I did not focus on the stress of the words, just the syllable count. The only lines that do not follow this pattern are the first and twenty-third, which mark the start of the first and second sections of the poem, respectively. The first line only has nine syllables, which starts off the first section of the poem with a sense of incompleteness. This lines that follow centre around the subject’s futile attempts to find a suitable method of expression, a way to find relief from a gnarly mess of emotions. Because the first line only has nine syllables, the first section finds resolution with the monosyllabic twenty-third line; it is the missing syllable. The word in the twenty-third line, “strings”, plays on the previous stanzas’ description of emotional turmoil as tangled strings, as well as the following stanzas description of the piano – which is partly a string instrument. This syllabic completion coincides with the second section of the poem, which describes finding emotional completion in music.

The last line of the poem makes use of the rhetorical device catachresis: misplacing a word to create a metaphor. The phrase “loud as lightning” parallels the phrase “wordlessly speak”. Obviously lightning is silent; thunder has sound. How can lightning be loud? How can one speak without words? This misplaced word reinforces the paradox of speaking without words – rather, through music. Additionally, it provides a culmination to the rainstorm imagery in the second section of the poem, which represents the subject’s emotional release.