Perils of Packing

Putting your life into boxes,
placing with care the delicate things that make up your home.
Penning a warning on a lid:
PRIVATE, FRAGILE, HEAVY
Progressing through your task to the darkest reaches of your closet...

Pausing.

Perceiving the significance of what you've found,
possibly untouched since your last move.
Prompting memories that you've also tried not to touch,
perhaps your hesitance was in vain.

Prudence suggests that you walk away.
Precaution tells you to resume your chore;
Pandora opened a box and look how well that turned out!
Possibly better than this is going to...

Pertinacious in your folly, you continue,
pressing on into this barred-up corner of your memories.
Pain comes swiftly and you greet it without surprise,
perversely accepting the heartache and regret.

Pugnacious and petulant, you endure,
penitent, but uncertain how to change things.
Perhaps, for now, you should move on.
Packing is perilous, but it must be done.

Lies My Parents Told Me

These are the lies my parents told me,
My preachers, teachers, leaders.
Those adults I trusted who never trusted me.
Who looked at the fire in my eyes and thought only to stomp it out before it began to smolder.

These are the lies my parents told me:
Your value you is in your virginity,
don’t give your one precious gift away so easily.
Without it you’re damaged and all the responsibility is on your shoulders.

These are the lies my parents told me:
The poor are that way because they’re lazy,
whiny, entitled, petulant wretches.
In the same breath, they complain about their lack of tax breaks.

These are the lies my parents told me:
Your love is only valid if it’s like mine,
in the confines of a monogamous, heterosexual marriage,
and feeling any other way damns you.

These are the lies my parents told me:
Racism is over, I don’t see color.
Those who say otherwise just don’t want to be held accountable.
And yet, I see my privilege in breaking news and broken bones.

These are the lies my parents told me:
You cannot have morals without Jesus.
Without the Cross, you’re worthless, dirty, useless.
But then they ask: why don’t you have any self-esteem?

These are the lies my parents told me:
you owe me your respect.
But you have to earn mine.
 Show me your allegiance.

I am my own person.
I will not be prisoner to someone else’s values.
I am a human being who deserves respect,
no matter how I choose to live my life.

You can pretty up your lies however you like,
paint them in colors that don’t look so damning,
but they’re still lies and I am not beholden to them.
I am not beholden to anyone but myself.

I am made of stardust and flames.
I am as hard as diamonds and I shine brighter.
You say anger isn’t the answer,
I say it makes me stronger.

I am heading a charge--
an entire generation fed up with the lies we’ve been told.
And we’re going to scream (tweet, blog, share)
the truth from the mountains.

Our “purity” is not the only worthwhile thing about us,
and our compassion for the downtrodden
     does not
make us weak.

Our love is powerful, and it doesn’t matter if it’s directed
     at men
         women
               or otherwise.

We will rail against inequality
in its every insidious form,
and we will do it all
without answering to a religion that doesn’t care about us.

We are the new era and we will not be lied to any longer.

Crush(ed)

You want to say it started tonight
Standing in a brightly-lit gallery
surrounded on all sides by flower-covered animal bones.
You want to claim that your passion for the art
this shared enthusiasm is what began it all...
(It's a lie.)

Still, even if you know it has been going on longer
(Quite a bit longer)--
you know that this is that critical turning point.
The moment when your flight of fancy solidifies,
when it becomes real in your mind and you must face it.

So.
It may not have started tonight.
But it certainly took you until tonight to catch on.
It took a mutual love for wine and paintings,
dinner and religion in a tiny cramped diner,
and round after round of karaoke.

(It also took shot after shot of tequila,
warm shoulders, and wide grins,
but don't get carried away.)

Alcohol is funny that way.
Turns everything golden around the edges,
and smooths away sharp corners.
By the time you've realized the danger
you're too far gone to panic.

would that I could be
deep below the water's surface
or far above the spinning earth
because if I were dancing on the sandy ocean floor
or skipping through the stars
nothing could touch me

Musings of an Angry Wannabe

You want to write poetry
but your poetry is shit.
Feeling this emotion for days
but lacking the words to express it.

Frowning and brooding fits,
that smile you put on's just a facsimile.
But you don't want everyone to know;
you are your own worst enemy.

Frustration builds with each terrible stanza;
haven't you done this well before?
Maybe it's reflective of what you've become:
A lazy moron, escapist, bore.

God, it's worse than you imagined;
trite comparisons and awful rhymes,
but how can you express this cacophony
in four simple, rhyming lines?

Not So Much A Sonnet

Barrett Browning counted the ways,
Dickinson longed for wild nights
And Shakespearian sonnet proved
          You don't need beauty to be beloved.

 Myself, I haven't the silver tongue
To spin such sparkling words.
Nor does my pen maintain the grace,
          To even try would be a waste.

The best that I can offer
Compares you to simple things
Like warm clothes from the dryer
          Not an angel, exhalted higher.

 Driving with windows down
Or the last slice of pie in a diner
Cannot compare to a summer's day
          Or fairy tale lovers, far, far away.

What I mean to explain is
Everything reminds me of you.
And while "She Walks in Beauty" is nice,
          It's not enough, it won't suffice.

Japanese novels and the King of Rock and Roll,
Starry nights on a Hot Tin Roof.
How can I fit all the things I love about you
          In a poem's rhyming line or two?

I hope you understand, and don't mock too long
The words are weak and silly, but the meaning clear and strong.
I had to try and list some of the ways you are my light.
Perhaps, after all, Elizabeth Barrett Browning was right.

Stasis

Still, though?
After all this time?
Some might call it romantic. Others, pathetic. I just call it bothersome.
Twelve months and seven-hundred miles didn't do the job
How can I possibly be expected to?
I just want to know
How many weeks, how many miles is it going to take me
To stop feeling this way?

Tout le Monde

It starts with an itching on the back of your hands, a thrumming under your skin.
The world is quiet, sleeping, but you don't join in, every groan of the house amplified by silence.
It sets your teeth on edge, and you wince in time to the ticking of the clock.
Up, up, time to go your muscles scream, and it takes a concerted effort not to leap from your seat.

Outside, you know, the cold black sky is waiting, wider than anything you could ever reach.
An awareness of the never-ending roads pounds relentlessly through the back of your mind.
A shudder rippling through your frame; a visceral reaction to the wanderlust infecting you, body and soul.
Visions of the future flash by, clear as memory, promising adventures and new people and freedom.

Freedom that tastes like ice-cold spring water, a welcome reprieve from the constriction in the back of your throat.
You can't seem to conjure a reason not to go; you've forgotten that all ideas are good ideas in the middle of the night.
How could such a decision possibly seem poor under the luminescent moon's calm gaze?
So with a haphazardly loaded duffle, you set out into the Great Unknown, fearless in the throes of your fevered desires.

No one can say a word, not for good, nor for ill, either.
We're only side characters in each others' stories anyway.
Only the protagonist can steer this destiny, and leave the rest to Fate, or particularly good writing.
Dawn is breaking on the horizon and the next chapter is yours to complete.
No one else can ride off into the sun for you, you've got to do it yourself.

Quiet Desperation

And miles of quiet desperation to go before I sleep...

I need something to happen.
I want to stop stealing the words of others
and to form my own.
I have to muster the courage to bring about change.

I just feel like I'm standing here.
Waiting for something to happen.
For a shift in the gravitational pull of Earth
so I can float up, up, and away.

But nothing happens.
And days turn to weeks turn to months.
Sometimes I think I'm locked up;
doomed to eternity in this two-star town.
But I'm stealing other people's words again.

Desperation can only be quiet for so long
before it bursts forth and bleeds out,
leaving smears of red anguish in its wake.
Desperation was a creature made to scream.

And so I strut, and fret, and continue to steal more genius vocabulary than my own.
Waiting for something to happen, too frightened to kick start it myself.
Three hundred and sixty six new days are waiting at the threshold
And maybe this year I'll bring about the change I wish to see in the world.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl (Or Same Story, Different Version)

I'm so ready to move forward with my life. But it's so difficult.

We're trained to think that our lives don't really start until we graduate high school, or college.

When have a steady job, when we start a serious relationship.
Or when we get married.
Or when we have children.

I feel like, if I'm not careful, I'll have lived my whole life waiting for it to start.
Besides, I don't want to do half those things, anyway.

Lately, everything is an irritation. Everything is sharp edges and hostility.

And I'm not making it any easier on myself.
Picking fights.
Complaining about my problems.
Obsessing over a future that I'm too afraid to trigger.

And I keep making excuses. So many excuses.

As soon as I talk to my parents.
When I've bought a car.
I have to wait until I have some money saved.
Everyone already thinks I'm flighty enough.

Simultaneously lonely and sick of people, I just want to run.
Go somewhere no one knows my name and start again.
Really do something.

But fear, or obligation, or this frustrating sense of responsibility....
one of them is standing in my way.
Perhaps they all are.

I feel so trapped, and knowing it's partly my own fault makes it that much worse.

Too Much/Exactly Enough

I just spent half an hour sitting on the floor of the shower, under scalding water, not thinking.
Because if I started thinking, I would start panicking about how much is going on in my life.

Too many days without sleep
Too many rehearsals
Too many tests, papers, projects, and portfolios
Too many demands and disappointments
Too many things getting left in the past
Too much to finish
Too many things left unsaid.

And I fear I can't do it.
It's all just too much.

But I've found that every time I start to panic,
Every time my eyes well up and my hands begin to shake,
God steps in and reminds me that He's given me exactly enough.

Enough encouraging conversation
Enough support from my family
Enough friendship and laughter
Enough stubbornness to combat lack of stamina
Enough love and grace
Enough inspiration, beauty, and motivation
Enough blessing.

In my most worried moments, He reminds me,
He is more than enough.

Stairs

Have you ever been walking up stairs, not paying attention, and you miss a step?
Your foot thuds down a little harder than necessary,
but there's really no harm done?
(Well, maybe to your pride, but if no one sees, it's really kind of funny.)

I suppose you've also walked down stairs, and maybe missed a step.
Generally, there's a moment of panic and then those blessed neurons fire
and you catch the railing, heart pounding, but uninjured.
Worst case scenario, you do fall, but usually backwards, and there's just a sore tailbone.

Have you ever been shoved down a flight of stairs?
By that bully that really doesn't like you?
Your arms windmill and you're pitching headfirst, a victim of gravity.
When you land, there's a sense of shock, and sharp pain where the bruises will appear.

And maybe for a second, it seems like you can't get up.
Perhaps, you don't really want to.
With grim determination and no tears. (Maybe a wince or two.)
You're back on your feet.

After all, it takes more than a bully to take you out.

Breaking the Surface

A new discovery is like a deep breath.
The kind that comes after you dive too far.
When you've overestimated yourself
and only blue water surrounds you.

You start clawing for the surface,
with salty lips, burning lungs.
You feel as though you'll never reach it
and your vision clouds around the edges.

Then suddenly, you're up,
bursting from under the surface,
gulping in huge breaths of air,
every single one feeling like a gift.

That's what a discovery sometimes feels like.
Maybe it's a discovery that not everyone will understand.
Perhaps it does frighten you, just a little.
But it feels like a weight off your chest, and you know it's right.

Reflections on Identity

I am a female.
All six of my siblings are brothers.

I am a resilient child.
The product of divorce.

I am quite tall.
My hair is obscenely orange.

I am twenty-one years old.
For the last sixteen years, I have been in school.

I am impulsive.
My temper is sharp.

I'm not very social.
Crowds make me anxious.

I hardly ever sleep.
So I play violin in the dead of night.

Often, I forget to eat.
When I do remember, it's a packet of saltines and a handful of Sour Patch Kids.

When I'm bored, I become incredibly destructive.
I like fire.

Heights and small spaces make me nervous.
I climb trees and explore caves anyway.

I'm a romantic.
But also a cynic.

I think most people are extraordinarily stupid.
And the ones that aren't are mostly bad, with only a few genuinely good ones mixed in.

I am very observant.
As a result, I make snap judgments.

I read incessantly.
And when the books are put away, I write.

I watch movies, too.
Way too many of them.

I abhor public speaking.
But there's no place I feel so at home as on a stage.

I place high value on my friendships.
Loyal to a fault.

Sometimes I think I'm going mad.
Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong time.
Place.
Family.

I am a walking contradiction.
I am completely imperfect.

I am a bit not good.
Sometimes, I might be a bit good, too.

I rant.
I read too much into things.

When I get mentally stymied, I make my roommate miserable.
Whenever my thoughts go too fast, I drag her out on adventures.

I put myself in dangerous situations without a thought.
Usually when suffering from ennui.

I like fictional characters more than real ones.
Except in special cases.

I really don't like being touched.
But even I can appreciate the power of a good hug.

There's a distinct possibility I might be a bit OCD.
Which is probably why I can continue listing things forever.

The state of my living space directly correlates the state of my mind.
It's oscillates between neatly cluttered and completely chaotic.

I am cavalier about my extensive vocabulary.
Furthermore, I loathe poor grammar.

I am not religious.
But my belief in a creator God is unshakable.

I create sad excuses for poetry in the dead of night.
And I don't care what anybody thinks about it.

I'm just me. I know who I am.
Can you say the same?

Two Days to the Future

Two more days until a new decade.
Here I sit, with bloodshot eyes, fighting off a week of nightmares.
I feel like I should say something, or do something to greet the oncoming year.
After all, it's year I graduate college and am thrown haphazardly into the "adult world."
And that's got to be significant somehow, right?

But I can't bring myself to think forward just yet.
The reality is too alarming, too near.
It's like standing on the edge of a skyscraper and knowing,
Knowing that you're about to be pushed.
And freefall is the only option.

It's not that I'm not excited about the independence.
Or the opportunity for growth that can't be afforded when you have a family.
These first years out of college are a weird middle ground.
There's responsibility, yes, but also the chance to adventure and brave the world alone.
It's thrilling.
It's terrifying.

I know I've got some time.
The first five months of 2011 will be celebrated in the relative safety of institution.
But then I'm on my own.
And I'm excited, yes.
But I'm also scared out of my mind.
And I don't think that's an unreasonable place to be.

So come on, 2011.
Show me your best.

The Crossroads

There was a point in life when the most frightening thing she had to face was a fork in the road. A decision between going left and going right, between a good choice and a poor one. A or B. Now that simple time seems so distant.

She stands at a crossroads, coat wrapped tightly around her body in a desperate attempt to keep in the warmth. A sharp wind loosens her hair from its braid and she reaches up to brush it back, her fingers temporarily exposed to the icy air. The sun is setting and she knows it will only grow colder from here. There isn't much time, but still she stands, paralyzed.

This is no fork in the road. There are hundreds of paths, branching out in each direction; north, south, east, and west. In the middle of the road is a large signpost, covered in arrows, but the words painted on them are too faded to read. Some point in nonsensical directions, as if intentionally designed to mock her.

Right now, none of the paths look particularly pleasant. One heading straight into the sunset is packed with well-trod dirt, but she can see clearly the heartbreak and pain that lurk in the shadows. Another path goes for only a few yards before leading to a precarious rope bridge on a high precipice. It's obvious that only cruelty and manipulation will be found down that road. Still another is winding and narrow, with cliffs of poverty and anxiety reaching to the sky on either side. A fourth leads down the side of a rocky ridge, towards a terrifyingly unknowable sea.

Where is the safe road, she wonders, the one that will take her safely to her destination? Where is the road lined with roses and bathed in sunlight? Is there no peaceful forest path to be found?

As the sun sinks lower over the horizon, she knows her time at the crossroads is coming to an end. She must make a decision soon. Gathering her courage, she prepares for the first step. It hardly matters that there is no easy road; she's not concerned anymore that she has no idea where she might end up. The only way to escape the crossroads is to step forward in blind faith.

And when the moment comes, that is precisely what she will do.

So no one told you life was gonna be this way...

Seems like you're always stuck in second gear.
When it hasn't been your day, or week, or month, or even your year...

Sometimes it surprises me how insightful something silly like the theme song for a sitcom can be.

This last week or so has been rough. Many unrelated circumstances that normally wouldn't cause me to bat an eye on their own, all converged at once making for a mess of girl. Sleeplessness, the loss of a beloved pet, family stress, stage crew, auditions, feelings of bitterness, inadequacy and doubt. Alone, they're nothing, but it's a hundred against one and I'm outnumbered.

I feel like butter spread over too much toast, to steal a simile, and I just want to fix it. So that I can get back to feeling like myself and, more importantly, so I can do a better job of being there for my friends who have things so much bigger than sleeplessness to contend with. What I need more than anything, is to realize that my problems are but a drop in a bucket and that there is something so much bigger going on here. I need to really See.

Tonight, I am in need of perspective.

A Case of the Mehs

It's not often I find words inadequate, but today that seems to be the case.
Strange things are influencing my mood--
The death of a stranger,
Being shut off by my brother,
Having wonderful friends who still love me (even when I give them skunk-hair),
Curiosity over hypothetical situations,
A silly picture on a silly blog,
This horribly persistent cold,
Oddly touching moments between animated characters,
The two hundred year-old wisdom of a pilgrim,
And I can't stop thinking about those Towers.

I'm not unhappy, far from it. But I'm tired, and a bit dazed from the cough syrup I took.
There's something new headed my way soon, I can sense it.
But as to what it is, and how it's going to happen, I'm completely clueless.
All I have right now is a restless energy and a faith that You'll show me when it's time.
I suppose that's what I get for asking for patience.

The Pit of Inaction

The thoughts in my brain are bouncing around so fast, clanging against the inside of my skull, begging for release. But I'm sitting here, stuck in some sort of Life-Limbo, unable to free them.

I've no motivation, no inspiration and no energy to fight anymore. After a particularly rough week, with the return to school looming like a black storm cloud on the horizon, I can't pull myself out of this pit I've stumbled into. Every moment of focus saps energy, and it's easier to just throw up my hands and concede that there's no climbing out.

To me, this summer of inaction has been a curse. Now I can't decide if it's worse to continue in this vein, or to actually make some sort of effort. Deep down, I somehow know that going back to school is going to be a challenge. There are things that won't be able to stay unsaid, in so many different ways and I find myself panicking at the very thought.

But it may be that going back is the only thing that can pull me out of this funk. A vine is being lowered and I can curl up and ignore it, or grab it and hold on for dear life.

There's still time, though. For the moment, I'm satisfied to climb onto the roof with a bottle of soda and watch the stars. I'm content to linger in this place of inaction for a few more days.

Keyboard Shield

Had it been two weeks ago, the silence wouldn't have been strange. I wouldn't have been distracted and the Tetris blocks would have fallen as they should. But it's anything but two weeks ago and the blocks pile haphazardly to a Game Over while I stare at the little green dot in the corner of the screen.

The worst part, perhaps is the sinking feeling, the one even I didn't see coming and the unnecessary disappointment. It's not exactly like you're breaking tradition or any such thing. But when our brains shoot into overdrive, it's not often that we get to steer. I have a very vivid imagination. And such mercurial behavior makes me wonder...

When is the world going to grow up and realize we have to face our problems and people face-to-face and not hide behind the anonymity of a glowing screen and hypertext? I'm just as guilty as the rest. Colon parentheses--and I'm not obligated to actually say the words on my mind. Some nonsensical acronym and we're done conversing. Behind our keyboards, we're comfortable and safe and we can say anything without consequence.

It's so much worse to over-analyze black and white text and emoticons than the beautiful subtleties of the human face, human hands. Your gaze, your grasp, your tone and timbre.

Don't you just want to look into someone's eyes and say what needs to be said?