These are your options:
Be demur and dishonest.
Flutter your eyelashes and lie, lie, lie.
Tell them everything they want to hear,
bless their hearts.
Let them get away with murder.
Cover your gaping wounds and go home to flatline in private.
Be reasonable and resilient.
Don’t let them off the hook so easily--
It takes two to tango
and you never dance alone.
Keep smiling, but let them see the sharp edge.
Make sure they know you forgive, but you’ll survive by remembering.
Be furious and fatal.
You will not take the fall for this.
Spit poison barbs without remorse
and carve into their excuses,
your knife dripping hot with blame like blood.
Leave them motionless on the floor and don’t look back.
Some say the first option is weak
and the third inhumane.
Clearly only the middle is safe ground on which to stand.
But I say you cannot blame a snarling animal
for lashing out when it’s cornered,
nor a broken heart for smashing everything else.
30 July, 2015
20 June, 2015
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.
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.
04 May, 2015
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.
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.
21 December, 2014
On Regret
and the bitch of it is this;
that the situation that you hate so much
this horrible status quo--
you're the one who put it into place
like a self-fulfilling prophesy:
the coup of a spineless king and and his iron queen
destroyed by portents they had already been warned of--
you, too, knew what you had wrought
the scrape of a match on a box
a sharp inhale of breath as it lights your cigarette
but when you don't put it out fast enough
your fingers get burned
regret is hard to live with
and the scars it leaves can't be soothed by cold water
perhaps it is safer
not to acknowledge it at all
that the situation that you hate so much
this horrible status quo--
you're the one who put it into place
like a self-fulfilling prophesy:
the coup of a spineless king and and his iron queen
destroyed by portents they had already been warned of--
you, too, knew what you had wrought
the scrape of a match on a box
a sharp inhale of breath as it lights your cigarette
but when you don't put it out fast enough
your fingers get burned
regret is hard to live with
and the scars it leaves can't be soothed by cold water
perhaps it is safer
not to acknowledge it at all
24 November, 2014
04 November, 2014
Passage (Of Time)
Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust
All of my dreams
have tarnished to rust.
Inches to inches,
Miles to miles
How far must I travel
to escape these trials?
Hour to hour,
day to day
Contrition does plague me
I can't get away.
Starlight to starlight,
Sunrise to sunset
How can I move on
beyond this regret?
Heartbeat to heartbeat,
breath to breath
This ache I am feeling
may bring on my death.
Dust to dust
All of my dreams
have tarnished to rust.
Inches to inches,
Miles to miles
How far must I travel
to escape these trials?
Hour to hour,
day to day
Contrition does plague me
I can't get away.
Starlight to starlight,
Sunrise to sunset
How can I move on
beyond this regret?
Heartbeat to heartbeat,
breath to breath
This ache I am feeling
may bring on my death.
19 October, 2014
Autumnal Contemplation
You're sitting on the hood of your car at the cusp of autumn, smoking a cigarette.
The stars are bright and the sky is dark. Grey smoke spirals lazily around your head as you lean back to admire the sight.
You're sitting on the hood of your car and the breeze bites just a bit more than it did last week. For a moment you wish you had someone to huddle with for warmth.
Though a jacket might do just as nicely.
You're sitting on the hood of your car and for a moment, you can't remember why you came out here; what reckless longing sent you driving into the wilderness where the sky is wide and the stars outnumber people a million to one.
Maybe you don't really need a reason.
The stars are bright and the sky is dark. Grey smoke spirals lazily around your head as you lean back to admire the sight.
You're sitting on the hood of your car and the breeze bites just a bit more than it did last week. For a moment you wish you had someone to huddle with for warmth.
Though a jacket might do just as nicely.
You're sitting on the hood of your car and for a moment, you can't remember why you came out here; what reckless longing sent you driving into the wilderness where the sky is wide and the stars outnumber people a million to one.
Maybe you don't really need a reason.
28 July, 2014
08 June, 2014
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.
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.
28 February, 2014
02 July, 2013
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?
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?
14 February, 2013
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.
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.
19 May, 2012
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?
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?
29 March, 2012
Sometimes my mouth is so stuffed with words that I'm afraid to open it.
Like,
if I do, I'm adjectives and nouns will
pour out all over the nearest unsuspecting person's shoes.
So I go running and tripping for a bucket.
Something that I can free the words into without mess or fuss.
But by the time I've found a container.
All
the
words
are
gone.
Like,
if I do, I'm adjectives and nouns will
pour out all over the nearest unsuspecting person's shoes.
So I go running and tripping for a bucket.
Something that I can free the words into without mess or fuss.
But by the time I've found a container.
All
the
words
are
gone.
13 February, 2012
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.
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.
29 December, 2011
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.
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.
03 December, 2011
Silent Snow
It's cold outside, but it hasn't yet become bitterly so, and she makes the decision to keep on walking. The hour is late and the streets are mostly deserted, despite the warm light coming from inside the shops--extended hours for the holiday season. It's been snowing gently, thirty minutes hence, and there's a light dusting of fluffy flakes covering everything; streets, sidewalks, rooftops, and windowsills. It's still coming down, looking almost etherial in the orange glow of the street lamps.
Snow is the most silent of all phenomenon, and she relishes the quiet, hearing only the soft crunch underfoot and the first notes of "Carol of the Bells" somewhere in the distance. Holiday bustle has its own appeal, but this...this is something special.
Colored lights twinkle benignly at her from a shop window, in red, green, and white. She leans close to the glass, to watch the path of a small electric train around a mountain crafted from chicken wire, hard work, and paint. Her breath fogs the window and she brushes it clean with a gloved hand before going on her way.
She straightens her scarf and the snowflakes that have collected there are scattered, on her lapel, and on the ground, reunited with the rest. Though the snow is gentle, it is steady, and she knows that by morning, there will be a significant supply, sparkling and pristine, awaiting demolishment at the hands of children.
But for now, the silent snow and the empty street are a haven, and she stands for a moment, overwhelmed by the scene. It's quite appropriate, then, when she thinks she hears the strains of "Winter Wonderland" floating in from somewhere faraway.
Snow is the most silent of all phenomenon, and she relishes the quiet, hearing only the soft crunch underfoot and the first notes of "Carol of the Bells" somewhere in the distance. Holiday bustle has its own appeal, but this...this is something special.
Colored lights twinkle benignly at her from a shop window, in red, green, and white. She leans close to the glass, to watch the path of a small electric train around a mountain crafted from chicken wire, hard work, and paint. Her breath fogs the window and she brushes it clean with a gloved hand before going on her way.
She straightens her scarf and the snowflakes that have collected there are scattered, on her lapel, and on the ground, reunited with the rest. Though the snow is gentle, it is steady, and she knows that by morning, there will be a significant supply, sparkling and pristine, awaiting demolishment at the hands of children.
But for now, the silent snow and the empty street are a haven, and she stands for a moment, overwhelmed by the scene. It's quite appropriate, then, when she thinks she hears the strains of "Winter Wonderland" floating in from somewhere faraway.
04 October, 2011
30 August, 2011
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.
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.
14 May, 2011
A Brief Interlude...
If anyone is interested, I've started a new blog at At Attic Full of Ideas. While this blog is primarily freewriting and inspiration, the new one is to track my progress while I try to shape my novels up and get them ready for publication. So if you're curious, or maybe just a little bored, check it out!
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