On Anger and Honesty

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.

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.

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

If stars were wishes
I'd trade a whole galaxy
Simply to have you

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.

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.

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?

The Future is Unknowable

The future is unknowable;
A conclusion that's hard to teach.
Worry and doubt prey on the mind,
Wondering when the stars will align,
But somehow it's still out of reach.

The future is unforeseeable,
Something we just cannot know.
When you have to decide
Between left and the right
You still can't tell which way to go.

The future is incomprehensible;
It's meant to be a surprise.
To move forward with faith
Is the one correct way.
You'll get your chance to rise.

The future becomes the present.
And you must be prepared when it comes.
There are choices to make
And adventures to take,
So go on and take up your drum.

Hastily Penned in Impatience

Waiting.
Time drips like molasses;
Achingly, infuriatingly slow.
Nothing is louder than a clock
(Tick, tock, tick, tock)
When you're waiting.

It's almost painful, waiting.
Stuck in limbo
With only your anxieties for company
Wondering...
When?
(Don't forget, patience is a virtue.)

And now the edge of your seat
Is the only place you're comfortable.
Waiting...
Waiting...
Waiting.
Who can know what tomorrow will bring?

Summer for Two

This is Summer.

It's intertwined fingers and shared lemonade,
The weeds and wildflowers of an impromptu bouquet.
And showers of rain on the most cloudless day.

It's fingers stained purple from blackberry treats,
And lips kissed the same color, both sour and sweet.
It's sharing your headphones; dancing to the beat.

It's talking past midnight, with nary a care,
Smelling a hint of the sea in the air.
It's realizing that you do have time to spare.

It's ice cream that melts and drips down your arm.
It's old movie marathons, full of wit, grace, and charm.
It's wading in fountains when it gets too warm.

This is Summer.

Dive

Standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering with indecision.
Far below, waves crash and churn, anything but inviting.
An icy wind cuts through bare skin and a faraway gull laments.
It's time to choose:
Leap or Run, take a chance or play it safe.
Pulse thrumming, mind racing, rise up on tiptoes.
Eyes squeezed closed in fear of what's to come.
One last inhalation before giving over to gravity.
Cold air whips past on a never-ceasing downward race.
Hair flies wild and eyes open for a peek with one psuedo-comforting thought:
This is a decision that could end in disaster or serendipity.

The Dance

Sometimes it's a waltz.

Steady and flowing,

Measured in beats;

Nothing new happens, everything repeats.

Occasionally it's salsa:

Upbeat and fun.

Infused and electric,

Moving as one.

Or when it's swing,

Flying and teasing.

Laughter abounds

But rarely does reason.

Usually it's ballet

Subtle and smooth,

Darting away from you

As in a chess-move.

It's silly to think this way

I'm well aware,

But I wish you'd just dance with me.

Dance and not care.

Some Snowy Afternoon

There's something to be said for thick, slanting black eyelashes, framing a pair of wide blue eyes.

Something to be said for standing in the cold and spinning, spinning, until you fall, disoriented into the snow.

You can't discount gentle, ringing laughter that makes the whole world pause momentarily, just to listen.

There's something to be said for flushed faces, colored rose-red from exertion and uncontainable joy.

Something to be said for staccato puffs of white breath, mingling with the cold as weightlessly as a vapor.

And you certainly can't ignore a giant snowball bursting on the back of your head!

There's something to be said for intricate white snowflakes gathered in clumps on those beautiful black lashes.

Something to be said for the icy artificial tears they create as they're blinked away.

And no matter how you try, you can't forget the breathless realization of some snowy afternoon.

Panic Attack

Heart hammering, hammering

No exterior stimuli...

Stop it.

Please.

Tremors in the hands, the shoulders,

Shortness of--gasping--breath.

Why is it happening?

No, no, no.

Swallow past the lump in the throat.

Close eyes. Count to ten.

Breathe deep. Drink some water.

Stop.

You

have

to

just.

Stop.

192

It's been one-hundred and ninety two days,

Time that stretched into infinity.

A lot can happen in one-hundred and ninety two days.

Bridges can be burnt, alliances can be made (and broken).

Misinterpretation and gossip can run rampant.

It's been one-hundred and ninety two days,

Since you finally shared what I already knew.

We've had our differences since then,

And I have no misconception that the events will look the same

Another one-hundred and ninety two days from now.

In the last one-hundred and ninety two days

I have learned so much, experienced so many things,

Had so many illusions shattered.

One-hundred and ninety two varying emotions

Have built up in my heart, a cacophonous din.

In the last one-hundred and ninety two days

There has been so much I didn't understand.

In the last sixty minutes, it all makes sense.

But understanding brings pain and I realize

That even though I understand you, you don't quite comprehend me.

And of all the things that have happened

In the last one-hundred and ninety-two days--

In those six long months,

Being resigned to this is perhaps the most painful of all.