One Day

Inspired from a line in Steal Like An Artist by Austin Kleon. Wrote this in September.
-----

one day it will all make sense,

the times you failed,
the love you spent.
the moment she pushed your hand away,
and said there was nothing left to say.

one day it will all make sense.

one day I will see you again,
yellow knit sweater,
turquoise jogging pants.
I’ll ask you why our sun set so soon,
You’ll smile and point to the moon.

one day,
one day,
one day it will all make sense.
I know it seems like punishment,
but one day...

the night will come when we look to the sky,
and mysterious stars will mysteriously align.
god will reveal his ancient face,
and explain the reasons for all his mistakes.

one day,
one day,
one day it will all make sense.
I know it seems like punishment,
but one day, one day.



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Revised: Somethings Never Change

Somethings Never Change

I still hide chocolate in little nooks around the house,
Behind a pile of books,
In a small pocket of a backpack,
Under the pillow.

The other night, my late night munchies led to a discovery.
When opening the snack cupboard,
I saw the blue wrapper, two squares left.
I wanted to place the extra piece,
already sticky with my finger prints,
into your palm.

Chomping  down on the little squares,
I felt the milky coalesced sugars slowly crumble between my teeth.
You always thought it odd to bite down on chocolate,
preferring to take your time, to let it melt in your mouth-
until that night Smuckers started barking in his dreams,
slowly breaking into a slumbered run,
our laughter causing you to choke
on the gooey pond of cocoa swirling on your tongue.

The refrigerator hum brings me back to my kitchen.
I see that I am alone, the wrapper empty.
I throw it away, and return to bed.



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Revised Popcorn and Sitcoms

When I am old, I will do handstands and cook with my feet.
all my children will call me by my moon name
and swear allegiance to my wool socks.
Upon rows and rows of spices on hand painted racks
they will they learn their mothers magic stews and potions,
on tree top forts they will sing Shakespeare and dance Moliere,
with broken bits of Sea Green and Electric Blue crayons
they will scribble their stories onto pristine walls- and I will but smile and look on.
 I now live enslaved to an overlord of practicality,
With rows and rows of stale books and withering magazines.
In a plain white room I writhe to the droning buzz of a gleaming screen,
my stories too banal to remember.

When I am old I will let down my hair,
and kittens will live in my newly dishevelled nest!
I will dress myself in homemade gowns from the 80’s,
my face adorned with goofy smiles and glitter face paint.
my children will see me and laugh ‘till they pee.

For now, I slave away for  acceptance and pedigree,
my hair rigidly coiffed, my body restrained in pant suits,
khaki’s on weekends, pastel coloured dresses in spring,
maybe, maybe a bold dash of Revlon Super Lustrous Rum Raisin
for a birthday, or a wedding.

When I am old, I will love life again-
For the sake of my itty bitty babes,
so full of promise, so full of light.
I will feed them the milk of my body,
the nectar of my blossoming heart,
and show them all the Muppet movies.

Until then, the woman of my dreams waits for me,
sitting in the summery backyards I knew as a child,
sprawled out on moist grass,
a dog licking at her toes,
and a lemonade on a side table, sweating in the heat.




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growing

dead leaves crisp on autumn ground,
brittle, breaking.
once young,
green.
the lucky rot into the ground,
nourishing former roots.
others fall into the gutter,
swept away in rain and debris,
unable to again touch the earth.




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A Worm

a worm digesting it's surroundings
the world travels through and out
expelling waste so trees grow.

our shit is what's valuable.




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our hearts.

irreverent and impossible.
fragile clumps of ash.

with each touch
dim traces of residue are removed.

the heart
aches to be blown away.




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Sand in my Ear

grains of earth holding onto the curves
clusters of black and brown specks
a few clear granules resemble salt
I run my finger along
gathering a small coast line.




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Nature vs Nerves in E Major

*do note that this poem is a univocal lipogram- the only vowel used is "e". *

when she seeks dejected cement,
her nerves, fervent
eject excelled elements.

when she needs creeks,
green trees,
elk
her nerves defect.
their elements creep.
the ejected speed?
feeble,
demented.

Perfect, her nerves, when she seeks lewd men.
the nerves persevere,
her nerves secrete blessed excellence.

when she seeks sweet nettles,
free egrets,
even weeds,
her nerves,
perplexed,
eschew these needs.
-----

Assignment from Intro to Poetry at the School of Continuing Studies at U of T.

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Non-fiction entries will now be at this blogsite:

http://eachdayisajourney.wordpress.com/

I will be making daily contributions, so please visit as often as you like. Thank you.

the plainness of his lips

She touches the cold steel of the empty seat on front of her.
The streetcar shakes.
the cool metal gently warms at her touch,
the cool metal scratched, but still gleaming in the sun.

she remembers the thick fleece of his vest,

the width of his fingers, the plainness of his lips.

The streetcar jolts and halts.

she hops off, continuing her journey.

she grazes a post with her finger tips as she passes,

to touch something, anything,

much as she longs to graze the crease of his sleeve,

his weather beaten cheek.

she keeps walking, towards home.

an indiscernible smile on her face. 

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A Moment of Honesty.

I am so afraid to love. To fully experience how much I love life. How much I love the people in my life. To look someone in the eyes and tell them what they mean to me. It scares me how quickly I grow to love people, how little it takes for me to create a niche for someone in my heart. And then I pretend it hasn't happened, I try to convince myself that I care less than I do because the sheer force of my affection is so potent. I try to convince myself that people are not loving, that they do not care for me, for my silly admiration, my childlike awe of their beauty. I become jealous and distrustful, turning my fears into insecurities which I can project onto other people, telling myself that they think I am this or I am that, but really, it is only my own voice in my mind. I hide. I run away from people, from myself, from my talents and skills and joys and responsibilities. I run away from the things which give me purpose and meaning. Then I wonder why I am so unhappy, so lonely. So lonely. Then I sit in memories and dreams and loose all touch with reality, with the present moment, with my own life force. I drink sorrow and smoke cartons of nostalgia until I am full of empty smoke and so quenched that I must weep and weep to cleanse my body of it's dreadful sadness. Then eventually I can't weep, and I have to sit with myself, cold, numb and motionless. And it feels like it will last forever. Like forever has already past and I have wasted my life. Like I am a waste of life.

I want to get up in the mornings and make Hilary and myself pancakes with fresh apple sauce and hot tea, or crepes with bananas and strawberries, or oatmeal with maple syrup, and cover the hallway floor with rose petals, and open the blinds and let the sun in, no matter how bright or dim it is. I want to sing as much as I can. I want to smile at strangers, but not a brief, hazardous smile, a real smile, a smile of true joy and recognition, a smile that is unique to each person to whom it is shared. A smile from my soul. I want to write poems for people I meet at bus stops as gifts for them, about how I love their shoes, how beautiful they are, about how much I believe in them. I want to tell all my friends exactly how much I love them, need, need, need them.I want to cook delicious dinners for all my neighbours, to surprise friends with fresh, home-made cakes, bouquets of flowers, paintings I painted only, only for them. I want to tell the people I want to kiss that I want to kiss them, want to make passionate love to them, for hours, hours on end. I want to hug every  child I see, to ruffle every dog's head I pass, kiss everyone who's my height, engage in furious political debate with people on the bus. I want to send mass emails to everyone I care about, a simple anecdote, an inspiring message, a call to arms, something to share that I remember and honour their being. I want to be brave. I want to tell my parents I love them, everyday. To get a telescope and discover stars and name them after my friends. I want to defend the marginalized masses, to listen to the ignored voices, abandoned faces, and to love, to love, love love fearlessly, courageously, relentlessly.

And it's do-able. It really is. To live life without fear, with an open heart and an open mind. This is not a dream, it's a possibility rooted in our commitment to experience this world with our entire heart. It's waiting to happen, but why wait?


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The Writers Curse

Alone in rooms,

I write,

I write, 

I write.

words from the mind to the page, never from the heart to the mouth.

to whisper tearfully that you are the ground on which I stand,

to abound with odes for your impressive presence

i must build a paper empire,

i must carve a thousand poems from my aching bones.

and even then, there is much left to say. 

----------------------------

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fuzzy dirty grime of childhood

Poem written during a class at the National Voice Intensive 2011. About Beacon Hill Park, Victoria, B.C. There's a petting zoo there, which is why smelly farm animals are possible as a memory for me. Ha.
-------
Fuzzy dirty grime of childhood.
Stink of hogs and unwashed goats,
I roam through you and seek feelings to ease me.

Outside of young years I find you no longer,
Like Medusa each touch to a memory of old days, turns the hand cold stone.

Warm wood chips surrounded with abundant green
Bright lights through the leaves of trees and I am as clear as a beam of sun.
Cawing crows and shuffling families,
An old place, a new place, a desire for a place that feels like home.

Desires transpiring in and out of themselves
Green, leafy summers
Soft brown trees wise with age- they know not to splinter curious hands.

Branches of mysterious patterns,
Explorers with tiny hats and even tinier shoes.
Tall people wishing they would be so happy again.


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No Harm

Do not fear, my love-
no harm can come to us.

We are immovable, unshakeable,
our roots deep, our will, deeper.

Your strength the strength of all the mountains you have travelled through, the streams that held your swift strokes, the immense hearts that cradled yours from breaking.
Your strength flowing with the fire of the life-giving sun.

You will not falter if you believe that you are as I have said you are.
So believe, and be free.


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past horizons

First draft. I enjoy what's here, needs some fine tuning.
-----------------------
Past horizons, past dreams,
we will walk, hand in hand
and see we already are free-

each breath, each breath summoning the air of our ancestors to dance with our blood, our bones.

my face, the face of a woman generations before me, who did not think I would remember.

my mother, my mother whose laugh is my laugh, whose pains are my pains, whose body gave me life.

my mother, the silver birch, the water lilly, 

my mother the ocean, the beaches of Chennai, the shores of Musqueam. 

my heart, the heart that sings with the sounds of all creation,

my heart, the heart that beats beats beats buh-beats buh-beats buh-beats for the wrongs against my sisters, my brothers of the earth. 

my skin, our skin, in the lightest and deepest hues, but all skin of the same thickness, the same fragility.

our souls, reaching for the sky but rooted in the earth,

let us walk together 

let us walk together, 

despite the harsh cold
through the scorching heat 

the hatred

the bloodshed 

the gut wrenching pain, 

let us walk this earth together, and we'll see we are free.  

------

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New Tides

I think I've done my fair share of sad poetry for a while. Time to share my joy and passion for life, for art, for love. For you.


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remnants of popcorn and sitcoms

When I am old, I will do handstands and cook with my feet.
All my children will call me by my moon name and swear allegiance to my wool socks.
Upon rows and rows of spices on hand painted racks will they learn their mothers magic stews and potions.
On tree top forts they will sing Shakespeare and dance Moliere,
They will write stories about the colour of their skin and their grandmothers voice,
As they remember the kindness that shone through her sorrows.


With sticky fingers they will grapple for toys,
Playing away hours and hours of imagination, putting it to the best use it will ever get.
They will remember these times when they are working machines,
When their minds are mined for precious stones, their eyes burnt away at gleaming screens,
Their love withering in the cold air of polite attitudes and insincere speech.


When they dissolve into shiny magazine dreams and magic box ideals,
When they forgo love for comfort and drink coffee picked by enslaved hands,
When shiny quarters and pretty clouds don't mean anything anymore,
When life is like that, they will remember their mother's warmth and her childlike spirit that she instilled in them, hoping they would never lose it.


But here it is, becoming a memory, a memory in days which end too fast and nights that are too long.
It rests somewhere, amid the cold, amid the lost journeys and the roads not taken;
It giggles and waits for a sunny afternoon in the grass, a dog licking at its toes and lemonade on a side table, 
sweating in the heat. 
---
Early 2011. A personal favourite. 



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Fold Me

Fold me backwards until I make sense-

there is no right, wrong, or reason for this.

We are only what we are

and have less choice in who

fold me until I find some truth.

Twist, turn, and bend the world- fold me until I can't take anymore.

Fold me again and again, until I understand,

Fold me until I do not see who I am.

-----

Circa 2007/8

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Childhood

Childhood, an old game I used to play.

Oh, we fought monsters and witches with merely sticks in our hands,

Playing outside until the sun shook colours all over the sky,

Running home before it was too late. 

I can still smell the fresh dew on the grass,

Walking to school, laughin’, talking fast.

A mile a minute in secrets and fun nothings,

Oh, my heart misses those small things.

We took for granted our time in the sun,

Happiness unquestioned, my dreams flowing, flowing free.

A woman now, I look back,

And childhood is the dream I dream.

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December 5th, 2011. Kabul.



Photographed by Massoud Hosaini, 05/12/11.



While many of us struggled to decide what t.v show to watch while consuming dinner, or felt overwhelmed by deadlines and expectations, a young girl screamed for the failure of the human race to protect her humanity. Though I hate to put words into her mouth, it's undeniable that this girl is in shock, in horror, in a moment of hell only some of us are ever put through. December 5, 2011, Kabul, Afghanistan. Monday. I'd just finished my monologue presentations the Friday prior. Two weeks left of class. Quite literally in my case. All my worries and fears at that time, about performing, about my skills and capabilities, my future, were all perfectly valid. I am no less worldy or compassionate for being so concerned about my own life. It's my responsibility to care about the struggles and concerns that structure my world. Nonetheless, how shockingly trivial it all is in comparison to the image above. A small pile of even smaller bodies, and whatever ideals of peace and togetheness that existed within those bodies, shattered. That's what I imagine it to be. But I'm just another priviledged Westerner projecting some vague semblances of humanity onto some atrocity, continents away. Sure, in a greater sense, we're all of the same race, the same heart, and all injustice affects everyone of us. In our day to day lives however, how much do even the most grotesque acts directly affect us? The world very literally keeps turning. Life stops for no one, belongs to no one, is here for all and every experience equally. It has no preferences, no biases. Life is here to be lived by all that care to breathe, grow, be touched by sunlight and one day, be held by death.

There's a little girl in a pink sweater drinking milk from a green Starbucks straw, a few tables away. Parents in tow, speaking a language I can't quite place. Dutch, maybe German. The girl is tiny. Her older sister comes to her, pink mittens attached to the sleeves of her jacket. I want desperately to create some bridge between the children in front of me and the children in the photo, but perhaps there just isn't one. These are completely different samples of humanity. Their realities are astonishingly different. Their trials incomparable, their tears shed for disappointments of staggeringly different proportions. Sure, our similarities across landscapes, whether geographical or culturally constructed, are remarkable, but our differences are what give our experiences shape and definition, and by virtue of this, some structures are easier to live in than others.

The children in front me, now gone home, will most likely never face such brutal cruelty laid bare in front of them. Those in the photograph, who are alive, will forever be marked by the barbaric slaughter they once witnessed, and perhaps, will continue to witness.

And that's just the way it is. Suffering distributed in a seemingly senseless, random pattern. Religious fanatics will argue otherwise, stating that the belief in a false god, or the inability to appease the right one, will cause well deserved waves of horror. Economists and poltical scientists will offer statistics and equations, historical imperatives and current societal phenomena, to account for the state of the world. Artists will strive to extrapolate meaning from the chaos. I cannot speak to what all the various other factions of people will do, think, or feel. I have a hunch that most will wince, or sigh, and move on. Those responses are fine. They're the most that, in many circumstances, can be done. I'm not advocating for apathy or for distancing ourselves from the suffering of others. I'm saying it's important to recognize the scope of human experience, and to attempt to reconcile the immense incomprehensibility of it all, the potential futility of it all, with the desire to improve in whatever small ways we can, the landscapes we inhabit.

--------------

First draft. I felt very compelled to write about this image, though as of now I'm not sure what I want the reader to take away, or rather what exactly I want to say. Perhaps I really shouldn't say anything at all, and let the brutality speak for itself.

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cannot

I cannot speak.
Years of silence and I am wiped out.
An angry man, a lonely woman, living in a box,
Bound by some form of love I cannot understand.
Please, stop shouting.
Please, stop forgetting that it hurts.
Pain is a fun, twisted game for a while,
But all the other players have quit, gone home and cleansed their dirty hands,
While you still flail in the mud.

I stand beside you, cold, shivering, splattered with your violent splay.
I try to speak but my mouth is too dry, my tongue shriveled and inert.
There are no words to tell you, how much I wish we could change.


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turn away

My mother speaks to me and I turn away,

Trying to not listen.

Your words all sound like tears to me,

All I can see is your silence, your presence shrouded by hardship, hardship that knows me well.

I cannot bear the memories of last night. Last week. The past eight years.

The dog whimpering in neglect. Your lonely breath his only companion.

Please, stop speaking. Stop speaking. Don’t make me remember that you are still here.

I wish you would go away, go away to a place where I can be sure of your happiness.

Instead, you sit in this house, letting harsh words make everything bitter.

You smile, insist that it tastes fine, that the spices are not stale.

But your food is flavourless, and chagrin seeps through your smiling lips.

I need to leave.

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take me home

Walking through the fog, the moist air, I feel as though sadness could take me back:

A long train of memories,

feelings,

connected to places where I knew love,

As if following the pain long enough will lead me back home.

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Cake

Nothing tastes good when eaten alone.
Tea is weak. Salt impotent. Cream is like water.
Cake isn't sweet anymore.
Just something that, once, was nice.


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hold me together

Something that will hold me together. Something.
Anything.

String to tie me up.
Stiches to close the wounds.

Bring the frayed edges together again, reweave my worn down garments,
Fill in the deep hollows,
Replace the stale sighs with fresh breath, the rancid love with new affection.
Clean faces to gaze on, no scars, no raging blemishes, no stinging acne.

A happy hand. A real smile. Teach me to live again.
----------------------------

How to be honest without being trite? To speak of sadness without self-pity. That's what I want.


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respected

Sun won't set until August.
I wanna live there. Sunlight pouring into my bedroom, all day, all night.
Plants growing green, warmth on my face, from something else than a blow.
He doesn't hit me but I feel deep bruises nonetheless.
If only your body punished me and not your words,
I could honour my own suffering.
----------------
This is by no means to say I wish to be physically abused, but rather that emotional abuse isn't taken as seriously, although it is still a form of violence.

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your legacy

You used to lay your head on my chest.
I'd kiss the top of your head, hoping to silence the stream of
worries pouring out your mouth,
to instead find the love that once eased my grumbling heart, so in need of sustenance.

But you ignorned me for the sound of your own voice.

And I ate your self-absorption, for fear of starving.

-----

slightly less messy than originally.


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do a lot of work.




Shared with me via facebook. Here's to a copious amount of blogging, to lessen the gap.



passed

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I could spent hours here
My mind needs wringing,
Soaked with juices of unrest and stale bordem
squeezing it out leaves a mess
A bad smell, blotted ideas and wrinkled bits of paper
Once wisdom, now unlegible.
My fingers soon grow tired
My eyes strain to stay open
But there is work to do,
And only minutes have passed.

drums

My eyes beat on drums made of promises
pound them into being heard
staring into drums I longed for your words to breathe
to live, to honour the beauty of their rhythm and shape.
I beat the drums but hear no music
Unskilled, amateur- I feel defeat.
worried I cannot bring promises to life merely with hope.


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cracked soil

My eyes charcol grey
fingers rich soil awaiting rain.

plants cannot grow in my cracked soil.

please, do not say you must go.

Woman inside quietly sings,

record player always humming the same tune, no words.

the walls look out but do not speak,

  and there is no friendliness to be earned in their presence.



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Spinning through space

I am ashamed, everything stands still.
Stillness is the quality of these days
Cars moving, sidewalks freshly laid down,
Drills outside my ears.
The world moves, rendering me a cripple.
In contrast, motion is senseless.
We are spinning through space,
Seeing no one, talking to no one.
A ball of dirt and water, heated by the sun.
Stillness envelopes me.
I cringe.


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Circle

Colourful and bright,
Childhood and the sunshine, playing together.
Wash after wash, colours start to fade.
Children grow and the sun withers into night.
Toys abandonned in the yard.
Strangers walk past, no one wondering what happened.


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Something beautiful

Something beautiful.

A dog chasing it's tail
My mothers eyes
My father making up lyrics to songs
Dan's maniacal laugh
George
Alina's soul
Encouragement from friends
Anita's crazy (crazy being a noun)
Pictures of Alex and I in Phillie
Love so strong it makes you cry
Knowing nothing lasts forever, so it's all gonna be fine.


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men of my life

the men of my life

have torn me down, stomped on me, loved me, laughed with me, beraded me, controlled me, nurtured me, created me, caressed me, held me, astonished me, pained me, defiled me, respected me, taught me, stained me, blamed me, ignored me, devoured me, worshipped me, gifted me, confined me, punished me, tickled me, desired me, read me, hated me, inspired me, lost me, rejected me, upset me, lifted me, valued me, fucked me, kissed me, forgot me, twisted me, adored me, acknowledged me, thanked me, enraged me, blessed me, left me, breathed me, drank me, fought me, drained me, revived me.
---------------------------------------------

Words for thought. That's all.


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Contortion.

My body, disfigured and stuck.
I am afraid to collapse on health's doorstep in such a state. My fingers warped and my arms burned. Hip twisted, legs joyless rods, useless for walking.
A sculpture, a monument to lovelessness.
Too afraid to crawl to release, to affection.
A broken mirror, the bits jab into my eyes. I bled.
I am relieved.
------------

Gruesome and brutal. Too far.  I need sleep.


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Let it Out.

Fear of calamity, monstrosity of inner animosity,
Perplexed vision-don't hurt, don't hurt me no more,
I say to the strange woman in the mirror.
Music fading out, fading out, burnt out, keep me out, don't hurt me no more.
Fear of rejection, dejection in my finger nails, staining my food, swallowing my poison-let it out, let the words out.
Peace out, sweat out, freak out,


I don't remember how it feels to win!


The stains in my brain from failure, Rorschach, Rorschach, what'd ya see, what'd ya see?! 


I see... I see...


I'm burning in the brine of my salty tears,
Can't swim no more-he's shouting again-
Let me out. Let me be my own woman, eating the fruits of her labour,


I'm bored of myself, borne of myself: my actions, thoughts, deeds, greeds- let it out, let it out. 


Tired of fighting, tired of being brave, of having to work so hard to keep each day from fallin' apart, each love from fallin' apart,


pressure pressure cooking me in my salty brine, write me a song to sing for all my time, all my faded memories and crooked smiles, let it out, let it out.
-----------


A very frantic, mostly unorganized, quasi-slam piece. Early in the works. Why only post things that are neat and tidy and finished? Here are my word-guts. They are smelly and a little unsanitary, but real.


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I Am From

I am from a edgy city with a bad rep: Surrey.

From angry teenagers with spikes in their faces and resilience in their tears.

I am from fire and ice, like my father’s temperament.

I am from the deep sorrow that narrates my mother’s journeys.

I am from the hearts and hands of the young men I loved,

From the laughter and dreams of the women I adore.

I am from the heat and blood of another oceans people;

From stories lost in translation and words I no longer understand.

I’m from places I’ve yearned to call home though the name never fit.

I am from breath,
            From the air that carries me through life, that gives me strength to laugh, to love, to weep for my aches.

From a grimy suburb with broken faces, where dreams were all I had,
To a big city with bountiful lights, where dreams are all I have.  

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First assignment at George Brown, for Debra Joy's voice class. Based off a template, I am from _______, and _________, etc.

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old woman

I am an old woman who has seen the sun set more times that she would wish.
Loves come and go, none keep the promise of the first kiss.
Friends venture off to journey through places I dare not see.
Family is a foreign word, a fractured house, a bad memory.

My breath is hot, my bones are firm,
My skin is supple and my body yearns.
But I am seated here, humming songs of resignation.
I am tired of this place.
I long for home.
------------------

Sentimental and the rhyme scheme is very traditional. An acceptable first draft. I like the overall feel though.


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7 More Days

7 more days 'til I go,
Getting rid of everything old,
But nothing new ever fits the same,
So many tears, so few to blame.


7 more days 'til I go,
Wishing I could see everyone I know,
Every face I'm leaving behind,
Their bodies stay, but the memories are mine, are mine.

I'm always telling myself the same stories,
Always waiting for the same glories,
But nothing's gonna come sleeping away my days,
Praying for life to change, praying for life to change.


7 more days 'til I go,
Running away from my only home,
Doesn't matter, it's only a name,
The place is cold, my heart is freezin'.


7 more days 'til I go,
Boxes packed, luggage is stowed,
Flying through clouds and dreams,
My eyes are closed but I can't sleep.

I'm always telling myself the same stories,
Always waiting for the same glories,
Falling asleep to the same old songs,
Crying over the same old wrongs.

I'm always telling myself the same stories,
Always waiting for the same glories,
But nothing's gonna come sleeping away my days,
Praying for life to change, praying for life to change,
Praying for life to change, praying for life to change.

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Started writing this a week before moving to Toronto. Finished it just now. It's a song with a melody, but I can't translate the melody through words, but here we are.


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My Home.

My home.

Walls so sturdy and firm even the heaviest experiences will hold.

Photos in leaden frames, large smiles behind glass thick with dust.

I stand back, examining my life, fragmented and stained with longing,

A mausoleum for my misplaced affections.

Moments of love captured through the lens of sadness, now hanging on my walls.

Walls so sturdy and firm, even the heaviest experiences will hold.

Today, I see a crack.

_________________________

Not sure how I feel about this. I'm worried it's too sentimental and isn't really saying anything that interesting or honest. I work too deeply in elaborate metaphores. I want to come out of my literary shell and speak from the heart. I like the idea of the last line but I don't feel it really fits.

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Somethings Never Change

I still hide chocolate in little nooks around the house,
Behind a pile of books,
In a small pocket of a school bag,
Under the pillow.


The other night when opening a cupboard I saw the blue wrapper, two squares left.
My moment of glee brought me to the thought of you.
Had you been there we'd have shared, and though I had all the more to myself,
I wanted to place the extra piece, already sticky with my finger prints, into your palm.
To share this little joy with someone who would understand.


Though diluted by time and efforts to forget, I can still hear your laughter, feel your affection.


The refrigerators hum brings me back to my kitchen.
I see that I am alone, the wrapper empty.

I throw it away, and return to my desk, wishing I had not opened the cupboard.


--------------


I want to find a better way to express arriving back from the moment of longing, but otherwise am fairly pleased.


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Rebuilding.

I'd like to expand on and tidy up this metaphore, but here it is, just as it came into my mind.
______

I had a book of Me, and I've spent a lot of time tearing out these pages of myself, crumpling them into balls and throwing them away. There's a big pile. What I need to do is to go through each of these discarded pages, each a piece of myself,  open them up, smooth them out, and rebuilt myself, page by page, into a stronger, sturdier work of art.


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Aching for the Past.

The story has ended;
Suddenly whilst reading the pages ran out.
I rub my fingers against the corner of the last page.
Perhaps two have stuck together,
clinging to each other for fear of the end.
No such luck.
I flip to the front to begin again, but every word is faded, impossible to decipher.
It's as if they never were.


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Failing

I have loved you more than I can say, and what words I have are failing.

My minds pages cracked and dry, my spine ruptured, slowly breaking.

My cover faded and vague.

Your face, faded and vague.

Looking through myself I expect to find many stories and tales,

But each one is writ over with your name, only your name.

I have loved you more than I could say, and what words I have, have failed.

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