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.
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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.
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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.


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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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