Wax

Staring at a candle at 2 a.m., it brings out the worst.
The room I rest in is black, this candle the only thing I see. The flame itself is yellow at the tip and melts to a deep orange towards the bottom. The thin pool of liquified wax simmering at the top is a dark purple, below it, a light lavender. It reminds me of how a clean blanket makes you feel.
Staring at this candle at 2 a.m., it’s bringing out the worst.
I’m really, really sorry. In this black room I’m sitting on this couch that is not mine. I’m asking myself, is there anything I should’ve done? Is there something I shouldn’t have? What could I have done better? I tried really, really hard and I don’t think anyone noticed. They never do.
Staring at a candle at 2 a.m., it brings out the worst.
Lukewarm dishwater.
Warm-smelling lotion.
Cold hands.
Uneven fingernails.
My best friend.
Nicotine
Acid
Coffee stains.
Trapsoul
White lamp light
Home is a person not a place
I’m alone.
Rough towels.
If you didn’t see it,
Don’t say it.
I can’t see here
In this dark room
Where I cannot breathe.
Staring at a candle at 2 a.m., it brings out the worst.

Welcome to Hell

Somewhere dark
Somewhere sinking.
My dreams are black,
Then blue,
And somewhere milky inbetween.
God it hurts, what is that?
A parade of pleads in my head…
From
“Mom please come home”
To
“Baby please don’t leave”
There’s tears and and there’s blood
Tears so hot, so breathtaking
And blood so shy, it is I who ever sees it.
So warm, why is it so warm?
Choking, gagging, grasping and thrashing
For a hand.
A hand to hold me
To heal me.
I don’t know where I am
I don’t know who I am.

Hi, How Are You?

Hi, how are you? Now that I’ve spit out the attention- grabber, you’re here. You. Are. Here. Take a moment to tell me, what are you looking at, right now?
Ya see, I’m writing this poem in the mirror.
I am you. And you are me.
Hi, how are you?
Free
I am free.
Free to live
Thrive
Free to be.
I am free to be
Me.
So why aren’t you?
Fear,
I see fear.
And I’m realizing that you can’t see that those scars are your arms spell better poems than your mind will ever muster
And
When was the last time you smiled, at me?
What were you thinking about?
Who were you with?
What did it mean?
Hi, how are you?
Sad
I am sad.
Because I’m sorry it’s taken me so long.
I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to tell you
It is so, nice…to meet you.
It’s just that every time we’ve crossed paths,
I’ve seen something in you that I cannot find in me.
Beauty.
You
Are
Beautiful.
I am you and you are me,
And I am honest
When I say that you,
Are beautiful.
And together,
A soul with a body,
Not the other way around,
Together we are free.
I am free.
Free to live
Thrive
Free to be.
Me.
Just me.

Good Ones Are Hard To Come By.

About a month ago, give or take a week, I got the creative urge to do something that actually turned out pretty cool.


I took all the poems I have written on this blog, a total of 5 or 6 I believe, and I combined them in to one poem. All lines completely rearranged. But they were all there. I memorized it. Recited it to myself countless times until I was overwhelmed with a sense of indescribable pride. It was magical how a handful of individual poems could come together as one and the message still made sense, ya know? They were similar in theme, yes. But not entirely. My work posted here is extremely personal, but sharing has never bothered me. When I recited the poem to myself the first time, without stumbling over a stanza or glancing at my notes, I cried. I cried because it felt so..damn..good. All the pain and unsaid damage that those poems held, it all came rushing out of me. It was in my voice and each tear that fell. Putting together that piece was a beautiful accomplishment. I shared it with a handful of trusted peers, each recitation taking roughly 5 minutes. And the response was amazing, people could hear and feel what I did and something about that was incredibly healing.


Now, I am…so stuck. It’s making me angry. I’ve lost track how many rough drafts I’ve started of spoken-word poems. None of them get finished and none of them seem to have that “spark” or ability to just start pouring out like the poem I talked about above. I love poetry. I think I’m decent at creating it. I’ve always had positive feedback. If it’s something I love and it’s something that helps me emotionally, why is it so hard? Why can’t ideas flow like I want them to? If it were up to me I’d have pieces ready to share every week whether it be for WordPress, my English teacher, or just to know I have safely expressed in a notebook. But the last thing I was genuinely happy with was a month ago. /:

Blue Soldiers

The kitchen is yellow-grey.
Outside it is softly raining…
Just inside the fog-swallowed picture window you will see
A girl.
The warmest part of her, her palms, purposely embracing her mug of caffeinated dawn.
If you look closely, though,
You would see the empty eyes
The quivering jaw
The lost soul.
Tap into her ears
And you hear nothing but the occasional crackle and shift of her home’s framework.
Follow her gaze and you’d find the same yellow-grey sun as yesterday.
Expose her mind and there,
There’s where you find the white walls
You hear the ideas.
Ideas of dozens of blue soldiers, bitter when chewed, discreet and sweet when swallowed,
Being called to duty,
To somewhere deep in her throat,
To fight the battles inside her.
Battles her heart can take no more.