(untitled)

The light hiding behind the blind,
streaming through the window
is deliciously impersonal,
nebulous yet familiar--
a far off smoke-tinged
dream not realized
but relived so many hundreds of times.

Read more...

poetry

There's poetry in me,
but I'm too worn out
to find it again.

Read more...

Untitled

She hangs up the phone with resignation and the false smile still pasted over aching lips.

Of course everything would be all right. Wouldn't it? It had to be.

"No, darling, they won't lock you up."

"No, darling, you're not crazy."

"Talk to your doctor. It'll be fine."

What she longs for the most is to say, "I'm scared. I don't understand."

What she longs for the most is to be held and for the trouble to seep quietly away, out of her body and into the ground, cleansed by fire and kisses.

She can't.

Fall's slanting golden light and thinly pure air is no match for dark circles cradling tired eyes.

But it can try. She would welcome that.

Read more...

4:43 AM

Too-early or too-late
but I am awake all the same
nothing but a ghost connected to millions
and yet, no one at all.
I read about sexual preference while one song loops endlessly
and note with relief that I am not alone
in my loneliness.
And I think about those across the country
who must be waking up, shedding dreams,
when I have not even begun.

Read more...

stars

If I could, I'd lay with my back against some lonely asphalt highway, car silent, staring up at the constellations that would bleed into the velvet of the dark mountain sky. I'd listen to this song on endless repeat until I grew tired of it or it lulled me to sleep, thinking and dreaming about everything and nothing and those spots in between. Far, far away, a couple would be having sex, hoping roommates can't hear them; while I would make love with my eyes to the stars, content in my aloneness, tangible and tasteless like water--but only just this once.

I am tired of lying.

Read more...

"Thursday" or "lonely owl-night" or "Owl Eye Echoes"

There is an owl in my neighborhood.
I can hear him as I sit here,
grasping the air that I didn't realize I needed.
He screeches, echoing in the suburban waffle-work,
stopping and starting like the frogs, like the crickets never do;
like a telegram.
Come outside. Stop. I miss you. Stop.
And I lay back on the cement, heedless of spiders,
watching the rotation of the earth reflected in the stars.

(thanks to the lovely Summermoon for the second title)

Read more...

A poem, posted after playing too much Oregon Trail

Disclaimer: the f-word and unpleasant subject matter are lurking.


"Alannah"

Once, I swore
to myself and my mother
that I would never end up
like you.
No repeats of three years ago,
the blasts that very nearly
brought blood-bonds to
shards, sharp glass slicing
the metaphorical hands that fed.
Community college drop out,
no ziplock bags of cloy-smelling weed
for prying younger cousins to find.
I wonder now how much you paid,
gone in an instant when we
threw it away.
I blame you for my fear of sex.
Beautiful, unwanted child carried to full-term,
swollen belly sequined and white.

No. I wouldn't. Couldn't.

But last month I ran away,
only for the night,
to get the fuck out--
and I thought of you,
realized that my decisions
were well on their way
to echoing yours.

Read more...

Brag brag brag. :D

Yesterday I was feeling pretty crappy, just sitting in the library that is a giant concrete box of echoes. So I blogged about it. And then I had a meeting with my poetry professor to go over my poetry portfolio, and it was awesome because of this:

In 20 years of teaching this class, I must say you are one of the best (easily in the top 5%). Let me know if you want a letter of rec. for a teaching assistantship. That is the poetry professor in me speaking. The lit professor in me says your brutal honesty will take you to some deep areas of compassion for self and others if you refuse to look away when the intensity gets too bright.

And this:

In some of your poems, like this one, there is an amazing haunting voice. I encourage you to send your best out for publication if you want.

Awwwwww, yeah. 'Kay, done bragging. ^_^

Read more...

I Freaking Love This Poem So Much

My first exposure to this poem was hearing it performed by the poet herself while attending a spoken-word poetry event last month. Her performance was so incredible that I went and looked her up online when I got home that night. (Here's her MySpace, if you are so inclined.)

Anyway, I have far too many tabs open on my web browser, and the poem was one of them, so I wanted to post it someplace where I would not lose it, and also to share with all of you. :)


Wings by Megan Rickman

I used to wear wings
Painted feathers into existence
Silver tipped freedom
Stretched past fingertips

I used to know how to fly

Would wrap galaxies round my midsection
Leave footprints cross clouds
I whispered love songs to the wind
And taught stars how to shine

I used to sleep next to God

He'd match his breathing to my magic
Steal dreams from my slumber

He'll tell you I inspired the oceans
That tides mimic the rise and fall of my chest
River's currents chase paths through my veins and back
Hurricane's rain is the direct result of heart racing
Cicadas copied their cadence from my rhythm

My Rhythm,
Taught trees how to sway

And when I'd speak

When I'd speak you could hear the silence of atoms splitting
Because the Universe knew when it should be listening
I was always listening to the world
But one day Silent Screams drew me too close to the surface
And Life, Plucked me right out of the sky

The scrapes and burns I earned upon collision with surface
Barely scratched the surface of the pain intended for me

Life, Never let me leave the ground after that

And Wings,
Wings are far too heavy when not in flight
Plus burdens flocked to my shoulders
My shoulders developed a distinct hunch
Which forced my head to hang forward

They'll tell you that's the first day a willow wept

And that flowers grew taller
Hoping to catch my new line of vision
But my vision reflected skin much paler than I remembered
And I could not remember what it felt like to be beautiful

Before life Mona Lisa'd my smile
And chiseled all the laughter from my face

I can not face the mirror
Because I always tumble through
And there are demons waiting on the other side that will devour me
If I still believed in God I'd pray for mortality
But my divinity was stripped from me
Decades Ago

I distinctly remember the first feather falling

Blood Red on its tip
Tattooed Victim in my white skin
Circled my feet and painted me Target

Wind whistled through emaciated wings
Whispering "Baby Girl it will only get harder.
No one will ever love you,
Not then
And Not now"

Doubt spread through me like malignant cancer
The permanent lump in throat should of served as warning
But it had been there so long I forgot it wasn't normal

That morning feathers encircled my head like a halo

Taunting "Fallen Down Angel,
Just give up,
No one will blame you"

I realized I'd grown too weary of cumulonimbus dreams
So, I amputated wings
Stretched out impotent flesh and bone
And bled more than Miscarried children

Children Please,

Take better care of your wings
Paint feathers into existence
Silver tipped freedom
Lies at your fingertips

But don't ask me for lessons

Cause I do not remember how to fly

Read more...

Baptism, Take Two

(oh, hey, and read this poem, it's fantastic. go on... what are you waiting for?)

Today, I stood in the cold Spring rain; barefoot, glasses off, hair down in a tangled mess of not-caring. I breathed deeply as each stinging drop touched me, soaked my sagging jeans and old white t-shirt, my hair, my skin. I had no purpose except to be wet, to be outside, to watch the swirling grey mass of the clouds as they blurred in my imperfect vision. I had no purpose, but the longer I stood there pummeled by the rain I was swept away. Now, I have something, transient perhaps, gone in a hour, or several. But I remember the taste of it as the water brushed my lifted face, washed it away.

I can't remember the last time I've ever felt this pure.

Read more...

A Prose-Poem

(To be honest, the term used to confuse me. After finishing this, I'm rather enamored with the form.)

"Sunday Afternoon, 4:23 pm."

I drove to the beach by myself today, just to prove that I could, to see if the freedom I felt was really truth or fiction. Because, frankly, I'm getting sick of it dangling in my face, waiting, anticipation mirrored in a solitary breath til I could reach--but my fingers would only brush smoke, and I'd rock back on my knees and cry til I'm laughing.

I imagined what you would smell like, wondered if it would be anything like this, the scent of salt and sand and creatures living and thriving and rotting, all at once. Wondered if the touch of you on my face would be as warm and smooth as the breeze I breathed.

Wondered if the glare of reality would hurt like the sun on the waves, or harsher.

Read more...

"Scar"

I am forgettable.
Easily spotted, not-so-easy
to explain away.
There is laughter there
where pain was--
is.
I remind you
of your childhood.
Of dresses flirting with knees
Of games played in bathrooms,
echoing caverns
where no one hears you scream.
There is no blood
Only bone
Bypassing the heart
as iron connects
and strikes instead at the skeleton of things.

Read more...

"January 23, 2009"

She died today
One year ago.

I remember.

I look back and
can't seem to find
Myself.

But there she is--
and there--
in the quiet scrape of clouds
against sky,

In the blood that stains roses
running down my legs.

In the strength that I never fully knew
til it was too late.

Things were different then.

Read more...

I should probably put more effort into thinking of titles for my poems...

she sings to me
and I cry
unsure of what to say
how to feel
wrapped up in their celestial dance
that flickers in shadows slapped
across my face

she sings to me
Siren of the uncharted night
and I crave her
the touch of her fingers on
my skin
since it's so easy to merely
succumb

she sings to me
words
burning in my mind
while I struggle to breathe
the line that separates
objectivity and
intimacy

to no avail.

Read more...

One of those untitled ones

It's times like these when I wish
I weren't human.
Times like these that make me
want to end it all, but at the same time
pray it never stops.

It's times like these when
I can't bear to meet your eyes.

Shamed, but I shouldn't be.
At least, that's what you tell me.
Only social animals feel shame. Remorse.
Guilt.
But I'm not an animal,
I'm human--

The worst kind.



(P.S. Battlestar Galactica Season Two finale? My. Brain. Exploded.)

Read more...

"Bleed"

A couple hours ago I started looking through all the poetry I've written this year, because the final for my creative writing class is to pick a piece (poem or short story) and read it aloud to the class. My thought was to pick a poem, even though they're not really my strong point, because, to be entirely honest with you, the thought of a poetry reading is way cooler to me than just reading some short story.

So I started sifting through my files. I've really grown as a poet, I feel. When I compare the poetry I wrote over the past few months to those from earlier this year, I'm really amazed at the difference. That, and it slaps me in the face to realize what an emo, angsty, love-sick teen girl I was before this summer. Reader, if you've stuck with me all this time through that, you deserve a massive hug and cookies.

All of the poems were familiar to me. I remembered them, remembered writing them, what state of mind I was in at the time. All, that is, except one.

This one was written relatively recently; exactly a month ago, in fact. I didn't even remember writing a poem in November when I saw the date on the file. Curious, wondering if I had mislabeled something by mistake, I clicked on the file and started to read.

It was like reading it for the first time.

I sat with wide eyes and typed my shock at Morgan into the little AIM window of the conversation we were having. This poem was good. And I had completely forgotten about it.

After reading, I remembered writing it again. It all came back to me in a flood, gentle, persistent. I remembered thinking it was a piece of crap and deciding that no one would read it, ever. I remembered being a mess of floaty and nerves and breathlessness. I remembered sitting down at my computer with headphones in my ears because my younger siblings were watching High School Musical 2. I remembered wrestling with myself, struggling to put how I felt onto the page in a legible, intelligible manner.

I guess I succeeded.

So now, I'd like for you to read this, and to give me your honest opinion on it. There's nothing I love more than honest opinion. Except maybe ice cream. And puppies. ....Anyway.

“Bleed”

It’s all a dream to me.

But it’s there, waiting, lurking,
Sometimes in the forefront of my mind,
Screaming for attention, nagging,
Begging until it sends me over the edge.

At other times, it merely flickers,
Wandering like a moth across the movie screen
While moving pictures in black and white
Dance in an aching, twisting manner all night long.

And then, I’m awake, and
It’s only clear when you’re right next to me,
With your body pressed against mine,
Whispering in my ears.
It’s only then that I can taste you, smell you,
It’s only then that the words we exchange actually mean something,
Something tangible that I can reach out and touch,
and taste,
and kiss,
and feel.

I live in a perpetual state of denial.

But your fingers are there, physical, aching,
Searching, making me
Bleed.

There’s pain, but at the same time, a meaning, a reason.

And we sing together about “being alive”
But it’s one thing to sing, and another to know.

I’m dancing on the cusp of knowing and not,
of ignorance, and stupidity, and rash decision, and
Beauty.

Chaos, and coldness, and turmoil, and cries in the near-dark.
It melds together, swirling, aching.
Always aching.

Life is all ache—
there’s not much else I can ask for.

Read more...

"Octoberesque"

There is no real weather here in San Diego.
Only varying stages of warmth,
perhaps “rain”
that waters the clean-cut lawns of our suburban sprawl
and leaves little kids squealing, clamoring to get away from the wet.
And Santa Anas that rage from the desert,
chapping lips and mussing hair of teenagers
as they walk to school in 54 degree weather in the middle of January,
propelling fire days instead of snow,
masks donned to breathe not coats to keep warm.
So can you blame me
if I’m at once elated and depressed
with endorphin counts falling—dead leaves on the wind—
that it’s the middle of October, and
finally looking like it.

Read more...

"Stare" Rough Draft

Rough draft of a poem I started on the 16th, but fleshed out and completed this afternoon. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated. :D

“Don’t stare,” says your mother.
“It’s not polite.”
But you do.
Everybody does.

Eyes wide in longing,
disgust, shock,
unbridled curiosity—
Everybody stares.

The girl swathed in black,
cutting across the grass
to feel the dew on her toes—

The woman donning a headscarf
and long sleeves, even in
the harsh sunshine of summer—

The man, unshaven, standing on
the street corner with his sign
“Please Help” while cars whiz past—

The freaks, the outcasts,
the downtrodden, misunderstood,
sick and healthy, whole and amputee,
those for whom there is nothing, or everything,
who do not or have always belonged—

Everybody stares.

Even you who listen, right now,
with eyes wide in shock
and disgust, or idle curiosity;
while your mother’s voice whispers
“Don’t, it’s not polite.”

Let me tell you something.

Polite has no place
here, in this life so limited,
where each second is precious.

So damn your mother—stare—soak it in—
open your eyes
and see.

Read more...

"That day"

That day, I felt like dancing.

Smokey clouds over head, a canopy of
abundant rolling energy,
restless and peaceful, all at once.

One reckless step, then another
into the deluge
swathed in another’s jacket,
since you were too stubborn to
wear one of your own.

Your eyes laugh as
you shake your head,
repeatedly insisting;

My hair drips water down my back,
spilling onto my face,
teardrops,

But there’s no sadness here.
Not yet.

That day was warmth.

You were right.

That day, cold fingertips reached
to touch the sky,
touch your face.

That day, I fell short.

Read more...

"The Red Leaf"

I've had this mental image of this leaf I saw on the blacktop at school back on Thursday. As we were supposed to write a poem over the weekend about an inanimate object for Creative Writing (I love that class so much), I guess it's a good thing it's been stuck in my head.

Before I put the poem here, I must share some news: The "Dr. Horrible" soundtrack is now out on iTunes!! It makes me so happy; I even had a dream about it a few weeks ago, hahaha. Alas, I have no money. -_- I need a job. I think I might pop into the Halloween store that sets up down the street around this time and see if they're still hiring.

Anyway, here's the poem. Comments are always greatly appreciated. :D

"The Red Leaf"

Cascading, great gulps
of air as it spins,
flickering--old photographs,
regrets.
I watch the graceful
tumble-down of memory,
immune to time and space, but
not the laws of Gravity;
it Falls,
bleeding scarlet on ebony,
silent,
still.

Read more...