The Beauty of the Broken

This is probably my favorite of all of my old poems (even though I never think of this one as a poem. In my mind it's always a song.). There are very few pieces of my old writing that I can look back on now and not cringe at least a little, this is one of them.

Your scars and your tears,

your addictions and your fears

make you beautiful.

Your love

is such delicious poison.

I see the beauty of the broken in your eyes

and I

can't seem to shake this feeling

although your anger sends me reeling every time. 

I know it's not right

to stay with you all night

and watch you disappear 

into a thick fog of pain

and the chemicals you claim

bring you some relief.

And deep down I know

it's better if I go

and let you find your way

to the light on your own.

I thought that maybe I could save you

but I just don't know how to

and it breaks my heart

to see all the pain you live with

and the harm you'll cause yourself to ease it.

There's nothing I can do.

My staying here's not helping.

I wake up every morning and I feel so lost.

Lately I just feel so useless.

I can't stand to feel this hopeless.

It's tearing me apart.

I don't know how to tell you,

part of me still doesn't want to

but what else is there to do

but to walk away?

Broken Glass

This is another of my old poems. I decided to go with this one this week because a couple of days ago, I got comments on it from Hello Poetry, which I haven't even logged into for years. Anyway, I figured if people there liked it all of a sudden, maybe you guys would too. 

I view my world through broken glass

it distorts everything I see.

Things that should be nice and comforting

all look dangerous to me.

Everything around me, everyone I know

is so twisted and unrel.

I'm living in this nightmare wasteland

where fear is all I feel.

I know this place is beautiful.

I hear it all the time

but it just looks like a prison cell

to these broken eyes of mine.

All these strangers that surround me

I guess you'd call them family and friends

just make me fell like I'm a spy

who's trying to act like one of them.

Is there smewhere out ther I can go

that will really look like home?

Or am I doomed to see only ugliness

and to always feel alone?

Are there people out there in this world

who will truly be my friends

who will love me and respect me

and on whom I can depend?

If I keep searching long enough

will I ever find a way

to see the beauty in this life

so I will have a reason to stay?

Or will I wander aimlessly

until the day I die

looking for a place and a life

that I will never find?

I wish that I could see the world

for what it really is

but my corrupted vision

is a problem I don't know how to fix.

For now I'll keep pretending

to see things the way you do

and hope that Im the one who's wrong

and it's you who sees the truth.

Who Am I?

So here is my first "throwback Thursday" post. It is the first poem in my poetry book from 2010. 

I am a dreamer without a dream.

I am an artist without an art.

I am a soldier against my own thoughts.

I am a betrayer of my own heart.

I am an activist too scared to act.

I am a lover unable to show love.

I try to be everything at once.

I find that I am nothing at all.

I hide my true desires

behind everything that I pretend to be.

It seems that all the things I really want

conflict with what I want people to see.

I want to take chances

but fear what I might lose.

I want to stand up for my beliefs

but I don't know what I can do.

I want to show how I truly feel 

to let people finally see the real me

but I can't stand to show them all my flaws

or let them know that I am weak.

No wonder I can't make connections

since no one knows who I am.

I wish that I could show them

but I don't know how I can

since I don't even know myself,

who I am or who I want to be.

All of my conflicting traits

don't even make sense to me.

Since I use the image of Spike doing poetry for my new poems, I thought I would use one of him singing for my old poems (because most of them were actually written with songs, not poems, in mind). Also, Buffy's face in this picture pretty nicely conveys the feeling I have about most of my old work.

Connection

I should be alone. I'm lonely when I'm alone, but that's better than what I am when I'm with others; always faking, always angry. Because the truth is I'm always alone. I move with them, act like them, pretend to be one of them, but I'm not one of them. I don't belong in my family, in my country, anywhere. I take off my glasses when I'm in public because I think I look better that way, as if it matters what I look like. My poor vision turns them all into monsters. Their faces blurred and distorted. Are they looking at me? I can't tell. I don't know if this makes it better or worse. I feel like they are all staring at me, and yet I am invisible. I am an uneasy presence they can all sense, so they squint their eyes and try to make out what it is they feel but can't see. Everyone is looking at me, but no one sees me. I just want to be seen. One small connection. A guy holds the door for me. I thank him. He smiles. A connection. Thirty seconds, no more. I think about it for the rest of the day. How pathetic is that?

Love Letter to an Imagined Soulmate

Well here it is, the weird little thing I wrote the other day.


I know you, my love; not your name, or where you live, or what you do. I don't know what you look like, or who your parents are, or what kind of music you listen to. Something tells me that, despite all of that, I would still recognize you if we passed on the street. Because I know the truth of you, the essence that lies beneath all of those things that we think make us who we are. I know the feel of you. Though we have never touched, there are times when I swear I can feel your hands on my skin. I don't know what your face looks like, but I have felt the sense of belonging that I would experience when looking into your eyes. I have never met you, maybe I never will meet you, maybe you don't even exist, but I have felt your arms around me as I fall asleep and known that I was home.

I can't actually decide if it's a poem, or an excerpt from a story that I will probably never tell, or exactly what the title proclaims it to be. Oh well. 

Fire and Ice

I feel like I was built to walk through fire. Instead, I'm drowning in a frozen lake of mediocrity and mundane irritations. I pound my fists bloody on the ice, as everyone I know stands above me on the surface with looks of confusion and vague concern on their faces, asking me why I'm being so dramatic. I try to scream that I was not built for this. I was made to withstand heat, not cold. But when I open my mouth, my lungs fill with water and all that comes out is garbled nonsense. They all shake their heads in disappointment and say "You should be grateful, you know? Some people are burning."

First poem in quite a while. I hope you guys like it. 

Very Important (to me, probably not to you) Poll!

I need everyone's help! A friend of mine on facebook just invited me to a poetry competition. I feel like this is something I have to do, despite the terror it evokes in me to think of standing up in front of a bunch of strangers and sharing my, at times, overly personal poetry. Here's what I need from all of you. Will anyone who reads this PLEASE PLEASE read through my poems and tell me which one you think I should do?
Ripped Apart
Futility
Shape Shifter
Too Close
Adulthood
Connected
Adventure

I have a feeling I will look much more like this version of Spike than the one I normally use for my poetry posts. 

Mmmmmm Mmmmmmmm Good

I'm not sure if I have mentioned this before or not, but I am a terrible cook. Terrible. I probably would have starved to death long ago were it not for my rice cooker. Because I rely so heavily on it though, I end up eating the same thing all the time. I have been eating some variation of red beans and rice every day for the last several months. I have gotten to the point where I just don't think I can stand it anymore. So yesterday, when I went to the store, I decided that I was going to find something else to put in with my rice. My sister found me a recipe for a butternut squash stew and it sounded great, so I was really excited about trying it. I was just going to alter it a little to make it a rice dish instead of a stew. Guess what? They didn't have any butternut squash at the store, but by then I was too committed to the idea to give up on it. So, today I am going to put; rice, canned pumpkin, tomatoes, chickpeas, raisins, and possibly peas into my rice cooker and see what happens. Wish me luck.

I had such a great idea for an image for this post. I wanted to use that scene where Spike is talking about crunching up some kind of cereal in his blood and then Giles says something about never being able to eat again. I couldn't find it though, so I had to use this one. 

Thoughts on Love Part 6: Love Is a Word

When I spoke to my mom about my definition of Love, she didn't agree. She said "But that has nothing to do with the other person. I believe Love is a verb." Of course, at the time I couldn't think of a way to explain my position. So here it is now.

Love is a word. Like most words, it has many different meanings both by definition and by personal interpretations. It is an act (verb) and an emotion (noun). When I gave my definition of Love, I was referring to the noun form. Even when you think of Love as verb, it can mean completely different things to different people. I believe most people think of the verb form of love as meaning "To experience the emotion of love." What my mom was referring to is the way we behave toward the person we love. The problem with this definition is that, while it encourages us to treat the people we love in a more loving way, it is not an accurate gauge for our emotions. There are plenty of people in the world who can truly Love someone and still treat them like shit; simply because, for whatever reason, they are unable or unwilling to express their emotions in a healthy way. This does not indicate that they don't truly Love the person, simply that they are not conveying that emotion properly. Furthermore, there are plenty of people who are more than capable of acting lovingly toward people they have very little Love for. We all express Love differently. The way we act is a choice, the way we feel is not. What I was attempting to capture with my definition is the common ground we all share when it comes to Love; the one aspect of it that is the same for everyone. I don't know if I succeeded, but that was the goal.

There should be one more of these( should be) and then I'll stop. 

Ripped Apart

I feel as if I am constantly trying to rip myself apart. Every aspect of my being is eternally pulling, shoving, fighting, against all of the others. How can these different facets all exist within the same person, especially when they hate each other so? I have the mind of an artist; striving for creation, for expression. I have the soul of a monk; longing for fulfillment, for meaning. And I have the heart of a warrior, searching for challenge, for victory. These people, these archetypal concepts, that dwell within my consciousness are in a never-ending battle for dominance, for control over my life, my choices. My mind tries to create things of beauty, but my soul asks "what worth is there in beauty?" and my heart bellows "where is the adrenaline rush?" My soul dreams of building a better world, but my mind  cries "I will wither away!" and my heart demands "I must have an enemy to conquer!" My heart tries to make me strong and fearless, but my mind asks "what will that leave behind when you are gone?" and my soul asks "what impact will that make on the world?" I don't know how to please them all and I fear that to satisfy one is to sentence the others to death.

I realized today that it had been quite a long time since I posted any disturbing poetry. This one is a work in progress. 

The All-Important Vibe

I have always believed that the way a person looks should convey something about who that person is. Others see us much more often than they interact with us, so it just seems natural that we should make choices about our appearance that take that into consideration. I want to look like someone who the type of people I like would want to talk to. I believe wholeheartedly in presenting, on the outside, the person who I am (or maybe, sometimes, who I want to be) on the inside. Of course, this is even more important for me than it is for the average person because, odds are, even if someone does actually interact with me they will learn almost nothing about who I am. So I'm always trying to put off some particular vibe that hints at who I am, at the time (I'm always changing, you know). Lately I have been shooting for this sort of badass/sexy vibe. So far, I don't think I have managed to pull it off.

Spike knows the importance of the vibe. 

Futility

My life is a study in futility. I just want to make the world a better place; to be someone who matters. Yet the harder I try to stand out from the crowd, the more I fade into the background. My days, weeks, months, years are an endless cycle of trying, and failing, and trying again. I am Sisyphus. I am a fish swimming upstream in a current that is just a little too strong for her. I am the fucking itsy, bitsy spider. My whole world is a series of marathons of planning, and scheming, and dreaming that inevitably end in crushing disappointment. And after each defeat I am expected to smile politely as I rush back to the starting line to do the whole thing all over again, meanwhile assuring everyone that this time it will be different.

Shape Shifter

I change. Constantly, dramatically, irrevocably. I am always developing new habits, new looks, new tastes. I become new people, different people. I am always searching for the person I want to be, the person I was born to be. When I was a kid, back in elementary school, we had to write a paper about someone we wished we could be. I wrote that I just wanted to be myself. I guess my self-esteem was a little higher back then. The truth is, there's still no one particular person I would want to trade places with. Instead I sneak around and pluck little pieces off of other people and keep them for myself, fitting myself together like a puzzle made up of the stolen bits of those I admire. A word here, a walk there, a smile, a gesture; absorbing them all and making them my own. Sometimes, though, I wonder who I do this for. Why do I go through all this trouble of constructing a new person over and over? Am I really doing it for myself or am I just hoping that someday I'll become someone that will appeal to some imagined soul-mate? Do I try on a thousand different faces hoping to find one that properly fits my skull or am I just looking for one that shines bright enough to guide the right person to me?

First poem in a while. Don't judge it too harshly. Normally I go through a lengthy editing process, but I just wrote this one on the spot. 

Too Close

We all look at ourselves too closely. We lean toward mirrors and meticulously inspect every wrinkle, every pore, until the flaws are all we can see, until our faces and our bodies no longer make sense to us. We pick ourselves apart one piece at a time hoping desperately to exchange each part for one of another size, another shape, another color. We walk through our day bartering with those around us, silently begging them to trade us their lips, their eyes, their flat stomachs, never knowing that at the very same time they are frantically searching for someone to give them bigger breasts, thicker hair, or longer legs. Because you see, it's easy to look perfect from a distance. We view others from across streets, across rooms, or across tables and wonder how it is that they mange to be so beautiful. But we seldom get the chance to see ourselves from far away. We are so focused on every little detail that we barely even know what we look like as a whole person. Every once in a while, I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror that I didn't know was there and for just a moment I think "Who is that? She's pretty." Then I look closer and realize that it's the same girl with the big nose, and the bad skin, and the stomach that always sticks out just a little, no matter how many sit-ups she does. We look at ourselves too damn closely. If we could just take a few steps back, maybe we could all see how beautiful we are. But we can't, because we are all flawed structures built for the specific purpose of slowly tearing ourselves down. It's what we do. It's all we've ever known.

^This picture means it's a poem, just in case you forgot. 

Adulthood (Poem)

I am not an adult. I refuse to relinquish my crazy dreams. I'll never abandon my impossible fantasies. I simply cannot concede that my delusions are well.........delusional. I will not accept the inevitability of mediocrity. I believe in the possibility of great and wonderful and terrifying things. More importantly, I believe in my own ability to greet those things with a fierce courage and unstoppable strength. I reserve the right to believe that magic exists and so do superheroes, and that there is still a chance that, someday, I might encounter both. I assert that I am entitled to the occasional temper tantrum, even if I do insist on keeping it at bay until I am alone. I can't help but assign emotions to inanimate objects, though only if the objects seem particularly emotional. I still create stories in my head just like I did when I was a little girl and, though I may no longer act them out physically, much of my life is still spent in those imagined places. The beauty and wonder of those places has led me to view our reality through a film of distaste and defiance, and to ask myself  "Why would anyone want to live here?"

More Poetry

We are all connected. We affect each other in ways that we cannot even imagine, and we shouldn't try to imagine or we become paralyzed by the endless stream of possibilities. We change and are changed in innumerable ways everyday without even noticing it. We will never know the true implications of our actions. We can never foresee which huge or minuscule act will forever change the world in which we live. I live my life under the assumption that everything I do creates a tiny ripple which grows smaller and smaller even as it stretches out in all directions, reaching toward infinity. Maybe someday, if I create enough of these ultimately microscopic disturbances in the fabric of our reality, they will join together and form a tidal wave which will wash over us all and leave behind a new high water mark on the walls of our world. Or maybe they will just fade into oblivion and nothing I do will be remembered any longer than the time it takes for me to do it. I try to walk through my life scattering  thoughts like spores to the wind, in the hope that they will land in the minds of those around me and grow into brand new worldviews. I stand on sidewalks and smile as I hand people bricks and as they walk away I cross my fingers that they will use them to build temples instead of dungeons. The human voice is so small, but we live in a time of truly remarkable acoustics. One little voice has the opportunity to reverberate all the way around the world in a matter of minutes, seconds but we never know quite what it will sound like when it gets to the other side. I find myself afraid to open my mouth for fear that the sound that comes out will be misunderstood. What if I hit the wrong note and cause an avalanche that buries the very thing I was trying to protect?

I'm thinking I might just use this picture for all of my poems because; 1-Then I won't have to specify that they are poems. 2-It will save me the hassle of searching for poetry related pictures and 3- It makes me happy :)   

Written Spoken Word

So I said I was going to try to write some new poetry. Well I didn't actually write anything new, but I did write an extended version of something I wrote a while back. I imagine I will never actually get brave enough to do it out loud, but I'm going to pretend that I will anyway.

I long for adventure in my life. I'm talking heart-pounding, mind-racing, out of breath, "will I make it?" "will I make it?" adventure. I want to be one of those people that people talk about in reverent whispers. "Did you hear about that girl who....?" I want to run from danger, shooting sly glances over my shoulder that say "Come on! Is that all you've got?" I don't need a hero. I want to be the hero. I want to save the day and then smile and walk away as if it were nothing, leaving the would be victims to wonder "Who was that?" with tears of relief in their eyes. You can keep your white knight. I will ride to the rescue myself in my rusted out car with my homemade armor and a pen knife for a sword. I want to laugh uncontrollably with the flood of adrenaline that comes from not dying when I was so certain that I would. I want to fight for what I believe in, literally not figuratively. Fight hard. Fight with everything I have, every last drop of myself. I want to look around me and see the mark I have made on this place. I want to leave my signature on every wall, every stone, on the face of every person I meet. I want to die with a smile on my lips because, in the end, I will know that I made this life mine. I want adventure. I want to change this world with my own two hands.

Maybe I'll do what Spike did and wait until I'm fairly certain I'm going to die.