An odd sort of Poetry · nature is important

every worried footprint

the ocean has no thoughts,

none of her own at least.

her mind is forever burdened

by all the words written in the sand,

and the racing narratives forced upon the shores

with every worried footprint.

 

the ocean has no thoughts.

she is too busy washing yours away.

every hurting remembrance,

all the times you fell too hard on the concrete.

now you only walk on padded floors,

instead, my friend,

sink into her sandy shores.

 

Sink

because your footsteps are heavy

too heavy;

with every broken heart weighing in…

every ‘I love you’ that wasn’t true,

everything you were never good enough to do.

every moment you can’t replace,

every moment the light did lack.

all that pain shows on your face.

all the time that you can’t get back.

you carry that.

the weight of lifetimes resting on your shoulders

burning your back.

 

fall into the ocean,

and let her crush you.

let the waves break your bones,

and feel the tide pull you in

and put you back together.

let her fix you.

 

the ocean has no thoughts

only every heartache written on her shores

washed away

over and over by the knowing waves

incessantly cleansing

the soul of the sea.

 

~the soul of you and me~

 

An odd sort of Poetry

Rewind and Resume

I knew it wouldn’t be good.

I knew it wouldn’t be nice.

I expected the heartless stares,

and comments laced with ice.

 

You know I’m doing well,

as well as I can do.

So why do you talk so mean,

even when I’m not talking to you?

 

They’ll never understand,

however they’ll surely assume.

I’m not the same as before.

I can’t rewind and hit resume.

 

Please don’t shower me with glances.

Please don’t touch my skin.

Please don’t comment on my looks;

That’s no way to begin.

 

 

 

 

An odd sort of Poetry

The People In The Hall

The people within talk.
In their loudness, there is a lovely silence.
The people within worry and worry, and work and work.

The people in the hall, they speak in hushed whispers.
The hushed whispers are so loud that I cover my ears.
The people in the hall worry and worry, and work and work.

In the midst of the worry, I close my eyes and fade away,
The People in the Hall haunting my empty mind eternally.

An odd sort of Poetry · Narratives · Short Notes

Like Night and Like Day

He once asked me why I was so cynical and jaded. The question was so natural coming from him, being that he, at heart, was a positive force. My answer to him was quite simple:

You grew up in the day with the sun lighting your path.
I grew older in the night among the darkness and the faint light of the moon.
You became who you are because of the things you saw in the daylight.
I became who I am because of the things I couldn’t see in the night.

Narratives · Short Notes

the old man across from me

The familiar brand screams at me silently as I sit here writing, but the sweet smell of cream and the bitter fumes of coffee calm my troubled mind. Across from me sits a man. I can feel his gaze lingering just over my head- my eyes need not assure my mind, but they do regardless. He is aged, the way I hope to never be. On his head he wears a grey cap, a sort of grey cap that takes my soul back to an era I never lived. His tired eyes are magnified by lenses that seem glued to his visage. Our gazes meet, and I smile. Then, in turn, the old man smiles as well. Now, after this brief exchange I will pack up my things and leave. The old man will die and so will I.

Narratives · Short Notes

Tell me about Betrayal

I sit on the cold tile floor with trembling knees tucked against my chest as I gaze apathetically at the endless supply of food in the pantry. Each resting glance makes my stomach feel weak and my irreparable spirit grow poorer. A familiar faintness overcomes me, and to subdue the blurry spots in my vision, I close my longing eyes and rest my head against my knees.The black poison seeps from the corners of my eyes, it’s heavy and threatens to take everything, yet I long to succumb to the darkness, for in the darkness there is something that resembles relief. It’d been far too long since I’d nourished my body. The only thing I’ve been able to keep down is that little blue pill, whose purpose is to numb the pain, to make me “happy.” My body has betrayed me, my mind has betrayed me, and worse of all my soul has betrayed me.

An odd sort of Poetry

All Dying Things

All beautiful things die,

And all dying things are beautiful.

I never saw it, but they always said my face was quite lovely:

They said my lips were the color of roses.

I’m no fool- roses, even the most beautiful, wither and die.

They said my skin was white as snow.

I’m no fool- snow, even the whitest, melts into a dull grey puddle.

They said my eyes were piercing as the bright blue sky.

I’m no fool- the sky, even the brightest blue, turns dark each and every night.

They said my freckles were like grains of sand in a hidden paradise.

I’m no fool- a single grain of sand, even the prettiest grain, is worthless.

They said I was beautiful.

I’m no fool- all dying things are beautiful.

Narratives

Human Discomfort

The immense darkness was illuminated only by a pale moon, barely visible through the gargantuan trees, and three measly headlamps. After spending twenty-four continuous hours clinging to the granite cliffs of the canyon, the trek seemed endless. Every step was agonizingly painful and every shallow breath caused my torso to ache. My fingers traced the spot on my Midwestern neck where his Californian, whiskey laced lips, tainted with the remnants of cigarette smoke, left their mark. Each tree caught in the light had a gentle face and a story to tell. Nobody spoke, perhaps for fear of disturbing the harmonious ballad being sung by all of nature. Crickets chirped knowingly and my heart beat louder, so loud that those stuck in civilization must have heard it. The wild horses neighed in the distance and my breath hitched.The leaves beneath my throbbing feet crunched with every step and the playful wind whistled through the branches and caressed my wasted face. My eyes dreamed of rest, a foreign idea, and my mind berated them, for there was too much beauty to behold.

The unmarked path led us to our destination some three hours after midnight. A million trees encircled the boulder almost like a halo upon the head of an angel. The solitary rock stood before me in a state of absolute allure; if I were one to cry, in that moment a tear might’ve rolled down my cheek. Despite the eminent grace it possessed, the humble boulder measured, at most, thirty feet. Yet It seems that I made it up the boulder only by sheer force of will because if gravity and physiology would have had a say, I would have remained on the damp forest floor indefinitely. My aching corpse would have decayed and provided nutrients to fuel the beauty that I gazed upon in life. Perhaps, if that had been the case, a bed of wild flowers would have grown in the spot where I lay.

But those factors played no role here, and I found refuge on top of the jagged stone. My cheek pressed against the cool rock and my whole body turned numb. Each tree caught in the light above me told me a story and peered into my soul with a gentle face and sympathetic eyes.The leaves fluttered, and through them, a canopy of stars emerged and the entire universe became known to me. Never had I seen so many stars flickering with delight. The sky twisted and swirled into oblivion and left a medley of colors in its wake. A various array of violets, indigos, and emeralds leaped and swayed in seamless unison. I released all my worries into the Milky Way and she gladly accepted them.

A curious katydid landed on my arm, waking me from the hypnotizing beauty. The creature rubbed its leg against its torso and flitted clumsily away as soon as my gaze landed upon it. It was only then, distracted from the world around me, that I realized he was holding my broken hand, distressed and bleeding from every crevice that I had created and acquired. In that moment, fleeting and precious, those strangers were suddenly the closest friends I’d ever had. In that brief moment, any and all afflicted pain, both mental and physical, were absent.

Time passed without warning and the early morning light danced among the hills. The sky was no longer black, but a turquoise that seemed to turn into a sea of purple with speckles of orange as the new sun rose. My body continued to ache and my soul continued to long, but never before had I been so comfortable in my own human discomfort.

An odd sort of Poetry

I. Am. Fine.

berate me.

degrade me.

chip away,

until I fall apart.

give me your worst

because even at my best

I’ll never be what you expected,

what you wanted,

what you tried to make me.

I’ll never fit the mold you forged for me:

my perfect gpa,

my outstanding resume,

my back-breaking effort,

my gut-wrenching dedication,

although they slowly kill me,

these are things you’ll never see.

you’ll never see past the me you wish me to be.

 

you’ll never see me cry.

such activities are reserved for late at night when I question why.

Why do I continue leading a life I despise?

Why do I even try?

Why don’t you love me?

Why do these invisible tears never dry?

Why do I feel so empty in this sea of people?

When my smile breaks, and they question why,

why do I always feel the need to lie?

I am okay. Really I’m fine.

I. am. fine.

An odd sort of Poetry

I Look Everywhere

I look for lost pieces of me everywhere-
In all the ugly things
And all the nameless people,
Pills with names I can’t pronounce.
Men too-
In places I can’t remember
And nights I can’t forget.

I never find them.
I think in searching I get distracted
And forget
What I needed to find in the first place.
I never find them.

Sometimes I think I see glimpses
In empty bottles
And rearview mirrors.
I can almost touch them in our tangled bones
And hear them in the beating hearts
Of all the strangers I know.

But still,
I never find them.

An odd sort of Poetry

Midwestern Lightning

I am from the Midwest.
I was made there.
I grew up there.
I often say that I hate it,
Everything about it,
But that’s not true.

I love the storms:
The hot summer rain,
The chaos erupting in the sky.

My mother used to tell me that the thunder was the angels bowling
-I always liked bowling-
And the lightning
That midwestern lightning that
Illuminated all the skies there ever were,
And put the sun to shame
Even in the dead of night.

What beautiful violence that was.

An odd sort of Poetry

Because of Katie Grady

4.23.1

I see you in and out of my life
like all the people I know
and used to know
and may someday know again.
you’ve made me who I am:
over the years I have become
bits of you,
as much as you have become pieces of me.
– the bits of you in me are the parts of me that I love the most –
thank you for that.
I’ve missed you over these times,
but never too much
you are only a phone call
and a memory away
no matter how far we go and grow
I hope you remember
and always know
I’m still in your corner
today and all the rest
you’re still in my heart
you’ll always be my best.

An odd sort of Poetry · death is a good friend · vice and all her ailments

hell is real

they talked for hours on whether or not hell was real.
and I was quiet.
I was quiet because I knew that it was.

I’ve been there often.
seen the flames
through the blinding darkness
and felt my bones
turn to ice
as everything else melted away.

I’ve seen hell.
seen the emptiness of the painted halls
and the sterile smoke
in every breath.

I’ve heard hell.
heard the desperate cries
of lost souls
that I knew
and wondered whether or not
anyone could hear
mine.

they sit there
and continue to wonder if hell exists,
but they’re staring right at it,
straight into my damn eyes.
– I’ve been there and when I came home
little devils made a house in my mind.