Slowly Going Crazy

This world is slowly going crazy
And I can’t find the clouds anymore
Trapped beneath these
Layers
&
Layers
Of smoke-colored-smog
And
Lies
And the misty breath of people who just
Don’t care anymore.

Please Save Me.

I Thought You Were Forever

Everything dies.
The tiny flowers in the ground,
The butterfly dancing in the wind,
The man across the corner with the wrinkled eyes
And paper heart,
You and me
We all disappear one day
Go up in a bunch of smoke and flame
But I thought
(So tightly clung to the delicate lie)
That our
L O V E
Would last forever,
Clinging to the corners of our universe
And embedded in the sparkling concrete
Of the streets we used to walk
As the summer sun bled out across the sky
And we spilled our secrets and
Dreams and
E V E R Y T H I N G.
But now my hands are cold
And tired and broken from writing
Tired and broken poetry
About the feel of how my hands are so cold
So empty
And the taste of silence on my tongue.
Just Silence.

I Thought You Were Forever.

Blogging in the Rain

It’s raining. I wasn’t sure how to start off this blog post and the rain was pounding on the roof and smudging across my window and dampening my mood so I thought that it would be a good way to start. In all honesty, I don’t even know why I’m writing this. I’m not a good blogger. The last time I actually tried to blog as opposed to just copying and pasting my latest angst ridden stanza or rhyme I ended up deleting the entire thing, tired of looking at my unimportant and vaguely egotistical problems. I mean, it is so easy to write poetry. All I have to do is poise my fingers over the keys and just... write. I don’t have to think about sentence structure or how the paragraph is going to sound. I just pour my emotions onto the page and if it comes across as confusing or depressing, well... it’s just poetry. Fiction and nonfiction pose some difficulties for me. I get caught up in the little details getting more and more self conscious and frantic until I just give up and shove it aside. It’s never good enough or worthy enough. I want my writing to be raw and honest. I want it to actually make sense to someone. I want to know that I’m not entirely crazy for feeling these feelings and thinking these depressing and sometimes totally chaotic thoughts that I have. So I post it on the internet, hoping that somehow somebody is going to stumble across it and think, “Huh, I relate to that. I understand what she is trying to say. I get it.” But nobody does. So what is really the point?

Granddaughter of a Pastor

Granddaughter of a pastor,
Just a man trying to understand this disaster,
When I was little
He tried to teach me how to pray
But my rhyming always got in the way.
Because all along when he was
Participating in this sacred act
I was writing poetry.
Just poetry.
But now my tongue doesn’t form
Rhyme
Only broken stanzas and
Rambling words pressed together on a page
And so much has changed
Since darling granddaughter prayed on the floor
Sunrises and sunsets and years put weight on my back
And the book my parents handed me
When I was little and words meant so much
The pages were so thin then
And so plentiful and
Back then I still believed in words
And songs
And stain glass windows
And my grandfather
Because it was so
E A S Y
And I just wanted to make people smile.
But now when I cry
Those tissue paper pages dissolve in my hands
Leaving me with
Nothing
But the things I can hold in my palm.
Real things.
And part of me wants to go back
To a time when I rhymed
To Jesus.
Yes I said his name.
Sitting on the kitchen floor
Pretending to understand
But now I know
That my grandfather didn’t teach me about god
He taught me how to Lie

To Myself.

Forever & Forever

I want to feel you curled up inside me,
Perched on my tongue,
Your soul pressed against mine.
Squeezing the air from my lungs,
You took my breath away.
My hands trembled when you first held them,
Baby and broken like a newborn bird
And as delicate and fragile
As butterfly wings
But as we melted together
(hot wax and candle flame)
It seemed perfect
Like we were creating a painting
Or writing poetry
Or simply
Existing
In the purest sense of the word.
Existing together with our
Skin pressed together and our
Hearts leaning up against out chests
I wanted to map out the contours of your skin,
Explore the depths of your eyes,
Drown in your words.
Those
Sweet
Sweet
Words.
They were so precious.
Most of all
I wanted to pin you down
Capture you on film
Write you into paper
Trap you in the web of my fingers
Hold onto you
Forever
&
Forever.

Learning How to Love

Hands that don’t know how to hold
And hearts locked and guarded away,
I want to spill myself before you
Tossing fistfuls and fistfuls
Of sadness and anger
And angst and
Depression and fear
And old poetry on scented paper
And even the cigarettes I refuse to smoke but love to burn,
Take It All.
Babies are born looking to their mothers
And
Young lovers fall so easily
And
Before we even breathe we learn to
Love
And to
Lose.
But why do my hands feel so fragile?
So cold and untouched
So
Unbearably empty and treasured
At the same time,
And why do I feel so empty on the inside
Even though I can feel my heart thumping away
Isn’t that proof enough
That I am still living?
My blood is still pumping?
The puzzle pieces still fit together
And
Everything is perfect?
Everything is supposed to be perfect.
I can still smile and laugh
And jump and breathe
And sing and cry and live.
Baby, I can still live.
So tell me.
How do I learn how to Love?

Temporary Moments

There are moments,
Fragile,
Delicate,
And
Undoubtedly precious,
Where I realize how temporary
Everything is.
Fingers flying across my keyboard
(Trying to somehow write around this disaster)
And bits of mumbled poetry
Mixing into my morning coffee,
Sunsets
And Sunrises,
Hate and Love,
And all these things
Cracked and Broken
That I hold to my bare chest so
Irrevocably mine
And so
Momentary.
I scoop these belongings
From the lining of my heart
And lay them out before me
Counting one by one
All of the blessings I so easily forget,
Remembering what my hated preacher
(The one that stares me in the eye and the soul and smiles)
Said about Dust
And how we are all really
Dust
And to this wonderful Dust
We shall return.
And I don’t believe in the one above
But I do believe
In Science
And Death
And someone once told me that we were all really
Stardust,
Birthed from the heavens,
The universe’s forgotten children.
And during these temporary moments
When my heart is beating out of my chest
It is easy to believe that
And it is easy to remember
Why
I continue to Live.