Still Standing

Don’t cry for me
I cry enough for myself every day
And the tears I shed
Burn like acid as they
Stream down my cheeks
But my heart still beats
And my lungs still breathe
And I am still standing

She

She is solid
an unmoving river that has coincidentally
washed all my sorrows away.
And if it were not for her
I don’t know if I would have
both my legs to stand on
or both my lungs to breathe
as they beat in my chest
reminding me that I am still alive.

And I’m alive.
That’s the miracle of it all
that reminds me to be grateful
everyday
when I get out of bed each morning.
I’m still here
with both my hands and my heart
and my sickly brain
And she is the only reason I breathe
she is the only obstacle.

 

Now and Then

We used to paint our fingernails
But now we paint on smiles
Hiding in our every wake
Down the lonely aisle

This is not about you

This is not about you.
This is not about about all those times you made me feel worthless and pathetic or how you spat my own name in my face like a curse.
This is not about how your betrayal ripped a giant gaping hole in my heart that I have not yet even begun to patch up. I can only keep ripping off the bandaid to remind myself of what it feels like to hurt.
And this is not about how your name will forever feel like acid on my tongue, burning the back of my throat as I try to smother the urge to scream it out into the night.

This is not about you.
This is about me.
This is about all the hurt and torment I have endured as I passively watched you set me on fire. This is about my struggle to love myself to fill the hole that you made, as you left me to fend for myself like a lonely and wounded animal.
This about how I will rise high above the flames and spread my hatred like wildfire, so that maybe one day, it might reach you.
This is about how I hope neither heaven nor hell will take you, for you would surely be a disappointment to both.

So, no. This is not about you.
This is about me,
like it always has been.

Withered, Battered, and Abandoned

Withered men used to dig the trenches,

their tired hands rough and worn down from labour’s past,

the soot under their fingernails forming something called modern art,

their faces besmirched with dirt leftover from the mines.

 

Battered women reached out in vain,

calling out for their loved ones to cease the hurt,

the destruction,

the pain,

mending their broken fingers

and patching up their wounds

as they licked themselves clean,

washing away the blood with their own salty tears.

 

Infants used to be born to absent mothers,

their hearts and minds unavailable,

their bodies farther gone,

hidden in cheap hotel rooms and dusty, studio apartments

dressed up in old furniture taken from the curb,

their edges cracking and splitting.

 

Time used to age gracefully,

but finesse has since become foreign territory,

its traces forever erased now that the clocks have stopped,

their hands ticking no more.

Solace can no longer be found.

Roses

Even roses could not survive in this frozen tundra of a world,

where darkness perpetually sweeps the land,

digging up chunks of wet dirt

and eradicating long forgotten daisies

with one simple flick of the hand.

This Is What Happens When Depressed People Write

What happens

when we allow ourselves

to feel? Do we suddenly

recognize

the pain,

the sadness,

the agony

buried deep inside

our bustling minds? Or, is

the recognition

gradual?

Do we slowly

develop into

anxious beings

wanting to rid

ourselves of either

our trouble

or life, itself?

 

I’ve Found

*I went to a slam poetry workshop today, and it was absolutely amazing. Anyway, we had to do an exercise in which we started to write a poem, and after a couple of seconds, random words were thrown at us that we had to immediately incorporate into our pieces. It was very strange, but I suggest this activity to anyone, poet or not. 

I’ve found that the beautiful and the untamed go hand in hand, their fingers laced and intertwined.

I’ve found the darkness reach the sentiments of my own heart, its genuine history developing a new connection.

I’ve found that love can take many speed bumps, or heart can take the logic away from the level head.

I’ve found that Georgia is a lovely state, with mean and funky twangs described as accents infusing a different dialect.

I’ve found that dictionaries are very thick, the pages close together filled with words upon words that nobody knows.

I’ve found open spaces develop between the queen of my heart, the gaps empty and statistical.

I’ve found that dreaming is a simple task, but one with an elemental purpose, its use abundant and homeward-bound.

I’ve found that once I fell in love, my interpreting colors as signs, my brain unadulterated.

I’ve found that reason is not good enough when wibbly wobbly feelings are fleeting away.

I’ve found that hawk eyes look strange in the daylight, they mangle in the resemblance of my yesteryears, churning away at my

insides, their nitpicking voices cheering.

I’ve found that antibiotics don’t really work when your brain is sick, chiding away at your conscious, its comebacks unamusing.

I’ve found that  wrongs can make great rights if you spin the details a little.