Hey everyone! I know it is often hard to find inspiration, but most of the time it is lurking in our backyards. Check these out!
Next week, when you answer my text all big smile and tiny ears Trimmed scruff and kind eyes I will use every particle of my b...
I’ll give you a choice. You can either take off the beanie, or wear nothing but it. These are the lines I practice saying to you in ...
T onight I washed off seventeen Crumbled in the haze of apologies scrubbing off the soot of insecurity I found out my scars wer...
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Here is a fictional romantic piece. Hope you enjoy it!
The colored lights that surrounded us looked like radioactive butterflies. I knew I was the one of the two decent looking girls there, and I felt the eyes of the teenage boys pounce on me. A part of me was awakened at that party—a part of me that had been hidden underneath thick wool covers for years. Although I knew that it had to rub the night’s residue from its eyes and stretch, but it was no longer a prisoner of sleep.
I was frazzled, no—I was a bunch of soda sloppily spilled across the carpet floor, fizzing at all angles, a mess that wasn’t going to be cleansed during any moment relatively close to this one. I had just rushed from a speech tournament, but not just any competition. It was the one I was positive I was going to dominate, and didn’t even get a smudge of recognition at. Still adorning my suit and stockings I entered the room of boys that I knew, could have a conversation with, but not on the you’re my best friend and if I were to kiss you it would be waaaaaaaaaay awkward and it would just shatter everything boys. Yes, it was in a basement, but don’t you make any of those everyone knows want happens when a high school party’s venue is a basement assumptions, because we’re nerds. Actually what made that night special is that some of us were a tad cooler than nerds, and slightly attractive, actually massively attractive in that I’m a good guy but I don’t treat Harry Potter as the bible way. I talked to them all. Tuck, who was sassy about how he should rejoin the speech team sat next to me on the carpet. Max gave us all back massages, yes, back massages, and they were damn amazing. My friends beau, the sweetest guy on earth, I desperately wanted to kiss. Under that lighting, I swear you become someone that isn’t you. Rick continued to be quite odd, but that is charming in some really creepy manner. The music. The music controlled every movement within the room, every word dropped from each soft lip. The music was those fire side songs that you cuddle to, but I had no one to cuddle with. I wanted to mangle it, change the songs, the tones, because I was coming too aware of my femininity, of those voices and callings within my core, of the fact that I had been so alone, so untouched, that I felt intangible. Just as I up to switch the cool tones of Coldplay to some boy bashing independence igniting Avril Lavigne, he joined me.
It’s so funny the way this earth works—how it just happens that the boy with the amber eyes, the fittest core, and a purity and optimism that just omitted sunlight all around me was in that basement, he bombarded me and stopped, saying politely that he was next, charismatically reprimanded me when I cursed, and held me in his arms with his words. I told that Jason Mraz was a good musician, but he was old news, and I was right, it had been at least 3 years since his last (stunning) album had been dropped. It’s funny how I live in a world where he would reply that the new album is going to be more beautiful and so long—the kind of one that you can savor forever. And it’s funny how I can use this conversation as a metaphor for my past romances and the one I am now begging to arrive. It’s funny how the song he imprinted play upon was the song that I last shared with my last boyfriend. The song that I always believed would be engraved in my young loves, the song until that night I had flinched at the tune of. And how he sang it, with such lighthearted perfection, not the nasal discomfort and puberty that had formed all of its past renditions. How he looked as me as the words “I’m yours” danced off his tongue, I think I was serenated. I’m might have dreamt it, but I felt like his words were a bird that we rode on together in every city, every emotion, every up and down. I never realized that maybe the romances are romances from the beginning. They aren’t just an extended friendship. They make your stomach collide into itself, toss all insecurities off their shelves, and leave you in a glorious turbulent mess. They make you passionate and make you want to claw things apart with supple hands. I tried to fight this emotional compression, a crush conceiving within me. I was listening to young love, and damn I loved every second of it. Even though my mother dragged me from the party, I knew that the celebration was not over. I felt those magnificent colored lights spark, and the florescent movement within my body. I felt a beginning. I felt the ending of this piece, but the dawn of a sincere, juvenile mature love. At least, I hope so. If these feelings end here, you are definitely going to hear the return of the bitter empty narrator that wrote the beginning of this piece, but I’m definitely going to try not to meet up with her again.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
The sterile room polluted the beauty of the moment. Years have passed since you have walked this earth, but I remember that. I remember how your words had a natural luminescence that shattered the artificial hospital light-bulbs. I knew that those molecules of light you doused me with were supposed to last a lifetime, yet our memories are drifting farther and farther away, and along with it, a piece of myself.
You were Grandpa, but you were also father. You stood up and decided to take the role fate told me I wasn’t allowed to have. You made me whole—made me more than a damaged child. You showed me genuine love and integrity, and I am trying to maintain the wall of a child you made of me, but too often I feel my stained bricks crumbling from the foundations. Because you were the foundation, now you are not. What are you? Are you a spirit? Are you a simply a pile of flesh and dried blood dripping into the earth? Sometimes I tell myself you are in my heart, but I don’t even know if the heart is more than an organ. Sometimes I don’t even know if I am more than a functioning cell, if these words and emotions are no more than some form of homeostasis. Everything is so esoteric now. The older I get the more juvenile, the weaker and baffled I become.
I am trying to find you, because I know that until I discover where death has been holding you hostage, I don’t think I can find myself. Ever since you’ve been gone Mom has been deteriorating, along with the image she has of me. I’m lost, and I cannot be rescued without a map. I don’t want to be rescued without you, to re-enter a world that does not have your playful smile at its gates. I don’t think my pulse is strong enough to drum through it.
You taught me better. You taught me to hook a silver string from the moon and attach it to my chin, to hold myself with class. But I know I cannot stand confidently in a world that within this moment I have no confidence in. I can’t be proud when I am not proud of the world I am designated to lead tomorrow, not the world, the ignorant universe that murdered you.
My memories of your last moments are dented by infected screws and unsterilized needles. A broken hip was what caused it all—that and your many years. The unsterile equipment used by apathetic doctors, the putrid crevices along your spine from endless hours of neglect in your hospital bed, the agony of repeated surgery they made you endure on your 81st birthday, all spurred by the belief you were old enough—you were going to die anyway. I watched them hasten the morbid process, dehumanize the most glorious human I ever met, kill you. I was too young, and I’ll forever remain to naïve to comprehend the hows and whys. But that one phrase you whispered to us as we were to leave you I will always understand, and although the glistening look of your marvelous turquoise eyes or the grasp of your enormous palm will left me, it remains:
I want to keep you warm.
And you gathered us within your arms and covers and held us with strength that lurked the edge of impossible from someone in your condition. I felt our warmth streaming through my veins, rippling throughout the rugged barriers of my soul, and vibrating in your words I love you. I am living in an emerald glass house, and you are the sunlight that drips through and allows me to grow, the power behind all my words, all my battles. I know that one day I will grow large enough to shatter the translucent walls and create new boundaries—my boundaries, frontiers where corruption and injustice are debilitated and incapable of making a journey into my world.
I used to think I lost you, but I know that you were stolen from me. Your soul will not arrive on my doorstep with a scrap of paper and a scribble of an apology. I will evict those who hold you hostage from their lairs—force the cruelty that seized you to abdicate. Grandpa, I will never see you again. But I will feel you. I will feel your tremendous warm cradle me in its arms—I just have to speak, and keep speaking, for you and every other pair of peach skin stapled shut. I will ignite my earth with words like these, just you watch, and I will return to the soul you created out of a pile of harsh genetics. There will be fire, golden fire, the kind you were inhibited from fully sharing with me, and I am no longer afraid to kindle it.