Our elevators are these scary things
that shake and shiver, wanting only rest
grudgingly pulling us down - they bring
our selves back and forth on our endless quests.
We quest for love, we quest for life, for peace
they mumble, groan, complain about our feet
that scurry too fast. we never decrease
our frenzied pace, they carry us all, our heat.
Heartbeat. Heartbreak. True love's first kiss - they see
it all, still unimpressed by comings, fights,
our goings, tears. But also they leave us be,
a haven from our lives, they leave us be.
No silent protest offer they, but still
our hearts they see, our secrets keep in full.
23 February 2009
19
Our first, first kiss, first hug, heartbeat, quick breath
intake of air propelling us beyond
the now. We cling to warmth, to us, out of our depth
afraid of letting our hearts grow much too fond.
Some say - they say - these moments, the first are best
the ones where there's faith, no fear, a chance
of butterflies and dreams. We stay here lest
our feeble dreams stumble and spoil our dance.
To truly love, we must push on, heartbreak
is not assured. To take a leap, we must -
we gulp but move beyond the fear and throw
it up for truth. The truth is that we fake
our confidence. We must instead give up
and throw it all away in hope for better luck.
intake of air propelling us beyond
the now. We cling to warmth, to us, out of our depth
afraid of letting our hearts grow much too fond.
Some say - they say - these moments, the first are best
the ones where there's faith, no fear, a chance
of butterflies and dreams. We stay here lest
our feeble dreams stumble and spoil our dance.
To truly love, we must push on, heartbreak
is not assured. To take a leap, we must -
we gulp but move beyond the fear and throw
it up for truth. The truth is that we fake
our confidence. We must instead give up
and throw it all away in hope for better luck.
20 February 2009
18
Fear
like worry.
like shivers.
like fingernails tracing unknown letters on your back.
like every tiny hair standing, soldier-straight, in goosebumps.
like thinking you're being watched.
like being watched.
like insomnia.
like scrunching shut frightened eyes.
like holding tight onto someone just to feel solid - forget safe.
like crying, but worse.
like a child in the night.
like losing.
like sickness,
like nausea,
like the gag reflex.
like the stench of burnt chocolate.
and stale cigarettes.
like the full moon, the dark moon, the crescent moon.
like watching impotently as the black wave of insects devours everything.
like hearing one scream
or like hearing a wicked, too-pleased laugh.
but mostly, like constant, bone-grinding worry.
like worry.
like shivers.
like fingernails tracing unknown letters on your back.
like every tiny hair standing, soldier-straight, in goosebumps.
like thinking you're being watched.
like being watched.
like insomnia.
like scrunching shut frightened eyes.
like holding tight onto someone just to feel solid - forget safe.
like crying, but worse.
like a child in the night.
like losing.
like sickness,
like nausea,
like the gag reflex.
like the stench of burnt chocolate.
and stale cigarettes.
like the full moon, the dark moon, the crescent moon.
like watching impotently as the black wave of insects devours everything.
like hearing one scream
or like hearing a wicked, too-pleased laugh.
but mostly, like constant, bone-grinding worry.
18 February 2009
17
V
like a lie
like a bluff that's been called
like a bewildered, bothered mother
wondering where her child went.
like a surprise, but a bad one.
like a young girl expelled not from home
but from country.
like choosing to go to sleep.
like closing your eyes to the bright sun
and opening them into an empty, deserted life.
like a revolt, a revolution.
like a change - but not quite, not yet.
like good music that sours because of bad memories.
like prohibition.
like fear.
like complete and utter shutdown.
like an idea that couldn't be contained.
like a wildfire.
like a young girl who would be shot for love.
like a vendetta.p
like a lie
like a bluff that's been called
like a bewildered, bothered mother
wondering where her child went.
like a surprise, but a bad one.
like a young girl expelled not from home
but from country.
like choosing to go to sleep.
like closing your eyes to the bright sun
and opening them into an empty, deserted life.
like a revolt, a revolution.
like a change - but not quite, not yet.
like good music that sours because of bad memories.
like prohibition.
like fear.
like complete and utter shutdown.
like an idea that couldn't be contained.
like a wildfire.
like a young girl who would be shot for love.
like a vendetta.p
#16 (have been writing up a storm, due to cw classes. yay)
L.
like snow falling at night
when you're all at home
and everyone's safe.
like a new kitten
not old enough to scratch
purring and kneading your belly.
like holding hands
for the very first time
too happy to anticipate a kiss.
like a handful of balloons
rising, almost bringing your
sixyearoldself along.
like wine, dinner dessert
with good friends, good jokes,
constant fondness.
like breaking your own heart
to let them go,
because they need happiness, too.p
like snow falling at night
when you're all at home
and everyone's safe.
like a new kitten
not old enough to scratch
purring and kneading your belly.
like holding hands
for the very first time
too happy to anticipate a kiss.
like a handful of balloons
rising, almost bringing your
sixyearoldself along.
like wine, dinner dessert
with good friends, good jokes,
constant fondness.
like breaking your own heart
to let them go,
because they need happiness, too.p
17 February 2009
short story
Stoneage Philosophy
Once upon a time, a girl leaned against the gray stones of a college hall and smoked. It was early morning and everything was gray, but beautiful – the wall, the light through the clouds, the ash of her cigarette. She was quiet, and so was the day. It was too early for many students, and so she busied herself in enjoying the feeble colors, the hopeful day.
The door next to her swung open. A dark-haired stranger, a boy, stepped out, looked around. He thrust his hands in his pockets (it was a little cold, after all) and seemed to notice her for the first time.
“Hey, can I bum a smoke?” he wanted to know.
She was feeling generous, and pulled out her battered new pack. “Got a lighter?” as she handed him a fag.
“Oh, sure. I'm not that far gone.” He chuckled, lit his cigarette like a professional, and leaned against the wall comfortably far away from her. She was just about to appreciate the silence when he interrupted it.
“Some day, huh?”
She looked at him out of the corners of her eyes. Some day, indeed. Some nice, quiet, private day, she had hoped.
“Yeah. Guess so.”
“Well, thanks for the smoke. I mean, Camels aren't really my type, but whatever. I'm Adam.” He stuck out his hand. His grimy, dirty, chewed-fingernails hand.
She was smoking with her left hand, so she couldn't even pretend she had an excuse. She shook. “Avina.”
“Nice name. What is it, like Middle Eastern or something?”
“Uh, dunno. My parents chose it, not me.” The words were barely out of her mouth and already she regretted them. Not only would they inevitably encourage conversation but they were so damned imprecise. “I mean, I didn't choose – you know, my name. Of course, my parents chose me, I just...” She cursed her profuse idiocy.
“Oh, yeah. Of course.” He nodded. Despite it all the day was still beautiful – the smoke curling out from his mouth, the forgotten sun behind its thick shield of clouds, everything. She breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was not spoiled yet.
“So, some class in there, huh?” He asked, or maybe it was a statement. She wasn't sure.
“What?”
“Oh, come on. I saw you in there. We're in the same class. You left after like the first five minutes. What, too crazy in there for you or something?”
“You left early, too.”
He shrugged. “She let us go after she handed out the syllabus. Same deal as pretty much every other class. You didn't even grab one.”
“So?” She took a long drag, held it in.
“Well, here, I grabbed you one. Just in case you need it, in case you weren't planning on dropping it or anything.” She nodded. There was no thank you. He waited, like he was expecting one. She'd given him a cigarette, was did he expect? When she didn't say anything, still, he sighed. Exasperated. “Look, what's your deal?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you leave class early, you're sitting out here by yourself like some emo kid, smoking your lonely cigarette, you won't even thank some random stranger for being nice enough to grab you a syllabus.”
She looked at him, rolled her eyes. Walked away.
They had class together again on Wednesday. She was ten minutes late. By the time she swirled in, black top, black skirt, black everything, he'd given up on her. Then in she walked, and he smelled her cigarettes. She sat next to him. Or rather, behind him and over to his left. But he was as aware of her as if she had sat next to him, and he kind of hoped she had, so he counted it like she was next to him.
The professor glared at her through his lecturing. She ignored him, ruffled through some papers for an interminable few minutes. Then -
“Professor?”
“Excuse me?” She'd totally thrown off his train of thought. It was obvious, the way he stared at her, fishmouthed.
“Yes. Avina Tomlinson. Anyway, what's this you're saying about Pope? I mean, his Essay on Man really isn't terrible, but there are much better examples of his work out there. Like, could we at least start with the Rape of the Lock? At the very least it's entertaining.”
“Excuse me, Miss Tomlinson. But I'm the teacher here, and since you can't even bestir yourself to come to class on time, I'd prefer you discuss complaints with me outside of class. Now, the Essay.” The professor was preparing himself for another long-winded gust of knowledge...and Avina's hand was up, before he could start.
“But don't you agree, sir, that it's better to interest a class than to bore it to death? After all, we are all here – some a bit late, admittedly, but nonetheless we are all here. Hoping to procure some pearls, some gems of knowledge that may last us beyond the final of this class. And if you're a respectable scholar, which I would presume you are, then -”
He interrupted her, savagely. “Miss Tomlinson. This is unacceptable. If you plan on continuing such behavior within this classroom I strongly suggest you rearrange your schedule. I will not tolerate such disturbances.”
“But look, Professor. Look at your class. They're really thinking, aren't they? I mean, they're really paying attention to you for the first time this morning. Wouldn't you agree? Look at these faces.” It was true; he had a rapt audience. And for a minute he felt flattered. But then, then he was angered.
“We're talking about Pope. And the Essay on Man, followed by the Essay on Criticism. Then, and only then, will we proceed to the Rape of the Lock. There will be order in this classroom and I will not have a student interrupting as constantly and vociferously as you. We have now wasted nearly fifteen minutes of class, and to prevent any more such distractions I ask that you leave, Miss Tomlinson. You're welcome to come back on Friday, but if you do I would appreciate a more subdued attitude. And if that is impossible for you, there are many other sections of early British Literature for you to attend. That is a matter for your own decision. Good day, Miss Tomlinson.”
Adam turned to look at her, expecting a pale, shocked face. To his surprise she was grinning carelessly and as she passed he was sure he heard her whisper, “Well, there's today's participation grade.”
He spent the next twenty minutes glancing out the window to see if she was outside smoking – she was – jiggling his leg, completely ignoring the poor professor. Once she had left, the whole class had gone into sleep again. Their class was like a hazy spring day, and they were all the lazy bumblebees, droning softly, only able to loop slowly and meanderingly towards responses, when before it had been an electric storm, thunderbolts and lightning making them pay fast attention. Eventually in exasperation the teacher let them go early, and Adam was the first to burst breathless out the double doors.
“Well?”
He turned around, his exhale a ghost, and there she was again. Smoking, of course. Total contentment etched across her face. She was the one who had asked the question.
“What the hell was that?”
“Come on. You don't like a little public disturbance?”
“I'll agree that the professor was boring, but that's no reason to barge in and try to take control. This isn't a ship and you can't arrange a mutiny. There's a reason he runs the class the way he does.”
Avina looked at him consideringly, almost disappointed. “Really? Do you really think that?”
“Yes. It just doesn't make sense otherwise – he has to have a reason for what he's doing. He's sat down, planned out this whole course before the semester even started. And even if he hasn't planned out the whole thing, he has some idea in his mind of where he's going with it. You can't just barge in, interrupt, and demand attention.”
“Do you think that maybe he's just doing what was taught to him? And it was taught to him that way one day, on a spring morning, when every single person in the class wanted to get out as soon as possible too? And the person who taught that class, they probably learned it the exact same way. And so on, so forth, whatever. At the top of that chart there's a teacher who knew why he was teaching the class, why he was teaching x poem before y and it all made logical sense. But in the time that's passed, no one bothered to learn. No one bothered to think for themselves. So instead we're stuck in this boring, interminable rut, and if he wants to interest his students, then maybe he should figure out what he's doing instead of following a lesson plan that's a hundred years old. Did you ever think about that, Adam?” She threw her cigarette angrily onto the ground. “Did you ever think about class at all before today, or where you just there? You can't just be there, Adam. You have to participate.”
He looked at her, puzzled and aghast. “What are you talking about? Avina? Of course I thought about class, I mean, I had homework and stuff...” He trailed off. She might be right. He hated to admit it, and wouldn't, at least not right now, but she might be right.
She rolled her eyes and walked away again. She was lighting another cigarette and he watched her, feeling just a little sick inside.
On Friday she was on time, her fingernails were painted pink, and she was wearing platform shoes and flares that looked about as old as the style. This time, Adam was late, but just barely, so he managed to slip past the professor's nose with only a mildly disapproving glance.
He ignored the teacher all class, who had – of course – clung to his syllabus like a life preserver. Avina payed attention, or pretended to, and Adam payed attention to her. Mostly her face, but any other detail he could find. She jiggled her right leg spastically. He assumed it was because she was bored. And she took minute, subversive notes in loopy handwriting that he could read without straining from his own desk (absolutely, unequivocally next to hers). But she asked no questions, told no lies, and it was one of the most completely boring classes he had ever experienced. The teacher finally released them and he stood, waiting for her to gather her things.
She looked up and him and cocked an eyebrow skeptically. He shrugged. Then she hauled her backpack up and he followed her outside, silently took a cigarette – Marlboro this time – and she lit both of theirs.
“So. You've had three days of class now. What did you think?” She finally asked.
He pursed his mouth. Finally: “I think I'm going to have to drop this one.”
“Why?” she wanted to know, immediately, of course.
“Well, for all the reasons you said. I mean, there's no real point to it, is there? The professor doesn't really know what he's doing, he's just providing us with watered down pieces of learning that no longer mean much. It's like, all we're getting is fragments. There's so much more. So why should I waste my time here?”
“That's the wrong answer again,” she said, smiling. “You can't just give up. So, maybe, like you said, this class is all fragments. But those fragments are something, right? After all, the tiniest crumb of knowledge is still better than total starvation. And you know what you can do with those fragments, those crumbs? You can put them together for yourself. You can tie them together. And if you can't, maybe you can discard them. But you can't give up on something just because it doesn't make sense. What you should do instead is try to make sense out of it. That's this guy's problem. He doesn't care. He's just doing whatever he wants, no reason, no purpose, it's just the way it's always been done, it's the way his superiors tell him to do it. But you can't trust your superiors. You have to do things for yourself. You have to challenge yourself because Adam, there's no one else out there who wants to bother challenging you. We're all just these mindless drones doing what we think, what we've been told, we're supposed to do.”
He wanted to kiss her so badly.
She smiled at him, totally disarming, and then dropped her cigarette, slung her arm around his shoulders and snagged her lips on his cheek. “I know,” she whispered in his ear. “I'll see you in class next week.”
And then – and then, she walked away.
Once upon a time, a girl leaned against the gray stones of a college hall and smoked. It was early morning and everything was gray, but beautiful – the wall, the light through the clouds, the ash of her cigarette. She was quiet, and so was the day. It was too early for many students, and so she busied herself in enjoying the feeble colors, the hopeful day.
The door next to her swung open. A dark-haired stranger, a boy, stepped out, looked around. He thrust his hands in his pockets (it was a little cold, after all) and seemed to notice her for the first time.
“Hey, can I bum a smoke?” he wanted to know.
She was feeling generous, and pulled out her battered new pack. “Got a lighter?” as she handed him a fag.
“Oh, sure. I'm not that far gone.” He chuckled, lit his cigarette like a professional, and leaned against the wall comfortably far away from her. She was just about to appreciate the silence when he interrupted it.
“Some day, huh?”
She looked at him out of the corners of her eyes. Some day, indeed. Some nice, quiet, private day, she had hoped.
“Yeah. Guess so.”
“Well, thanks for the smoke. I mean, Camels aren't really my type, but whatever. I'm Adam.” He stuck out his hand. His grimy, dirty, chewed-fingernails hand.
She was smoking with her left hand, so she couldn't even pretend she had an excuse. She shook. “Avina.”
“Nice name. What is it, like Middle Eastern or something?”
“Uh, dunno. My parents chose it, not me.” The words were barely out of her mouth and already she regretted them. Not only would they inevitably encourage conversation but they were so damned imprecise. “I mean, I didn't choose – you know, my name. Of course, my parents chose me, I just...” She cursed her profuse idiocy.
“Oh, yeah. Of course.” He nodded. Despite it all the day was still beautiful – the smoke curling out from his mouth, the forgotten sun behind its thick shield of clouds, everything. She breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was not spoiled yet.
“So, some class in there, huh?” He asked, or maybe it was a statement. She wasn't sure.
“What?”
“Oh, come on. I saw you in there. We're in the same class. You left after like the first five minutes. What, too crazy in there for you or something?”
“You left early, too.”
He shrugged. “She let us go after she handed out the syllabus. Same deal as pretty much every other class. You didn't even grab one.”
“So?” She took a long drag, held it in.
“Well, here, I grabbed you one. Just in case you need it, in case you weren't planning on dropping it or anything.” She nodded. There was no thank you. He waited, like he was expecting one. She'd given him a cigarette, was did he expect? When she didn't say anything, still, he sighed. Exasperated. “Look, what's your deal?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you leave class early, you're sitting out here by yourself like some emo kid, smoking your lonely cigarette, you won't even thank some random stranger for being nice enough to grab you a syllabus.”
She looked at him, rolled her eyes. Walked away.
They had class together again on Wednesday. She was ten minutes late. By the time she swirled in, black top, black skirt, black everything, he'd given up on her. Then in she walked, and he smelled her cigarettes. She sat next to him. Or rather, behind him and over to his left. But he was as aware of her as if she had sat next to him, and he kind of hoped she had, so he counted it like she was next to him.
The professor glared at her through his lecturing. She ignored him, ruffled through some papers for an interminable few minutes. Then -
“Professor?”
“Excuse me?” She'd totally thrown off his train of thought. It was obvious, the way he stared at her, fishmouthed.
“Yes. Avina Tomlinson. Anyway, what's this you're saying about Pope? I mean, his Essay on Man really isn't terrible, but there are much better examples of his work out there. Like, could we at least start with the Rape of the Lock? At the very least it's entertaining.”
“Excuse me, Miss Tomlinson. But I'm the teacher here, and since you can't even bestir yourself to come to class on time, I'd prefer you discuss complaints with me outside of class. Now, the Essay.” The professor was preparing himself for another long-winded gust of knowledge...and Avina's hand was up, before he could start.
“But don't you agree, sir, that it's better to interest a class than to bore it to death? After all, we are all here – some a bit late, admittedly, but nonetheless we are all here. Hoping to procure some pearls, some gems of knowledge that may last us beyond the final of this class. And if you're a respectable scholar, which I would presume you are, then -”
He interrupted her, savagely. “Miss Tomlinson. This is unacceptable. If you plan on continuing such behavior within this classroom I strongly suggest you rearrange your schedule. I will not tolerate such disturbances.”
“But look, Professor. Look at your class. They're really thinking, aren't they? I mean, they're really paying attention to you for the first time this morning. Wouldn't you agree? Look at these faces.” It was true; he had a rapt audience. And for a minute he felt flattered. But then, then he was angered.
“We're talking about Pope. And the Essay on Man, followed by the Essay on Criticism. Then, and only then, will we proceed to the Rape of the Lock. There will be order in this classroom and I will not have a student interrupting as constantly and vociferously as you. We have now wasted nearly fifteen minutes of class, and to prevent any more such distractions I ask that you leave, Miss Tomlinson. You're welcome to come back on Friday, but if you do I would appreciate a more subdued attitude. And if that is impossible for you, there are many other sections of early British Literature for you to attend. That is a matter for your own decision. Good day, Miss Tomlinson.”
Adam turned to look at her, expecting a pale, shocked face. To his surprise she was grinning carelessly and as she passed he was sure he heard her whisper, “Well, there's today's participation grade.”
He spent the next twenty minutes glancing out the window to see if she was outside smoking – she was – jiggling his leg, completely ignoring the poor professor. Once she had left, the whole class had gone into sleep again. Their class was like a hazy spring day, and they were all the lazy bumblebees, droning softly, only able to loop slowly and meanderingly towards responses, when before it had been an electric storm, thunderbolts and lightning making them pay fast attention. Eventually in exasperation the teacher let them go early, and Adam was the first to burst breathless out the double doors.
“Well?”
He turned around, his exhale a ghost, and there she was again. Smoking, of course. Total contentment etched across her face. She was the one who had asked the question.
“What the hell was that?”
“Come on. You don't like a little public disturbance?”
“I'll agree that the professor was boring, but that's no reason to barge in and try to take control. This isn't a ship and you can't arrange a mutiny. There's a reason he runs the class the way he does.”
Avina looked at him consideringly, almost disappointed. “Really? Do you really think that?”
“Yes. It just doesn't make sense otherwise – he has to have a reason for what he's doing. He's sat down, planned out this whole course before the semester even started. And even if he hasn't planned out the whole thing, he has some idea in his mind of where he's going with it. You can't just barge in, interrupt, and demand attention.”
“Do you think that maybe he's just doing what was taught to him? And it was taught to him that way one day, on a spring morning, when every single person in the class wanted to get out as soon as possible too? And the person who taught that class, they probably learned it the exact same way. And so on, so forth, whatever. At the top of that chart there's a teacher who knew why he was teaching the class, why he was teaching x poem before y and it all made logical sense. But in the time that's passed, no one bothered to learn. No one bothered to think for themselves. So instead we're stuck in this boring, interminable rut, and if he wants to interest his students, then maybe he should figure out what he's doing instead of following a lesson plan that's a hundred years old. Did you ever think about that, Adam?” She threw her cigarette angrily onto the ground. “Did you ever think about class at all before today, or where you just there? You can't just be there, Adam. You have to participate.”
He looked at her, puzzled and aghast. “What are you talking about? Avina? Of course I thought about class, I mean, I had homework and stuff...” He trailed off. She might be right. He hated to admit it, and wouldn't, at least not right now, but she might be right.
She rolled her eyes and walked away again. She was lighting another cigarette and he watched her, feeling just a little sick inside.
On Friday she was on time, her fingernails were painted pink, and she was wearing platform shoes and flares that looked about as old as the style. This time, Adam was late, but just barely, so he managed to slip past the professor's nose with only a mildly disapproving glance.
He ignored the teacher all class, who had – of course – clung to his syllabus like a life preserver. Avina payed attention, or pretended to, and Adam payed attention to her. Mostly her face, but any other detail he could find. She jiggled her right leg spastically. He assumed it was because she was bored. And she took minute, subversive notes in loopy handwriting that he could read without straining from his own desk (absolutely, unequivocally next to hers). But she asked no questions, told no lies, and it was one of the most completely boring classes he had ever experienced. The teacher finally released them and he stood, waiting for her to gather her things.
She looked up and him and cocked an eyebrow skeptically. He shrugged. Then she hauled her backpack up and he followed her outside, silently took a cigarette – Marlboro this time – and she lit both of theirs.
“So. You've had three days of class now. What did you think?” She finally asked.
He pursed his mouth. Finally: “I think I'm going to have to drop this one.”
“Why?” she wanted to know, immediately, of course.
“Well, for all the reasons you said. I mean, there's no real point to it, is there? The professor doesn't really know what he's doing, he's just providing us with watered down pieces of learning that no longer mean much. It's like, all we're getting is fragments. There's so much more. So why should I waste my time here?”
“That's the wrong answer again,” she said, smiling. “You can't just give up. So, maybe, like you said, this class is all fragments. But those fragments are something, right? After all, the tiniest crumb of knowledge is still better than total starvation. And you know what you can do with those fragments, those crumbs? You can put them together for yourself. You can tie them together. And if you can't, maybe you can discard them. But you can't give up on something just because it doesn't make sense. What you should do instead is try to make sense out of it. That's this guy's problem. He doesn't care. He's just doing whatever he wants, no reason, no purpose, it's just the way it's always been done, it's the way his superiors tell him to do it. But you can't trust your superiors. You have to do things for yourself. You have to challenge yourself because Adam, there's no one else out there who wants to bother challenging you. We're all just these mindless drones doing what we think, what we've been told, we're supposed to do.”
He wanted to kiss her so badly.
She smiled at him, totally disarming, and then dropped her cigarette, slung her arm around his shoulders and snagged her lips on his cheek. “I know,” she whispered in his ear. “I'll see you in class next week.”
And then – and then, she walked away.
15 February 2009
#16
Why count down hours if I still can dream?
Why waste my time impatiently inside,
when more is found and lost in life's hard themes?
My wasting only makes slow hearts that bleed
with thoughts inviting consciences that hide
and count down hours in their still sad dreams.
It's time to push and fight, not sit and scheme,
the time to act on truths instead of lies,
for more is found and lost in life's hard themes.
We cannot hope to learn by shunning beams
of bright sunlight. Remember how I cried?
But never count down hours instead of dreams.
Though purity is held in high esteem,
the life well lived is one that's truly tried,
one that is found and lost through life's hard themes.
I used to turn from anguish, from my screams,
but never grew or got away - besides,
why count down hours if I still can dream?
Much more is found and lost in life's hard themes.
Why waste my time impatiently inside,
when more is found and lost in life's hard themes?
My wasting only makes slow hearts that bleed
with thoughts inviting consciences that hide
and count down hours in their still sad dreams.
It's time to push and fight, not sit and scheme,
the time to act on truths instead of lies,
for more is found and lost in life's hard themes.
We cannot hope to learn by shunning beams
of bright sunlight. Remember how I cried?
But never count down hours instead of dreams.
Though purity is held in high esteem,
the life well lived is one that's truly tried,
one that is found and lost through life's hard themes.
I used to turn from anguish, from my screams,
but never grew or got away - besides,
why count down hours if I still can dream?
Much more is found and lost in life's hard themes.
12 February 2009
#15
I slipped on ice, it caught me unawares
and down I tripped, I hit my head on cold
cement. The sun still shone but I lay folded
on the ground, unconscious of the stares.
The cold was perfect, I alone could not
summon such calm. My mind was fast,
too quick for truth, just good for ideas rash.
The slip could save me from a mind too hot.
Emotions crwoded in on me, both love
and loss combined. In freedom I had found
them both, my tears within my smile. I pound
my chest, I laugh my pain, I reach above.
The ice, it slowed me down, it broke me up
and then I rose above my self-destruct.
and down I tripped, I hit my head on cold
cement. The sun still shone but I lay folded
on the ground, unconscious of the stares.
The cold was perfect, I alone could not
summon such calm. My mind was fast,
too quick for truth, just good for ideas rash.
The slip could save me from a mind too hot.
Emotions crwoded in on me, both love
and loss combined. In freedom I had found
them both, my tears within my smile. I pound
my chest, I laugh my pain, I reach above.
The ice, it slowed me down, it broke me up
and then I rose above my self-destruct.
#14
You save the things you love for special times,
to keep their shiny faces new and fresh -
afraid to wear away your little finds,
so sure with time and life they'll cease to mesh.
You wait - emergencies arise, you grasp
your honey tea, favorite CDs, your cat
to your sad chest with desperate clammy clasp
and pray these tools have not just met their match.
Invest power in little things, and small
will be returned - but let the world be big
and you shall reap the good, avoid the fall
of empty symbols, losses, subtle digs.
So live your life, enjoy the best always,
and happiness will dog your every day.
to keep their shiny faces new and fresh -
afraid to wear away your little finds,
so sure with time and life they'll cease to mesh.
You wait - emergencies arise, you grasp
your honey tea, favorite CDs, your cat
to your sad chest with desperate clammy clasp
and pray these tools have not just met their match.
Invest power in little things, and small
will be returned - but let the world be big
and you shall reap the good, avoid the fall
of empty symbols, losses, subtle digs.
So live your life, enjoy the best always,
and happiness will dog your every day.
03 February 2009
#13
you broke my heart when i left you. my choice,
my irony, what can I say? I sob
and you return my things. The bitter job
is nothing, for she makes your heart rejoice.
we're better off this way, I know, and this
knowledge just makes me choke on deep
dark dregs of dreams. My heart no longer leaps
at sight of you, my lips no longer kiss.
If I could turn back time - but would I? Know
that this is done, my heart cautions. I do.
My actions are but that; I cannot rue
what my mind undid - my mind, my heart's foe.
It's too late now to change my mind and heart,
so one must close, the other hope impart.
my irony, what can I say? I sob
and you return my things. The bitter job
is nothing, for she makes your heart rejoice.
we're better off this way, I know, and this
knowledge just makes me choke on deep
dark dregs of dreams. My heart no longer leaps
at sight of you, my lips no longer kiss.
If I could turn back time - but would I? Know
that this is done, my heart cautions. I do.
My actions are but that; I cannot rue
what my mind undid - my mind, my heart's foe.
It's too late now to change my mind and heart,
so one must close, the other hope impart.
#12
Elizabeth
I wish
I wasn't so alone.
I wish
he'd come back.
I wish
things were the way they used to be.
I wish
that Thunderbird would just disappear and leave my husband.
I wish
it was high school
or before the war
or any time but now.
But wishes aren't worth anything,
not even the horses or tears that they turn into.
(wish)
I wish
I wasn't so alone.
I wish
he'd come back.
I wish
things were the way they used to be.
I wish
that Thunderbird would just disappear and leave my husband.
I wish
it was high school
or before the war
or any time but now.
But wishes aren't worth anything,
not even the horses or tears that they turn into.
(wish)
#11
Wish
Me
I wish I wish I wish I wish that I
could take the time to wash my mind so clean
that never thoughts of you nor I would dream
to scar the shining surface and fly by.
I wish I wish I wish that I might run
away from memories of happy days
of love and light. These times, they have not stayed
beyond the tests of men that now are done.
I wish I wish that I was not alone
but it seems to be that none the less I am.
I wish that I could find a single friend,
but even then I would not share my moans.
I wish that I could release and unbend,
and tell the world I'm mad, tumbled end on end.
Me
I wish I wish I wish I wish that I
could take the time to wash my mind so clean
that never thoughts of you nor I would dream
to scar the shining surface and fly by.
I wish I wish I wish that I might run
away from memories of happy days
of love and light. These times, they have not stayed
beyond the tests of men that now are done.
I wish I wish that I was not alone
but it seems to be that none the less I am.
I wish that I could find a single friend,
but even then I would not share my moans.
I wish that I could release and unbend,
and tell the world I'm mad, tumbled end on end.
#10
Elizabeth
What helps?
Filling my mind with distractions,
idle chores, trying
to just stop thinking.
TV, laundry, bourbon -
clouds. Daydreams.
Memories. I try to escape the now
with thoughts of the better past
but there's no way away,
no true escape.
I'm pulled back to now
by my empty bed.
(tools)
What helps?
Filling my mind with distractions,
idle chores, trying
to just stop thinking.
TV, laundry, bourbon -
clouds. Daydreams.
Memories. I try to escape the now
with thoughts of the better past
but there's no way away,
no true escape.
I'm pulled back to now
by my empty bed.
(tools)
#9
tools, me
Cheap cigarettes and alcohol are mine,
the ways I cope during the hardest days.
At night so that I can cut out the lines
in-drawn by daily lies, I try to daze
myself with television screens and dreams
of times when I will finally give in,
when in release I'll scream my loudest screams
before the darkness soothes away my sins.
In lies and drugs and wine I try to find
something to help me cope – to cope with loss,
the loss of what and who steadied my mind.
For now I drift. In sleep I turn and toss.
There is no help that stays beyond an hour
but love, and that I tormented til sour.
Cheap cigarettes and alcohol are mine,
the ways I cope during the hardest days.
At night so that I can cut out the lines
in-drawn by daily lies, I try to daze
myself with television screens and dreams
of times when I will finally give in,
when in release I'll scream my loudest screams
before the darkness soothes away my sins.
In lies and drugs and wine I try to find
something to help me cope – to cope with loss,
the loss of what and who steadied my mind.
For now I drift. In sleep I turn and toss.
There is no help that stays beyond an hour
but love, and that I tormented til sour.
#8
Elizabeth
What brings me pain should really
give me joy;
what I fear will tear us apart
is meant to bring us close.
I can't sleep or dream;
memories are torment
instead of shelter.
Why is it that in these times
the best of news is really worst?
Even when he's here
I'm all alone,
every inch of me in crying.
(pain)
What brings me pain should really
give me joy;
what I fear will tear us apart
is meant to bring us close.
I can't sleep or dream;
memories are torment
instead of shelter.
Why is it that in these times
the best of news is really worst?
Even when he's here
I'm all alone,
every inch of me in crying.
(pain)
#7
pain, me
It's hard to stay, to try and be your friend.
You tell me truths and tales to make me cry
and all I do is hide my tears and sighs.
To be true friends I must forget our end.
Misguidedly I run towards this pain
because I hope to learn and grow instead
of hoping foolish hopes, filling my head
with new ideas, not our former joyous fame.
I don't know if I love you any more,
but it's true that you still make me cry
much quicker than other boys I've let fly.
So pain helps me slam shut our closing door.
For though I hurt we've gone our separate ways,
and better that than fight for all our days.
It's hard to stay, to try and be your friend.
You tell me truths and tales to make me cry
and all I do is hide my tears and sighs.
To be true friends I must forget our end.
Misguidedly I run towards this pain
because I hope to learn and grow instead
of hoping foolish hopes, filling my head
with new ideas, not our former joyous fame.
I don't know if I love you any more,
but it's true that you still make me cry
much quicker than other boys I've let fly.
So pain helps me slam shut our closing door.
For though I hurt we've gone our separate ways,
and better that than fight for all our days.
#6
Love
I had a dream about you, you had died.
I woke up screaming, could not breathe, and I
was forced to slip away from my warm bed
to check if you still breathed. You did. I cried.
That's love, for me, the pain that goes with joy,
the fright that leaps into my heart at signs
of age, ill health, disease. No more a boy,
coy Time has greyed your hair and drawn fine lines.
I told you how I dreamed but you would not
give comfort to me with old lies. Instead
you said full face, “I'll die, sweetheart, I've got
only so much life.” I went back to bed.
But there's only so long for me to hide,
and I couldn't love you more if you had lied.
I had a dream about you, you had died.
I woke up screaming, could not breathe, and I
was forced to slip away from my warm bed
to check if you still breathed. You did. I cried.
That's love, for me, the pain that goes with joy,
the fright that leaps into my heart at signs
of age, ill health, disease. No more a boy,
coy Time has greyed your hair and drawn fine lines.
I told you how I dreamed but you would not
give comfort to me with old lies. Instead
you said full face, “I'll die, sweetheart, I've got
only so much life.” I went back to bed.
But there's only so long for me to hide,
and I couldn't love you more if you had lied.
#5
conflict, elizabeth
Why is every choice a bad one?
To move or stay,
to tell or lie.
I stay, I wait, I do not argue.
The problem grows.
Yet to protest, to pick, to anger
will only drive him away.
To, tell,
I must deal with worried glances,
unbearable sympathy, but to refrain -
then worry in battery acid
in my throat, my stomach.
To love or leave, either way I ache.
But either way, I choose by not choosing,
I drown by staying, scream by moving.
I have no choice but to choose.
Why is every choice a bad one?
To move or stay,
to tell or lie.
I stay, I wait, I do not argue.
The problem grows.
Yet to protest, to pick, to anger
will only drive him away.
To, tell,
I must deal with worried glances,
unbearable sympathy, but to refrain -
then worry in battery acid
in my throat, my stomach.
To love or leave, either way I ache.
But either way, I choose by not choosing,
I drown by staying, scream by moving.
I have no choice but to choose.
#4
Conflict, me
I cannot choose which one of you should get
to stick around. There's one I love and one
I use; do I settle for things or run
and leap for dreams? Either way, one gets left.
And why am I the one that has to choose?
I do not lie, they know that they share me.
I do not try to hide the bitter tea
I brew within my heart, my hinges loose.
By all beliefs I should be lost alone,
and yet I have unlucky chance to run
with both you two. Please go; I've had my fun
but do not want a boy to call my own.
Yet how to say it? Nothing I can do
but grit my teeth and see this battle through.
I cannot choose which one of you should get
to stick around. There's one I love and one
I use; do I settle for things or run
and leap for dreams? Either way, one gets left.
And why am I the one that has to choose?
I do not lie, they know that they share me.
I do not try to hide the bitter tea
I brew within my heart, my hinges loose.
By all beliefs I should be lost alone,
and yet I have unlucky chance to run
with both you two. Please go; I've had my fun
but do not want a boy to call my own.
Yet how to say it? Nothing I can do
but grit my teeth and see this battle through.
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