Tag Archives: poetry

Feb 03 2013
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poetry

Mrs. Mildred Pierce

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I am Veda in the way that I too can never have enough,
although it is not money, fame, or class that I crave.
It is love,
and I feel so weak because of it.
And you Mildred, you are weak too.

You knead your warm hands into brown pie crust instead of my heart.
You wash away the pesticides on vegetables instead of my hair.
You abandon me for Monty, and throw shiny, pretty things at me to buy my loyalty. Monty bought my loyalty as well. But when you went broke he disappeared, and so did you.

Too guilty to love me, too guilty to hate me. I mirror you, and you mirror me; it’s nobody’s fault.

All the girls in our family are doomed to have this fate tattooed on their foreheads.
Mothers who live for their daughters, daughters who live for their mothers; both hold on so tight they suffocate the other. Both live for her and not themselves.

The only thing deeper than love is pain.

There is no love between Mildred and Veda because love is not a strong enough word to define the bond between a mother and a daughter.

If love isn’t destructive and terrifying or filled with resentment, then there is no love.

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Dec 30 2012
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poetry

The Unit

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Huddled in the corner of a couch wrapped too tight with a blanket

I look like an old women

I feel like I have the mind of one at least.

It is exhausted to the bone

nothing gets resolved, just the same,

same screams, same anger, same screams.

I’m so tired of this song.

The T.V. is on a static loop and I see his shadow mirroring me.

I am afraid he is going to lock me up in the adolescent psych unit where he works.

It is his word against mine and his always wins.

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Dec 22 2012
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life

Nirvana

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That was it. I reached Nirvana. Just for a second. Sitting outside in the backyard. Under a tree. The smoke rolling of my lips danced outwardly into the wind. I watched it like a wave, come and go. The air was chilly but the sun warmed my face. I noticed my skin was unusually pale. I rolled up my pants and let my skin absorb the weakened winter rays. I closed my eyes to see the red and yellows vessels pulse blood through my eyelids. I open them and everything seems brighter. I forget what pain feels likes. I forget what happiness feels like. All I feel is what it is like to be alive. A living, breathing, organism. I feel so close to everything, I forget what it feels like to be lonely. The second lasts for hours. My rolled cigarette goes out. Time to go inside.

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Dec 18 2012
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life, poetry

Tunnel Vision

It just hits.

Comes out of nowhere.

It doesn’t happen that often now because of the medication.

But it still comes.

A sickness that will never leave me.

A mind that won’t stop thinking until it destroys itself.

I will never truly know what it feels like to be lonely because of it.

It has me and I have it.

I can’t trade it for anything, there are no barters.

It is my enemy, it is my best friend.

It is my lover and cheater.

Sometimes I miss it when it’s gone.

But when it’s back I want it to leave.

It comforts me, it weakens me.

I only cry in my dreams now.

Maybe that is the problem. You can’t medicate sadness. You have to release it, set it free.

But then why do I feel empty when it’s gone?

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Dec 16 2012
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poetry

The Back of his Head

Infinite lake in the middle of a desert,

We pulled over to go fishing but the water was too salty.

There were no fish.

Only women scuba divers looking for pearls.

You were outside of the car. I could only see the back of your head.

I knew that was my time to escape. I slid over into the drivers seat and drove off.

I didn’t know where I was going on that two lane highway.

I was scared he was going to find me.

He did.

I was pushed back over to the passengers seat and he took my knife away from me and chewed on it until it was dull.

Then he threw it out the window.

My fingers ached in anger, and I twisted and broke anything I could get my hands on. I broke his sunglasses into pieces but new ones kept appearing in the cup holder.

So I braced myself and hurled my tiny body out of the moving car and onto the dirt road. I rolled a few times. The car kept going. I knew I was finally free.

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Nov 07 2012
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poetry, women, words

Girls and Dolls

doll by Sara Heinrichs (awfulsara) on Flickr

 

Women like us learned to play with dolls from an early age. We learned to dress them properly, bursh their hair and nurture them with unconditional love. Some may even say that is how we learned to love when no one else was around to show us how.

Straight perfect brunette hair that shined under paper lanterns–ivory plastic skin that moved when I willed it to, a miniature vanity dresser with a miniature gold sleigh bed to match, all occupied the smallest corner of my room.

I tucked them in at night, kissed them on the forehead and hoped that they would dream of stars.

Women like us learned that someday, the dolls would betray us. They would stop listening to us and threaten to run away. So we would punish them; strip them bare and tell them they couldn’t wear paisley dresses anymore. We would sit them in the corner and tell them we would never love them again.

Cobwebs and dust would later start forming in that small corner of the room where our dolls slept. The dust would sit on their eyelids forcing both eyes to slowly close completely.

Time to pack them up in a cardboard box. Put them in the attic and forget they ever happened.

That is how I learned to love.

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Nov 01 2012
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poetry

Streaks of Stars

She plucks a long blonde strand of hair from her head and

wonders how she got here. Hundreds of cells combining

over and over again to form an eye, a nose, a heart.

She imagines that long strand of hair is part of a galaxy swimming in the stars above her;

Swirling through cosmic dust and narrowly avoiding black holes.

The hair follicle is the sun; the blonde acts as its rays shining down on her split ends that lead to dark matter.

She lets the strand go into the air somewhere.

She watches it fly away until it is too small to see.

At night she looks up at the stars.

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Nov 01 2012
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poetry

Open Eyes that are Blind

piccsy.com

Have you ever sat and stared at a blank wall?

Have you ever laid in your bed, eyes fixed, glazed over, soul-less–looking at the ceiling for hours?

Have you ever felt nothing?

Have you ever been scared?

I have.

If you have…you know what I’m talking about.

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Nov 01 2012
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poetry

Mojave

CB

You kissed my face and

The sun went down

Surrounding me in the darkness of your warmth.

Rusted pieces of the past glitter in the desert sand

Filled with broken bits of quartz and animal bones.

You found me there.

Where Ghosts hide behind the shadows of the rocks.

Their spirits encircle the wind.

They are dust. They are the arid land.

You close your eyes and inhale deeply. You take in death. You take in life.

That is the way of the Mojave.

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Oct 20 2012
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life

A Story

Once upon a time there was a little girl born with black hair and blue eyes. As she grew older the darkness slowly expelled from her head leaving behind streaks of gold.

The years went by and the blue in her eyes faded. Olive and gold freckles began to appear in her irises; eating the blue away like a virulent disease.

How can someone be born one way but become another? Maybe it’s just a part of growing up or maybe it is something bigger.

Maybe the person who I was born to be had changed.

But why? How? What went wrong…or right?

What would life be like if I was still that black hair, blue-eyed girl? Would I be better? Dumber? Reckless? Genius? Evil?

The physical change came on so suddenly and rapidly–not even my parents had time to notice. I can’t even remember my life before the change.

All I know is that black hair blue-eyed girl was not supposed to be me.

But I crave to wonder about her, I mourn for her like a sister. She was gone too soon, before her time.

I wish I had just a little more time with her, to get to know her, just to see if I was good enough to be her.

Or perhaps, to see that she wasn’t good enough to be me.

I guess we’ll never know.

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My goal with this blog is to offend everyone in the world at least once with my words… so no one has a reason to have a heightened sense of themselves. We are all ignorant, we are all found wanting, we are all bad people sometimes.

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