Month: November 2017

I’m sitting in bed, writing this, trying to think of something that will make people think. (3:44a.m). I have nothing to say and no words to use to tell you how little I have to say. I could write a poem or two or ten about things I would rather forget. I could make a bad decision and text the wrong person the wrong thing and regret it probably never. I could finish the workout that I didn’t really feel like doing this afternoon, or figure out what I’m going to wear tomorrow. But I wear the clothes that feel right for the day and the me right now will not be the same me that gets up in two hours and fifty-one minutes, therefore, the outfit will not work and my trials will have been for nothing. I could study the geometry lesson I’m sure I’m going to have a pop quiz on tomorrow, and possibly make my mom proud of my grades for the first time in a long time.

I would really like to get up and run- it’s cold outside and the world is ripe for the taking. Lemonade and I, who is also awake right now, wouldn’t split the world and its people and their things- we would march side by side, a team.

My stomach is churning and I’m not sure whether it’s because of something I’ve eaten or the fact that I haven’t eaten enough today to sustain a normal human body. My mom was worried about this when I moved away. I forget.

If I go to sleep in exactly one minute, I will be able to have two hours and thirty-three minutes of sleep. That’s plenty and not enough all at the same time, which is confusing.

I was having a conversation today about self-destruction- where it comes from and why people do it. I made the arguament that I, being hyper-aware of my own  self-care, would know how to control the urge to stay up all night or the small task of forgetting to eat. Obviously, I was incorrect. It happens more often than not.

I don’t know what I will title this piece or if I’ll have the gall to actually transfer it from my phone to Herbert.  I don’t know how many more words it needs. Lemonade is attempting to sleep.

I’ve been in the same position for over three hours, because I sleep on top bunk and when I move it makes enough noise to wake up my roommates. My hands are cold ,but if I tuck them under the covers I can’t type. My left leg is asleep; my back is aching. I’d rather let my roommates sleep.

(4:18a.m) Lemonade has given up on sleep and is now watching Vines. I wish I had mittens. My bad knee is starting to get onto me for my lack of movement. Maybe instead of a pop quiz tomorrow, we’ll get to take a nap. Maybe the world will end in the next two hours and seventeen minutes and I won’t have to worry about geometry or exercise or the fact that I’m not asleep when I should be. Lemonade has moved on to Netflix.

(This is a poem I’m debating to read at coffeehouse in December, and I’m not too sure I want to yet. But here it is anyways. Also, it’s pretty sappy and/or cheesy, and I am not sorry one bit.)

it’s 11 p.m.,

and i want to go to bed.

but like in every other sappy love poem, i cannot.

and it’s because of you, naturally –

it’s because you are running through my mind

like a marathon runner on the track.

your voice, especially.

how it cascades through my entire body

as you talk about the simplest things.

how i could sit next to you all day,

listening to you talk about absolutely nothing

and never want to leave.

 

it’s 12 a.m.,

and i’m still sitting here,

still trying to close my eyes –

the curtain that forever remains transfixed on your own orbs.

that ocean-gray color that drives me beyond mad.

when they look at me,

i get this feeling of paralysis;

i am afraid that if i move,

they will, too,

and they will never set upon mine again.

because my eyes are green,

and this shade of green

and your shade of blue

do not mix too prettily.

 

it’s 1 a.m.,

and i see your gorgeous smile now.

and i know it isn’t there because of me,

but i can dream, right?

actually, no –

i cannot.

i cannot because you will not let me.

 

it’s 2 a.m.,

and i am replaying that song we both really like,

learning every last word so that

i have a reason to talk to you again today.

isn’t that pathetic?

 

it’s 3 a.m.;

i know all of the words to the song.

can you tell that i have not slept –

because of you?

 

it’s 4 a.m. now,

and this is making my head hurt.

see what you do to me?

you crush every thought that is not about you

into a place inside my mind –

you cram it all together in one small room

and make yourself grow,

so that you take up every inch of space available to you

and even that that is not yours to take.

 

it’s 5 a.m.,

and my eyelids feel a bit heavy,

so maybe i will get some sleep after all,

no thanks to you.

 

it’s 6 a.m.,

and you never did stop screaming at me.

of course you were not actually screaming;

you were simply whispering in my ear,

repeating the statement of a reality i do not desire to face.

maybe i should sleep –

i have geometry soon.

 

it’s 7 a.m.,

and i have not slept for even a second.

i have to go to class now,

but of course that will not stop you

from lingering in the back of my mind,

with your jaw-dropping eyes,

your beautiful smile

and that voice that makes me melt.

that voice that is also sending that message,

reminding me of facts i wish i could ignore.

Mary sits in the corner chipping pieces of paint off the drywall and placing it on her tongue before rubbing it against swollen gums and swallowing it dry. She picks up another piece bigger this time, chewing lightly, and grinding the flavor into her teeth. She does this again every once in a while getting bigger chunks as she goes. She eats them like chips and hums in appreciation as she does.

This goes on for a long time.

Mary had a fascination with the walls and I had a fascination with her. I would like to pretend that Mary would chew all the way out of her small cell. Stuffed and full of that toxic paint. She would live a normal life, I knew she would, but one day while having sex probably. Her man, not being the cautious kind would bump the wrong places and Mary would puke the paint chips into his mouth. But, he would enjoy that, he would love the acidic taste, claim it would mix well with the foreplay.

Then nine months later at an emergency room, Mary would be anticipating. Scared out of her mind probably.  Her husband so I assume from the ring gleaming brilliantly in the bright light of the emergency room would produce out his pocket a bag of paint chips. The look on Mary’s face would be priceless. She would let her tongue hang out like a dehydrated dog, but he would feed her like an Egyptian Goddess. Each chip that touches her mouth would be like grapes for only the finest ones would do.  Then at some late point of the night when the hospital is dead and shes half asleep, the baby would come unexpectedly.

Almost jumping out of her womb from fear of catching some of the crazy she hides in her stomach.  Her sleeping oaf would spring up from his worn down seat catching him mid-air. Screaming touch down in his mind as his wife lays down making grabby hands at the paint chips on the floor.  The baby wouldn’t cry just lay there in his hands asleep, not dead. No, Mary was a trooper. Her genetics would be just as strong. That child would live an interesting life of paint chip dinners and a paint chip life.

Disregarded by the world but a prize in Mary’s eyes. As she stroked his head of gray hair soothing him of story’s of the institution and of me. Always watching from behind that mirror. Looking out for her. The very thought sent chills up my spine, but the vibrations of my watch pulled me from my daydream and back into the chilled walls of the institution. It was time for me to make my rounds. I tore my eyes from my precious Mary, not before chipping a piece of paint off the wall, catching Mary’s eye and swallowing it down dry. The smile on her face was thrilling, and I hoped that one day I could see that smile from behind a locked door.

Three days later I found her hands bound and her walls stripped bare. Her tongue would peak out ever so slightly from her mouth its purplish hues contrasting sharply with her pale face, but even then she was still beautiful. My Mary. My sweet paint chip Mary.

half light i // arcade fire, half light ii (no celebration) // arcade fire

when i was nine years old, my parents told my brother and me that we were moving. they told us we’d be leaving our little right-side duplex house with our walls covered in crayon drawings and moving somewhere nicer.

i was more than ecstatic. my brother was less than thrilled.

i remember when we were driving around looking at houses that could potentially become our home. there were houses right next to highways where crickets chirped in broad daylight. there was one house that sat on top of a lake where all of the rooms could only be entered from the wooden walkway that wrapped around the exterior of the house.

but we ended up settling into a relatively new subdivision right next to the town square in hernando, mississippi. i could see the town track and field park from the driveway, and every house had a tree in its front yard.

in this new house in this new town, i used to be so excited for everything to be new. i was excited for my new school and my new friends and finally having the room to be a kid.

and everything did feel new. at first. but i never had the room to be a kid. my new friends were gone as soon as they’d been made, and my new school quickly became another creaky cog in the suburban machine.

i wanted to be able to actually run around and be free and see my town when the only lights are streetlights, the way i never could in my old town. but i wasn’t even allowed to walk around my neighborhood after school by myself. this town that i’d thought would be the place i could finally branch out was rapidly become that town that would leave in in the same pot forever.

the novelty of newness had faded, and all i wanted was to make my home feel welcoming again.

this past summer was the first time in my life i could finally explore my town when it’s illuminated only by streetlights. i could actually drive around town with the windows down and swing in the park when it’s dark out.

everything felt so new, and it was the first time since we’d moved that i’d felt that same excitement for the new.

before summer, i thought i’d never want to leave brookhaven. i thought going back to my roots, even just for two days every two weeks, would be the torture of tearing my fresh growth from its new soil

now, i long for the weekends i can replant my feet in the old soil.

every time i see that welcome sign, the streets feel a little newer than they did before.

(Narrator)

In a world

Where most people

Are the average height

One kid stands out in the crowd

Meet Tim Tallington.

Standing at 8’2

Tim is a little bit taller than the other kids

(dramatic zoom out from Tim’s face to classroom)

in his kindergarten class.

Join Tim

On his BIGGEST adventure yet,

surviving elementary school.

It’s not always easy being tall.

(Tim is shown sitting on the top of slide.  He slides forward a few inches but then stops.  Zoom out to show that his feet are already hitting the ground despite his body being at the top of the slide.)

(Tim Tallington)

Aw fooey!

(Narrator)

There will be action!

(stereotypical school bully)

Tallington, huh?  Well y’know what they say: the bigger they are, the harder they TALL!

(Narrator)

Friendship!

(random classmate)

Tim Tallington, you’re my best friend!

(Narrator)

and maybe even!

(teacher)

Class, I want to introduce you to our new student!

(Narrator)

Romance!

(Door opens and giant girl walks in.)

(teacher)

Meet Tilly Tallsworth!

(Tim Tallington’s mouth drops open in astonishment at the sight of Tilly Tallsworth.)

(Narrator)

He may not make all A’s,

(Tim Tallington)

Ah fooey, I got another F!

(Narrator)

But his grades are always the highest!

(Tim Tallington)

(puts paper on his head and laughs)

(Narrator)

He’s an average boy

Of above average height

And a heart to match!

(Tim Tallington)

I love you, Tilly Tallsworth!

(Narrator)

This summer

Get to know Tim Tallington

in the major motion picture

already nominated for every Academy Award

Tall Boy

Coming to a theater near you!

Sometimes, we just need that one perfect song to help us through a situation, whether it be a hard math test you’re trying to ace, writing poetry at one a.m., or just if you are having a bad day. Below, I’ve listed a few of my favorite songs that I listen to on specified occasions.

For anxiety, I listen to slow songs, such as:

• Daydreamer, Adele -Best lyrics:  (making up the past and feeling up his girl like he’s never felt a figure before)
• Ain’t No Sunshine, Bill Withers- Best Lyrics:( it’s not warm when she’s away)
• What Makes A Man, Dallas Green- Best lyrics: (what makes a man pray, when he’s about to die/ I think I know/ I think I might know)

When I’m in a cheery mood, I’ll stick to happier, upbeat songs:

• Murder, Alana Davis– Best Lyrics:( there’s a bleeder in my kitchen, and he’s pouring on my floor/ there’s a killer in my hallway, and he’s scratching at my door)
• Sleep to Dream, Fiona Apple- Best Lyrics (you say love is a hell you cannot bare/ I say give me mine back and you can go there, for all I care)
• If it Hadn’t Been for Love, The Steeldrivers -Best Lyrics:( never would ‘a seen the trouble that I’m in if it hadn’t been for love)

Finally, when I am feeling down, I will listen to songs I know every word to:

• Fast Car, (acoustic version by Jusin Bieber)- Best Lyrics: (He says his body’s too old for workin’, I say his body too young to look like this)
• Antichrist, The 1975– Best Lyrics: (My wife inquired of understanding/But of course my dear, you can’t/She said ‘How can I relate to somebody who doesn’t Speak? I feel like I’m just treading water/Is it the same for you?/ Is it the same for you?/Well he comes and he goes, so capricious./And his work appears so rushed.)
• Palisades Park, Counting Crows– Best Lyrics:(you walked into the bar like some Saturday star, stud straight on spiked heels, and needles, and nerves/and you’re a downtown pride, fully amplified Clyde, gin-tight and aging, but well preserved)
• I’ll Be Good, James Young– Best Lyrics: (but the blood on my hands scares me to death/ maybe I’m waking up today)

These songs inspire me to be better with each day, they help me grow and learn and thrive.  Music is a good source of relaxation and inspiration. It can change worlds. I hope that me sharing these will help you in the future as well!

 

In what ways do you think Thanksgiving will be different 50 years in the future? Think about all the aspects from traditionalism to commercialism.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kN9Tjp5bRfI

First and foremost, Thanksgiving is a lie! It’s built on the death of native americans, along with thievery of the Pilgrims.  It’s an over glorified holiday and shouldn’t even exist.

Now I say all of this to say, “I’m still gonna eat though.”

Thanksgiving is seen as a very intimate family event that brings loved ones close together. It provides bonding time for both distant and direct family members.

It is a time to celebrate family, closeness, good harvest, and the ever so evident: What we as people are most thankful for. Families come together around the world and enjoy each other’s company. What could possibly be better?

Coming from a personal point of view, in my household, Thanksgiving is a greatly celebrated. Not for other reasons (such as those pertaining to American beliefs that America is rightfully theirs), but to invest ourselves in family time and even better, the food!

You can usually find all the best foods in my kitchen. Collard greens, yams, corn, honey baked ham(because turkey is disgusting), dressing, and whatever else you can imagine. The cooking gives my granny and mom to bond, and me a chance to taste test all the food!

From what i’ve seen from the past five years though, is that families seem to spend less time together on this Holiday. Teenagers and young adults are now out and partying the whole break away and the secluding themselves because of judgmental family members. As well as parents who seem to have tried too hard, but then gave up. Families are falling apart because of the lack of spirits!

Not only that, but many households don’t even do their own cooking anymore! The world is simply too giving these days. It’s so easy for someone to pick up their phone and call whoever they need to cook anything for a reasonable price! I’ve even seen my own family members do it. I partially understand their reasoning( and i’m also happy that we’re keeping black owned businesses, IN BUSINESS) but I also feels as if the food lacks something without actually being made with love.

Also, families seem to focus too much on looking their very best. At a point is crosses from making sure you look presentable, to narcissism. This often creates competition within the family, also creating problems! If we can get rid of petty, materialistic ideas like this, we would be better off for it.

Traditions seem to be running thin as well, even at the dinner table. Instead of blessing the food as the day is most definitely has some law for that, people dig straight in! That’s completely unfair to the cook, the food, and whatever higher being you choose to believe in.

As the day is named “Thanksgiving“, let’s give thanks to our food!!!!!

Not only our food, but our loved ones and for the things we have, are given, and will receive in the future.

Within the next 50 years I can guarantee that Thanksgiving will have fallen, in fact it will probably be renamed. As family values decrease, so does the spirit, and the holiday diminishes.

Producers of goods also target people who both do and don’t celebrate the day. And with the increasing need to order more and more food every year, more money will be filling the pockets of cooks and mass producers everywhere. Inevitably, putting commercialism further on the rise and sucking tradition and fun out of a family event.

 

My hands are stained last night blues.  I held the sky in the palm of my hand; did you notice?

Did you notice the sky disappear?  Maybe your roommate choked a bit in their snoring or the light from the window disappeared.

But what was I supposed to do with the sky?  I let it soak into my skin, and it hurt, and it wasn’t at all dreamy.  The clouds burned, twisting and tying my tiny little knuckle hairs together just to be mean.

So I let it go.  But as it bounded out, eager and free, I stretched with it.  All of the sudden I was the sky, blue and wide, and I thought if my mother was looking out of her window now then she’d probably tell me to start eating better.

The moon was angry I blocked his light.  He came to rest into my belly button so he could be seen, making sure to jab an elbow at me.  He was burning hot, and my skin melted as tiny droplets of rain.

The sun felt left out.  I said, wait your turn.

Why?  She asked.  The moon is constantly showing during my time; why not I during his?

I think about telling her that this is the way of the world, perhaps making it about the patriarchy.  No, I decided.

You have to want it, I say.  Find your place, it will not be given to you.  Be strong, be loud.  Shoot your rays, burn my skin, and do not apologize.

I will hurt you, she said.

Do you think yourself better than the moon because you think of me? Because you care for my pain?  Because you have not dug between the lint in my belly button?  I ask.

She hesitates.  I know her answer.

That is more selfish than any moon on any planet, I tell her.

What if I speak and no one hears me?  She asks.  What if I dig into your belly button and you swallow me whole?

Silly, I think.  I’m so tiny, just a human.  But right now I am the sky, and the sun is afraid of me.  She quakes for no reason because she fears everything bigger than she.

What if the world has no glow?  I counter.

She cautiously steps forward, and I make a spot for her in the circle of my lips.  She is so frighteningly cold..  The fog of my breath turns into clouds, lined with my spit that has become icicles.

I return to Earth.  The only evidence of the event is my blue hair, chapped lips, and a really weird belly button.

Today, at 5 o’clock in the morning, I got up and used the bathroom.  Shortly after, I noticed I was bleeding.  No, not a cut on my leg, or a scratch on my arm.  No, I was bleeding elsewhere, the start of a painful (period) of dropping to the floor and curling into a tight ball.

Can I just stress on how much I hate my period?  Or, should I lie to everybody, including myself, and say that this is a blissful time of shedding of old and creating of new.  That everything is green and bright.  No.  Everything is red, from the round splotchy red on your face to the oozing thick burgundy in your underwear.  Take that anyway you wish.  I choose to take it as a token by war.  You collect many as a woman.  All the past uterus widowing you to menopause.  Oh, when the men pause, because you’re no longer a youthful widow.  You are now too old.  But, at least after a couple years of hating everyone and everything, you can relish in your wisdom and forgive all those past widowers.

But for me, I’m still gathering tokens.  Boy, do they weigh a ton.  Maybe that’s the reason for the pain in my back.  Or.  Is .  It.  Just.  My.  Period?