I held a newspaper in my hand and examined everything about it except for the words.  I ran my fingers over the soft, bumpy paper.  I brought my nose close, breathed in, and could smell something almost sweet.  I looked over the letters printed in crisp black ink.  I didn’t read them, but I examined them.  I took note of their sharp, serif font that gave off an air of importance about the words printed regardless of the actual significance of what they spelled out.  I ran my finger over the side and felt the edges ruffle as my finger pushed down and then released them allowing for little puffs of air to be felt by a hand that was held close enough.  I opened it and fully listened to the crackling sound that the pages made as they were all pulled tight against each other.  I looked at this newspaper.  I didn’t read it, but I looked at in its physical entirety.  I could burn this newspaper.  I could make into a pile of ash and separate the individual grains of ash into a million that could ride on the back of a summer breeze into another world and never be called a newspaper again.  The words on the newspaper were different.  They made reference to truths that existed with or without the words.  I could read about a family that lost their house in a fire or the obituary of Seymour Williams and how he died far sooner than he should have in a terrible car accident, but I’d just be reading the words.  I wouldn’t be in those moments where I could possibly change something.  That family’s home is gone.  It keeps burning down and down no matter how many times any person should read about it.  The contents of Seymour’s head will be on the dashboard of his nearly folded in half Chrysler until the end of time, and I can’t do anything about it.  Reading about it won’t help anything no matter how hard I try.  The words will say the same thing every time they are read, and if they don’t, the truth that the words once spelled out will continue to be the truth regardless of those words.  I can burn that newspaper.  I can burn away the words that tell such terrible truths, but all I’ll get from it is a pile of ash.

Why is it that people only vie for the attention of those that they cannot have? All 7.5 billion people on this earth and all you want is the one who won’t give you the time of day. There are literally billions of fish in the sea and you want the shark who will keep moving forward, will not turn around, or stop. Little guppy, if it’s a challenge that you want, why not face something bigger than life? An actual issue. Be the difference, the change, not the distraction.

Take it upon yourself to give new purpose and meaning. Instead of putting all of your attention into people, especially ones who do not appreciate you and your efforts, use it and create something with it. Better yourself with your thoughts and ideas, generate a world of your own.

People are distractions who need attention, but I say you should pay attention to positive distractions. A new hobby or job, a sport even. The world is yours to conquer and focusing on selfish beings will have you stuck in the mud.

gardens of dead flowers—
sweet nothings plucked from my ear—
in a crypt,
stolen railroad pieces in a bone yard,
scrappy bracelet glimmering like diamond in a marble town*.
i’ll wear any grace you give like a badly fit costume,
watch it slip off, a gift from me to the breeze
as i sail atop your friend’s car, trying not to be skinned,
for i wonder if you would like me the same if i was but a mind
though i know you love to swing upon my wiry frame as a jungle gym,
feeding the lost animals looking for a home.

we burn like your cigarette between the lips i crave,
as the sunlight caresses you like a seductive mistress.
your breath wraps around me in cigarette smoke and promises.
throw it away, cough it out, get it out of your system.
i’m still there for now, phlegm in the back of your throat.
are you sick of it yet? am i still enough? am i what you want?
am i right for you or am i right here?
small pond kids, would you still endear
if you realized you were the eighth wonder of the world,
trapped in country crevasses,
held back with ropes of curled eyelashes
by me, the cave creature you claim to love?

but for now, i’ll love you as we plan together to see all the land,
dancing in smoke from illegal fireworks under bridges,
painting differently hued fingernails in stores until banned,
playing sports with bloody knees and sweaty kisses,
running through beams of half-finished houses, our own temporary homes.
i’ll get drunk off your intoxicating touch until the bartender calls last call,
as we’re hanging off roofs with stunning sights envious of you,
chasing in hide and seek like prey and predator through glittering night,
petting every stray animal in sight, no matter the smell,
visiting watercolor lakes life forgot and painting ourselves in mud.
and the goosebumps you give will purify my arsenic skin to porcelain.

sweet kisses leave candy crusts on cheek
until they wash off in the drowning sea of our lying love.
sweet-tooth teeth fall with words of passion,
but don’t spill bloody “i love you”-s
if just to fill the cavities.
say it only if you mean it,
only if teeth coming behind are mine to keep,
even if another’s tongue drags across.
we’ll build forts of pillow talk in broken childhoods barren of any tooth fairy,
and it will take me two minutes to write your name in my messy journal,
because the name that i write is your name, so it has to be written well.
a small nothing, for you deserve heavens i cannot give,
as i am but a small, simple kid
with big words to hurl
in a love affair.

 

 

*Marble town is synonym for graveyard.

My fingers softly run over the smooth keys of my keyboard. I don’t add pressure. I don’t type. I have nothing to say. There are no words. There is nothing- nothing but tears. My tears fall from my eyelashes and find solace in landing messily on my keyboard. I have nothing to say. No reason for the tears. No reason for the sobs tearing at my throat. No reason for my fingers to be shaking. Maybe I will give birth to them. Maybe I should allow them to pierce the surrounding silence. Maybe if I let them out they will explain why I hurt. Why I feel such a solemn pain? Or maybe if I let them out I will be left with more questions. Who am I crying for? Who has left me in such a state? My heart beats at a pace I find uncomfortable. My jaw clenches and grinds my teeth together. The pressure causing my head to throb. I focus on the pressure. It is better than focusing on the uncomfortable feeling in my chest. Better than focusing on the problem. Better than trying to fix it. Can you fix a broken heart? Is that possible? Do we sew the pieces back together? Maybe my doctor will recommend surgery. Maybe my doctor will inform me that I have days or better yet hours before my imminent death. Maybe he will tell me that there is nothing wrong with me. Maybe he will admit me into Whitfield. Maybe I will be locked into a padded room. Maybe I will be prescribed a list of medications to help with this pain. But who knows? I am tired of the maybes and the pains and the uncomfortable pace my heart keeps beating. I am so tired. And I want to tell you that I am tired. But every time I go to open my mouth, I have nothing to say.

Our hearts occasionally give themselves away while we walk from class to class, from room to room, and sometimes we do not see it, but we hand out little pieces of ourselves for others to see. This is what I have garnered from all of your personalities. I will include a color I that I think represents your personality and a song that describes you to me. If I’m absolutely incorrect, tell me in the responses.

Zoe – The sweet, yet bold one. Ready to stand up to any authority at any time. Most likely has owned a goldfish more than once in her life. Most likely named every goldfish she’d ever owned something pure like Steve or Martha Mae. 16. Birthday in…. Winter?  Zoe’s favorite color is probably orange or yellow, two colors that suit her personality, in my opinion. If I had  find a song that would represent Zoe it would be Golden Dandelions by Barnes Courtney

Janey– Janey is very daring and wild within the boundaries of the limits she know she has. I think that her favorite month is in autumn, that she is interested by a sort of “Skater Aesthetic” and she would probably be “Most likely To Write Zombie Fanfiction” on Wattpad. The color I picked out for Janey is a dark earth green, the color of a forest in the morning. A song that I think of Janey when I hear it is Straightjacket Quinn XCII

Timera – Timera is a peculiar sort of person, in the way that she is incredibly underrated and overlooked at times, usually when she is the most exciting person in the room. I feel like people tend to not notice her at first because of her shy exterior, but when you become her friend you’ve got her for life?(Not sure but she seems really loyal and honest.) I really feel like her personality is a dark purple, and her song I picked is Trees by Twenty One Pilots.

Mallori – Mallori is very calming to me- she reminds me of the edge of the ocean in the morning, if that makes any sense. I feel like a sea foam green represents her personality. She is very into faith and strongly holds beliefs, but is not afraid to stand up for someone if she truly feels she needs to help them. Mallori is quirky and exciting, very original. A song I picked for her would be Northern Downpour by PATD! 

Mar – Mar is completely different than everyone on this list. She is outside of herself sometimes just because she knows herself so well, and I am intrigued by this. Her tone is confident and sometimes stubborn, but she is always kind to others and tries to walk in other peoples shoes. Mar’s personality really hits me as a bright red, but I might be wrong on this one. I really just can’t figure her out, if I’m going to be honest, which is why I appreciate her so much. My song for Mar is We Can’t Win by AZ. 

Tyler– Tyler, Tyler, Tyler. What can I say? Tyler is very open, I mean, I feel like she’s easy to read. That’s meant to sound like a compliment. She’s not fake. Tyler would probably win my award for “Worst Bad Jokes”. Tyler is like a mom to the literary group, I think. I believe Tyler’s color is best represented as a green/ blue mix. I don’t know, Tyler. Honestly I can’t get a grip on what your personality color is. But hey, here’s a song I thought you would like-Saved by Khalid

Taylor– Taylor is rad, Taylor is chill, Taylor is probably burgundy as a color. She is not afraid to tell you who she is, she is not shy when she needs to be brave. Taylor is independent and creative and reminds me of Branch off of Trolls, the movie. She is sarcastically dark, and I love it, just like I love that I have no clue what her natural hair color is. Here’s a song Taylor, I am not sure if you’ll like or not. Artic Monkeys, Crying Lightning

madison– madison is eccentric and only uses under case letters, so i will too.  madison reminds me of a big tumblr post of a person, and I mean that in a good way. she plays ukulele, which is intensely cool ,and she wins for best speaking skills. madison’s color will be lavender, and her song will be secret for the mad, dodie clark

Claire– Claire is the purest form of human I’ve met so far. She reminds me of powdered doughnuts, if powdered doughnuts could be people. She’s super nice and real, And her writing is really honest. Claire is unusual and quirky, and I just love her so much. Claire is definitely pink, like sunset/ cotton candy/ retro adorable pink. I think Claire is into all music, so I’m just going to wing this one. James Bay, If You Ever Want To Be In Love

Sidney- Sidney is a gigantic, awkward, quiet and confusing dork. Sid has many personality traits that don’t necessarily mash up to me, but they work so well together for her. For example, she likes animals and the nineties, and also jean jackets with pictures of salsa on the back, and she is not afraid to speak her mind, as long as it is at a whisper. Sid’s color is Kelly green.I think Sid might like this song, The Fugees, Killing Me Softly

Jackson– Jackson is a big weirdo, which is great. He is spastic and quiet and happy and sad all at once. There’s not much I can say about Jackson besides the fact that h is definitely a banana. Jackson’s color from me is blue , straight up the first blue that comes to your head, or maybe a slate gray. Here’s a song, Jackson. I Want To Break Free, Queen

Charlotte– Charlotte is whatever Charlotte wants to be, whenever Charlotte wants to be. She is spunky and likes to read books about badass women with swords, and  she is my best friend because I still can’t wrap my head around how stupid she is sometimes. Charlotte is the color of the sky when it rains in the morning, the clouds on a full moon, the ocean after a sunset. It’s not “navy”. I don’t know how to explain it. /here’s her song- Settle Down, The 1975

EXTRA SONGS–(THREE MORE PER PERSON)

Zoe- Primus, My Name Is Mud, Scarecrow, Counting Crows, R.E.M, Orange Crush

Janey- Naïve, The Kooks  Silence, Khalid, Magnets, Disclosure ft. Lorde, Daddy Issues, The Neighborhood

Timera- Ruby, Twenty One Pilots, RIP To My Youth, The Neighborhood, Fluorescent Adolescent, Artic Monkeys

Mallori- Habits of My Heart, Jaymes Young, , Counting Crows, Butterfly in Reverse , Madi Davis, Songbird

Mar- Formation,  Beyoncé, Paralyzed, NF , Macklemore, Drug Dealer

Tyler- American Teen, Khalid, I Fall Apart, Post Malone, I Needed You, Blackbear

Taylor-Acid Ghost, Overthinking, Kaiser Chiefs, Every Day I Love You Less And Less, Na Na Na, My Chemical Romance

Madison- , Neutral Milk Hotel, King Of Carrots Flowers Pt. 1, Gorgeous Bully, I Can See, American Poetry Club, How I Felt About Most Things

Claire– Wet, Don’t Wanna Be Your Girl, Hazy, Counting Crows 

NCT 127_ Cherry Bomb

Charlotte- Moon Tides, 1966, Fever Blanket, Daydream, Kaiser Chiefs, Ruby

Sidney- Yellow Days, A Little While  , Chelsea, Counting Crows, Coming Home, Leon Bridges

Jackson-   Counting Crows, Einstein on The Beach  ,   Piano Man, Billy Joel

What Difference Does It Make, The Smiths

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

” An Introspect of Afterlife”

meat sagging behind skin

dangling from crumpled bone

yellow carved initials in the marrow

tomorrow will our graves be given name?

call it distasteful, disgraceful,

but I slide from one shade of broken to the next

through the salt and tongue and lie and gone

bruised fingers and cracked knuckles

penetrate, disintegrate

integration the definition of our sick nature

join the army of restless rebellion to find anything but your

peace of mind

leave that behind

blink your black eyes and spit through

your blood lies

let them sit upon our teeth for a change

we are nothing more than overgrown penitence

personalities decaying as our bodies sway to a rhythm

bound and busted

its not that uncomfortable, being dead

I’ve dug my grave a million times over

and have lied in the shameful dirt

as safely as I did in that house

or not at all

the flies at first become bothersome

but after a few centuries

you get over it

 

 

I’ve always had trouble with sleeping – get too much or too little.  Not nearly enough or so much it affects me the next day and my ability to keep my eyes open in class.  Do not sleep a wink or sleep for what feels like a week.  This has been part of my unpredictable routine since the sixth grade.  I have spent countless nights, laying awake, staring at the bland ceiling above my bed, counting down the hours I could get in if I were to go to sleep right now and sacrifice breakfast in the morning.  Five hours on a good night, two and sometimes even one on a bad night, and six or seven on an extremely lucky night.  I grew accustomed to having bags under my eyes when I was thirteen.  Got used to covering them up as well I could with makeup.  And eventually, it was like they were hardly there at all.  It felt like, maybe in the world of the impossible that I somehow lived in temporarily, that they had just disappeared.  Truth was, they had only disappeared from my mind.  I stopped worrying about how obvious they were and how I looked like one of those mentally ill teenagers on sappy sit-coms that eventually have someone miraculously cure them of their terrible fate that had been made to live out.  I knew no one was going to fix my problem because this is real life; real life doesn’t happen that way.  But after a few years, things seemed to be getting better – until last night, when I barely managed to get three hours of sleep.  And the thing is, you’d think I would be half asleep right now.  But I’m not.  I am wide awake – or as they say ‘bright-eyed and bushy tailed.’ I haven’t felt this awake in months.  Three hours.  You know, they say the average human being needs seven to eight hours of sleep each night, and that used to be appropriate for me, as well.  But I’m not so sure anymore.  The past two months, I’ve been getting about seven or eight hours every single night, and I would wake up feeling as though I had been asleep for a total of five minutes.  Maybe I don’t need so much, after all.  I should be tired – very tired.  But I am not.  My mind is racing, my feet are moving – I feel perfectly fine.  But what keeps running through my mind is:  Is this normal?

I bet you were expecting this to be a blog about some dude making juice.  He probably cuts a whole bunch of oranges in half and twists them over a juicer.  He probably winds up questioning life with a glass of juice by the end of it.  I don’t blame you for thinking that.  That’s not too different from what I usually write.  I don’t know why it is that I write stuff like that.  I think it’s partially that I like to try to make people think.  I try to catch them by surprise with what I write, but that’s kind of becoming stale for me.  I’m not sure what I need to do about that, but I don’t want to let my writing go stale.  I think the same reason that I usually write that stuff is the reason I’m writing this, I want to defy expectations.  I think that I’ve set an expectation for what my writing should be like, and I guess this is me trying to break that.  I just don’t want to get stuck in a rut.  You look at authors that get old, and critics always say that they aren’t as good as they used to be because now they’re just putting out more of the same stuff even if the same stuff from before was good the first time.  I really don’t want to let this happen to me.  I have ideas for things that are different, but I don’t know if they’re good.  I guess that’s part of the never-ending risk taking that comes with being a writer.  You never really know what’s going to work, but if you stick to one thing, it’ll get old after a while.  I just gave this a random title that sounded like a title I’d give a short story when I started writing this, but I feel like it kind of applies to what I’m talking about regardless of my original intention in naming it what I did.  I feel like I’ve been juicing the same fruit for a while now, and if I’m not careful, it’ll run dry.  I know that I need to try other fruits, different kinds of fruits, but I’m afraid because maybe the juice won’t be as sweet.  I guess finding out that a certain kind of juice isn’t worth drinking would be better than squeezing the same dry fruit that once held a sweet juice until the end of time.

Death

There will come a day my body is laid opened

Drinking in harsh light in a barren room

with fifteen others that have no name

 

Cut up and stripped to cold skin

Against metal bedding

Smelling of fruity Clorox, Stale coffee

 

Grey eyes once brown glued shut

From fear of flying open

To meet the crowd of black sobs

with accusing screams

 

Mouth sewn shut

No way to speak about the liars

Pristine at the Oakwood podium

Reading scripts with a knowledge of past

readings

 

While I rest in a box of plastic

And thin cloth, wrapped tightly against the skin

Up to the forehead

 

Like a mummy, not getting to see

Who would walk up next to the stage

Old not forgotten 

I would see teens smoking their weight in weed

flashing credit cards, parent owned

playing adult, in drug stores

laughing at the sky

as if it has not been there for years

tapping cigarette ash on gravestones

marked with my name in bold

Grown ups scream too

Grownups scream too

when the light wont turn green

when the dogs pees on the new carpet

when the bill is due

when the work day wont hurry up

when they realize they have no life

grownups scream too

I should know

I’m screaming now

Teenage Angst or Sick Fascinations 

I was never one to dip into hysteria

when the world went flat and grayed at the edges

soaking my skin in despair

like a new perfume that everyone was wearing

in multiple coats

to thick to smell the fear they hid

is that why they filled their lungs with smoke

and carved their skin with knives

oh so pretty dripping from scarred skin

tears fell in pools at their feet

from strangers feeding off their sadness

Teddy bears and gummy knives 

I was a princess at the age of 3

but was dethroned at 4

when a new princess knocked me off the throne

so i threw a fit

and got hit

across the face for throwing knives in her crib

as she slept at the foot of their bed

What the hell is that!

if i knew the pain

i would feel

i would have stayed

in the womb

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I feel as if censorship is both a pro and a con. In whatever you do, you are trying to get your point across, and sometimes you cannot do that for whatever reason. It may be that the topic is controversial or it may trigger people. As a poet, my point may be proved by a lot of imagery, or hard facts. I can conjure up an image of whatever I desire in whoever’s mind. There are a lot of sensitive people in this world and for that reason, we are asked to “tone it down”. Now I can only ask, why am I, a poet, told to lessen the sense of MY medium. I truly feel that if you are that sensitive, don’t attend, read, ever participate in whatever is happening. But again, I see censorship as a pro, more so, it is a challenge. When you are confined within four walls, it will drive you to madness, which will become creativity. When you are not allowed to do one thing, you do others. So with censorship, you will find loopholes and crafty ways to do what you do best.  You will be forced to use your wit. Triggering scenarios in literary pieces are a big reason censorship is used, but trigger warnings can combat that.