You and Me

On the first day of the world

You stapled me to the floorboards

Too busy watching the stars

To see me bleeding at your feet,

Too far away for me to touch your peach skin

But close enough that I could smell your dandelion scent.

I am still here, as are you,

Though an eternity has passed,

Long enough for your hair

To tumble out the window

And weave among the constellations,

Long enough for your blown breath

To spin the worlds upon their axis

And give life to dirt,

Long enough for my blood to turn to rubies

That catch enough starlight for you to turn

And see Me.

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Discarded Light

So, I recently wrote the poem Ink Dreams for an assignment in my poetry class (Yup, I’m taking a poetry class this semester. You are hereby warned of the incoming poetry), and I’ve gotten a great reception from you all. The assignment was to write a poem with this prompt: “_____ drips from______ fingers while they sleep.” In addition to Ink Dreams, I wrote one other poem and I have decided to send it out to you for feedback. It is a little less refined than Ink Dreams, but that is mainly because I am not sure what to do next. Enjoy!

 

Sunlight drips from your fingers while you sleep

Past the hangnails, the torn fingertips,

The clinging ingrained dirt

Pooling on the floorboards,

Rippling over the discards of your life,

That have attained so fine a layer of dust

That it floats when you open the window to elicit a breeze

In your stagnant body.

You lay in the middle of your circle of sunlight

But cling to the darkness under your pillow,

Basking in the shadows

And fearing the light.

Ink Dreams

Ink drips from my fingers while I sleep

Dropping onto a lake of words

That flows down a river

Of Consonants and Vowels

To pool onto my notepad.

Words bloom into bloody flowers

That grow in a man’s abandoned ribcage

And are trampled underfoot

By wolves that feast upon children’s nightmares

And cuddle with the victims of their prey.

In the morning it dries

And I am left

With a blank page.

Getting to the Meat of Me

It’s a ball of quills

quivering in constant motion

that I hold tightly in my hands,

trying to contain it,

and the more I squeeze

the deeper each quill digs,

parting my flesh to get to the meat of me

and its’ poison seeps,

slowly at first and then

quicker, faster, rapidly

growing closer, nearer,

following the vines of my veins

until it reaches my heart.

The sound beating grows erratic,

spasmodic,

losing natural rhythm until my cells

are replaced with apprehensions

and each desperate beat of my heart

ticks a clock’s time,

and I squeeze tighter in my pain,

enhancing the quill’s power

in the act of suppressing.

I would really like an opinion on this. I wrote it in the middle of pre-exam stress, but I feel like it can relate to more than that. I’m also having trouble with the title, so any input on that would also be greatly appreciated. What I have right now is spur of the moment… I’m not really sure what title really fits.

Reborn

I am sitting on a porch and listening to the Rain,

straining for Thunder and wishing for Lightning,

and thinking of times past,

before responsibility,

before I had an inkling of what it means to be an adult,

though I still am not so certain what that entails,

before I left my childhood home for a new one,

before I sheltered myself inside of my mind

and imagined.

 

When I was young and all the world was new,

when I had no notion as to who Mother Nature was

or why adults always complained about her,

and instead understood the rules of hide-and-go-seek,

tag, and the floor is lava,

Rain and Thunder and Lightning helped me to realize

all that I did not know.

My family, often unpredictable, sometimes volatile, and usually so loving as to smother,

found solace and kinship, understanding and peace, in the fury of nature.

With a father who works construction

there is little time at home for bonding

and the only moments that offered any peace, any pause in our lives, was Rain,

when the ground grew muddy and no work could be done.

My mother would stop baking, cleaning, and fussing,

my brother and I would cease fighting and playing,

and join my father outside

to sit on the porch and listen and watch

and, occasionally, talk of unimportant matters that were quickly forgotten.

 

Now, as I sit on the porch railing of a house I have never been to before,

in the center of a college campus busy with activities,

breaking from a life rife with strife,

I can reminisce for but a moment

before the students leave their studies to venture abroad.

Watching them race through the rain,

I realize that the droplets cause a childish reaction in everyone who passes

as they laugh and scream, jump and run,

as if all the years have passed away

and, once again, they are children splashing in puddles.

One girl takes off her shirt and runs to her house in her bra

and I feel resentment, though I do not realize the cause at first.

 

I wish I could do that.

Strip and run, laughing and screaming, through the rain,

letting it course along my skin,

caressing the secret places that I keep hidden

and washing away the dirt that I don’t even know is there.

I wish that I were comfortable enough with myself

that I could ignore the prying eyes

and let Nature touch me directly.

 

Then the peace is broken as a friend joins me

and ushers me back to my room,

all reminiscent thoughts banished

in the wake of homework and deadlines and applications.

I take off my sandals and cover my phone,

preparing with marked efficiency for an inescapable walk

through the rain with no cover,

where I will surely be soaked to the skin.

 

Yet, as I separate from her and walk alone,

I feel a giddy glee bubble up

and I start deliberately treading in the puddles,

kicking the water until it fans in front of me

and then flipping my foot into the droplets that still hang in the air.

I turn my face up to the sky

and hope my hair will hold some of the essence, the smell, of the rain,

the perfume of peace and hope.

 

And as I enter my room

I strip off my wet clothes and stand in my underwear,

looking at myself in the mirror

under the harsh fluorescent lights,

water dripping from my disheveled hair,

skin lightly glistening when I move,

and no longer see any flaws,

but a girl who has become a woman

without losing that which made her a child

and has been cleansed by the rain

despite the best efforts of her avoidance and fear.

 

I do not know this woman,

this stranger born of the rain

who stares at me with a mysterious smile

and confident eyes.

But I will.

With time we shall meet in the middle,

Me, shy, uncertain, doubting, and

Her, self-assured, confident, outgoing,

and together will step into the rain

and erase all precepts of being separate,

of Her and I,

and instead become Me.

The Tale Of The Sword

The sword lies upon a pedestal

Gleaming brightly as if to prove

That even with its edge long gone

And having become no more than decoration

It has tales to tell of times long past.

Of times when famine, pestilence, and war were common

And to survive one had to grip onto life

By the edges of the fingertips.

When what was most important to Man

Was survival and kinship.

When nothing was certain

And the peaceful life that many wished to live

Could be ripped away on the caprices of others.

When a farmer’s boy,

Barely out of childhood,

Was sent out to protect a kingdom

Whose dimensions were far larger

Than his simple homestead.

And how he grew into a man

Defending his beliefs in an epic tale

That would soon be forgotten.

The sword will tell you this tale

If you will listen.

Just close your eyes

And give your imagination free reign.

For this story lives on only in you

And the weapon whose sole purpose

Is to convey that which has been forgotten.

The Soul Hidden In The Writing

You ask me for a story

And I find myself at a loss.

How can I clearly portray to you what I envision?

These pictures in my mind are not so easy to share.

I cannot draw them for you in any way besides with words,

Though my descriptions seem inadequate.

And I know that you shall imagine them differently that I describe.

But I know of no other way.

You may mock me

Or you may read it with wonder

But I still feel as if something is lost between what I picture

And what is written.

For how can I accurately convey

That which cannot be described?

How can I show you the true depth of emotion

Or the grandeur of the mountains painted in the light of the setting sun?

For I never imagine something on a small scale.

Why should I?

In my mind I am my own master

And there are no limits to what I can create.

Shall I bare my soul for you?

Shall I reveal all that I imagine

And everything that I keep hidden in the deepest crevices of my mind?

For that is what you ask of me.

I know not how to write without imbuing my soul into what I create.

So read on, gaze at what I have created

See with not only your eyes, but also your mind,

The tale that is laid before you

And remember that it is permeated with all that I am.