The Storms Inside

              The human body is composed of 98% water. I am no exception. My head is full of water; constantly churning and beating against my mind as thoughts hit its surface like hail and the currents of my unconsciousness whip up waves from below. Anger boils the seas into a steamy mess, while sorrow beckons rains which raise the water level to the top of my skull and I drown inside. Small sailboats of what I need to get done are sunk and forgotten in the constant storm. Only in the latest night hours do the mists clear and the waters still; my brain an island emerging from the day’s chaos. There I drag the bones of devastated vessels to be mended for the tumult of tomorrow. Some days are more intense than others. A hurricane of family dispute here, an earthquake of self-doubt there. The only consistency of my waking hours is mental confusion and catastrophe.

                Fragile bubbles are formed through my open mouth, many of which pop before they are ever seen or heard. They are crude, rounded by the world’s expectations and gravitational pressures. Perhaps someday my bubbles will be cubes, or have the sharp edges of what I really want to convey; since souls are so hard to penetrate nowadays.

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Ghosting

I am a ghost whose labors are attributed to angels

A ghost who pities a forsaken world and its inhabitants

A ghost who stays just a while longer

A ghost who’s become addicted to touching lives, pushing where necessary

A ghost who battles those spirits which hasten death for amusement

A ghost who draws out disease, taps your car brakes, nudges bullets

A ghost who sleeps in the brief peace of having sunlight glaze half the world in warmth

I am a ghost of near-misses and painted skies

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Running On

                The story of her life is a bowling ball rolling down a steep hill rapidly spinning faster and faster like helicopter blades flying past every pause and period consumed by the gluttonous void of reality just as the daylight swallows the stars that once held wishes but now resemble bullet holes as bright and sharp as she’s always professed to be but now she’s not so sure.

                She was fashioned in simpler times when the world was made of color; but now it’s made of atoms in a constant frenzy as restless as the minute hand on the clock ticking endlessly in circles like the earth’s course around the sun which is no longer a yellow circle of crayon with lines around it on the kitchen table but a young star millions of miles away separated from earth by empty space the space which she yearns for more of in her schedule as the pursuit of interests is no longer a speculation of the past but a problem of the present in which priorities paint over the countless dreams she drew across the walls of childhood.

                She loved the rainbow sheen of bubbles which are now made of paper and filled with lead; heavy as her wrecking ball heart swinging like a pendulum without the consistency of a metronome to which uncertain fingers tap violin strings and rosin smells as pleasant as the pencil shavings used to mark the quiet corners where inspiration exhausted the colors and the mind grew wary because now there’s a forum for expressing oneself designed to impress and never digress as it’s merely a mask to distract her from herself just like the stories she tells to tear attention away from the monsters under the bed.

                Five dollars is no longer a fortune left under her pillow as payments mount and barcode lines are as straight as the stiff edges of a box she forgets to think outside of as the outside world streaks past with each second pronounced like heavy raindrops darkening the asphalt once laden with chalk dust but now forgotten under a chauffer’s four wheels and the damp scents of a cold playground are dismissed as easily as her glazed eyes and creased brow depicting deep thoughts hovering like hummingbirds braced to dart away when confronted.

                The bold red of determination and stubbornness and passion replaced the innocent pink and blue sweet as the word sixty-six which was candy on her tongue but is now the minimum number of questions on the study guide; the content of which will be forgotten like every conversation she’s ever had especially now that good friends are sacrificed for the maintenance of grade point averages and average days are rehearsed and routines have been fitted to them as precisely as the shimmering dresses of princesses she used to adore but now it’s plaid and jeans and low ponytails and short nails and a beautiful mind she can’t understand let alone explain but a mind of infinite potential and countless complexities brimming with thoughts like an elaborate series of run-on sentences…

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In Comparison

I’m a reckless mistake

I’m a cold night’s intake

I’m a one night too long

I’m a come on too strong

     -Imagine Dragons; Polaroid

 

You are a cold night’s intake,

And the following puff of smoke.

You are a stick of butter at room temperature

And heavy footsteps up the stairs.

You are a rainbow veiled by clouds

And the pecking of small hail stones.

 

However, you are not a pool along the river side,

Nor an unsmudged glass of ice,

Or the print of a snow-angel.

You have never been deafening headphones;

You’ve never even been the bass felt in the car.

 

Perhaps you are a telephone wire laden with birds,

Or maybe the steady hour hand of a clock with the wrong time

But you just never will be

A water balloon full of paint.

 

Your reflection glazed across a loading screen

Reveals that you are neither a wet trampoline

Nor an unopened box of Band-Aids.

 

You may feign indifference

And usher dew drops before dropping a façade,

But I am a wave crashing hard on the sand only to slip away.

 

I also consider myself the white dashes on the road,

A weathered dictionary full of leaflets,

And the flowered weeds between cracks in the sidewalk.

 

I am the grass and mud on wet pant knees

And a stone of scarred rosin.

Though I am the one night too long

And come off too strong for the sensitive palette,

You are the cold night’s intake

And the illusive shapes and figures of the clouds,

And the cookie dough to my chocolate chip ice-cream.

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Blank Pages

Wrapper peeled off in flakes unveiling the colored nature within
Grainy smears layer to produce crude reflections of the world
Undaunted, vigorous lines trail soft pink fingers
Every page displayed with pride
A kitchen table with matching chairs from which chubby legs dangle
But crayons could only satisfy detail for so long.


Some inks run thick while others sputter out
Choppy strokes convey thousands of spectacles of the ambitious imagination
Thin, thoughtfully permanent forms of fiction emerge from the firm grasp
Works dedicated or designated
A kitchen table littered with paper and colored caps
But pen proved too slender to capture reality's more solid aspects.


Running smashed tips in the sink to revive fading hues
Flowing curves and edges depict amalgamates of creativity and interest
A practiced hand skirts swiftly, bleeding across the page
Why not? It settles into leisure
A colorfully stained kitchen table, placemat discarded and the chair's back legs up
But marker was deemed too unfiltered and unforgiving.


A collection of shavings and delicate points renewed
Hesitant strokes and slow outlines convey passions and characters
Breath held as pen sanctions areas for color in brittle strands
Personal images never to be shared
A portable binder or sketchpad to serve endlessly shifting positions
But there are many other mediums aside from colored pencil to explore.


Each beckons with divers and intricate appeal
Eager, skittish hands thoughtfully convey scenery from the mind
Each deliberate note contributes to a surreal symphony orchestrated on the page
These labors sooth the soul, a haven for the harrowed heart
Sketchbooks of sacred craft travel extensively
But you didn't think this poem referred to my artistic process alone
Did you?

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DiScLoSuRe

     I've known several people throughout my life thus far that write in all capital letters; the most prominent among them being my dad. I find it very interesting that for some people, writing in capital letters feels appropriate as their unique handwriting and unconsciously caps-locked font work together to give an acute impression of the writer. But as for myself, WRITING IN CAPITAL LETTERS NEVER WORKED OUT FOR ME. It would either come off as too serious, too passionate, or the letters would fluctuate in size. 




     That may be my greatest reluctance in writing a blog. Handwriting is such a beautiful and diverse form of art in which every individual is the master of their own style. How can you capture those fundamental slips of the hand, smudges of lead or particular letter slant, where inconsistency is, to a minimal degree, consistent? Nevertheless, the brilliance of a written language will suffice, as every literate soul can recognize these complex combinations of obscure lines as letters within words within sentences wrought from ideas.

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