So, firstly, news: I hate the "about me" page on Blogspot, so I made a whole separate page about me with more complete information. You will find it to the left on the dooblydoo there. Yes, I did just blatantly steal a vlogbrothers phrase. Deal with it. (Because I would have said it was in my pants, but the widget thing is actually on the left and not the bottom so yeah.)
And now the actual purpose of this post: These are some poems that I wrote. I do write poems every now and then. Lately I've been writing a lot of them, actually. So yes. (If you're on tumblr, you may already have seen them.) I had another one I was going to publish, but it was about the Beauty and her epilepsy and our relationship and I had to ask her if I could publish it and she said no, so I'll just keep that one for personal enjoyment. Anyway, here you go.
Tired
There is a difference between tired and sleepy.
Sleepy is delicious, fading colors, wrapped in warmth, knowing there is love left and waiting for you, rich, full contentness, cuddling with your teddy bear or maybe that one boy.
Tired means you are done.
Tired hurts and pulls at you, draining you of personality and pleasantry. Tired is sickness, one you don't recover from, not even after the perfect amount of sleep. Tired is anger, and rage- but not explosive, just poisoned honey trickling through your bloodstream, weighing down your limbs.
I am tired- can't you tell?
The tiredness and I are old friends. Sleep and I aren't on speaking terms these days, and my relationship with rest is tenuous, at best. She doesn't really like me- doesn't think I'm worth her time.
Fatigue and exhaustion, in all their charming varieties, are two new friends, ones who say hello often but to whom you are never permitted to say good-bye.
I am tired of these new friends- how I want to sleep, and properly- but my fevered mind will not allow it, racing down roads less traveled and barely-used avenues of thought, seventy miles per hour, no cops to stop me, I can run forever, I am an automaton, why aren't there more hours in a night-
And then I hate this, and want to scream, but I am trapped behind bars of smoke and walls of mirrors, too terrified of losing control to allow myself to drift.
The Love Story Of The Half-Dead Sparrow
Abused and beaten, I fell, landing somewhere I thought I was safe from human hands and wiles.
You find me in the in-between moments, where I watch others slide around me, living in their own bubbled lives.
You find me between those lives and you pick me up- delicately, gently, my broken wings limp on your hands.
I stir, wondering if this is maybe it, something different from the horrors I know.
But you are trying to hold two at once- me, a half-dead sparrow, and some other bird, or cat, or mouse. I cannot tell what she is.
You claim you have two hands to hols with, so it is a balance.
No.
You must use both hands to hold one of us, and forget the other.
I wanted you to keep me, at first- I wanted you to let her drift- but then I realized something.
The hand you held me with was too tight, clenching and squeezing the very life from my sensations and covering me in shadow-misted breath.
And the hand you held her with- well, she was precarious, anyway.
A balancing act and a half, if you will.
I looked, and it was epiphany to me
To realize that you were not the rescuer I'd imagined
Not the hero I dreamed of
Just a horrid little boy, picking up a not-quite-dead sparrow to poke at her brokenness.
Jumping on worms and grinding their tender guts into cold-stone pavement because you can.
So, I pecked your hand.
And you, in pain, released me.
At first I fell, hobbling to the ground with a foot dragging behind me, heavy and pained.
Then I looked back and saw that my foot was fine- you had just shackled it to your little finger.
I pecked you again, sharper this time.
And you pretended like you were better than me
But now I realize that you veil yourself in condescension
That nobody may see how stupid and cruel a boy may be.
And I creep away to find a nest where I can hide alone- and someday, I will fly again.
Salvation
(Warning: This poem contains references to self-harm and suicide. I thought about both of those things a few times in my teens but I promise you I do not self-harm or have suicidal thoughts. And if you self-harm or have suicidal thoughts, please talk to someone about it. You can even talk to me. I'll listen to you.)
Sometimes I see colors nobody else can.
I can't describe them because I'm not sure if they really exist.
If I could explain them I would say
The color of angel wings
The smell of oranges
The taste of pure, sweet vanilla
The sound of a celestial music box
The feel of feathers draping lightly across your skin
And soapy, sudsy bubbles popping on your hands as you wash them, always a layer between you and cleanliness.
That is my color you cannot see.
It's the color that cures me when I am angry, the balm sent for especially from Gilead to soothe and ease.
It is the feeling of inhalation, without the action.
I wish you could see this color.
It is the only reason I am not mad.
It is the only reason that I have not drowned myself, as Ophelia;
poisoned myself, as Juliet;
that I still have hands and tongue, unlike poor Lavinia.
It is the only reason I do not pull the razor from my shower
pick apart the insides
and slice, ever so neatly
along the undersides of my wrists
or on my thighs, which would stand it better and hide the scars.
It is the only reason I do not jump from a great height and land splatter-laughing on the asphalt below.
My color redeems me.
But that sounds like Jesus, you say.
Yes, it does.
Haven't you learned that beauty is from God?
There is beauty in the darkness.
My color is the color you see but don't see when you close your eyes.
It is maroon, but nothing like maroon.
You must find your own color
And safeguard it from the world
Because the world will try and take it
And often they are so wrong.
There you are. Enjoy my po'try. Read it with toast and jam.
No comments:
Post a Comment