Sunday, August 28, 2016

Break me

Give me back-alley graffiti
cheap beer in parks at midnight
and AM strolls around the sleeping city
I’ve never been drawn to pretty 

Forget fancy restaurants
Coat my fingers in grease
from eating fast food at the drive-through
Then let them trace the scars from your childhood

Give me rooftops to go barefoot on
And visits to rip-off masters of palmistry 
Stop, and see what no-one else sees
Get lost with me

I was built for more than words dripped in honey 
Make your mark
leave this heart unclean 
Never, ever be afraid to break me

Saturday, March 7, 2015

these floorboards are built on 
ashes from extinguished flames 
dried scabs from pearled knuckles 
and dust from childhood  games


father's cheeks are stained with worry
his bones tremble in the cold 
I reach out to warm his hands 
but realize any embers I have left, I've sold 


the ground has begun to give in now
and the first to be swallowed is me
I cling to a piece of the wreckage
that crocheted eyes 
will never 
see 

Wednesday, January 7, 2015

Anxiety




It's a lot like filing the edges 
Off of your nails
After you've cut them
You test for knives
With naked fingertips
So you don't draw blood
While you fight 
In your sleep


Everything
Becomes baby-proof
Calculated safety
Carved to perfection
You un-arm all that you can
Stripping the world
And yourself
Of Weapons


And as the days go by
You forget to wash the rain out of your hair
Waking up every morning
Expecting it to be winter
Only to face the sun
Wrapped in layer
upon layer


Nothing feels safe 
Or true
Not the fumes of the car in front of you
The locks on your windows 
Or the smiles of people you know


Everything feels 
Like it's about to explode
Like it's about to disintegrate
Or leave you crying on the floor



Friday, December 26, 2014

The Writer's Curse

It always begins like this. 

Illuminated by blue AM light, caught in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Hunched over dirty plates in kitchen sinks, with bloodshot eyes and tangled hair. Alone in crowded rooms, squinting into wrinkled notebooks held by ink-stained hands. Or in corners of quiet coffee shops, fueled by not enough to eat and too much caffeine. 

Our fingers tap-dance across keyboards on LED lit screens. Searching, marching, creating, bleeding. Furiously expelling all the stories caged by our rib bones, determined to set them free. 

When we're not writing we're suffocating. Choking on thoughts that don't make sense in our heads. Drowning in emotions that don't seem real until we can hold them in our hands. 

Writing has and always will be, the only way we truly exhale.

While musicians cry with their guitars and artists dream out loud on canvases, our souls are in our words. With no symphonies to cloak our voices or abstract colors to shield us, we paint through paragraphs and sing in sentences. Voluntarily undressing until there's nothing left to rip off, and plastering ourselves on surfaces for all the world to see. 

Writers will never be sane because the process in itself is torture. We chain ourselves to seclusion for days, grinding layers off our hearts and amputating pain until we feel whole. One last edit. One last read. One last..

We are the night owls, pacing back and forth across rooms while the world sleeps. Fidgeting in our seats, with tight chests and racing heartbeats. When we can't find the right words we go into silent frenzies. We wonder if we have anything left to say. If our voices will ever be loud enough. And who the fuck listens to this crap, anyway?

But when we're finished, there is no better relief. Our pieces become trophies of triumph, shelved boldly in the face of self-doubt. We carry our expelled words like tattoos under the layers of our skins; relieved, and proud. Until the next time something or someone irks us run to our notebooks, that is. 

The beauty of writing, and this curse is that you never truly know how much your words impact someone. It heals you in ways you'll never be able to measure. And teaches you, over and over again, just how important it is to never stop opening your heart. 

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

children of the ADD nation



Fluorescent ceilings 
Chalk white walls 
We are information vacuums;
Forced to conform 

100 dollar concealers
On sleep starved eyes 
Cotton candy blushes;
Bringing faces back to life

Depending on caffeine;
Our liquid methamphetamine 
And five minute escapes
Through nicotine daydreams

Super saver lunches; 
Acid-rain stained cars 
Book weights on our wrist
As we exhale tar   

Concrete alarm clocks;
Fists full of hair 
Withering under midnight deadlines 
And overpriced parking fares 

Aging parents 
Heating-pad wrapped knees 
Raising grade point averages 
So they'll retire relieved 

We are your sisters 
Your daughters, your friends 
With Ritalin-laced bloodstreams 
Fighting for our futures, with no end