Poetic Influence

I really need to start writing happier things.

The only problem with that is that I feel like I am most inspired to write when things are miserable. And that really bothers me. It's the Tortured Soul thing, I think. Angst and sadness are ultimate equalizers -- no matter your status, no matter your place along life's timeline, everyone has felt it. Everyone knows it. And everyone, to some degree, fears it. And I think that's why it attracts us. It's why we watch horror movies with the lights off or go on death-defying roller coasters. We're intrigued by that which scares us most. (Except if you're me and one of your biggest fears is clowns. Then, you avoid them like the freaking plague).

Sadness doesn't scare me anymore, though.

Well, I suppose that's not true. It scares me in so much that I am afraid of it consuming me. A little shedding of tears every so often isn't a bad thing. In fact, I think it's healthy and a requirement for staying balanced. Too much of a good thing is a bad thing, as they say. Plus, without bad things, we would never have any sort of gratitude for the good. So, getting sad every once in a while is something to be promoted. But I fear, sometimes, that if I let myself feel the healthy dose of sadness, I won't be able to come back out of it.

I often wonder if that's a normal thought for people who've had their ankles chained by depression in the past. I guess it's like an alcoholic, always afraid that s/he is going to fall victim to the enticing allure of a beer or a glass of wine. And I don't think it's letting one's self feel those things as it is not being able to stop. Having a beer with dinner isn't a big deal, but it's the gluttonous consumption of beer after beer after beer that alcoholics fear, I think. At least, that's what I imagine. And that's how I feel with sadness. I'm not afraid of letting some angst out if it strikes, but I'm afraid of not being able to shake it once the poetic flow has finished.

That being said, it does make for some good creative juice.

When my dad was in the hospital a few weeks ago, I felt like all my senses were incredibly heightened. I was so detached from my body that I almost felt omniscient. Like I could be in all places at all times. It was one of the strangest feelings I've ever experienced, and not one I really ever want to have again, but it made for some interesting writing. Here's my favorite piece (which is weird to think, that I like something enough to call it a favorite) that I wrote over those few days:

--------------

021010

it seems ridiculous to think
that there is a whole
world outside of these
poorly decorated
(my god, who chose
these works of "art?")
walls. businessmen and
women go about their
days: "did i wear the right
tie?" "do these shoes
match my skirt?" "what
will i get for dinner
tonight?"

and i am confined. i
avoid eye contact, but
my other senses are
heightened. a young
girl chews the gummy
worms that her mother
bought her because she
wouldn't stop crying in
the drug store. i can
hear every movement of
her jaw and every snap
of her saliva as she consumes
those soured creatures.
a man, waiting for
his wife to be released
(he silently prays
for good news) taps
his empty water cup
against the wooden
arm rest of these worn
down benches. the
receptionist finds a
routine in filing his
paperwork: stamp, fold,
staple, rustle, file. his
routine is interrupted
with passing doctors;
interns trying their
hardest to look like
they know what they're
doing; visitors unsure of
where to go but knowing
they've got a lot of
paperwork to sign.

how does the world
carry on outside of these
walls? doesn't it know
that everything hangs
on a thread? that one
slip of the scalpel will
change it all?

everyone here, tied by
something that no one
else knows, yet we
all understand:

let him be okay.
let her live. let him
make it through another
night. please, we haven't
said goodbye.

yet the world keeps
spinning, the world
keeps moving
and, prisoners of this
god-forsaken space, we
are no longer in it.

--------------

On that note, I think I am going to make a conscious effort to write at least one happy thing a day. I used to keep a gratitude journal, if any of you (... hello? Anyone out there? *tap tap* This thing on?) remember. I used to write down at least one thing for which to be grateful, each and every day. I think I need to start that up again. I'm trying to get back into my healthier, spiritual habits. I've been feeling out of touch for a while, and I need to reconnect.

So, here are my resolutions for the rest of the year (three months late isn't too bad, right?):

1. Start up/restart the Gratitude Journal.
2. Do at least a 1/2 hour of yoga, every single day, even if I'm exhausted.
3. Under absolutely NO circumstances am I to eat fast food. Ever.
4. Look for healthy alternatives to the things I eat.
5. Get some raw food/vegetarian cookbooks and try to make at least one entree a week.
6. Meditate for 15 minutes every day. Repeat as necessary.
7. No more coffee! Tea is all right (it's the Brit in me).
8. Try to cut back on snacking. It has always been my downfall.
9. Find a Buddhist temple and actually attend some kind of gathering.
10. Pick a date, pick a destination, and save up for a trip I've always wanted to go on.

Ten things, but I think they're all doable.

It's never too late to start over, right?

- May (you be determined to live a happy life).

Unknown Space

Slightly delirious from Nyquil. Feeling sleepy, feverish, stuffed, but somehow content. These drugs must be stronger than I thought.

Too many thoughts were racing through my already cluttered mind as I drove home from work today. Pieces of poems that have yet to be written were the most prominent. I managed to remember the opening lines of this one throughout the twenty minutes spent in the car and this is what I came up with. (As with yesterday's post, the link to download will be at the end).

-------------------------

"Unknown Space"

somewhere between

what he sees
and
what she cannot(will not?)

lies the squandered, the suppressed.

bulging hips and
dimpled thighs,

crooked this
and
off-center
that;

every flaw for which she
holds
herself somehow accountable;

every reason for which she
feels she deserves
far less than those with

hips that curve like country roads
and thighs as smooth as satin,

those with
hearts that pull like gravity
and smiles that silently serenade.

she saw it,
once,
the beauty by which he swears.

well,
she will tell you that she thinks she saw it.

perhaps
she saw it.

well,
it’s really, very unlikely that she saw it.

nothing more than imagination:
interesting,
adventurous,
inviting,
exhilarating,

but, at the end of it all,
non-existent.

nothing more than thoughts
in passing trains
that have an omniscient destination
except to the man wearing the hat.

trust,
says he.

i do,
says she.

in every form
in every action,
she tells the truth.

trust was always easy for her,

especially when faced with his
blackened pools through which she could see
only light,
only good,
only wonder(she wonders what they saw in her).

but struggle still
remains.

pull her(won’t he touch her?)close
and listen to the off-kilter beating
of what was once an unbroken heart.

steady her head
as she shakes it.

kiss her brow
as it furrows.

bite her lips
as they fall.

she will believe him,
eventually.

someday(please, have patience),
she will find herself
staring from his eyes,

and she will understand.

-------------------------

Here's the Pages file and here's the MS Word file.

- May (you remember to nurture your spirit).

Adoption

I know it's been months. Many things have happened between then and now. Some were wonderful (many, most were wonderful), some were bad. Either way, life goes on and I am still here.

Tomorrow marks the anniversary of my adoption. I always write something around this time, usually poetry, and this year is no exception. I wrote two; one is rather sad, one is more accepting.

The spacing won't come out properly here, so I'm including a link to download the files at the end (there are two versions of each: one is a Pages document for all you iWork users, the other is a Microsoft Word document for everyone else).

----------------------

“January 15th”

one would figure.
in any other situation, it would
be more than(though
maybe just enough)adequate. one would

figure that something closely resembling
ELEVEN MILLION minutes(yes, you did,
indeed,
read that correctly)would give one(or two,
maybe three or four, if

you were daring)direction.

if not
direction,
then at least enough time to
hunt
down and locate a poorly-drawn map.

but these roads are many.
these roads are dimly lit(sometimes not at all).

dead ends are perpetual. i turn and walk yet
somehow end up back to where this involuntary

journey began. always back to her.

always in search of
HER.
i do not know her name. i do not know her face.
i do not remember the sweet words she may have sung
when my heart was not yet capable of gratitude(how

i curse it to this
very
moment).

i always imagine gazing into dark, dark eyes,
red-rimmed,
trying their hardest to avoid my own.

did i look at you, knowing they would soon
forget(how i wish i didn’t
forget)?

did they promise loyalty in return for yours?

how i wish i could have begged;
i would have pleaded, “my heart will be yours

if you keep me but a moment longer.” but i would
have promised you the moon if it
meant that you would love me.

do you love me now? from
across the
distant(so very
distant)sea?

our world, once together, now separated
by a pool of the Universe’s saline sadness.

there is no map to you.
i do not know where(who, what, why)i am.

PLEASE.

keep me but a moment longer;
i promise i will love you as i tried to eleven million minutes ago,
i promise i will remember,
i promise i will smile,

if you would only promise
to guide me back

to you.


----------------------

"January 15th, Part 2"

every thought
look
melody
question:
a boat

in which i am held captive,
in which i have

no c h o i c e but to

float

back to you.

accusations of false information(because
i am ultimately untrustworthy)from
mouths too

god damn

ignorant to fully
comprehend this from that,
those from these;

they are the worst and they are frequent.
they are the titantic of all vessels:

impossible
to ignore.
impossible
to forget.

tragic.
devastating.
but
somehow
beautiful.

i have started to believe that you are nothing

more
than something i have conjured(many things
are elusive fabrications)in this tangled web-mind
i have been bles(burdened)sed with.

yet logic and the universe tell me
that you must have

existed,

even if only for a moment.

i will

exhale my
breath,

pour out my
love,
bleed my eyes
dry,

so that each may fill a tiny
paper
boat;

i will

set each on a sheet of liquid glass,
salty and unclean and unknown
beyond
these shores of home;

and pray that they will find you,
pray that you will see them,

pray that you will know,
pray that you will remember(do these thoughts

haunt you when you wake?),


and learn
to let

you go.

----------------------

And, as promised, here is the link to download to see the proper spacing and formatting and things: poetry folder at box.net.

- May (you expect the unexpected, always).

on the eve

Also posted in Pen and Paper Addicts

When you breathe, you inhale and exhale,
but every single time you do that,
you're a little bit different than the one before.
WE'RE ALWAYS CHANGING.
and it's important to know that there are some changes
you can't control and there are others you can.
-- Taken from here.

one breath enters while another runs away,
screaming that it's not ready to fly.
can't you feel the impending revolution?
the drums beat from within your ivory cage.
marching, marching ... they are coming.

don't you feel the invasion?
it plunders and pillages on a molecular level.
organ by organ,
vein by vein.
until you have cavalries spilling from your teeth.

you canonot stop them;
you are no Fort Knox.

one breath enters while another runs away,
clinging to the battle cries of its predecessor.
"i am not ready!
you cannot make me go!"

they are here,
ready to overthrow the imaginary tyrant
you think you have become and always been.
but illusions no more.
your dream is well beyond its expiration date.
lay down your invisible sword and intangible shield.
they can no longer serve you
as you can no longer serve yourself.

don't you feel the invasion?

Apparently, You Really CAN'T Stop the Beat.

Also posted in Pen & Paper Addicts

I can't stop writing. It feels amazing to be able to press a pen to a piece of paper and have words flow out, without hesitation or strain, the way they used to years ago. Except that I hope the words and syntax have improved since I was 12.

The poem make up is more scattered. Lines are indented, halves of words are moved about, and only 6 lines are actually left-aligned. However, blogspot doesn't keep the spaces I put in, so you're just going to have to use your imagination. :)

-------

[070509]
there are momentous moments
in which no explanation can be offered(nor
would you really want one)and sometimes
you can never ask the "right questions"(if it

gets you an answer, can i really be wrong?), no
matter how ha
rd you try. and believe you me,

i've tried.

it's in these momentous moments that
the silence(which has been bronzified
like a pair of baby booties your great

grand
mother once crocheted for the new breath
of life
she was so scared to lose, and, as a result,
couldn't control her nervous twitch and
before anyone could blink, she'd
created 1,002 delicately woven booties,
much like the small wriggling form in
the rocking bassinet --
she had been a

miracle, you see)suddenly
takes on a golden hue and
somehow,

you finally seem to
get it.

the first draft of the declaration of independence.

Also posted in Pen & Paper Addicts.

freedom is not just about
flipping off the monarchy
and telling them that they
can take their crowns and
eat them for all you
care. it's about letting
go of everything that's
haunted you, forever on your
back and forever on your
heart. it's flipping off
all of the negativity other
people try to spread,
like some rampant case of
VD, and keeping your
proverbial legs closed.

it's learning to forgive
the negativity and under-
standing that it never
really had a say in where
it was going but was
strung along like some
derranged pinocchio with
no hopes of ever becoming
a real boy (it was never
encouraged as a child). it's
finally realizing that, damn
it, you're worth the
sun and the breeze to
cool those beads of sweat
upon your salty flesh
and the whispering of those
gossiping trees (i swear they're
worse than most beauticians) and

the joy of waking up
another morning and
realizing that you have
the chance to do something
extraordinary. because
that's what you are; forget
what you've learned in those
wretched, glossy spreads
and repeat after me: i
am an extraordinary
being. i want you to take
2 doses each and every morning
and, you know what, it's
PRN (as needed, for those
of you who may not know),
because this life is one of those
drugs that can turn you
into some kind of addict,

with your tongue
hanging out and your
forearms bruised, always
begging for more.



- May (you discover your passion).

Nighttime Thoughts

Also posted in Pen & Paper Addicts

Fondness rode the swings over Tivoli and I was elated
Sincerity slipped another sunrise into watery eyes
Train stations spit citizens back onto the streets
And I am still not asleep
- J. Mraz, blog entry on 06/24.

i will always be this way.
i will always feel my skin tingle
and my lips curl
and my tongue dance
and my eyes glisten
as soon as the sun hides its in-need-of-Rogaine head
and i am surrounded by the cloak of the absence of light.

my body may protest and, indeed,
it often does.
fibrous muscles ache
and remind me of the casualties of the day:
a wrong twist in the swirling, rolling chair-turned-amusement-ride;
a purpled section of flesh after violent contact
with a desk or table that seemingly appeared out of nowhere;
7 hours of being resigned to the same
position, upright with knees at right angles.

by the time this hemisphere of the world
has long shut its eyes
and kissed its beloved children good night
and turned its shadowed back upon the growing light
that's slowly trickling over its shoulder,
i have just awoken from my daytime slumber.
my adventures have only just begun.
thoughts leap from my cluttered cranium,
wishing to explore the world they've heard so much about.

but i resign myself to becoming a follower
of trends,
though my individuality is none too happy with my
nightly battle and resulting decision.

slowly, i slide underneath my cotton and polyester cape
that's a few sizes too big for my small frame,
skin tingling,
lips curling,
tongue dancing,
eyes glistening,
lullabied by the melodies of the slumbering world.

- May (you wake up with life anew).