30 days pt 1 week 4

E-mail this post

Remember me (?)

All personal information that you provide here will be governed by the Privacy Policy of Blogger.com. More...

june 28th-july6th.2008

day 22.

each night
i drag my tired body
across the glass
of screens that divide us
knees bloodied and
palms scraped
and alone
heart bleeding fears onto
silent stages
in midnight hours when
walls come undone

in here
is the honesty
i cant bear to speak
woven between lines
of hidden meaning
pen turned voice
and paper, your ear
when i cant help but fear
the truth of my words.

i wish for you to be still
to stop feet from running
circles 'round reality
fingers dragging
pens across paper
wasting words
like you
waste my time

are you so blind?
my ears went deaf
when you
spoke my name
and i wish not
to wrest them
from their quiet slumber
of disillusionment

hands too full
to hold the weight of
placed with no sense of

for if my voice
carried the strength
of your convictions
it would shout
until you became a
silent soliloquy

sharing the stage
with the realization
that your performance has come
to an end.

day 24.

...and sometimes you just get tired.

words turned stones
resting on shoulders
like the weight of a thousand worlds
atlas meets sisyphus
and i climb
mountain top always out of reach
locked doors
blocking paths
towards understanding.

there are rooms in silent chambers
where stories go to die
leaving lines burned into my eyes
like memory

stinging stories
turned upon themselves
licking wounds and
lashing out in the darkness
when skeletons rattle in cages
and i forget to take the key

particularly on nights like these
when i sleep next to a ghost
hollow fingertips against my face
and whispered prayers
replayed in my ear
yesterdays haunting the shadows of my slumber.

almost funny how
years of silence
and all the miles i ran
amount to nothing
but empty hands and
tear-stained cheeks
and the realization that
you took more from me
than i knew i had to give.

day 25.

i wish
i could write silence
in scripted lines of nothingness
for there are no words
that would matter
in this moment.

poetry speaks
but never listens
and the hand cannot pen
all that the ear must hold
so i shall write no more
and let quiet
speak my prayers

in hopes that you will read them.


morning breaks on busy streets
as feet
jump to the rhythm of the city's pulse
8 am rush hour of suits and briefcases flood
business faces
averting eyes from
figures hugging walls
dirty hands outstretched
gripping tattered coffee cups
styrofoam almost as empty as
bellies, twisted up and moaning

"please sir, can you spare some change
im just
tryin to feed my pain"

faces pass full of disdain
frowning at the filth of America
crossing streets and side stepping corners
patting pockets and gripping purses tighter
keep eyes level with horizon
for fear of meeting with theirs'
suppositions on tongues

"you lazy bum
i work too hard for my change
to give it to you"

truth is
angela works hard too
when the sun goes into hiding
she hides the son away
performs the nightly ritual
curb to window to
piss-stained mattress in back alley blackness
face pressed down and skirt pulled up
17 but looks 34
daddy's little whore
fucking for a meal ticket
just like he taught her
before she left


was worse for arthur
fake eyelashes and smeared shadow
crusted over the corner of eyes
(the left one shut)
sucks dick like a champion
for 5 bucks
just south of Claiborne
in the dark of Armstrong Park
his curves feel almost
and almost was just a little too much
for strong southern values
that cut ties and closed doors
leaving arthur alone


wasnt the same
for jerome
empty rooms full of ghosts and
voices that moaned in the night
down hallways
creeping into beds
his wife
2 sons
and daughter
unwrapped reality
within walls they had once held up
crashing down
jerome, alone
on floor
fists pounding against glass
couldnt pass time
without them


through closed doors
open legs and
vacant eyes
never realized by passersby
when morning breaks on busy streets
feets jumping to the rhythm
of a world that has left some
on the outside
looking in
hands shaking, mouths begging
for some change
to feed the pain of
city streets
that have now become their


had a thing for
crossword puzzles,
midday murder mysteries
and black beans and rice.
lived out the end of her life
at the head of a sagging table
bosom resting on yellowed surface
to relieve the weight of years on her back

she sat
day after day
the matriarch
of a dispersed family
no longer possessed the answers
to little girls' confusions
so she
filled days with answering questions
down and across pages
made her
feel useful.
no longer the one they would run to
with life's mysteries
so she
turned to agatha christie
perry mason and columbo
solved problems of families
not unlike her own
laughing at herself
five minutes into the second scene
because she had it allll figured out.

lived out the end of her life
between table and stove
searching for a purpose
that would fill the void
of an empty nest
stirring the sofrito
and breathing the steam of memories
deep into her chest
hoping the aroma
would somehow
carry her children home.

day 27

she was the bird
with the broken wing
from years of falling
out of cages
from atop pedestals
until flying
became synonymous with fear

a timid little bird
perched on the edge of a cliff
staring at a ground
so far below
and hoping his wind
was strong enough
to hold her

day 28. almost done!!!

from LTT competition finals....

She was born with words in her throat
20 days past due and dragged screaming from womb
as if she knew what madness awaited.
delivered into a lineage of inherited secrets,
she learned to swallow stories at a young age
until stifled words
gestated in belly like
seeds of shame giving rise to coiled roots
wrapped tight around her throat to keep her quiet.
as years passed, seasons changed
hands closed over mouths as legs opened
young woman gave birth to the bitter fruit of a dead soul
crimson mixed with tears on a porcelain floor
body wracked up and doubled over.

she died that day.

cried until the words came
flooding like dammed water, unleashed
lacked the courage to cut wrists so
pens bled her poetry
sought solace within notebook lines
turned asylum when times
felt like the end of days
ink spilled as conduit of freedom
for histories shackled in cages
and pages and pages and pages
she wrote backwards
to reverse time
stories leading her down paths, forgotten
giving voice to each tear
she had choked on for so long

and somewhere
in the midst of it all
little girl was reborn as woman
emerging from the ashes of burnt notebooks
and charred paper
with a voice that rose above the tumultuous din
of past words and past lives
belly full of new stories to pass on
birthed from her own tongue
and breathed into the ears of little girls
whose pens were stolen long before they learned to write.
then, when all was said and done
her chapter closed as laughter faded
and she returned, the author of her own story,
to the peace where poems began.

day 29.

this is an edit
sometimes i say shit
i dont mean to

and sometimes i get sick
of the shit that i

and thank god
its easier to edit words
in this thread
than it is
in real life.

day 30.

30 days
comes to a close
and i must admit
i'm thankful


i cant help but question
what the hell
im writing for, anyway

30 days
of good intentions
so easy to love
in a poem
so easy to leave
in my words
i've grown to hate
being an open book
picked apart
by questioning eyes
held accountable to passing moments
like they were etched
into a testament of time
the downside
of being a writer
who paints in pretty pictures
to achieve some sort of realism
when i just dont know
whats real

the end.

0 Responses to “30 days pt 1 week 4”

Leave a Reply

      Convert to boldConvert to italicConvert to link


Previous posts

ATOM 0.3