A “Photo Album” of poems and pictures representing my life in 2008: A senior in high school, dealing with the first major death in the family, finding and losing love, questioning religion, anticipating college… You know, the whole angsty teenaged experience.
Table of Contents
- Snap Shots
- Prologue
- Eternal Sunrise
- Bellamy Park OST
- LEAP FROG
- Not Afraid
- Those Sort of Things
- Strawberry Milk
- Whispered Prayer
- Triage
- Alley Side Acknowledgement
- A New Poem
- Midnight Trysts
- Summer’s Colored Fire
- Shores and Seas
- Memory’s Shadow
- Muscle Memory
Snap Shots
Open. Close. Fractions of a second. Light in. Flash out. A scene set in rolling stone. Red Bull and Ritalin. Focus in on the picture. Check F-stops and shudder. A cold image of life. Bones to fossils on rock; Sight to negatives on film.
Prologue
Like a five-year-old child gazing up to the sky, dreaming of flying miles above, I've always wished that I could be a writer; to be able to turn emotion into words and ideas into sentences. My mind is a squealing teapot boiling over with never ending feelings and rhymes, but when pen touches paper and thought becomes word, the tea goes bad: leaving a bitter film in the mouth. On the floor lays a coat of crumpled papers: failed attempts at freeing my mind. Frustration haunts this page as my mind envisions beauty but my eyes see only filth. I wish I held the power to hold the reader's heart- to be a construction worker of suspense riding the elevator higher until we reach the top floor. There, a momentary pause is reached, the climax of our story, for just as it climbed up, the elevator rides us down to the floor where we began. Back to the paper strewn room, and back to our reality. The reality that preaches to us in tongues and unbreakable codes. A life where want is wrong and selflessness is praised. A life where thought can't bridge to paper and idea can't bridge to word. A life that is owned by one person:
Me.
Eternal Sunrise
As our world rolls into tomorrow's steady sights An eternal sunrise scans along its spinning shape. It pulls us into new days by our Sun's shining gift Of an underserved and unchecked warming light That traces the planet's edge into dusk and night. Just as such, you're the searing summer Sun That draws seams around my day's start and stop: You're always on my mind, from sunrise to sun fall. So I'm caught in orbit around you- circling your glow- And my ocean blue eyes just won't let you go. I've got mountains of passion 'side deserts of faith, I've got valleys holding love like water in a vase. I've got colors and shades, grayscale and hues, And I'm on top of the world every time I see you. You're at the center of my heart and soul, Like the star that spins Earth around its track, You're the only thing that's keeping me around. So, my love, you have my honest word: I wouldn't trade you for anything in the world.
Bellamy Park OST
Waist deep in winter: A white so harsh that street lamps are silhouettes. Decorated houses with quaint sparkled illumination lay still in steam-punk style. The echoes of autumn's crisp leaves can still be heard in the crunching footsteps of boots on wet snow. A sand paper friction scrapes bare skin against the constant push of heatless wind. Bic on a Black to hear the crackle of cloves repeat the clicking fall of drizzle on ice. Ambience chimes like wind chimes in the window, quietly calling from a snow white picture frame. Silent sounds the world, but loud calls the night, setting a bitter score on a walk to the park.
LEAP FROG
TIMMY OVER SUZY, AND THEN OVER ZACHARY; LEAP FROG PLAYTIME AT A FOURTH GRADE RECESS; JUMPING FROM ONE TO TWO, AND TWO TO THREE: A PERPETUAL MOMENTUM IN COGNITION'S SCHEME- HOPPING HOPELESSLY HENCE IN STACCATO STRINGS. CLOUD TO CLOUD- DISCONNECTED OF FLOW; HYPO-COGNITION UNDER HYPERCONSCIOUSNESS OVER EMPTY SPACE- MAL-CONDITIONS BESIDE TEMPORARILY SUFFICIENT CONTENT. CANDLES BURNED FROM BOTH ENDS - A LARGE PUDDLE OF WAX- REGRET WILL SOON IMPOSE IN SLIGHT SEVEN-HOUR'S SLEEP- DEEDS LEFT UNDONE, THOUGH VOID OF A SECOND'S SLEEP.
Not Afraid
I’m not afraid of clowns, I am afraid of heights. I’m not afraid to be alone, I’m afraid I’ll have no choice. I’m not afraid of silence, I’m afraid I’ll say it wrong. I’m not afraid to try hard, I’m afraid it isn’t enough. I’m not afraid of myself, I’m afraid of what I’ll do. I’m not afraid to die, I’m terrified to live.
Those Sort of Things
Hallowed saints hold our hollow hearts,
Turned hard and heavy in their hands.
With adderall days and ambien nights,
Sobriety suddenly seems like suffering.
I've been trying to choose my own ground
But instead I've stepped into quicksand
I'm waist deep with the weight of the world on my shoulders,
My arms out stretched to hold you up as well.
Tobacco, peppermint, and alcohol,
Peanut butter mouth wash.
Slurring wordstogetherandstumblingdownthehall,
Passed out, I'm sorry, babe, I really meant to call.
Drunk alone in bed again- just part of the routine,
I think I'd like to break the habit,
But unlike my friends, my sorrows haven't left me,
You just can't drink those sort of things away.
Red watering eyes, sick waiting for the next line,
Insuffilated thrills and rolled dollar bills
Crushed and carded whites, oranges, blues, and more
Short lived, but every come down has its percs.
Strawberry Milk
Suzy as X strawberries. Suzy tells Timmy that she has 6 strawberries. Timmy counts Suzy's strawberries And sees that Suzy has 7 strawberries. Timmy tells Suzy that she has 7 strawberries. Suzy laughs and tells Timmy that 6 is 7. Timmy gets confused and asks Suzy if 7 is 6. Suzy tells Timmy that 6 is 7 but 7 is not 6. Suzy tells Timmy not to be confused because she loves strawberries. Suzy has X strawberries. Suzy as X strawberries. Suzy tells Timmy that she has 6 strawberries. Timmy counts Suzy's strawberries And sees that Suzy has 7 strawberries. Timmy tells Suzy that she has 7 strawberries. Suzy laughs and tells Timmy that 6 is 7. Timmy gets confused and asks Suzy if 7 is 6. Suzy tells Timmy that 6 is 7 but 7 is not 6. Suzy tells Timmy not to be confused because she loves strawberries. Suzy has X strawberries.
Whispered Prayer
You've been tightly tucked there for years, Collecting a sin count in inches of dust, Your red and black letters both reside Between Harry Potter and The Princess Bride. With slow motion life, my only speed comes From the beating of my tired heart- Every now and then stabbing a pain That leaves me breathless and horrified. I wish I could be a Samson, tearing down Stone pillars in Your holy name, But I worry that I’ll be another Judas, Tearing down Your son to his unjust death. I cross my heart, and I whisper a prayer, But, my God, I can't feel Your loving arms, I can't see Your good in this life I have. I try to read through Your ancient text, But beneath the cross on its heavy cover, Is always an empty space, hollowed out Like those trick books in spy movies. I've placed my pride, my hope, my sleep, And my entire life down in that small space, Closed the cover, and set it back on the shelf Between Harry Potter and The Princess Bride, Not to be found for a few more years. Maybe I'll be happy somewhere down the line, But as for now, I'll take things Day By Day.
Triage
Time calls our age to grow with Ticked off heights on the kitchen wall But those yearly distances steadily dwindle And make us strangers to the youth we never Thought would feel so distant or missed. We're on the brink; this is no longer our home. Plastic tubs and cardboard boxes hold The memories we can't leave behind While black trash bags try to rub out The ones we can't stand to remember- Performing triage in the archive of our minds And on the collection of things on our bedroom floor. It's so strange to see this stuff again: Notes. Pictures. Souvenirs. Books. Gifts. Some painful yet still oddly calming They bring a sudden surreal awareness that All has changed and nothing can be the same. Every sunrise dawns more uncertainty on existence And each dusk falls the moon void of resolve, Only the troubled suggestion that life is about Learning to love those who have loved someone Else more than they will ever love you. So we're boarding this train but Our pockets turn up only lint- The ticket must have fallen out On the eighteen year bus ride here. So yeah, we missed this departure But we can always wait for the next.
Alley Side Acknowledgement
Winter brings such gentle chaos: a calm calamity that cleaves the air With drifting snowfall and the dissipating ghosts of our every breath. Her recent warm grudge has faded cold, but it's hard to shake hands when they're buried deep in the warmth of coat pockets. A turned-collar nod of the head, then, becomes status quo for the season's greeting. How can this be called the time for thanksgiving when each step we take is wrapped in the scarves and gloves of self heating? It is like the flakes of snow that brush your cheek and melt out of existence, one-by-one rendering your face red from the cold. In equal fashion, the ground grows a thick white cover and the air becomes a solid filter to the eyes. These are the building blocks that make monuments of introversion in our hearts, adding outlined beauty to the collecting snow and monochromatic skyline. Below the horizon, chimneys and exhaust pipes sigh. Both are charged with the same duty, yet one is deemed romantic and the other, a poison to the earth and humankind. Science will tell us that the key rests in the types of chemicals being burned, but it hardly seems to matter once the results are added to the grayscale atmosphere of winter.
A New Poem
Today I'll leave the paper by the door step; I'll let the headlines wait their turn. It's not really news if none of it's new, at least not to me. Yesterday I found myself turning off the radio and spending my afternoon with Mozart; It was the only thing new, at least to me. Tomorrow I'll want the peace I had yesterday: Perpetually living life in the past. But then again, that's nothing new. At least not to me.
Midnight Trysts
Fall back in time with the clocks this Fall, Recollect and count the frosted leaves on the ground. Summer's sun sets onto Autumn's moonlight serenade While still repeating the prior's familiar refrain To a midnight tryst between present and memory On a stage set for judgment’s closing soliloquy. Allack! Doth evil's grace supply mine thespian bite? It's clear to see that our tempers will soar tonight When we spark this cigarette to see ghosts of our breath And kiss our cancer to inhale a slow death. So rake your head and jump into the leafy pile; Rest on the season's crisp yellow-red lined argyle And turn your collar to the twilight's bitter offering Of quickly fallen dusks growing darker each evening.
Summer’s Colored Fire
If one plus one yields two, why do I keep counting three? Sheep after sheep tripping over the fences in my sleep, I lay awake, silent. I am the trickle beneath a frozen stream, my mind never stagnant behind night's closed seams. Winter's black and white contrasts to summer's colored fire, the bonny tartan of the year's otherwise stale attire. Aye, wi' Burn's dine in ryke whatfor no howk thir pack cants? What is man without his tales? Carbon, chemicals, and chance. But back and forth the seasons lend their time to me; Each day playing over, start to finish, as if on TV.
Shores and Seas
Shores of sand and solitary seas- The cool damp beach below my feet. Behind me, lapping oceanic waves Continually tally time washing away From the wrist and pocket watches That tick us forward into the future. In front of me, a cave stretches out Into the titanic rock cliffs of this shoreline- The black void like a door to uncertainty. But I’ve surveyed its caverns in detail, And I never wanted to leave its web. It’s a dark comfort of a labyrinth To navigate without a lantern- One goes blind without the sun and Each step into the solid silence We forget more about the wind and rain And care more about our quiet love. So, go flip the ‘closed’ sign in the window- The restaurant is opening early today. You can be the smiling hostess And show me to my seat, ‘Smoking or non smoking?’ I don’t have a preference- I just came to see you, I can’t walk the caves without Your shining light.
Memory’s Shadow
He holds his gaze ahead, Unmoving, save to blink, From the broken man in the front row. He never took notice of the woman For which the room now grieves. She was his grandfather's shadow, The face that smiled behind his smiling eyes Now puddled behind curved glass. He feels the push of guilt. Not for fault but of regret of his negligence. I want to say I'm sad for myself, Or even for her. But the only grief is for the man Left in her wake, Still alive in undying love. How do you say goodbye to a shadow?
Muscle Memory
My piano sang your song today, No, not alone, but hardly guided. My fingers tripped up the ivory, But your tune it still provided. We then made love to memories That my mind had since forgotten, With eyes closed tight and you inside, My hands set your melody in motion. Muscle memory music conducted In the image of your angelic smile. I've pressing matters to resolve- My thoughts will stay with you for a while.