Bitter and Alone- By me

I'm watching and waiting
for your one decision
that decides my fate
my love and my choice

I yearned and pleaded
for your love and affection
I knew you had promised
your soul to the others

You told me you loved me
that I was just perfect
And I never had felt that
I trusted your words

Now I am alone
Without your affection
Without your love
Bitter and alone

Ships and Bottles-by me

Her shadowed face spoke legions,
And I knew that her fate wrote much deeper
This sheltered child
Unknown eyes
Her skin's lace had been thrown

Understatement was her travesty
And nobody could fathom it's depth
Her broken home
And wild soul
The iron chest holding her tome

History marred by her experience
And I see her ship is sinking
Screaming rage
Untold pain
The foundation of life has been shaken

Quick breakdown of "A Dreamcatcher for Seth"

This is my favorite poem that I have written. I used to coach this kid Seth, who I had coached since he was about 4, but had known since he was about 3. I seriously adore this kid. Now he is eleven (maybe ten), and still the sweetest, most hardworking kid I have met in a really long time.

Now, the feathers. He asked me what my deal was once. I was really upset, and he had no clue why I wasn't acting like myself. I had just bought a new dream catcher, and a few other large feathers. My goal was to find a type of feather that I wanted for a tattoo. That day I had also found out that one of my biggest nightmares had been caught and put in prison. It was bittersweet.
When I was younger, I heard this Native American legend. The short version is this: A young girl was begged by Earth to pick up the feathers that the Great Eagle had left each time he took off for flight. They were his promise to Earth that he would return, but they were piling up. Each feather symbolized a promise, a lie, a secret, or a dream. The little girl wove them into dream catchers to protect people from broken promises, festering lies, told secrets, or lost dreams. Over time, she became very sad and passed the job down to a little girl in the tribe. And the story goes on.

When I was eleven, one of my teammates beat me up regularly. He made me scared to play the game that I loved more than anything. He made me hate myself for things I couldn't help. He made me hate myself for things I could help, and so I changed those things. I cut off my hair, wore only boy's clothes, and deepened my voice as much as I could. I lost most of the range of my voice. I stopped being the sweet little girl that I was and became a haunted monster. Seth was just a little bit younger than what I was when he hurt me. I was lucky to meet my coach that year, and he really did save me from myself. He didn't let that kid bully me.

I told Seth that I had gotten a new dream catcher. He asked me how many I had. I had ten. He thought I was stupid. I told him I liked feathers, and that dream catchers were beautiful. He asked me why I loved dream catchers in particular. And instead of telling him about being hurt, having nightmares, or the abuse I endured for a year, I lied. I tried to break the cycle of shattered naivety and told him that they were awe inspiringly beautiful. He rolled his eyes and then asked me what we were doing.

The coach who had saved me was there. I still go to skate for him when I can. I don't think he has any idea what he saved me from. I don't think he knows how close I came to quitting hockey. He never saw the bruises or the cuts. He never heard the name calling or the saw the hair pulling. I would like to think that I can save other kids from that too by helping him. He is one of the biggest inspirations in my life. He and Seth. I hope one day I have the nerve to tell him to his face.

A Dreamcatcher for Seth-By me

When he asked me why I loved feathers,
I told him my life was poetic,
Like the unwavering sweep of wings
Across the arctic winter sky

For every ounce of freedom gained,
A bird sheds a feather, in penance-
an emotion, a choice, a promise, a curse-
And I wander this earth collecting them

Gifted, they say I am gifted
With the promises of lies and lost dreams
These feathers I weave
Into shrouds, tokens of protection

They save me from waking horrors
And vivid night tremors, choices of dying men
Voicing lullabies of orphaned children,
Morbid cries of wounded wolves waiting for the vultures' descent

Stories of legends where the heroes die
Are the epic of my own finale
The bright passage of a life
Gone all to quickly, too soon

I burned at the stake for wearing them proudly,
The agonized choice of death over life,
The tears shed into the ocean
A ring that melted gold richly into bone

The wisps of smoke along the freckles
The spots of purity, little hooks
That can bite into skin, or the next tendril
That which allows flight, and the fall

He was nine when he asked, I was seventeen
I had felt the hot whip and cold steel
I wore my scars painfully, unhealed wounds
And he was the age I began collecting

The choice I made broke the curse of pain
And my feather, my Pinion, was white as snow

My classes have never taken up so much of my time. I am exhausted. I haven't been writing. My IPod is broken; the menu, play, and next buttons don't work. Only back. What a symbol of my life.

I recently got a new ear piercing. A low outer cartilage one. I want to put a hoop in it when it healed up some.

Good stuff.

The Raven. If you dont know who wrote this, then I dont know what to tell you.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

     As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Missing You- by me

I missed you today.
 
Your smiling face,
The way you press your lips to my hair
The way your chest tightens
As we breathe as one
 
I missed you yesterday.
 
The first time I saw you,
Your face obscured, how you played
The way you smiled behind your mask
And how you said I was beautiful
 
I never knew you would think me pretty
I always hoped you could
You looked at me with a distinct interest
And I never doubted you
 
I missed you the first time he hit me.
 
I hoped for someone like you.
I dreamed for the desire to interact
What you gave me was priceless
And forever, I will never regret
 
 
I miss you like falling snowflakes
 
Each drop of sorrow is unique.
However far away you are,
Your promise is the moon
And I am the stars far outside the galaxy

 

I missed you today.
I will miss you tomorrow
Until you come back to me.

Indifference. Except not really

I am not a very patient person. Patience is just one of those lovely virtues that I sorely lack. I have always been slightly more patient than the rest of my family, which leads them to believe that I am more patient. Let me tell you, I am definitely not.

So, as I wait in the Detroit airport for my rescheduled flight, I wonder how I would respond if I was a patient person. Would I just sit and wait like there was nothing wrong? Or would I internally pout at the thought of sitting in this hellhole for ten hours. Because I am already at six. Damn. At least my carry on bag is full of food, like this awesome Irish soda bread and organic grapes and dark chocolate (and milk chocolate...I like them both). My mom made me a ton of gingersnaps, walnut toffee, and gingerbread for me. I recently bought some super fresh and organic cayenne pepper, and some dehydrated mangoes. And some fresh mangoes for good measure.

Where I live in New York, there is little to no fresh food. Comparatively, back home is an organic dump. Everything is either processed into oblivion or right off the fresh, clean tree/vine/branch. That's just my life. My grandmother fed me lots of fruits and vegetables when I was younger. Now I love fresh food, and live really far away from all of it. My mom is looking into getting me a farm share.

To the best of my knowledge, a farm share is where a person buys the yield of a farm, and the owner delivers or has you pick up whatever they harvested that particular week. Sounds good right? Almost too good to be true.

Anyways, here I am ranting like someone is ever going to read this. I wish I could advertise for this without my direct family or immediate friends seeing it. And I know my sister would read this just to keep tabs on me. Ah well. If a real person not a computer stat machine actually reads this, then it will be a good day.

It's 2 AM. Here's an Elizabeth Bishop poem called "Insomnia"

I read this in high school, and my recent stint with severe insomnia (or inability to sleep to the layperson) inspired my posting of this poem, Insomnia, by Elizabeth Bishop.

Insomnia

The moon in the bureau mirror
looks out a million miles
(and perhaps with pride, at herself,
but she never, never smiles)
far and away beyond sleep, or
perhaps she's a daytime sleeper.

By the Universe deserted,
she'd tell it to go to hell,
and she'd find a body of water,
or a mirror, on which to dwell.
So wrap up care in a cobweb
and drop it down the well

into that world inverted
where left is always right,
where the shadows are really the body,
where we stay awake all night,
where the heavens are shallow as the sea
is now deep, and you love me.