So many parties, so many naps @somanynaps - Tumblr Blog

Winter break

This is home and that is why I stare at drowned apples in the creek I used to play in like they’re an answer for how to float.

If this were a movie

You would have already come back. It would have involved a plane and several layovers and me, answering the door in pajamas

Instead I take baths and stare at my knee caps like they might grow words with answers

Do yoga naked and look at the rolls, certain they are not why you left because you are better than that

But not so good that you remember your lines and when to come through Just before I fall asleep, I can almost convince myself that someone might start filming soon

Chance of rain

I took inexplicable joy in walking through the museums for free not appreciating any of it

the Hope Diamond, the cavemen skulls, the Peacock Room.

On the way home, when I had decided I was more lingering fog than person today, the wind blew the leaves. and I mistook one for a lizard. I jumped, I laughed. I lifted, I dissipated.

Before the after.

It never lasts for long

Why is this the season for old lovers to reappear? Is this my chance to see you vulnerable? I am not interested. You can't shield your eyes to me and expect me to not treat you like a sunbeam I'd pull the visor down to while driving now. Did you call because it's cold, the kind of cold that makes your toes press against the soles of another? Learn how to be alone. Do I remember last winter? Yes, the same familiar way I count my friends like rosary beads and all of the spring and summer times I promised myself to never be vulnerable again.

#poetry #poem #winter

Human

I try to be,but sometimesI pretend I was born differently:a slug, a cat, a thumbtack,anything with less feelingsand the ability to stay stationaryor at least move slowly.Anything that, at the end of the day,doesn't need a horoscope or alcohol or a phone call to its mother.

The way you use words is beautiful, they impact me greatly, I was wondering who you take inspiration from?

Thank you kindly. My writing comes from many things: overheard conversations, something I've read, a sentence I remember my mother or a friend of an old lover saying to me, a song.

Most of my poems are based on life experiences, though often I write about them months or years later. I've found that these topics or experiences are the ones that need exposure the most. There are also often the poems others need the most.

are you married or single?

I am not married or single.

When people ask me what I write it is hard to answer poems or anything at all. My words that sometimes skip down a line are made of the times I stayed quiet. It has been pointed out that I need to get better at these things-- stop treating every conversation like a confrontation or possible explosion. I am too old to participate in this idea that the louder you are, the better the chances are of being heard, but I am too practiced in being put second and staying silent. I can write words, I just can't ever say them.

What will we learn today?

To the people who speak about American education like they know how it feels to ruffle the curls of a boy who, before his father went to jail, was kept in an oven, To the people who ask me why I often sit on carpet, concrete, ground, floor before standing above a child, To the people who think throwing money at anything means a damn to a kid who just read his first book I bought for a quarter from a secondhand store, To the people who ask me whether the system is broken, I am writing these words despite you. For my students covered in grease burns from working the night-shift at their family restaurants. For my students who keep half their lunch in their pocket for supper. For my students who ask me for hugs when I'm not supposed to touch them. For my students who translate for their parents. For my students who are more than a red dot on paper that means far below proficient. For my students who love such simple things, new words, their own bowl of paint, a sticker, a fist bump, Monday mornings, a chance to say the announcements, in a system that they single-handedly keep from being broken.

#poetry #poem #education

From the second floor

Tail lights on pavement make rainy night sunrises-- green lights let them set.

#haiku

It's mental health awareness week again

It's mental health awareness week and I want to be like I know. I am always aware.

At sixteen, buspirone At seventeen, eighteen, nineteen zoloft At nineteen, an enema, the drug has ripped through my body. At twenty, lexapro At twenty-two cymbalta plus abilify and that terrible psychiatrist surrounded by awards who is the fifth professional to tell me "Yes, you'll always deal with this." I shake uncontrollably on the inside for three weeks until my body adjusts. My arms are covered in scratch marks that never reached the itch. Twenty-five, viibryd and lithium, No one's ever heard of viibryd.

"Is it...vi...bird?" at each doctor. It's new. They start to give you the new stuff when you've tried everything else. Twenty-six, a cat scan, an MRI, no answers. The sixth professional tells me "Yes, you'll always deal with this." and "You're like a light switch, sometimes you just turn off." I have become an inanimate object.

I pass out every morning for two weeks when I stand up to shower. I learn what hypnogogic nightmares are after I am half awake ripping a pillow open with my fingernails, feeling myself kill my father.

Twenty-six, I stop. I fucking stop. I spit in my pill bottles. My seventh therapist tells me, "You have pieces of you that might be these things that you've been labeled: anxiety depression bipolar but, you are not these things."

I get to the root of my problems. The list is too long for this poem. I retrain my brain to love itself. I retrain my feet to walk the way I could never go: away. I retrain the beat of my heart to slow itself down without chemical help. I retrain my mouth to say "Excuse me" not "I'm sorry", "I forgive you" not "It's okay."

I learn that the word professional means nothing. I learn that every dose they put me on was too big for my body. I learn that I was not born this way, my life unfolded just so.

I am twenty-eight in two weeks. It is mental health awareness week. I know.

#mental health awareness week

Do you write about personal experiences or whatever comes to mind at the time?

Personal experiences. Whether they are new or old ones depends on what comes to mind at the time.

Poem for [Redacted]

Redacted is impossible to love, never thought I’d find her. She’s the mirror of who I used to be, the pieces I can’t find now. I try to love everyone, I try to hold kindness captive, but Redacted. Redacted is impossible to love by people who have done any sort of finding. I thought to feel bad about it, but Redacted is impossible to love if you love yourself at all.

#poetry #poem #friendship

Good morning from me to you.

#haiku #poetry

You drive me crazy

I used to make boyfriends drive me around in cars. Wanted to see if they could handle me so close in so small. Some could, some could not. It took me years to realize I was trying to see if I could stand myself.

#poem #poetry

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So many parties, so many naps