Writer's Block

All Original Writing By Jordy Morris

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At Home

Tonight is one of the nights I will tell our children about,

How we drank orange juice from the carton

Because we didn’t have a glass;

And daddy sat on the counters

Because there weren’t any chairs

And it made mommy laugh.

How we danced in an empty living room,

On linoleum floors 

Practicing for our wedding night,

Listening to our giggles echo against the doors.

How I could feel his heart pound against my ear

Keeping time to the rhythm of the street,

In a military neighborhood

And Momma wore camo.

Daddy had sweat seeping through his shirt

From his first day as an electrician.

But neither had  a candle

So we quietly dreamt in an empty house.

We spent sleepless nights

Praising His name

A two man band

To the Great I Am.

The sun rose gently over Louisiana

My heart held softly in his hand

He kissed my forehead

And we smiled

Until the corners of our eyes creased

Because daddy came back for me.

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I was born

to a single mother, because she chose to have me. I also have a great relationship with my father, who chose to stay in my life because he is a good man. They chose not to get married because they were never truly in love.

My mother fought to raise me in the best neighborhood she could afford, and chose to make sacrifices to make sure I went to the best schools. 

Later in life she let me choose what God I would worship.

Choose the clothes I would wear.

Choose my own partners.

Choose my own birth control methods.

All which lead me in my choice to join the military, and choose to fight for those  freedoms.

I also chose the worlds best husband;

and we have chosen to walk together in all our choices to come.

It is a series of choices that have made me the person I am today. I will not stand by and let people try to silence the beauty that is choice.

If you have chosen a path, that has lead you to believe that the choices I make are immoral, or disgraceful. I understand your choice to not to make the same as I do. That is the beauty of this world. There are millions of opportunities, thousands of choices, hundreds of opinions, but only one world for us to live in.

Let me make my choices.

And I will let you make yours.

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The Love Poem I'd Left Unwritten

Let’s talk for a second

about how your hands feel on my skin

when I don’t want to let anyone in.

But, you do nothing

but pull sweet nothings from my lips.

And darling;

your love eliminates my every sin

as we silently exchange

every song that we weren’t able

to bring to fruition.

I want you to shut up,

and listen

to the rhythm of your own heart beat

and how the melody of our love

is harmonized in the seconds

when you walk in the door and meet my eyes.

When you’ve heard the stories of each of my lives.

Thank you,

for not needing me to define you.

For letting me be me.

In spite of the posture I hold,

or the fact that I have broken the feminine mold.

I am not just a daughter

A lover

Or friend

I am everything you’ve ever dreamt me to be

and you are the stanzas behind my teeth.

Don’t think for a second

on what that may mean;

Only that you and I are meant to be.

Four-hundred-and-one days ago

I fell

hard

fast

and strong

for the man you had become.

Darling, I will still love you on day one-thousand-and-one.

As excitement builds to our next chapter

I think of only this moment, and not the one after.

Do you understand the wisdom in your smile?

Or is it as lost to you

as my identity is to the world?

Do you still smile when the girls ask about my girlfriend?

I’ve heard your laugh when I say, yes, he’s inside.

As I inhaled a cigarette on that cross country drive.

When you became more than the man I loved

but the son my mother always wanted,

and the brother my sister needed.

Is all of this too much to breathe in?

Because for me,

this Louisiana heat,

is nothing compared to the humidity of our hearts entangled

on grey cotton sheets

from a three am journey to Wal-Mart,

on the night we bought the bed

that we would wait to consummate

until the night we were wed.

And I love you, underneath a blanket of air plane exhaust

over every mile that we have ever crossed

I love you,

and when your hands touch my skin,

on the nights I don’t want anyone in.

I hope you try a little harder,

and remind me that this kind of love

is what people write poems about

this one not excluded.

That we are forever to be entwined

on the journey that they call life.

For each touch to my skin is reminder

that each tomorrow will be a little brighter. 

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Writer's Block

Dear Writer’s Block,

I fucking hate you. You vindictive little whore.

You only come around when my fears have all but been confirmed. Yes, I know you enjoy taking my Talent on little jaunts around the park, but Talent was mine first. I made him, with each time I spent hours deciding what tense I should write this next poem in. When I couldn’t decide use the word ‘and,’ or simply just a semi-colon. Bring him back, and let him please be safe; or so help me God, I will come back with such a vengeance on you, you’ll wish you died along with Plath when you killed her. Let my Talent be untarnished by the Nebraska winters I let him linger in, along side an old friend of ours named Memory. Let him be free of ailment, such as dry rot, like the souls of my boots are taking on this godforsaken Louisiana humidity. Of all things don’t tell me you left him lost on the side of a highway during those Texas thunder storms.

Talent, was my dream, he gave me everything I wanted to be. I understand where he may believe that I left him, I did no such thing. I simply signed myself away to the military. I was however saving him inside me, hiding him from the Drill Instructors who tried to beat Art out of me. I never left him, so stop telling him that, Writer’s Block, stop lying to him! I locked Talent away, with Individuality, and Love. They are all there just waiting for the opportunity for me to reveal them again. But You, you just took him away, let him play with you, hold you in his arms, and caress the ease that is your way of life. The never having to face the pain of denial. Because when you’re with Writer’s Block, how can anyone ever tell you that you re not good enough? Writer’s Block is beautiful, she gives Talent an excuse for not showing up to work. She lets him, roam free to do what he wishes.  

Well, since I know he ‘s with you, tell him I love him. If he can ever forgive me, let him know I am still his home. I will always hold his place next to Modesty, Dignity, and Respect. I will further his academic endeavors as much as he needs. Tell my dearest Talent, I am forever waiting, and that I beg of him to not let you, Writer’s Block, come between us again.

I still hate you,

     Avengent

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The Earth

I reached up to the sky

and ran my fingers through the stars

as though the constellations

were the lines on your forehead.

On the way back down

I let my knuckles trail against the bark

of the cottonwood tree,

the rivers of it skin sending veins

into the ground

and as I leaned against that wise old tree

I felt your arms embrace me.

I felt you stand strong against my back.

Before I met you I knew you.

In that quarter acre back yard

where the rocks were scratched

with my mother’s teenage lovers names,

and when the lake pressed against the shore

I heard your heartbeat in the gentle rhythm

of the lapping water.

The wind whispered your name against my cheek

and the cool breeze made me blush

at the vulgarity of your love.

Before I loved you

I met you

in the reeds as I walked by my grandfathers rosebushes.

Your beautiful scent enchanting me to come closer

and then I learned of the pain of deceit,

as your thorns scratched against my skin

and I watched my own blood fall into the dirt.

I would never be so careless with my love,

I swore.

But,

the honeysuckle kissed my lips

its sugar dripped across my tounge

and I felt your rush.

I fell to my knees in the patches of crabgrass

and dirtied my self in the fertile Nebraska soil;

letting my knees

and my linen sundress stain a gentile green.

I laid against you to catch my breath.

I was a girl,

learning how to love

on a rocky shoreline.

Before I knew you were coming for me

I made love to the earth.

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I am a mother

On the day my son was born, 23,239 other children were born.

Four of them at the exact same second. 

Statistics say that he will never meet another of these 4 children;

but, it has caused me to think.

Simultaneously four souls entered the world in a seemingly chaotic way.

It is only by chance that the soul glimmering back at me in his infant smile is the one I know. It could just as easily be one of the other three souls.

But, my son is mine.

He is not the one born in Uganda, that feels the aftershock of a bloodthirsty warlord and his child soldiers. Who’s father bears the scars of a bullet from his own brother’s gun. No, his land is not the one stained red by genocide while the world watched.

My son is mine.

Not the one conceived in an alley while unwelcome hands entered the holiness of a woman, methodically removed her personhood, and let her broken dignity stand trial for the murder of her innocence. The woman claimed as property, shamed as animal, and treated as criminal. Under a government that forces her to watch as her womb grows, her body aches, and her child is born to a mother who can’t look him in the face. 

My son, is mine.

Not one of the 2,060 who just today closed their eyes one final time and let the waves of hunger wash over him. Who’s skin was so remarkably thin you could see his bones distort beneath him as the muscles betrayed and refused to support a structure that could not nourish them.

No, my son is mine.

He will wake each morning to my loving embrace. He will not have the childhood horrors of an army coming in the night.

He will hold his father’s hand each day, look into his eyes and know by the identical chocolate color, that this is the same man who donated the sun kissed color of his skin. A man who’s love for his mother is genuine. 

He will rest at night warm and full. Nourished by food he doesn’t like. But, will eat and his mother will thank god’s she’s never known that he is not one of those 2,060.

Because my son is mine.

The soul I love is only in this body by a 25% chance. 

But, I am a mother to a possible three others

born exactly at 5:09 pm.

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Terrorism

When I was ten years old the towers fell. The next day my mom locked all the doors in the house for the first time.  She walked us to the door of the school. She waited for us to step out. As though we might vanish. That winter I had to get on a plane. I cried when I had to take my shoes off. They threw away my moms fingernail clippers. They still printed flags on the newspaper every day. My sister drew pictures of flowers and houses, and buildings falling while planes flew towards them. She was six. The next march was my birthday. I learned new vocabulary, “Iraq, terrorism, invade.” “War.” I turned eleven on the day Jesus died, 15 casualties of war went with him. On September 10, 2002 my brother turned five. No one talked about his birthday. His cake was shaped like one of Blue’s clues. My dad ate it in front of the TV. In the morning we stood outside in the rain while they raised the flag to half staff, and played Taps while we prayed. We said the pledge of allegiance every class that year. My best friend’s dad came home from the war. She didn’t talk for four days.  I graduated sixth grade. There were metal detectors inside the doors of my middle school. We weren’t allowed to bring backpacks to class. Every September we watched the towers fall again. We remembered the names of those that fell with them. They tied yellow ribbons to the trees. As a freshman I met a Muslim girl for the first time. I thought she was beautiful. She called me a racist for staring. She couldn’t tell I was only looking at her eyes. Celebrities were famous again. Music wasn’t constant nationalism. Teachers talked about ending the war. In September they played the national anthem over the intercom. We were quiet for sixty seconds. When I was a junior a recruiter came to my school. Talking Army Proud. I laughed, refused to go. Wasn’t going to be brainwashed into fighting for someone else’s oil. They did a background check with my college entry applications. We practiced hiding from a shooter. I graduated in an arena. They checked under our robes. Scanned purses. Checked ID’s. I didn’t go to college. We were a generation raised on fear. I stopped being afraid. I put on the uniform I’d once laughed at. Sometimes, I still think the terrorists won.

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My Heart

I love you… that scares me. I handed you my heart,  You placed it in your pocket, Kissed me gently and said, Thank you. Then we ran a marathon, And my crystal heart Chipped against your keys, Your phone, Your knife, Your stash. And I never thought a quarter ounce  of anything would break me. But I still love you, a lot. And that scares me, a lot. I handed you my heart on a silver platter My ability to reason, gone My responsibilities, shafted And I continued to cling to you With my most fragile organ  Let loose to fend for itself Against lighters and money, Pens and dirt You fell off skateboards, Got in fights And went to drug deals With that baby sized metronome Nestled deep in your pocket And you continued to grind it To glittered oblivion But I fucking love you…  That fucking scares me. I compromised my dreams, My grades and  The Ivy League  Promising to follow you All I needed was one compromise One thing One tiny strike of a match  That didn’t need to be struck But for me compromising everything Wasn’t enough compensation For the cashed out Musk taste that filled your lungs Sometimes three times a day And though, the only thing left of my once perfect ticker Is a shimmering dust I love you… and that scares me So I was still willing to let you Try to piece every grain of me Back into what I once was. But instead you simply scattered it. Like ashes after a funeral And you didn’t even take me to the rocky shore like I wanted… You just left me here, In this barren wasteland We once called home.

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For You

I found my release, my epiphany lies in the slightly frosted glass bottle aged to perfection with tender love, and total neglection. I’ll pour this into a glass so pure it looks like water. This poison, is too pure for a girl like me. But with every swllow I care a little less about my dying liver. Or even the ulcers in my stomach and throat. At 17 I’ve hardly begun this process. But I crave this, the way it caresses my skin from the inside out. The way I have to let go and forget how fucked up my life is… I love this. It’s dependable, predictable, and totally under my control.  I choose when this touches me, and I choose when to return the favor. Funny that your sin spun with greed, and glutton, became the only part of you I have left. Yeah, this poison, it burns like fire to pine. And I know that I’m drawn to the heat it provides. A moth to a candle. But since you left my bed’s been a hell of a lot colder, and why not try to find somewhere a little warmer. Because this poison… it wraps me. Enveloping me like your arms once did. Wracks my body, muddies my mind. Doubles my vision, almost as intoxicating as your scent, on Christmas. Only it won’t leave me for some cheap tramp you just met. Fuck, This poison, it kisses me, burning, and cleansing, and as I wince and swallow you don’t hurt so bad. The years without you aren’t so noticeable as long as I can’t remember them, Right? But I’m not the kind of girl  to sweeten a drink, I don’t sugar coat anyting hun. I’ll suck down Jack without a grimace, and I fully welcome the way it captivates my body, and mind. But tonight… I’ll dillute, this poison… With half a glass of Mountain Dew, and I won’t be tasting the bitter burn of Mr. Daniels. Instead I’ll add the too sweet taste of vodka to the mix. Just the way you did. As you sat with a twelve-year-old girl, on a school night, drinking and manipulating her. But you also did a damn good job, of making me love you. Because I still drink this shit…

nightly

Not even because I like it. I actually hate the nausiating sterile taste it provides. But I do it because you aren’t here. So I drink to the memory  of the same monster that, stole my imagination, my belief in humanity and my dreams, among other things… I create instead a psudo reality to deal with the woman I never stopped loving even though I know you used me. I know what your 45 year old hands, did to my 12 year old body. after the fourth concoction of this stuff seeped through my veins. I drink this poison, Your Poison, perfectly mixed in a way you would’ve praised. So I don’t forget that one time, you loved me.

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building a life

Lets walk to the shore And wade in the water Tainted with dreams we never shared And nights we never had I’ll caress you in the sand And watch the hot red flame Fade to blue getting hotter  As the colder chapters of our life are expelled  From our mouths. And while you count each grain of sand building up your fortress, I’ll tell you everyway you’re beautiful. One, you never left me. Two, your eyes never rest in one place they flicker  endlessly between point a, b, c, through z. Not wanting  to forget anything. Three, your velvet voice and southern drawl entice me  To inspect the tongue that created them with the  Contours of my own lips.  27, when you flick your hair over your  Shoulders and brush your bangs back they create Lowlights that add to your mystique. 57, uhm hello, you race motorcycles. 92, you love your son and daughter More than air. 230, you’ve been fucked up, and fucked over, Challenged and broken, and you still prevailed. 407, the chip in your tooth whistles when you hold an S. 1012, you aren’t afraid to love me, even though I’ve left Before. 1942, you’re honest. 3526, I’ve dreamt of you since before I met you. 5821, you never tried for perfection. 7003, think of a number between 1 and 10. …it’s 7. You build an entire kingdom, Grain by grain, as I whisper perfections to you, And you have to eventually abandon the world we built With microscopic floor boards. In the fortress you sealed yourself in and Trust that this time when we leave it. We will both return.

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Toys

I want to be unbreakable, you know strong. Like the shit they wrap toys in nowadays. But instead I became your toy. With little pieces that always go missing, And a painted on smile, that never fades. I want to be real to you,  Totally tangible, never having to watch you slip away. But I know how this goes, we do it far too often. The stars in your eyes cover with haze, And your touch doesn’t tame me, It leaves me wishing for more. As our kisses grow shorter, and your gaze pulls astray I only want to beg you to just let me play. But like a bored child, I get left on the shelf Hoping for another chance to just come down and be held again. I sit thinking about how each moment with you once swept me away. And I wait, And I wait, And I wait. Because I know you’ll be back. I hope you’ll be back. With every second ticking by I wonder how much slower is time? With every second ticking by I wonder if I’m on your mind. Do you even know what’s gone? Do you even know I’m alone? Do you even know what scared feels like? But once in a while, after months on the shelf I come down,  And you hold me like I’m new again. So I fall, far from the lookout I so carefully maintained, And I know that this time wont quite be the same.  Because, I know, I know, Do you get it?! I know. You’ll get bored again quicker,  Your smile will change,  And off to the shelf I’ll be whisked away. But sometimes, kids forget about those toys. When prettier ones come along. When they find ones that aren’t as broken  by the hands they don’t know the strength of. Do you know what happens next? Mom brings in a box, and puts them away, So that eventually you’ll remember your childhood days.  Then someday you’ll have a 5 year old daughter and you’ll bring it out.  Please, just leave me in the box. Don’t show me to that little girl. Because she was supposed to be my little girl. Our little Scout Marie, And once you learn that, they’re only a dream. I won’t be a dream. But I know You’ll spend your life wondering. What if? What if? What if? And I don’t want to be your what if. I don’t want to be that possibility,  Don’t want to leave you wondering what the fuck happened. So I give you all I’ve got. Every funny noise that makes you laugh, Every smile I can pull from your far to young eyes, And I wish you were older, Mature enough to realize what’s going to happen. I don’t want to be the girl you refer to as your ex.  I don’t want to be X’d.  Crossed out like a check list, On the perfect parchment of your skin. Because when I’m in your hands, I don’t feel plastic. I don’t feel like I was constructed and mass produced. I don’t feel like I’m just a number. I feel. Does that even make sense? I know I’m just a toy to you, but when I’m there, And your looking at me Lost somewhere in a tangle of cotton sheets I feel, I can sense the pressure of a beating heart, I can hear the sound of gasping for air. I see the beads of sweat glistening on your forehead. They way your eyes shine like diamonds, pressed from the pressure of knowing the worlds on your shoulders. But did you know that when I’m with you, I have the world at my feet. But like all playtimes,  Carefully constructed and monitored to prevent injury, You pull away and it ends. It ends without warning,  It ends without pain, I just ends.

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Hold me

Daddy was always trying harder. To be a better father,  to build a better home… and in that he followed his career so far he forgot where home was. Always holding the next burden. ‘Till he had the weight of the world clasped in his finger tips, and every dollar he could grasp shoved deep in his pockets. But he still couldn’t buy dreams. So he chased them, leaving me standing. At 1702 Sewell starring at a sold sign. Begging him to lighten his load, just to stay here and love me. Love me Daddy. But daddy only loved chasing dreams, forgetting that all he ever wanted was already here. Screaming “Daddy hold me.” to which he replied, “I can’t, my hands are full.” -—— When daddy chased dreams, Mamma made them. At 2000 Pepper Avenue and working any job she could find to make her babies smile.  And the diamonds in our eyes weren’t bought. No jewelery store could find them. From clenching her fists so tight and fighting with gravel in her hands. Those diamonds were earned by the pressure and heat of the world, the heat of passion  made Mamma greedy. She went looking for more, when working three jobs she still couldn’t buy a home. Sure houses were bought, but home got lost in the process  of her trying to give us everything Daddy couldn’t. And again I begged, “Mamma, hold me.” with my arms outstretched and eyes crying she replied forlorn, “I can’t, my hands are full.”

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Stand

Two feet; I have them. They are located 180 degrees south of my shoulders, and they are planted. Planted like the roots I have so carefully been tending. For the last eighteen years of life. Watch me stand and speak. I’ll do it with tears in my eyes  You will see with passion comes power. You say I don’t hold myself up and show the world what I have to say. What I believe. Well every time you’ve asked me not to leave, I told you no. Because I’m going. Getting the hell up outahere. To find a new place Where it isn’t your face I answer to each morning. Now don’t get me wrong, I love you. But you see. Sometimes it’s the ones you love  That you have to stand up to the hardest. Because its easy to tell the playground bully to fuck off. But its hard to tell your mother that you need to go. Because mamma held you.  And you don’t wanna leave her arms empty. Or how do you say goodbye To the person you spent many sleepless nights next to In a bed with satin sheets,  and their creamy skin against your cheek. Especially when going doesn’t mean leaving. Because now, I’m gonna stand. Which was way too hard once. I was paralyzed, from the waist down But my knees had room to quake, In fear of your acceptance of my life. But you know what. I cut open my chest, and found my heart, the love I have for me poured out. And my knees, well they came around. Because look. I’m standing. And I’m speaking. And I’m sorry Ma’am, but I sure ain’t just a girl now. I’m a goddamned soldier. High at attention, With a salute to my own morale. And I know how to stand when all that’s behind me is an american flag. And I may not believe in blood for oil, But I’ll sure as hell keep standing, so that someday… I’m there to stand in front of you. And raise my voice when you can’t. Raise my fist so you Might have another chance. To live your life, And keep standing.

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Games

I will not play these childish games again. I am not a maybe. No way will I be your perhaps,  sewn together by heartstrings,  and held together by hands. You say we are not. But the world sees that we are.  Don’t pull me so close,  so that I can feel your beating heart  it only allows mine to flutter in twice the time. Don’t sing to me songs that adore who we could be,  because as you said.  We. Are not. Don’t sleep with your skin  made from cream  caressing my shoulders, It only makes me crave more of your healing touch  that you will not return. This buffer of safety is not safe for me. It leaves me exposed to your constant indiscretion. I am no angel. I am not a wandering fairy for you to interpret. I am human.  I need to love,  and to be loved. It is not the whims of childhood prayer  or the clap of your hands  that give me the strength to go on. It is the kiss I cannot receive. It is the breath I can not breathe  because there is still some of your air  locked away in here,  and I will not let it escape these lips,  until you either are,  or are not  within the grasp of my so very empty fingertips.

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Rainfalls

Sometimes the rain falls at the worst possible times. Like when your heart is so broken you can’t even find all the peices, and hopefully glue it back together again. So we go on like everything’s fine and we try to forget her. We move on  move forward move aside; and let life pass us by. When what we need to do is step out, scream out, act out. And just dance in it. Until every last ounce of energy is expelled from our hips leaving us silent for once. Occasionally that’s okay. To be silent and consent to the turning of the earth,  the cascading of the tide. To allow new beautiful people to change us, hand them our hearts sopping wet and burning from the acidity of the water. Falling into a new girl  who will give us new life,  new love,  new laughter. So go out in the rain let your heart break, and just dance.

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Just Friends

She watches him His movements fixed yet precise He almost dances by her again She smiles, the same smile he always sees. And she notices his crooked teeth As he returns the gesture They are friends Friends who go to lunch Who call each other to just check in Who blush when the other looks their way But they are, Just  Friends. Her heart beats faster When his number flashes across her phone She fantasizes About his hands And the way they would feel in hers His laugh The way it would echo in her ears When her head rested on his chest His breath As it might press against her neck Catching her own in her throat She knows they soon will part ways As is always true of their work When she moves for the sixth time in four years And as he loads a gun in Iraq She wants to tell him to take her away Show her the world from his Piercing blue eyes. Eliminate fear Wash away grey He doesn’t know how beautiful She feels when she catches the looks She wasn’t meant to see He doesn’t even know that he’s her every dream So today again she smiles As he leaves.

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She told me not all casualties come home in a body bag. I didn’t believe her. Thought that the game of war  was a way for men to ignore  all the problems at home. Escape to a childhood world of shoot or don’t shoot.  Then I saw you. The boy I used to watch when as he flew, across a wooden dance floor girls eyes glued to his boots that tapped a rhythm their own; while the drummers envied his tune. You came home, burn scars down your side. Told me you watched a man die for you the same man that got you through, friends and comrades who only you knew. You don’t dance anymore. A boy who laughed as he fell three stories from a pine tree in my back yard, now sits a man stoic brought to just tears when the door slams too hard I hear you went back to the desert. Asked to go, and finish the job in a way  only you know. I pray to God each night that you make it home. He asks what I think your doing right now my brother worries. Asking millions of questions I can’t answer I wouldn’t know how to explain to him that you’re probably  just sleeping in your barrack dreaming about your daughter. I know there’s a chance you’re dodging bullets downrange again. And tonight you don’t sleep silently you’re tossing and turning remembering the way his blood felt on your hands. As you were trying to decide if it was you that was dead. I saw your class A’ s the day you said I do. And now they all want me to interpret what it may feel like just to be you. I cant tell them what I don’t know I wont tell what I trained for. Because now I know that the empty body bags really hold the horror