All The Worlds A Stage

Living I write, when I am dead I hope you read. If you are so lucky to be in my poetries and stanzas then you shall live forever, unlike me. I will fix you in my world, and there you shall live a long a happy life. I hope you stay, last a few chapters, and learn to love a fool like me.

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I want nothing from you, But I want everything with you. And there lies the difference Between our love And theirs.

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Losing

All the Lost:

boys, socks and words.

My words

Lost in a land, never

written on the pad beside

my bed, never landing

outside my head.

Perhaps I could be Whitman

Dickinson.

But I'll never know.

I save the only words 

that never matter.

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Pressure

There is a pressure building inside of me.

It is named “Expectations”.

“Expectations” has friends, named:

“Marriage”

“Proposals”

“Family”

 “Wedding”

 “Children”,

 And it continues.

I am sick.

This pressure is seeping into my cerebellum,

swarming my mind,

lurching me to lunacy,

and I am sick.

They are sick, for spoiling my journey.

  They are imprisoning the reins I lead,

cutting the legs from my horse,

and shaving its mane.

I am in the plains,

 horseless and far from being free,

While my sailor floats in his sea,

singing with the breeze.

  They question and prod, investigate,

nod and applaud when I agree.

I am the sacrificial leaf on the tree.

  Crunched under a black boot,

Disintegrating under a man’s foot.

I am left on the street, but look!

  There she goes, walking warningly

Without wild and glee.

Three chil’ren on her.

And the owner of the seed?

Nowhere to be seen.

  I am happy to be a horseless,

Crunched, old leaf.

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In Ireland

I have seen the bogs,

Which Seamus writes.

My lips passed a prayer

For my memories

To preserve like his words.

  I sent my love home

From Ireland.

Across the Mourne, the many

Lakes and streams.

Through pastures and fallen

Leaves. But

  While I sank in deeper,

Sat a little longer, I grew

Worried that perhaps my

Heart would lie here too.

Buried in the bogs.

Never making it home

To you.

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If I Ever Grow Up

I have kept my journals from high school. They fill my drawers. Dusty and smoked, the pages crinkle with a sigh as I turn each page. I am revisited by past lovers, friends, and troubles. I am sixteen again, crying on a carpeted floor with a pile of tissues beside me, with a pen in my hand and my almost illegible handwriting on the page. I want to cry for me, for her. Cry for the girl I once knew, with the chipped yellow nail polish, the blue mascara and braced teeth. I want to laugh at the irony of “forever alone, sad or bitter”, and the “relationship that defined love”. I want to yell at the boys for making me go through that. I want to thank the boys for making me go through that. When I read my old words, I am old. For I am no longer sixteen, and while I may know this girl very well, this little fool of a child, I am not her. These words now are mine, and in the next fifteen years, I will barely recognize myself in them again. Even now I am in a relationship that defines love, and I love nothing more than being that fool.

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May I just say, as blunt as I can be, without all the metaphors and similes, without the literature analyses, that boy... man, I fucking love you. 

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When Happiness Happens

She smiled and flipped her hair, giggling that sweet tune that so many become intoxicated in- drowning in her lust, the one she dares not turn into love- as I sat across the table from her, staring. "So how are you doing?" I asked. "I'm great!" She replied, "Classes are wonderful, the people are oh so interesting and I'm really enjoying myself." And as she said her perfectly rehearsed lines, blinking only three times, and managing another hair flip I kept thinking, thank goodness I have learned that perfection and happiness do not coincide, but instead hide the real happiness in life. And although I may drink a little too much, smoke when I care to, and love a little too deeply, I am much closer to a happiness of grandeur than the perfect life you so dare to persuade others you live. And in my life, that has made all the difference. 

"Well good, I am happy for you." She smiled, and I did back. I knew this act, and used to do it so well. I was just sorry to see that my good friend now played the part perfectly well too, and I did not need to be on the stage any longer.

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Sick of Insanity

An old lipstick stained cup,

Still filled with coffee,

Sits on the bedside table.

  Crunched toilet paper,

Painted with black

Mascara, scatter

on the bamboo floor.

  The stench of soiled clothes

Invade my noise, and I count

16 blouses on the floor, that you

Wore last month.

  You lie there, curled.

Convulsing, sobbing, screaming-

It’s simply another episode.

  So I close your door,

And walk away.

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At the Beach

You and I stood At the edge of it all, Hand in hand. "Ready to go?" you asked, "Not yet... " So we stared a little longer Inhaled deeper And sank a little farther, Because I wasn't ready To let go of the moment That I knew we could Take on the world together.

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Goodnight

Above the streets

I see speckling snow

Slowly slipping

Inside his black jacket,

Underneath his hat, and

Seeping his blonde hair.

  A gust, and looking up

He sees me

Inside looking down.

Smiling, he waves.

  -Until next time.

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In the Wild

You wild your way to

Destruction, dreaming

Of dangerous beauties.

Asking for my approval

When I was the last

One to ever give it.

Caring for someone

Who cared so little

Was my first mistake,

But out of all, my

Greatest lesson from you.

I learned what to do,

When it came to loving

The wild ones like you,

To not- harbor my heart.

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I find it amusing when others speak of their journeys and hardships, when they are just adolescents seeking attention. I find it entertaining looking back at old writings when I swallowed my sadness and changed for the better- I’m happier. And I find it sad that we write what we know, and if sadness and misery is all we know in our little lives, then what are we living for? 21 years is minuscule of the hopeful 70 more something years I will likely live. And it seems to me that I am only beginning. I have just begun…

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There is no better feeling than that YES moment. As in the moment you realize, "yes I am exactly where I want to be in my life, and I am happy." And it's not the usual happy, but a true happy. And when that moment does happen all you will want to do is hug yourself and say "you did it".

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The Song

It was a splendid song-

Twirling in the air,

and playing with her mind.

Memories hugged her,

But she did not welcome them open armed.

  She sees smoke,

And tastes it on her tongue.

The fire that broke the home

Also burned her lungs- she has no words.

  A note changes, a chord progresses.

The vibrations of the tune fill the room,

And the melody fills her.

  New dreams escape the minds embrace,

And she is now warmed.

A different kind of ignition,

one that flickers with love and attention.

  At the last crescendo she opens her arms. 

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The girl across the room

I watched as she tried to hide it. It sneaked upon her, and she did her best to conceal it. her lips tightened, cheeks pink, and eyes wide-sitting there she looked down at her phone attempting to focus her attention on something else. And while I sit across from her in this muggy room, on our first day of class filled with silence and awkward glances I only wistfully wish that I could know what she was thinking. I wish I knew what she so forcibly tried not to smile about, because maybe I could smile back at her too.

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To Fake

Fake it, he said

Try it, he begged.

So I sat and thought

Pondered a moment

And in my mind I got lost.

And it seemed

That faking happiness

and sadness

Just to save us

Was the worst he could have said.

 Because, I have been there

Done that.

I am a somewhat self-acclaimed “faker”

Smile changer

and tear saver.

I’ll be the person you want

But it wont be the person I wish to be

And something that used to come so easily

and naturally to me

now seems cruel and hurtful

words used before then deserted

like Pitiful.

And I didn’t work hard over the years for him to say

“Just for a little bit”

Because I know it won’t be for a little bit.

She will fall, the girl you’ve known.

She may have been flighty, emotional, dramatic

And tragically sorrowful.

But she was real.

She breathed for him, just so he could see her breath.

Living has become defined as being able to be who I want to be.

But I won't cry anymore

I won’t even frown.

Because, that is not the girl you want.

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Learning to Dance in the Silence of Rain

As the raindrops hug the window and slide to the sill I find myself encased and kissed by the noises I force upon this room. Television, the kitchen, and the computer all come alive upon my command. The quiet, a haunting mystery I had wished not to discover, a synonym of loneliness, and the cause from his absence was conquered. And as I sit in my seat and listen to the noises, the dance of the city, the booming of the damned and the driven, I feel ease. What a new feeling it is. What a warm feeling ease is, and it seems as we grow and morph, shape, contour and remove the excess of what we used to be, a discovery of who we will be looks at us right in the eye. I like her. I like this little apartment above the little city. While the raindrops kiss me and I dance in the puddles, watching the world I live in as a symphony of chaos and lovers, I smile. I smile because the order I craved, the things I wanted, what I thought I needed became the very things I let blow to the wind, flow in the breeze and fall towards sin.