WritingBreathes

I'm a 20 year old college student at San Diego State University. Here you'll find my emotions sculptured into words. I also post authors who ignite my inspiration every so often (12/27/12). Click on "My Writing" below to see my pieces. :) MyWriting

[writingbreathes]

Figment of a daydream

Multiple rivers of Time Where will you all go this time? Does she sense my intention-   The air between the leaves Rustle to call quietly for her.

I have not written in a while, And I creak as I move over paper. I stir,   In the coming of your rushing waters. I have missed them before (never silent, never quiet) But my eyes were closed and I had not hid by need but By the lack of belief.

I’ve seen the sunrise and the sunset many times, their magic passes me. Yet I see the moon now and I wait For your waters to touch me. I wait for her kiss.

[writingbreathes]

Late-night dreaming

I see you and your hands Searching for something to grab on. In my hands a letter, A letter I had written, Not signed by me but for you. And I know I'm in bed but I also know you're in my head And it reads: "Memories are there to help you Not to drag you down." And I read: "Let yourself move." But I couldn't finish Or I couldn't remember. Then again, I've never had someone so close that their leave hurts so much. My hurt is not of people leaving but long-lived moments of loneliness. But you always gotta wake up. So I rose confused, winds shaking my inside. And I went on a walk, Up into the quiet hills where I saw An abandoned brown barn. Not quiet itself, not lonely, Seemingly empty but with movement. Birds beginning to nest, water droplets filling its holes, lived-experiences holding it up. And I began to understand.

[writingbreathes]

It is fall

It is fall- Why do I feel so many miles away? There, the whispers of the wind tease me. Here, the ground turns to water. I try not to drown.

I try- In these times, silence darkens my sight. If there is anything right about this, It’s me learning that I no longer want Loneliness. Can you find me among the quiet? 

Can you- Dry leaves don’t last forever. The night chill does not leave you empty. It leaves you wanting more, And springtime will bring me home.

And springtime will bring me home.

[writingbreathes]

Imperfect Moonlight

You sit within the black ocean As waves of hands attempt to Grasp you, you unintended mystery

They reach for you the most At your brightest, your fullest, Believing to see something in your splendor

And they stare to see themselves mirrored Against your porcelain skin

And, they forget or Maybe don’t know:

There is nothing about your fullness That says anything about you.  

It is when you’re a couple shades darker Or the times pieces of you are Swallowed by the darkness, When you seem too far away to Believe you are even real,

That I know who you are.

You are special in your imperfections. In the nights where your loneliness Is like my loneliness

When you smile because it feels right Not because you have to

When you get shy and move gracefully And noiselessly behind gray-toned clouds

When you feel smaller than stars but enjoy your quiet beauty

And when you leave into the fog When everything becomes too much.  

And you always come back, Unapologetic, Creating movements in the night, Reflecting your image for Those who can’t find themselves In the darkness

And I want nothing of you But that To know your so-called Imperfections That are more like whispered wishes At the bedside.

I want nothing of you But to close my eyes and Feel the secret of your moonlight, To hear the soft beats of your being Like the raindrops on my window pane.

[writingbreathes]

In between

Many things are left unsaid, only captured by the space in between us A hand apprehensive, a stare too long but not like a cat and mouse chase, more like an I appreciate you too much, too scared to change you, just want to see you right there, like that.

But the spark, like some say, is not just moments, it’s at all times, it is the gravity pulling us in, the Earth tugging at the moon, the moon flirting with the waters.

It’s an experience, an unseen, unfelt universal reaction You can have your eyes closed, your heart shut but it goes through the in betweens, the empty spaces with room to be filled.

You can be frightened, afraid, but there are solar explosions that don’t want to be missed, the type where the fire never quits, where the lunar cycle comes to calm the burning, to then remind us of the wildfire we live.

It is with a calmness of time when it works the best, the slow coming together of the in betweens, the sitting down holding hands, waiting for the sparks to ignite our fires.

[writingbreathes]

This poem is everything to me. Papers or not, born in the U.S. or not, all people of color in border towns are seen as "trespassers". "Go home!" people say. And so it begins, the creation of a wound, the sense of not belonging anywhere, the struggle of the Chican@ to fight against oppression and reconnect with themselves and Aztlán.

[writingbreathes]

Oh, Delirium

Oh, Delirium!  Let it be me this time Twist me into endless shapes, Break my thin wrists, rip  my strong things in half.  See, look at that pigeon!  See its beady eyes, crooked wing, Look how it eats, like if it were his  last meal.  Ugly things but powerful,  head up, chest inflated and away  it goes, in between buildings it'll never go into.  Oh Delirium!  Tell me I'll be fine,  make me skin, skin and  no bones,  so that I too  can look at Death straight in the eye. 

[writingbreathes]

Fragile

The moon severed the room in half and she kept waking up in a daze “There is nothing here,” she repeated softly the clock timing the stacattos of her breath

Secrets layed across the floor like broken glass glistening to be felt and admired There was a fragility to the room, to her, to I, who felt a part of the walls, ghostly

[writingbreathes]

Altar

The broken tiles still held your footprints on them, at the coffee table, I could still see your warm mug,  and the way you breathed in the caramel  I touched the wood edged around the box, then the glass,  thinking I could still feel the ridges of your hands, maybe see a story about your days in the prairie White lace curtains secretly let the sun touch the room and it reflected off your face, your chest, your legs brightening the the ugly paleness of your skin  I saw abuelita holding your white sombrero,  she was mumbling something about that morning, something about holding your hand for a little longer so at least you wouldn’t have been alone while He came   I thought there were too many people, too many sounds the whole block was there too see you and I wondered-  could you see the rare tears on my father’s trembling hands?  I wondered- could brick walls absorb life?  I’d sat on your rocking chair for hours to hear it creak to hear you like quick breaths and pumps,  to remind myself of all the places you left life in. 

[writingbreathes]

Beneath It All

I’ve tried to disappear beneath musty bridges, at the edges of piers and hearts of forests, but  I failed to dissipate into something beyond me.  Always, a distinct newness filled my lungs but  the dusty fragments of my old hometown stuck  to my tissue like infrastructures of fallen buildings.  It was beneath a thick fog one night, where all I  could see was my skin, brown and tight, that I realized disappearance is only temporary.  Wherever I go, the memories of my past will blow through the winds of time and rattle the beams in my body, that for so long have held me together. 

[writingbreathes]

Guys, I met Cory Doctorow today. My high school self would have died!!!

[writingbreathes]

[jewstinkent]

“I have this odd fascination with things like sand castles and ice sculptures. I assume it’s because I find myself dedicating time to things that will only last a few moments. That’s also why I tend to fall in love with women who will never love me back.”

“My Honest Poem” by Rudy Francisco (via jewstinkent)

[autobibliographies]

Some writers are the kind of solo violinists who need complete silence to tune their instruments. Others want to hear every member of the orchestra—they’ll take a cue from a clarinet, from an oboe, even. I am one of those. My writing desk is covered in open novels. I read lines to swim in a certain sensibility, to strike a particular note, to encourage rigour when I’m too sentimental, to bring verbal ease when I’m syntactically uptight. I think of reading like a balanced diet; if your sentences are baggy, too baroque, cut back on fatty Foster Wallace, say, and pick up Kafka, as roughage. If your aesthetic has become so refined it is stopping you from placing a single black mark on white paper, stop worrying so much about what Nabokov would say; pick up Dostoyevsky, patron saint of substance over style.

 Zadie Smith, Changing My Mind: Occasional Essays (via autobibliography)

[writingbreathes]

As I lay

I hear the coyotes laughing,  mending into the whispers of the night as my body caves in.  Rib by rib I collapse into the waves  of my sheets, but I feel myself becoming dry as a desert;  I’ve become an avalanche, spiraling down to the cracked corners  of my skin.  Days go on, books are left unfinished, notepads are blank, and  I swear I want destruction.  I want that horrid crash to break me quick, to leave me there in pieces.  Maybe then, as my body quivers  like the leaves in the midnight breeze,  I’ll find myself laughing too.

[writingbreathes]

Nerve-endings

I’ve known you for a long time,  will keep knowing you,  through the lost fingerprints and blatant watermarks stamped  beautifully on my body.  You were tough like cement homes and loved bulldozer strong and I sat there, in the middle of  long roads and prairies, waiting to be ran over with your brazen  smile and copper eyes.  It was a beautiful mess,  the remains of you and I:  You, quirky and bright after a  hurricane of loving, and I both exhausted and satisfied from the  energy of your nerve-endings that so strongly pushed through my heart.  I’ll always know your love,  will feed on the remains, the  ancient leftovers of our immaculate  connection of love and destruction, even as your nerve-endings forget the map of my skin. 

[writingbreathes]

“I cry very easily. It can be a movie, a phone conversation, a sunset - tears are words waiting to be written.”