A smile--
what's behind it?
Teeth, menacing
growling
curling lips housing a tongue--
which is really a sword,
if you know anything--
and trapping those words
which we are dying to say but
don't.
The eyebrow messages flying,
saying all those little things
which cannot be heard
but may be read from the face,
an open book.
Whispers too soft to be made out
floating in the air between us
between me
and your smile
say the unthinkable:
I love you.
An awful thing is to remember
Pain
a healing cut, the scar scraped off
Suffering
trials long gone, haunting anew
Fear
the monster of the past
Regret
always something we could have done
Yet
even worse
is to forget.
Satisfied,
the raven sings in its cage
for it does not know that it is in a cage.
The raven is ignorant
unenlightened
and nothing of the outside world
may permeate his bubble of unknowing.
If one were to ask the raven,
"Does not the morning sky
call you out to swoop and fly?"
he would cock his head and stare
in that questioning way when one
does not know the answer
but does not wish to make their ignorance known
for one does not miss what one has never seen.
One day one of these questioners
in a quest
a holy quest, a noble quest
to free the caged bird
opens the latch, the keeper of the raven,
and smiles, feeling satisfied.
The raven, the poor raven,
does not know what has happened,
and wishes at once for safety
from this dangerous unknown.
Yet there is no returning for
the cage has been opened.
The bird flies away
into the wild
into fear
and is consumed by it.
To know that one day
there will be an end to thoughts
such as these
is either terrifying--
so much so that I would rather
not think at all--
or a relief,
a welcome rest from the turmoil
and the grief that I give to myself
by thinking of emptiness.
Or perhaps it is both.
Constantly at internal war,
simultaneously embattled
and at peace.
I then retreat to my thoughts,
the cause of my pain,
for nurturing care
and inspiration,
a reason to go on.
And once again
the battle rages on.
A day
full of opportunity
full of laughing and friends
full of learning the new things
that are supposed to make you feel good
full of love.
Yet when I go home
alone, sitting in thought,
none of this matters
for my heart, behind walls of steel,
has not been touched
and it quickly grows cold again.
Nothing in this day
full of happiness and joy
matters anymore,
for the sadness waiting on the shoulder
to strike
has won until tomorrow.
The tingling sensation, so familiar,
overwhelms me again--
the feeling that if I say something,
anything,
I will pop this magnificent bubble
that we are in
and everything will spill out.
It is as though in this moment
I feel at peace with the world
and I can imagine that you,
standing in front of me,
when you are staring into my eyes,
are looking into my soul,
and understand.
But you open your mouth to tell me so--
and at once
it is gone.
Those who cannot fly
gaze wistfully above at the heavens,
seeing their dreams soar above them--
eternally out of reach.
They remember a time
when they could--
or is it but a dream?
No one knows anymore
and to fly
to soar
to fling oneself willingly and submit
is but a dream.
A crush:
Every desire you have ever had
times twenty
shoved into a jar too small
with a lid too tight,
vacuum-sealed,
shaken vigorously,
and laid gingerly down--
a time-bomb of emotion
ticking, ticking, ticking
until the explosion of the soul.
I am
a lie,
an empty shadow of unfulfilled promises
a legend
passed down from so many mouths
that the lips--
those crimson lips--
have so twisted the words that are me
that I am not me anymore.
I am
the closet in the corner
full of shadows,
enigma,
danger.
You creep over, afraid of what lies within.
You fling open the door to find...
nothing.
And your fears fly away,
dandelion seeds in the wind
to root somewhere else.
I hope sometimes
for the forces of frivolity to take over
so that I can forget who I really am
and maybe then happiness will come--
ignorance, bliss.
For surely it may only be achieved
when one is not oneself--
then there is too much to worry about,
like life.
And maybe, if I just close my eyes,
life will go away?
And normality will settle in again.
Empty
not sad, no--
sad is much more full than this.
Overwhelming
permeating every pore of your being
every action is saturated in sadness.
But this, this is
empty
devoid of everything.
Wanting to be full I open myself
wider
wider
taking anything in--
anything to rid myself of this overpowering emptiness
leaving me hollow.
Would I float on water, I wonder?
If someone were to cut me open
would there be anything inside?
If I were to fly
I would merely float away
until I crashed into the sun and exploded
into a fiery boom of flesh
and nothing.
I.
I am sitting--
a beautiful summer day
I enjoy it, the sun on my face
When--
a prick; I watch the mosquito
fly away, laden
with my blood.
II.
A welt rises on my skin
angry and pink
and it itches so--
I want to scratch it!
But I must resist.
III.
I give in.
Temptation--
it hurts to scratch
while I am doing it
after I am done
but I can't stop.
IV.
I know I shouldn't.
I know I should stop.
I am only hurting myself.
V.
Blood
trickling down
in a little stream of crimson fluid.
I wipe it away.
VI.
I stop scratching,
but the damage is done.
I want to heal.
I want to be whole.
The tree--
a grasping hand
yearning for a touch of heaven.
Vines dangle, dead, from the branches--
nooses speak of death.
Littering the ground,
rotting leaves of years past.
Gossamer threads of silk
clinging desperately to peeling bark--
a spider has made its home here.
Weeds mock the tree with their abundance;
the young trees' limbs flirt
with these spindly ones,
flaunting their green life
with an air of naivete.
But--
what is this?
Despite the lifeless look,
despite the surrounding death,
new shoots tell of a hopeful future.
Beyond the portal
a world awaits--
wilderness, aesthetically planted,
protectively enclosed--
hold it all in.
Carefully manicured grass
betrays the natural setting
A facade, a futile attempt at mimicry
Lush boughs,
bending with the fruits of their fertility,
beckon--but their leaves
of so many needles
say otherwise.
Plaintive cries of birds rejoice
but mournfully--
their fragile hearts are heavy
with the passing of time.
This is the freshest air you're going to get.
Leaning, drooping
weary from years of a facade
that it can never let fall
Never baring its skeleton,
the death that is inside.
But outside
beauty
frosted, glossy--impermeable, it is
The winter cannot pierce its heart of steel
and it is trapped.
Although Amy adventures alone alot, Annie always awaits Amy's arrival anxiously.
Betsy bullies boys by betting bills at billiards.
Cassie's cats can call Connie concerning coming catastrophe.
Dennis doesn't draw dinosaurs dining.
Erin evaded even extraordinarily excruciating evils, especially Esq. Evens' enigmatic eloping elephants.
Freddy foolishly faked five falsehoods for Franny, Freddy's fiancee.
Ghastly ghosts go ghoulishly, gouging gooey gunk greedily.
Harold has Helga's heart held hovering haphazardly horizontally.
I ignore ignorant idiots igniting ice in Iceland.
Jack joked Jill jestingly.
Knight knave Karl, knap-sacked killer.
Lenny lost Lilly's lighter laser.
Many moons make mice mightily mighty.
Ned's nose, not Nelly's, nights neon.
Oliver owl, obnoxious, ostentatiously operates olive oils.
Pray, please package peanuts precisely pertaining plenty planes' pilots.
Quentin quail quilts quickly.
Rachel rigorously righted Ricky's (w)rongs.
Silly squirrels stalk stupid swallows stealthily.
Tim tittered tenaciously to tickle Tom's turnable toe.
Under Ursula's underskirt, Uhuru ukeleles, unaware.
Vicky vigorously vodkas.
What Wendell wants, we won't wear.
Xavier xylophones.
You'll yodel yonder?
Zenny zebra zoomed.
He looks at the surface
and sees that which is not there.
He sees not what is,
but what can be.
He sees hope, and potential
so he looks beneath the surface.
He digs deep,
to reach what the earth is holding
so close to its heart.
He finds what the normal eye will not,
and recognizes its worth.
He does not scorn
or cast away,
but everything is examined.
He knows these treasures,
for that is what they are,
for their true worth.
I want to be an archaeologist.
Hello, me! It's nice to see
that someone's taking care of me
for today I'm gone, and shant return,
I'm a step down from reality.
I can't feel pain, which isn't bad,
but neither can I tell when I'm glad.
And I have trouble discerning between
whether I'm sad or terribly mad.
I've lost my way to get back in
for I'm creating a terrible din.
They think that body there is me,
when there is nothing that's within!
My soul is taking a rest, you see.
It got tired of being only me.
It wanted to see the world alone,
without my worrying what to be.
But now it's got to come back down
for I'm attracting many a frown
I'm acting rather foolishly alone
and need a soul to steer me around.
Without my soul I walk as though dead,
and nothing can penetrate the ice in my head.
I'm not myself, as you can tell,
but now that I'm back, gone is my dread.
Dear diary,
I've tried my hand at journaling in the past, with varying degrees of success/failure. But hopefully now it will be different! Because I've just recently realized something! A journal can be absolutely anything you want it to. Totally obvious, I know, but in the past, I've always tried to do a daily detailed account of my day, and I get about 3 days into that then abandon my journal for ... many days. But I can just write a sentence-- "My day really stunk."--and be done with it! So I shall try it. Because I can imagine it would be really fun to root through your old things one day, find a journal from middle school, and read it. That would be so cool, reading what you truly thought however long ago, exactly how you saw things. And so I shall start today. On the next page. Because if this were a book, this would be the introduction (hey, who knows!). Plus I like writing the date. And so... without further ado... my very first journal in which I actually grasp the concept of said journal!
Excellent!
Erin
