stories – A Poet's Pen

Alone

I am alone

In the streets of a foreign city

In the night when the people empty

Out of this place

I am not home

In these pieces of broken places

In my mind where I feel wasted

and lose my days

I find a bottle and let it fill me with

dread and fear

while blackened vision kills the feeling

so I can lie here

On the ground next to glass and trash

And abandoned lifeless things

I see myself in reflections of

abandoned buildings

So I die to myself

Every time I close my eyes

I try to accept

the parts of me that lie

But I won’t let go

Of the dark beneath my eyes

And I can’t say no

To the voices in my mind

I am alone

The Lack of

I have a block in my mind that weighs the rest of my body down

Until I am buried beneath the ground

Blinded by my apathy and self-doubt.

The block causes build up in my brain with random strains of words

That mean nothing–

It only cause my nerves to stay in the past tense of things

As I replay days over and over again

Until I feel sorry and sick

From my remembering and retelling of stories that have ended.

I don’t want any part of this collage of faulted thought,

But I can’t erase my mind block.

It overwhelms my ability to remove the piece stopping me

From moving forward–

So I am cursed to relive dead end passages

As I sink farther beneath the beginning.

You Found Me

My eyes hold the dark

Like an open tomb

My mouth cries out

For someone to look at me—

I hear the boards creak.

I feel the walls crack

As dust fills my nose

And the floors shake

Like an earthquake.

Light crawls through the spaces

And my body relaxes.

I am not alone in this darkness.

I see you standing beside the rubble

Looking at me,

Waiting with an open hand,

And I begin again.

I push my body through the pieces of concrete,

And reach.

Your eyes found me.

Your hands took mine,

And we left this place.

This place of dry bones and fallen things.

10 Things I’d Tell My Freshman-self

Do not prop books on tree branches–they will fall and scare the heck out of the blonde girl in your American Lit class.
Take two flashlights when you go caving, unless you feel like wandering through a cave in the dark for a few hours.
The Christian Studies guy is a total prick.
I’m sure the blonde jock seems charming and sweet, but don’t fall for it. Trust me.
Measure your trust in teaspoons.
Join a sport just to see if you make it. You can find some of your best friends on a team (like cross-country!).
Move off campus for a year, but do NOT sign any year-long contracts. Sometimes your friends (roommates) try to screw you over.
Your roommates are all lesbians. They aren’t just having sleepovers in there.
Don’t throw away Jenga. You will miss it, and it was supposed to be your best friend’s birthday present!
Last of all, PLEASE have fun. And not the kind of fun that people tell you is fun–I’m sure most of the parties in town are just full of testosterone and they smell like feet.

This is Not a Black and White Story

I am scared of a lot of things.

I’m scared of ISIS, terrorism, disease, and people hiding in the dark, waiting for people like me. I am scared of him. I am scared of being alone, and having no one to go to. I am scared of disappointing my parents, getting pregnant before I get married, and not making it into grad school. I am scared of school. I am scared of losing everything, and dying before I get the chance to live,

But I love running outside in my bare feet, and making up words to songs. I love driving when everyone else is sleeping, and pretending like I am the only person left in a small country town with a name no one seems to remember. I love talking about nonsensical things with friends, and drinking underneath the stars that fall along the river.

My fears will not stop me from walking outside, and breathing in freshly cut grass, or the crisp mornings lining my windows. My fears will never leave me, but my love for life, and for people, will fuel enough excitement and energy to search for more.

More than black and white, and more than memories left behind in pictures.

I am writing this blog so I can continue to move past the darkness pressing into my sides, cutting into my lungs, while I look into my past. I want to breathe again, but first–I need to start from the beginning. Or maybe from the middle.

This is me.