I used to write poems about memories of childhood rainstorms, 

when the sunlight sifted softly through the smiling drizzle

and the clouds smiled as though they had nothing to hide. 

But now, the rain does not hold a smiling face or the beauty of an untouched childhood, 

it is the raw reality of the blood it washes away in alleyways,

the tears it mixes with as it slides down windowsills and along sidewalks. 

It is loneliness, the toxicity, the forever flowing of a false friend in springtime, 

coming to the people who can't see the flowers, saying,  

"dearest, the storm will save you, put faith in the beauty of a spring thunderstorm" 

and that is why children are scared of thunder and lightning, 

because they can sense something's wrong, but can't recognize

what it is. 

and yet, here I am, sitting with the rain, 

letting it flow down me, cleansing me of something, anything, 

letting it take my tears like they were never mine, to begin with. 

the people would wonder, why I am standing out under the sky, 

in the middle of the night when the only people awake are those whose dreams haunt them,

why I am standing out under the stars-

oh wait... there are no stars, they have been covered by clouds, blurred out with rain.

I know it sounds dramatic that I went outside in the rain to weep,

my tears mixing with the water, the dirt, the toxins washed from the air, 

pushed into rain, disguised with petrichor. 

I know it's weak that I flinched every time the raindrops 

cold, unwelcome

hit my upturned face, but I had to be a part of the storm, 

I had to witness the loneliness of a tempest that has not calmed. 

or perhaps,

perhaps I was one of those people that the rain whispered to, 

telling me to put faith in a tempest

and perhaps, 

perhaps I believed in their lies. 

don't believe them, 

a storm is a chaotic, 

messed-up, 

lonely, 

toxic, 

piece of 

reality. 

Even while stationary

The energy surrounding

Is constantly rushing,

Circling...

When objects enter the field,

They are weak

Against the force

And for flying

Into the hands

Of this rock

Well within

An established foundation

I first set headlights on your parents

A young couple

Two wrinkled babies and a little stick-haired girl.

That was you.

Driving and listening to those little brats cry all the time.

While you sat quiet in the backseat.

You were such a funny little girl.

I remember when your crazy grandmother borrowed me to drive you

With your no-less-crazy aunt by her side

Something wasn't right

I felt it as soon as they started me

It wasn't my engine...something wasn't fastened.

As your grandmother ground my brakes and pumped my gas

Making me worry about getting into a fight with another car if we collided

I felt your little toddler hands clutching me like a lifeline.

"Don't worry, Nana, I'm holding on," you called.

Crazy little tyke you were

But braver than a little wolf pup

I remember when the two other kids came.

Oh glory! Barf on the seats all the time.

For five years I smelled like sour milk.

I still smell like sour milk sometimes.

Your father was the worst though.

Leaving pastrami in my backseat.

So a mouse could get in and chew on my poor chairs.

Or that time he got sardine oil on my carpet

That smelled horrible for a month

But I think the gasoline was the worst.

Your cousins weren't so pleasant either

Especially the little squeaky one

Who borrowed her mother's perfume

And doused my seats with it

I really wish you people would take care of me better

After all, I take you everywhere.

But I'm happy now

For you to be driving me

Off to college

Cause you're all grown up now

And I'm grateful that you haven't replaced me

I'm your van

#poetry

i am scared of the boundless sea

in all of its infinite depth.

yet I stop to watch its art,

to become the secrets kept. 

I watch as the sea changes color,

bruised in the velvet night sky.

dissolving into the sunset,

my broken soul, it lies:

'I have never seen this color before'

I whisper quietly in the mist.

for it would only shatter me again,

to remember where it exists.

To remember the way your eyes

felt cool upon my skin,

carrying me to clandestine lands,

to places only we've been. 

I could find a million words,

which describe the ocean in its blue,

but never will I find,

a word for the color in you.

I suppose its magnetizing like the sea,

and holds me soft within its gaze,

and in eyes of darkened blue,

there is still a hollow fire ablaze.

The strings of your kissed soul,

are the same as the fibers woven into your eyes.

I add them to my tapestry,

which I raise high in saturated skies.

It only took me two moments, 

to remember how I jumped into your sea,

and to realize that I'd do it all over again,

if it was just you and me. 

I'll sail the sea, amongst opaque clouds,

fighting stormy, raging wars.

and I know I'm quite afraid of the sea,

but, darling, I don't mind drowning in yours.

#poetry #poems #sea #love #fantasy

Not too tall

To stand beside,

It’s at least

At hand height now,

But lessons have swiftly

Moved on

From relying

On this touch point,

Because it’s not

Mighty.

My weight

Could most certainly break it.

a simple memory, so fragile & could be forgotten 

it seems so long ago that we were there,

riding bikes in the dusty air of summertime, 

along the empty streets, & once in a while

the dogs would bark as we passed,

angry to be awoken from their summertime slumber. 

lying on top of so much history, so many stories, 

buried forever in the tall grass & sunflowers

that waved in the breeze as we passed. 

you're still there, aren't you? 

waiting, watching for me to return, &

for me to remember who I am.

sunset, lighting up the whole world 

those sunflowers glowing crimson & gold, 

and in the last moments before the sun disappeared,

they hold on to a moment of time, 

a reminder of those summer days. 

in the middle of a town where people rush around day & night,

in the middle of all those modern buildings, modern people, modern world

you still wait for me to remember; in all the golden splendor,

in the simple fragility of your untouched world, 

you wait for us to remember those summer days

that are now only memories, faded and almost forgotten. 

Wait for me. I'll come back. 

My friends and I live on a supermarket shelf, inside jare, tins, and boxes, our labels announcing we are 50% depressed, 30% suicidal and 20% psychotic; 100% mentally ill, check the lid for the “best before” date. And although we live under lock and key, my friends and I are the bravest people you’ll ever meet. We may be shattered, but that doesn’t mean we can’t still gleam in the sunlight; tarnished silver still shines in the right light, and so do we. The pain may be constant, but we are not always screaming, crying, pulling, hitting, throwing, scratching, scarring, or bleeding. We are not wrong because we “malfunction,” or because we missed the right junction. In our lives, why should we be cast aside for the mess in our minds that could be tidied up with the sweep of a brush, or failing that, some strong soap and elbow grease?

My friends and I, we may be partners in illness, but we are also partners in crime; we laugh and we dance and it’s about damn time we were recognized as people, not just as symptoms or fears, but as kids who lost a couple years to illness and hurt.

*after drinking more than enough whiskey*

“Ah, yesh. Lesh sit back an enjoy the resht of this whiskey wis a shtory. Thonight, we, yesh, you and I, my dear writer’s shide, thonight, we are going to write a short shtory of pure awesomeness! Get se pen and paper, get se computer, get se whisk-...where’s the whiskey?

Ah, there it ish!”

*takes a swig*

“Ah...now let’sh go, pardner!” *hiccups* “Excuse moi! How am I supposhe to help a bottle of whiskey reacts sho negatively with me?”

It so happene one da that there was a mman of ill reput who made a living if questionale...reptue? *gulps down another mouthful, fingers returning to slowly crawl across the keys*

Tis ma maid a livon of...hundeng alians ad heee *hiccups*

H fite te gut figt wit, wit *blinking vigorously* lazers of Dart Fade ’s Jedy. He fit wih. 4. He fight aongsite 4 an Trixie annt olll thos oter *gulps down the last glass of whiskey*

safd le gl ih thyn tooooo spppppppppppparjakglhdaguhouaefajif;agiodahgadgdagjnnnnnvk

*snores*

*The following morning*

“What the hell is this?!! This is junk! Rubbish! Vanessa!!! VANESSA!!!”

“What is it, dear?” She asks with a sigh.

“Did you allow the cat in my study again?”

“No...But you allowed the whiskey in again...Maybe you should question the bottle first?”

“Are you being sarcastic now?”

“I would never.” *leaving the room again* “How about you just try and edit all of that?”

“It will never work! This is rubbish! I need to start over!”

“Again...” She sighs to herself.