i write shitty poems

after reading pretty poems

and i pray my dead poet friends

forgive me.

Gemnah Maley Bray

There are mountains,

Deep seas, dried fountains

The steps across the ocean floor

And every day another door

That closes while a window opens

To release three birds. It makes no sense

To traverse the woods of fallen trees

Or to try to break the gentle leash

That ties us to this barren earth

So drown your sorrows in chemical mirth

Or polish your little shoes with some of the acidity

That falls. And wear what's threadbare specifically

Release identity, forget the names of enemies

Settling and moving, making songs and cages

To imprison and to release the birds into the sun that rages

Under a yellow shroud, through quivered halo of undying heat

This is the place where the unspoken dreams and nightmares finally meet

You should listen to what I have to say, even if you don’t trust me. It’s easy to see clearly, when you take a step back.

I may not have the right, but I dare you to change.

I dare you to shed the skin of who you are and rebuild yourself.

Forget that pent-up anger, at yourself, and at the world. Let it all go.

I know you’re afraid of the dark, of failure, of the unknown. But don’t you control that?

I dare you, become someone new. Someone better.The person you’ve always wanted to be.

Could you form a story with my scars?

Rearrange the lines, 

Shape them into a memoir

Of their own design? 

Could you paint a picture with my bruises?

Replicate the tones,

Erase the excuses

Until they eradicate the pain,

And I am left alone?

Could you accept that I am 

Romanticizing my pain?

For the inept sake of 

Poetry,

For the vain sake of 

Art

Could you realize that the

Annihilation of oneself

May take heart,

That the creation

May subserve,

But not being able to

Take care of myself

Without destruction

Deserves no admiration?

I was not sent here because I am

     v  i  r  t  u  o  u  s  ,   

but because there are sins whittled into my bones. The immorality is spreading like the holy water I desire to bathe ( d r o w n ) in, and I imagine doing so inscribes hymns under your skin by angels themselves. 

   M  o  t  h  e  r ,   w h y   w o n ’ t   i t   s t o p   r a i n i n g ?

There is something about the way a crucifix hangs over the sacred heart of Jesus that screams sacrifice, something about the rosary that resembles a noose. I once thought purity was white, the color of my mother’s pearls. But I was wrong - purity is red, nails pounded into flesh.  

   J e s u s ,   h o w   d o   y o u   s e a l a   w o u n d ? 

Inspiration: Annie Hurley / oceanwriting

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“In French, you don’t really say ‘I miss you. You say ‘tu me manques,’ which is closer to ‘you are missing from me.’ I love that.’You are missing from me.’ You are a part of me, you are essential to my being. You are like a limb, or an organ, or blood. I cannot function without you.”

I was once told

That men are supposed to be nice.

That when you find “the one”,

He will treat you like the queen you are.

What i wasn’t told

Was that

You shouldn’t trust all of them.

The kind that

Watch you a little bit

Too close.

The kind that are a little bit

Too nice.

The kind that

Reassure you that

He was “just being friendly”.

You take his word,

And you give him a chance.

The first time he hits you

It felt like you were just hit by a bus,

Losing all feeling

In the place he abused.

Bruises and tears flood the scene.

He gets on his knees

And promises that

He “didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He promises he “won’t do it again.”

Begging you to stay.

Things will change.

When he forces himself on you

Even though you said no

At least a thousand times.

He’s a ticking time bomb.

He blows up like a grenade

BOOM

When he doesn’t get his way.

He’s the kind that remembers to tell you

That you are no different

Than the trash he threw out

Last week and

That you’ll never amount to anything,

You are worthless.

He undresses you

Of your pride and dignity.

He leaves you with nothing

But yourself,

Huddled in the corner of the bathroom,

Sobbing.

Gasping for air and

Thinking

“He’s right.

I am nothing,

I am worthless,

And

I will never amount to anything.”

I was once told

That men are supposed to be nice.

But i never knew that

One man

Could change my thoughts

And mar the memories

Of what i was once told.

Wishful thinking is hoping my brother will ever speak to me again because he wants to not because circumstance has forced him. Wishful thinking is waiting for my mother to apologize for helping my first husband take my first two children from me, then tell them I was dead. Wishful thinking is wishing that I'd made amends with my second husband before he died, so that his daughter would have had a chance to say goodbye. Wishful thinking is thinking my family will ever really be a family again.

And though some of these can never happen, and most likely all will never, ever come to pass, I can't help but fall into wishful thinking. I can't help but want my brother and I to talk like when we were kids and I felt like he was a twin born eight years before me. I can't help but want my mother to love me without condition and to know that what she did hurt me and was wrong. I can't help but want to hear "I'm sorry." And I can't help but want to take away my daughters hurt when she found her dad and it was too late.

So I keep on with my wishful thinking. I keep on hoping that we will find a way to say the things that we all were born to, like " I love you "and "you matter" and "I care". I know one day my daughter and her father will share the words they didn't on this earth and that one day I will have the family I was born to. And I keep on with wishful thinking and hope that they do too.