As I See It: A Picture Poem

As I See It 

I have stared at these pictures I took over the last several months, shuffled them about, and stared at them again, hoping the right words just come.  They didn't.  So there you have it.  A picture poem.  I don't know if this makes me a creative genius, or a lazy writer succumbing to the word blockage we all feel in the presents of beautiful things.  Poor excuse I guess.  Poets write about ugliness and beauty all the time; the fact that an image is worth a thousand more words than their little rhyme doesn't seem to stop them.  Well it stopped me and I willingly surrender.  My words would have sanded down the story these amateur phone-pictures tell.  I hope they tell you a story too, and I hope it's a good one, because you wont hear it from me.  

Stay dangerous my friends.  

  

Saving Paper

 

If feels like this

Paper.

This paper,

I mean.

I'll explain. 

Sorry.

Something's in my throat.

It's cold in here,

Isn't it?

How are you?

Oh,

Yes, 

Sorry.

This is what it feels like...

Would you like some coffee?

It's bad, 

It's really bad 

But I would take anything over this.

Perhaps that's why 

I'm on my third cup.

I'd take a slap.

Maybe a bullet in the gut.

Little more pain beneath 

The place it hurts the most.

You don't tell them 

What it feels like 

When you're convulsing on the floor,

With a one-size fits all 

Cavity in your stomach.

Sorry.

I'm not mad at you.

I would just rather be anywhere else 

But reading this poem right now.

I would leave 

But I live here.

This ugly off white paper,

Specks of that 

Second and third cup 

Of office coffee 

Freckled in brown on the page.

Bookmark tucked somewhere midway

On a chapter I don't want to be on.

Which feels like this:

Like the soft tissue 

That was my stomach 

Erupted into flakes of ash;

The spark catching flame

From a paper heart.

Did you know I have a paper heart?

Someone told me that once.

The kind of heart 

You only read 

Unfolded,

In paper and ink,

That you hold in your hand 

Until the sweat 

Of your fingertips 

Wrinkle the pages.

This eruption of grammatical inaccuracy,

This poem without rhyme 

Or rules,

But a map.

A map constructed 

By a five year old fist

Wielding a crayon.

The human attached,

(Also five),

Looked out the window 

From her booster seat,

And colored herself 

Into the lights that passed by.

Swinging from lamppost 

To telephone wire,

Like that cartoon she can't remember.

Because the girl with the crayon 

Isn't five anymore,

And she finds that the 

Tangled catastrophe of squiggles 

In the map she drew 

Fifteen years ago 

Was far more prophetic a picture 

Than she would like to admit.

And she is the fly entangled

In the cobwebbed scribbles. 

Her wriggling, 

Pathetic efforts

Buy her enough time 

To make the Spider laugh before lunch.

I'm sorry?

How does it feel?

Does it matter how it feels 

As long as it entertains? 

Not funny?

I suppose not.

If that's the case, 

Then let me ask you now:

If everyone you know,

Everyone,

Were like paper hearts

That you keep in a bundle 

Like the rest of your papers

You hold

But never re-read,

Every "I'll always be there" note,

Am I there?

Will I "always be there" too?

If you reach in your pocket, 

Can you still slit your finger 

On my sharp corners 

If you're not careful,

Or am I leathery and worn?

Does it matter how it feels?

Or do you just feel it?

Like slipping on a shirt.

Not because you must,

Not because it feels nice,

Because 

You just 

Do.

The eruption was vast,

Bright, 

Scorching,

Beautiful 

And intimately tortuous.

But what now?

Now the ashes 

Are just 

There.

Accumulated in a box 

Of some cremated idea,

Or hope,

Or inside joke,

Or "I'm here"

Scribbled and folded

Into a paper heart.

Sorry,

You were asking me a question.

I got side tracked.

It's getting warmer in here.

Alright here is my answer:

Honestly,

If I could place you in a printer 

Scanning all your habits,

Fears,

Hiccups, 

Your smell,

The shuffle of your sandals 

Against the cement 

As you walk up the drive way,

The wrinkles that form 

Above your eye brows

When I say something 

You pretend wasn't cleaver,

The corners of your eyes 

When they burn red 

In the weight of my words.

If I could capture all of this,

I would save a file 

Titled, "You",

Copy and paste 

And upload you to every hard-drive,

With every rhyme-less poem 

I've ever written,

Send you to every account,

And print two copies 

Incase one burned.

But I can't.

Simply put, 

The worst part of it all

Is that I cannot save you.

There is only one 

Hand written,

God breathed,

Signed and dated,

With your birth, 

And death,

One translation,

One copy,

One page of depth and humanity 

That no one but your author 

Can fully understand.

Full of errors 

And scribbles

And bleeding in red ink 

From love 

Unfathomable,

Unconditional,

Unlimited,

Within this limited,

One copy,

Hand written,

God breathed 

Piece of poetry 

Who is you.

Whom I cannot scan 

And back up 

And print 

And copy

And paste.

You whom I cannot save,

Are saved.

Alright.

Unfold this origami 

Of a heart in your pocket.

Smooth out the creases,

And tape the fraying edges.

Fold me into a paper plane

And toss me.

Let the molecules in the air

Carry me 

Somewhere you'll never come back.

Aim well;

You only have one shot.

And don't look behind you 

To see where I land.

This is what it feels like:

I'm torn.

But I'm saved.

That's all.

Thank you for this talk.

I just realized I'm publishing this one on Valentines day, I apologize, it is not in the least bit Valentines related. <3 But there is a very nice heart emoji for you.  Hope that lightens your day.

Been experimenting with more monologue type free style poetry.  (Yes I've been listening to too much Levi the Poet.  Also, go listen to Levi the Poet, he will make your life better).  I wrote this one when I was supposed to be doing homework in some parking lot, and I attempted to maintain the scrappiness of my setting within the style.

 

The Earth Cried Upward

The earth cried upward

As gravity slept .

Tears shed from lampposts 

And house lights wept.

All eyes were closed 

When the tears were shed

And streaked like meteors 

To the sky instead.

Arose like fireworks 

But slow as a brush stroke,

Without a finale

Into the nights dark cloak.

The earth cried upward 

From every lamppost and car,

Every fire,

Reflection,

TV screen and star.

To ask the sun 

From our dusty floor,

For a swift return,

For one day more.

I took this picture of the city as I was descending a mountain at night, and my hand shook.  The result was inspiring.

 

I, the Bride

 I, The Bride 

Encircled in white,

Like a storm,

Lacing down my face,

My arms,

My body,

To my shoes.

Whispering to the ground 

As I step.

One step wrong,

And my foot will tangle

In the net of my skirt.  

But I keep my head up.

Look forward

Through the fog of this vail.

Don't look down.

Don't look back.

Just cling.

And squeeze the thorny stems 

Of these roses,

Plunging into my sweating palms.

The blood seeps between my fingers,

And I glance down just enough 

Past my flushed cheeks 

And shaking hands,

To see the drops appearing 

On my snow white skirt.

Silent.

Like ink from a pen,

In a letter violently written.

My father leads me by the arm.

This man, 

Who watched me grow

Beneath his roof

And kept these hands 

From running with blood,

Now leads me 

To leave me.

The isle stretches,

As though the end walks away 

At the pace we approach it.

But we can't

Step 

Any 

Faster.

Just inhale,

Step,

Exhale, 

Repeat.  

The faces in the room,

Some dabbed with a tissue,

Some smile till their cheeks grow crimson,

Some eyes fill, 

All full of memories.

Directed at me.

Or rather,

The vail that is me.

Please don't see the woman beneath.

Perhaps if I walk straighter,

Disguise my scarlet hands in the rose petals,

Then they will see a bride.

Pure,

Like a blank sheet of paper.

Flawless as a porcelain doll.

No cracks in her delicate, 

Glass skin.

Saved,

And treasured on a shelf too high 

For violent hands to reach, 

Or greedy hands to steal.

Unbroken.

Untouched 

But for her maker.

Whom she awaits.

Yes.

This is what they all will see,

And what they will think of 

When they think of me.

But will you?

My father slips his arm from mine.

And I am alone.

Alone in front of the eyes, 

The memories, 

The judgement,

The laughing,

The heart ache,

The love, 

The hatred, 

And you.

You and your uncovered face

And your perfect eyes 

That I fell for.

You and your perfect hands 

And gentle fingers 

That pieced together 

My every imperfect portion.

Your hands, 

Calloused and hard.

Capable of  shattering me 

Into a million splinters 

By one simple movement.

Or one simple stare, 

Or one simple word.

And I'm blown away like sand.

Like the dust you built me from.

The nothingness that is me.

Perhaps you could start over again,

Re-build a new treasure for yourself,

Something flawless,

Something you could  call your masterpiece.

Or maybe you wont notice the blood, 

Traced from my skirt to the end of the isle.

Perhaps you wont notice 

The ring that I broke.

The cymbal of eternity 

In two severed ends,

Jagged and twisted, 

Facing away,

When it was meant to be one.

Just don't.

Pull back.

The vail.

Don't love me anymore.

Leave me, 

And remember me beautiful.

But you step closer,

And whisper,

"It is finished."

And the the vail is torn,

Falling in shreds on the tile floor.

I feel your breath on my naked face.

On the cracks in my skin, 

Stinging as the mixture of makeup and tears 

Collects in the crevices.

My burning eyes stray from you 

As though they can hold onto my secrets,

Hold onto my brokenness 

Just a little longer.

I hurt you.

I ran away and left you.

I fell and I broke

And I collected my pieces 

And wrapped them in a white dress 

Like I could be good enough for you again.

But I fell too far.

I drop the roses,

The petals gather about the remains of my vail.

And open my palms.

Look at them.

Do you expect your bride to say 

'"I do"

When the very isle she walked 

To reach you,

Smeared 

From the blood on her hands?

Your fingers touch my chin,

As you gently lift my broken face 

To meet yours.

You're eyes are raining too.

Your hands take mine,

As new flesh fills the scars,

Replaced with blood flowing from 

Your own hands 

To your punctured feet.

The cracks in my face seal,

And blood trickles down your own forehead,

Past your perfect eyes

That look upon me.

Your masterpiece.

"I do."

I Bought Myself a Battle Field

Last year, I bought myself a battle field.

This is my favorite place to fight my worst enemies, talk to my best friend, and make sense of the person I call "myself" and the place I call "the world."