soul.unspoken

Away from the shore

The water screams for a drink

A thirst never quenched

In the Safety of Our Home

In the safety of our home
His voice was loud
Fists pounding inches from her face
Her heart in pieces scattered across the floor

His voice was loud
I stood quietly, watching
Her heart in pieces scattered across the floor
My brother playing with his matchbox car


I stood quietly, watching
My mother crying out for help
My brother playing with his matchbox car
My father screaming in her face

My mother crying out for help
I ran for the phone in the bedroom
My father screaming in her face
My brother following silently behind me

I ran for the phone in the bedroom
“911, what’s your emergency?”
My brother following silently behind me
“Daddy is hurting Mommy”

“911, what’s your emergency?”
Fists pounding inches from her face
“Daddy is hurting Mommy”
In the safety of our home

Sunglasses

Worn on the brightest of days

to keep the sun away

from those precious, innocent eyes

a wall between you and that harsh reality

a veil protecting you from the bright light of truth

you could take them off at any time,

any time at all -

but you don’t.

you never touch those guardian lenses,

the barriers framing in your reality

Don’t touch the lenses!

that little smudge will drive you mad

distracting you from your perfect world

constantly drawing your eyes toward that one flaw

that one imperfection in your otherwise flawless illusion

you quickly pull them off, cleaning the smuge on your shirt

gasping at the harsh glare

you throw them back on, quick as you can

your eyes taking a moment to adjust back to the tint of UV protection

but it’s too late

you’ve already seen

how much brighter life can be…

It comes from nowhere. Absolutely nowhere. It doesn’t have a cause, a reason, a perfectly-defined beginning. It doesn’t knock before it enters. It barges in, pushing everything out of the way as it makes itself comfortable. It settles in - it won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. It starts slow. It is restless and irritated, dissatisfied by anything and everything. It’s impatient. It needs an outlet, but for what even it doesn’t know. It grows deeper. It takes hold of the heart, a dull ache pounding with each beat. THen there is falling, falling into nowhere and nothing. Endless free-falling. And tears. Tears waiting to burst from behind dammed eyes, the pressure growing with each aching pulse. A restless, aching depression of sorts, yearning for an outlet that just won’t come. It knows what it needs, it knows exactly what it needs, but it’s just so restless. Nothing seems to satisfy the pain. It struggles for hours, knowing all it can do is wait. Distraction is not an option - it never is. After hours of unsettled dissatisfaction, it tries to rest, tries to lay quietly down.

And then it erupts. Words and ideas come bursting forward, and pen, pen…I need a pen! Scratching frantically at some small, insignificant piece of paper that has now found it’s worth. The ache lifts, the tears wash away, and all that is left is creation.

When it comes to creative writing, there is so such this as a ‘wrong way’. But, please, don’t confuse that with ‘bad’ writing. There are plenty of ways to write badly, but there is no way to write wrongly. You can have the most horrible style in the world with the shoddiest of grammar, and your piece would still stand just as tall next to the greatest novel in the world as ‘creative writing’. There is a distinction, and I don’t understand why it’s so hard to see. I love creative writing because there is no wrong way to do it. I struggle so much with essays because they are so structured, I spend the whole time worrying I’m not following the right format. I’m already insecure enough as it is, when it comes to my writing, I don’t need that added onto it. I like playing with the words, finding the best combination, the best breakdown of sentences and paragraphs. I need room to experiment, to do something that’s never been done before. Creative writing is just that - creative. And there’s no wrong way to be creative.

So this is what the world feels like. Dragging yourself out of bed at the crack of dawn so you can rush off to work, just to stare at the computer screen bleary-eyed all day. After you’ve put in your 8 hours, you trudge back home, only to slave over the stove making dinner for the family, to watch it disappear faster than you made it, to watch everyone rush away from the table the minute their plates are clean, to watch the dishes pile up in the sink in front of you, waiting for you, and only you, to clean them. You would try to find a way to enjoy yourself in the evening, but it’s already after 9 and you have to be back up at 4, out the door by 5:30. So you shuffle off to bed, savoring the feeling of the soft sheets as your head hits the pillow. And before you know it your alarm is blaring in your ear again, welcoming you to another morning, another day. It’s the only one that will greet you, for all those other early risers are too busy hurrying down the sidewalk, rushing off to their building, to stop to give a wave or hello. And you don’t stop, and you don’t wave, either. You just keep walking, staring straight ahead, like you do every other morning.

Why is it like this, exactly? When did we all become slaves to the dollar? I say I’m only doing this now, because I really need the money, it’s only temporary, I won’t grow up and do this. And I mean it. But it’s just as possible that I will spend the rest of my life stuck in this same track. I want to grow up and be that starving artist, the one who stays true to her craft and never gives in to The Man. But will I be singing the same tune 5, 10, 15 years from now? Yeah, the life of a starving artist seems pretty glamourous now, but what about when I have 4 mouths to fee not including my own and there are bills to be paid and the rent is late and the economy is bad and the paycheck isn’t getting any bigger. Who’ll be sticking it to The Man then?

These diamonds

See these diamonds, sparkling against my skin? Look closely, they are hard to see, but if you focus they’ll pop right out at you. Beautiful, aren’t they? Tragically beautiful.

I’ve spent countless hours, lying on my back, staring at them. Moving my arm this way and that, watching them sparkle. The sparkle tends to hurt my eyes, making them tear uncontrollably, but it’s always the sweetest of tears, amazingly cleansing.

These diamonds smolder under my skin, waiting for the day when I will pluck them out and seal them in the pages of a book, so they may glitter for the world. It hurts so much to pull them out, as I try to shed them into this notebook, onto this page, but it must be done. If I don’t they’ll continue to bite into me forever.

Nothing is strong, nothing is harder than a diamond. But that is what makes them beautiful.

Afterlife

Heaven floats high above us,

Hell sinks far below;

We stand in the middle,

Wondering where we will go.

But what of that middle place

We mere mortals so lovingly call home?

Is it just a resting place,

A small stop on the journey of the soul?

How are good and bad determined?

Where do you draw the line?

Who’s the one making the mark?

Is he fair and kind?

There has to be something more,

A space beyond our comprehension,

Where all our souls come together,

An eternity beyond this dimension.

What it is and who’s to say

The world may never know,

So for now I’ll just keep living

Until it’s my time to go.

small leaf sits soundly

drifting down cool waters

waiting for a breeze