I would tell her I'm sorry.
I'm sorry your place of birth is a hot hell you call your own.
I'm sorry for the way you're addicted to cigarettes
and the way you blow smoke in your four-year old's boy face.
I'm sorry you itch like crazy at night because of those bed bugs
and the way you yell at the boy and the other in your belly just before
you cuss the world to sleep.
I'm sorry you have to see me like the dreamy child you once were.
But childhood is long forgotten.
With it your dignity too
Twenty-five year old charity case
lost intellect and life
your energy comes from sugar loaded energy drinks and an overused pipe.
your hairs falling out but you're too depressed to notice.
Sometimes I'm sorry I fidget in my sleep
I have it too good to fit around in vain.
My eyes drift away from my chaotic surroundings because I'm sorry we live in this hell together
I kiss my greed to sleep and face it all again in the desperate ever glow of the morning.
I'm sorry you call the system oppressive
but I call it competitive.
I'm sorry sugary cereals and stale Pepsi drinks fill your appetite.
I'm sorry that everything you've worked for has been destroyed.
I'm sorry loose change has turned into knives
I'm sorry patience comes in chance
I'm sorry your holy place of g-d is decrepit.
I'm sorry for my skin color
and my oblivion of its subtle powers.
I'm sorry I subdue myself in an underworld
unaware of your misery.
I'm sorry I didn't know about the memorials less than 500 miles away
I'm sorry for writing this poem you may never get to read
But most of all
I'm sorry because you are just like me.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Get out.
They ket insisting I should leave.
As if a change in scenery would remove the panic in my bones, the uncertainty in my eyes, the wonder in my gaze.
I told them, the emptiness in my being is not a direct result of the circumstances that be,
it's simply me being unsure of me.
And the distance between you and me is as crystal clear as fresh springs on a cool April day.
But you're my family, so I feel I should be honest with you,
and expect whatever may ensue,
but for some reason, I don't trust it, cause I'll fear you'll reject that too.
I paint a mask on every morning,
and clench my fists subconsciously, always ready to right.
I'll break loose soon, I kept telling myself.
As if this prophesy would be actualized through repetition of sound.
But these words contain more philosophy than action.
My heart's gone missing, along with it my mind too
And all that pumps inside of me is an iron pipe that pumps more labor for the machine.
The iron pipe that metabolizes with the gleam of certainty--and that gleam is green.
That gleam is stability. That gleam is the nasty truth I refuse to part from.
As if a change in scenery would remove the panic in my bones, the uncertainty in my eyes, the wonder in my gaze.
I told them, the emptiness in my being is not a direct result of the circumstances that be,
it's simply me being unsure of me.
And the distance between you and me is as crystal clear as fresh springs on a cool April day.
But you're my family, so I feel I should be honest with you,
and expect whatever may ensue,
but for some reason, I don't trust it, cause I'll fear you'll reject that too.
I paint a mask on every morning,
and clench my fists subconsciously, always ready to right.
I'll break loose soon, I kept telling myself.
As if this prophesy would be actualized through repetition of sound.
But these words contain more philosophy than action.
My heart's gone missing, along with it my mind too
And all that pumps inside of me is an iron pipe that pumps more labor for the machine.
The iron pipe that metabolizes with the gleam of certainty--and that gleam is green.
That gleam is stability. That gleam is the nasty truth I refuse to part from.
If I had it my way...
I'd move 3,000 miles away from here
I would adopt a dog and live with two cats in a small, wooden home.
People would call and ask
Don't you want to come back to the city?
And I would laugh and wonder if there is name for the disattchment that all of us seem to maintain in such a place.
Some call it convenient.
I call it thiers. Never mine.
I would adopt a dog and live with two cats in a small, wooden home.
People would call and ask
Don't you want to come back to the city?
And I would laugh and wonder if there is name for the disattchment that all of us seem to maintain in such a place.
Some call it convenient.
I call it thiers. Never mine.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
On the margins
I look down at my badge, hesitantly, confirming my insecurities with your impressions of me:
Uneducated, unrefined, weak, rueful. Sold.
Do I exude so much pity in my eyes, posture and sound?
Do I speak volumes in your mind of the young and the optimally hopeful?
Or do you shake your head thinking of me, the minimally decorated, the mediocre, the explorer?
Or do you wish you were someone else too?
I'm standing in a maze of only walls,
stuck in one place but I still see the sky above,
it illuminates my skin, widens my eyes even,
yet when I search for my reflection, all I find is more walls.
The current is heard softly in my ears,
yet the rain always comes and I lose my way.
I write and write and write my heart away
and when I'm done, I always adjust and eliminate. I never just leave it alone.
In my mind, it'll never be good enough. Not good enough to explain the sheer disappointment in my heart, the emptiness in my soul, and the darkness in my path.
So here I am.
Carrying on conversations that I know will make it worse
but I start them and I keep them. I latch on to them.
I pour my coffee black and tall in the morning
earnestly, vainly, hoping that today will be different.
But it's always a tiresome game.
I paint my face only half squinting at my canvas because even I can't stand my reflection.
A youthful glow turned to gray. Reddish blue circles under my eyes and purple veins stick out on my forehead. I itch them curiously, where did you come from?
And then there's the broken white hairs painfully reminding me of my mortal existence.
And when I see this, I cry.
But just as germs latch on to wounds, my tears have latched on to my misery.
I needed an antibody to break them up, but you didn't help me.
With your calm hands resting on your king-size thighs, you did the worst thing your kind could do.
In our very first session, you diagnosed me.
You showed me what germs can do. Spread. Infect. Grow.
In my mind stands loudly the impression you left of me: young, paranoid, lost and lonely.
How dare you? How dare you claim 'psychotheapy' as your expertise?
Your words now only exist as skeletons--they bear no depth.
I hate on you, curse you silently as you ask 'do you have any questions for me?'
Yes, fuck you. And why the hell are you charging me for a useless session not worth my borrowed time. But I don't.
I do the only thing I know how to do well--I go back into the game, with difficulty and with great effort. Hah. I'm kidding myself. I wish my words mattered in some poignant ending. But they don't because they're never heard.
I haven't met others like me. Maybe you're out there right now, pen in hand, jotting down the very same thoughts on loose leaf--better yet, maybe you're longing for me just as much as I'm longing for you. Why is there an ocean between us?
I often wonder, good, able-bodied and healthy as I am, why do I seek pain? Why do I wish you would just come on to me, and yell so loudly in my face.
But come on, what kind of prophecy is that? Sure not one Mom raised me to believe. Who taught me this? No one but me.
There's no empathy, no voice, no clout.
'Screw this and screw that' is my mantra.
Choices are all around me but I just stick to the 9 to 5.
The back-breakin', toes flinching, mouth watering, mind-dozing, empty days--where only the first and the last of the month matter. No swift changes. Only the carousel that'll bring me 'round and 'round.
They didn't teach me this in school.
Universities mustn't only teach fields, but they must teach you life. Stock up on handbooks for living and never run out.
I watch in anxious boredom as the passerbys sweep by my small, near non-existent presence.
I'm outside looking in. I'm inside looking inside.
I am everything at once, with no returns.
TBC
Uneducated, unrefined, weak, rueful. Sold.
Do I exude so much pity in my eyes, posture and sound?
Do I speak volumes in your mind of the young and the optimally hopeful?
Or do you shake your head thinking of me, the minimally decorated, the mediocre, the explorer?
Or do you wish you were someone else too?
I'm standing in a maze of only walls,
stuck in one place but I still see the sky above,
it illuminates my skin, widens my eyes even,
yet when I search for my reflection, all I find is more walls.
The current is heard softly in my ears,
yet the rain always comes and I lose my way.
I write and write and write my heart away
and when I'm done, I always adjust and eliminate. I never just leave it alone.
In my mind, it'll never be good enough. Not good enough to explain the sheer disappointment in my heart, the emptiness in my soul, and the darkness in my path.
So here I am.
Carrying on conversations that I know will make it worse
but I start them and I keep them. I latch on to them.
I pour my coffee black and tall in the morning
earnestly, vainly, hoping that today will be different.
But it's always a tiresome game.
I paint my face only half squinting at my canvas because even I can't stand my reflection.
A youthful glow turned to gray. Reddish blue circles under my eyes and purple veins stick out on my forehead. I itch them curiously, where did you come from?
And then there's the broken white hairs painfully reminding me of my mortal existence.
And when I see this, I cry.
But just as germs latch on to wounds, my tears have latched on to my misery.
I needed an antibody to break them up, but you didn't help me.
With your calm hands resting on your king-size thighs, you did the worst thing your kind could do.
In our very first session, you diagnosed me.
You showed me what germs can do. Spread. Infect. Grow.
In my mind stands loudly the impression you left of me: young, paranoid, lost and lonely.
How dare you? How dare you claim 'psychotheapy' as your expertise?
Your words now only exist as skeletons--they bear no depth.
I hate on you, curse you silently as you ask 'do you have any questions for me?'
Yes, fuck you. And why the hell are you charging me for a useless session not worth my borrowed time. But I don't.
I do the only thing I know how to do well--I go back into the game, with difficulty and with great effort. Hah. I'm kidding myself. I wish my words mattered in some poignant ending. But they don't because they're never heard.
I haven't met others like me. Maybe you're out there right now, pen in hand, jotting down the very same thoughts on loose leaf--better yet, maybe you're longing for me just as much as I'm longing for you. Why is there an ocean between us?
I often wonder, good, able-bodied and healthy as I am, why do I seek pain? Why do I wish you would just come on to me, and yell so loudly in my face.
But come on, what kind of prophecy is that? Sure not one Mom raised me to believe. Who taught me this? No one but me.
There's no empathy, no voice, no clout.
'Screw this and screw that' is my mantra.
Choices are all around me but I just stick to the 9 to 5.
The back-breakin', toes flinching, mouth watering, mind-dozing, empty days--where only the first and the last of the month matter. No swift changes. Only the carousel that'll bring me 'round and 'round.
They didn't teach me this in school.
Universities mustn't only teach fields, but they must teach you life. Stock up on handbooks for living and never run out.
I watch in anxious boredom as the passerbys sweep by my small, near non-existent presence.
I'm outside looking in. I'm inside looking inside.
I am everything at once, with no returns.
TBC
Saturday, January 28, 2012
American Way
Lately,
I've been remembering my childhood. Brisk walks to the convenient store with my older sister, empathizing with each other about middle and high school woes, drinking soda in the late afternoon and of course lounging back in front of the TV.
I think back to these days and almost curse myself for not doing more. I begin to wonder, did I take the long way and others found the right trails? I can't help out but believe so.
This issue of self versus external judgment is one that I've been battling for a while. Why can't I just look behind those who judged me in the past and embrace who I really am even AS people judge and always will judge me?
Is it because we live in a non-accountable society where industries rule our lives and personal order? I think about it. The 'American Way' is nothing but a lifestyle we choose to live in under this faux great power we call the USA. The lower to middle class jobs (the majority of jobs in this country) necessitate quick fixes to get through the days. Now, of course this is just my opinion and I am no expert but I see first hand that when you are in a job where you are not trained, empowered or encouraged to find your passion, you lose the means and the motivation to find balance in your life. Imagine this: I work 40+ hours a week as a waitress and I'm on my feet all day serving an array of human beings who for the most part do not care about my personal well being. My employer doesn't want me to slip below a certain level and I have to keep up the pace. I get paid a meager salary and prices are only going up. I can't afford healthy groceries every week. My apartment is falling apart and I can't even afford the right dental fixtures I need to stop grinding my teeth from the stresses of my daily life. I begin to budget for each day and only get frozen food and generic cereals and breads that do not have proper vitamins. I drink caffeine all the time. Have to be up at 5:30 AM. And this my friends, is the American Way. You can't live close to the diner you work at without paying hefty rent. You can't afford nice things but you'll settle for what's available and save the rest for make-shift insurance.
And this people, is a question of choice. The government and industries are not changing without our voice. Without the massive change in public voice and consumption, we will continue to ruin our future, investing in a false sense of power and mark of success.
I've been remembering my childhood. Brisk walks to the convenient store with my older sister, empathizing with each other about middle and high school woes, drinking soda in the late afternoon and of course lounging back in front of the TV.
I think back to these days and almost curse myself for not doing more. I begin to wonder, did I take the long way and others found the right trails? I can't help out but believe so.
This issue of self versus external judgment is one that I've been battling for a while. Why can't I just look behind those who judged me in the past and embrace who I really am even AS people judge and always will judge me?
Is it because we live in a non-accountable society where industries rule our lives and personal order? I think about it. The 'American Way' is nothing but a lifestyle we choose to live in under this faux great power we call the USA. The lower to middle class jobs (the majority of jobs in this country) necessitate quick fixes to get through the days. Now, of course this is just my opinion and I am no expert but I see first hand that when you are in a job where you are not trained, empowered or encouraged to find your passion, you lose the means and the motivation to find balance in your life. Imagine this: I work 40+ hours a week as a waitress and I'm on my feet all day serving an array of human beings who for the most part do not care about my personal well being. My employer doesn't want me to slip below a certain level and I have to keep up the pace. I get paid a meager salary and prices are only going up. I can't afford healthy groceries every week. My apartment is falling apart and I can't even afford the right dental fixtures I need to stop grinding my teeth from the stresses of my daily life. I begin to budget for each day and only get frozen food and generic cereals and breads that do not have proper vitamins. I drink caffeine all the time. Have to be up at 5:30 AM. And this my friends, is the American Way. You can't live close to the diner you work at without paying hefty rent. You can't afford nice things but you'll settle for what's available and save the rest for make-shift insurance.
And this people, is a question of choice. The government and industries are not changing without our voice. Without the massive change in public voice and consumption, we will continue to ruin our future, investing in a false sense of power and mark of success.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Come AND SEE
I wrote this the other day, thinking about the Russian movie, 'Come and See'.
His voice pierced through the parched land like a thousand needles puncturing bones
They were no longer children
They were no longer explorers
They were simply disciples from a death-in-life existence.
An unknown soldier’s dying demand from his own private trench signaled their fuel
“Do justice children. And you will be more than man in this unearthly hell.”
Soon commandants were born and holes were dug.
Mothers went insane and fathers disintegrated in graves
Their time for revenge was now
Their lack of resources, no matter
Their small and fragile bodies were agile and robust enough on their own
They were through with it all
Their reticence no more
Their fear, a nonexistent suppressor of their own mission
Their commitment was now to fight.
To stand up against the oppressor by all means necessary.
The heavy hearts of many knew that bones would be dislocated, muscles would lose their purpose and eyes would be reduced to one or two daggering stones set deep into inflamed minds, and Yet
People would be buried, the smart, the old, the young and the elite, not a single soul would be granted g-d’s mercy.
This was just a ceremonious hell in a g-d forsaken world; that tore up the minds and souls, a disintegration of life.
And so it is, on that solemn pressing day, when the sun savagely beamed above their heads, when they reached the path of winding roads,
They jumped.
His voice pierced through the parched land like a thousand needles puncturing bones
They were no longer children
They were no longer explorers
They were simply disciples from a death-in-life existence.
An unknown soldier’s dying demand from his own private trench signaled their fuel
“Do justice children. And you will be more than man in this unearthly hell.”
Soon commandants were born and holes were dug.
Mothers went insane and fathers disintegrated in graves
Their time for revenge was now
Their lack of resources, no matter
Their small and fragile bodies were agile and robust enough on their own
They were through with it all
Their reticence no more
Their fear, a nonexistent suppressor of their own mission
Their commitment was now to fight.
To stand up against the oppressor by all means necessary.
The heavy hearts of many knew that bones would be dislocated, muscles would lose their purpose and eyes would be reduced to one or two daggering stones set deep into inflamed minds, and Yet
People would be buried, the smart, the old, the young and the elite, not a single soul would be granted g-d’s mercy.
This was just a ceremonious hell in a g-d forsaken world; that tore up the minds and souls, a disintegration of life.
And so it is, on that solemn pressing day, when the sun savagely beamed above their heads, when they reached the path of winding roads,
They jumped.
Development
I developed slowly
I was always one step behind the mind's greatest discoveries--
Yet no one reminded me.
So I wandered deeper and deeper into the abyss
silently enraged by the lack of belief and understanding in my true self
I never found a niche
couldn't even process my own feelings of anxiety, fear and rage,
and Yet the crying stopped when words failed to talk more than the rich expression in my eyes
I wanted so much to have arms wrap around me
and tell me over and over again, that I was going to be okay. That I wasn't so strange
wasn't so skinny
wasn't so fucking weak
Yes I wanted someone to tell me I was beautiful--ON REPEAT.
Because beauty was what I knew so well
It was the reassuring mark of acceptance
after a long cry and sick feeling in my stomach---
that 'oh you look so pretty
after a long night of unfamiliar shelter.
Yes, the beauty of disguise made me sleep well.
So well in fact that I would win best in show.
Someone was watching over me because
I was given the tools I needed to find the attention I needed on my own.
Yet we all know that that shit is only skin deep.
Doesn't cure the hurt in one's heart
doesn't fix the broken memories of what may be laughter, fear or pain
doesn't stop me from remembering the unordinary nights when I felt so alone,
when I find myself getting weak in the knees on a friday night as I remember the hazzy afternoons where i dug my fingernails into my mattress with the phone in my hand
because i didn't know what to do.
when I hid behind the door forgetting everything else
when I mechanically did as i was told the next day because I never thought to ask
what's this hole I feel I right here mommy?
I was always one step behind the mind's greatest discoveries--
Yet no one reminded me.
So I wandered deeper and deeper into the abyss
silently enraged by the lack of belief and understanding in my true self
I never found a niche
couldn't even process my own feelings of anxiety, fear and rage,
and Yet the crying stopped when words failed to talk more than the rich expression in my eyes
I wanted so much to have arms wrap around me
and tell me over and over again, that I was going to be okay. That I wasn't so strange
wasn't so skinny
wasn't so fucking weak
Yes I wanted someone to tell me I was beautiful--ON REPEAT.
Because beauty was what I knew so well
It was the reassuring mark of acceptance
after a long cry and sick feeling in my stomach---
that 'oh you look so pretty
after a long night of unfamiliar shelter.
Yes, the beauty of disguise made me sleep well.
So well in fact that I would win best in show.
Someone was watching over me because
I was given the tools I needed to find the attention I needed on my own.
Yet we all know that that shit is only skin deep.
Doesn't cure the hurt in one's heart
doesn't fix the broken memories of what may be laughter, fear or pain
doesn't stop me from remembering the unordinary nights when I felt so alone,
when I find myself getting weak in the knees on a friday night as I remember the hazzy afternoons where i dug my fingernails into my mattress with the phone in my hand
because i didn't know what to do.
when I hid behind the door forgetting everything else
when I mechanically did as i was told the next day because I never thought to ask
what's this hole I feel I right here mommy?
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