Month: February 2015

I am one who frets if I have enough plates for the dinner guests coming over, a scene I envision five years from now. Nor has that time come or shall it ever formulate that I will be comfortable having more than one of my friends, colleagues and distant whoevers in place. I dream up the clattering of plates and over boiled rice spewing this way and that way all over the kitchen floor. The floor sopped with water and dish liquid spewing out of the dishwasher.
Five years from now, I see myself still assuming that the person across from me may know something I do not know but wish I did. People are creatures of habit and boy is mine peeping from behind the corner of the room, seeing if it’s safe to quickly exit from embarrassment that has not happened yet.
Oh, it’s much too early to start arranging the knick knacks from my parents but it’s much too late to open up the many boxes aligning the storage room closet.
We’re all aware of what it means to know the pressure points,  what makes one another crack and if it boils over. I can’t quite put my finger on if I turned down the pots on my stove…
But it sure is hot in here…

Advertisements

“Just get over it already”

This piece is to be read from the viewpoint of someone who is about nine years old, I am reflecting back on the younger years of my life.

I wish I remember what it felt like the first day I went to “real school” where I left the house and stared at all the trees in the neighborhood on the way there. Trees of all different sizes,  some wide enough to fit 20 kids in their branches, others were slim and linky (sorta like your pinky finger bones). I wish I could have thought of all the things I wanted to do back then, how I..I wanted to be an actress…someone like Halle Berry for instance. I’m not fond of exotic foods, fancy dinner plates and shoes that only look nice but pinch the sides of your feet. No, I like to well…write stories fill them up in notebooks that I keep in every room of the house and every car ride. I would write about dragons and how much we paid for the McDonald’s hash browns. I’d go on and on about cityscapes and beaches, both places I had never really been to but in my mind it was all REAL.
It’s too bad that these stories of mine got shuffled between bills and all our houses we once lived in, a couple of them were pretty okay…well I thought so.
Sometimes the people at the convenient store would be my special characters, each one had purpose, destination and meaning. There were older ladies who wore beige tights with worn down black shoes. There were families piling things into the cart, each one going different directions all over the store.
Now that I think about it, I’m not sure when I’ll stop writing. But maybe I’ll be a teacher or a librarian or a….um what’s the name of the job again…
That’s it, I want to do what Eliza Thornberry ‘s mom does.

There’s not a correct way to put words on paper just as much as there is not a way to learn how to grow up. I couldn’t quite grasp why it was easier for the people I graduated with to live without second guessing themselves where it impairs them from progressing.
It seems as if the best, from my own opinion, have learned what risk is and can function in spite of the legalities of what could happen. But I believe that is what frightens me, the what ifs in life and it’s not enough for someone to believe in you when you can’t bring yourself to do it. Before you know it you’re not sure where this numb feeling derived from but all that you know is…it knows you better than anyone. It knows that your doubts are like friends who frequent often leaving traces of themselves when they are no longer present.
There is something comfortable about not moving and making the most of what you have. It’s not a part of us, we take pride in but something that has been with us for a while.
The right words aren’t there
The convenience of forgetting how to communicate where all the sentences run into the next.
The shower
On the job
In the middle of traffic
Is when all my thoughts clash together,
Leaving ruins
Of….something.

A crisis immensely bigger than a hashtag

We have long lived and learned what it means to suffer the immenseness of a pain that cannot express the anguish in those few four letters. For souls are weary and burden, finding consumption in faith is only what we have to precede on what is forthcoming. What is coexisting if it mean that a foe with a skin much different than mine finds disgust in me? What more is the excellence that has united some for their passions without end to treat others better than what they have been treated?
I am skeptical at most what it means to love freely and openly, give such passion into life that is stifled for so many as myself and not as I.
There are not words as powerful to contain what gnaws at the flesh, selfishly feeding on the heart itself to say the world is just.
Has the world not learned what extreme hatred can lay upon the human race?
Has it come to play that there is nothing before and after our passing, we simply exist to grovel on pain?
No.
I feel as though the philosophies that curled from our grandparents native tongue of greatness are sought after in vain. I feel a great somber misfortune that to be open and to be free is to die with the passion on our lips that we have chosen to live despite peril.
Live that our vengeance curdled under the floorboards and rose in giant leaps of fire but nonetheless we wailed the words poets cannot capture. The words our mothers and fathers show with their sighs and looks of hoping that if it is not forever we live for but we live for our constant glimmer of being softer.
Collapse and crumble.
The connotations are not fitting for their beauty.
I’ve heard to collapse is to mimic the creationists love dream. Fingers held to lips simply to hush and listen assured me it is I, you and I that should crumble and share ourselves.
Although I am unsure of how to crumble easily. Cornbread now sopped with milk, I am uneasy,  tense and anxious of what it feels to be hurt.
Though, it is recollected that to share ourselves and continue to patch others we seek this wholesome completeness that we never knew that was in us.
The people of the world are brown, and not purple but in fact have learned an internal suffering so deep it runs through the streets like blood.
The people of the world hold little to no power of how long they will live, but neither do those who want to hold such superiority…
No the people of the world are not only brown but in the expanding microcosm of awareness,  you and I both come to understand what it means to not be able to find words to express our…
Longing to find meaning.

Writing prompts #1

“Fear is an animal and I walk mine on a leash”
I couldn’t quite make you believe that what lurks in the night and lurches up in people’s lamps in the theatres, while watching a horror film is real. I couldn’t tell you that the fun fact trivia where we all walk past serial killers daily is wrong or right in defending how we react to what has and hasn’t happened.
An old man looks out the corner of his eye,  shifts his shoulders and continues to flip through the animated pages of his ebook. He stares longingly at the page and sometimes I believe he’s not reading at all but neither am I since I too have noticed the deafening