Month: April 2015

The weak fear the world and still live (rough draft)

When the world has turned down the comforter and beckons you to lay your sorrows down for awhile, will you? Will you climb into the stiffness of the mattress that you are grateful for. Though each position is uncomfortable, will it let you close your eyes with calmness on your lips? A crook in your neck, strains in your back and finally tosses of frustration, you cannot escape what is of this world. If it’s too much to speak on it, can I wonder without guessing my words are coherent? Can I climb up to the top without severing pieces myself off to use in trade just to make it? 
When the world has swept over this house like a descending ghost snatching back the familiar places it too inhabited, will the sun overhead be enough? Can silence fill me and swallow each fly on the wall, digesting it to stop the uneasiness?
When the world has been internalized within me, can you pry me out so I can still see that there is beauty in survival? When the shoulders droop in despair and the groans have surpassed the barriers that these walls are, will the life lived for its entirety mean that you and I have passed the test.
When the children go home; in the field, four stairs winding up the brick wall and sand castles, will you deter me from wishing I too could retreat to what is now and the feeling of permanent. When the days seep into one another and the time doesn’t feel worthwhile, will you press your hand into my shoulders letting them indent firmly you too have wept for many days on end–stumbling through who you are.
When the words don’t leave my tongue kindly and beautiful, will they collect meaning that I am more than these fragile shortcomings?
When the world turns down the comforter for the evening with the sun still shining through the blinds, will you assure I and the  children it’s safe to dream, wrestle with ourselves and try once more?

Let’s give ’em something to talk about

If they ask why I’ve gone missing

tell them that I’ve sauntered into an illusion

gifted in the form of isolation-

that wishes for me to write love letters

to all whom have comforted me in the unknowing of the night

and the heaving sighs of what tomorrow will promise to be like

If they ask why I’ve rarely said a word

tell them I’m learning to restrain from giving so much of myself

that I have no seeds left to plant elsewhere

it’s no use pretending one can transcend of being more than human

erase all moments of pride

later swallowed in guilt

If they ask why I’ve decided to not say where I am going

tell them the road ahead of me

shapeshifts

always turning water into land and land into water

for there are days I must swim

paddle my way back to the motherland

hoping my mother and father understand

they must still try to teach me things when I am stubborn

utter sweet words of joy that the droughts and floods

welcome us all with open arms

leading us this and that way

up and over

and around the bends of a charted town

that feels overwhelmingly foreign

Tell them they need not to worry

whether I find love

for I fall in it as much as I fall out of it

Tell them who I really am

without fail

without holding back that I pride my scars for surviving

and I despise my only possible strengths for limiting me

If they ask why I go where I go

and say what I say

hold your index finger in the air while pressing it to your lips

and say

“Because I said so”

Pay the toll or never cross the moat

Some people battle a whirlwind of crippling self-doubt. They awaken each day that it could not be today that I figure what I am and what I accept. Each night I retrace the memories regurgitating the past, living a gooey like substance oozing through the walls. Some people learn to be merry stating it is not I who dwells on things that make me unhappy but I do. I come sit at the doorsteps of those who are weeping and have forgotten why because suppression is a temporary strength. I sit under the table hoping that by daybreak, I’ll be brave enough to get up from the floor and whisper a prayer.
What is this omnipresent jurisdiction looming o’er? Why must it come at a time like this, when only words come together when one’s alone. Some people learn to do things quickly having no time for second guesses and shortness of breath. I’d like to think that some people are as I or not at all.

The way I walk through adulthood is AWKWARD

*disclaimer this concerns Community College not a traditional University

Going to college online is like…

Trying to arrange all your words correctly and coherently. Each comma, period, dash mark, and for crying out loud parentheses with a satirical reference is often mistaken for uptight or sarcastic. While, the road to earning your degree can quickly flash between  adventurous sentimental, and then panic-stricken I wouldn’t be able to quite put my finger on what else to do. If doing the right thing means hammering away at; second-guessing oneself and then being certain than this is college.

College, the real deal,  states that there are many options out there when all I wanted to do was pick one. Maybe if I am lucky I can group similar ones in Venn Diagrams in clusters of five, while still counting on my fingers how many hours I have left to finish the essay in.

I once visited one of my former high school teachers and she had my friend and I answer questions for the sophomores what college was really like. Immediately, my focus shifted to scared adult trying to dabble up the last bits of childhood like crumbs off my face, to strictly authoritative. Oh, we went on and on about the seriousness of paying attention in class and grammar. Then out of the blue, we let out exchanging looks openly that we’re not fooling anyone, we joked that our professors were laxer via email and the setting will not be a Beyond Scared Straight episode. Community college makes you plan and then try to make other plans concerning those plans. At night (for me anyway) it makes you feel as though, you’re not at a real college.

*When I was in 2nd grade I told my mother outright that I wanted to go to a”real school” to experience it rather than homeschooling. Off I was with the many other kids at a school where I stared at everyone because I had never seen this many kids at once, all different kinds in one room at the same time. 

However, there are other days were I feel lucky, blessed and honored that I’m even here, once paying it as I go in between working a steady job and then next out of my tax refund…but the point is perhaps this windy road to adulthood is at times stagnant, so is life. Each day is slightly different maybe a foot shuffle, a backward glance mouthing am I doing this right? or that to go anywhere you’ll have to be awkward first.

I Allow Myself Poetry

Paper Pencil Life

I allow myself poetry
I’ve said this before, but poetry is probably the largest influence on my comics.  What I feel and experience in reading my favorite poems is what I hope to express in comics.  The poet Dorothea Grossman is up there for me in terms of guiding this idea.  I so wish I had VOLUMES of her work instead of the slim selected poems that was published shortly after her death.  The poem that I mention in the comic is called “I Allow Myself” and you can find it here along with many others and a couple of podcasts that feature her work.  I also want to note that I misquoted her poem in the comic.  It should read: ” I allow/ myself the luxury of breakfast/ (I am no nun, for Christ’s sake.)”

I am a proud subscriber of Poetry Magazine and still an avid listener of the podcasts.  I *still* have…

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Tallying life

Lying
Truth – telling
Became a blur casting  various shades and hues, a darkened cloud began to rise over us. For awhile, I felt the rain was fine. It was ordinary in the sense that on right days I could envelope it, watching it drench the leaves of flowers. I could bare it more when the thickness of the air raised goosebumps on our forearms and I’d nest my head against the plump side of the pillow wishing you could enjoy this with me. The rain came as it was, never – changing besides its intensity between light mist and heavy downfall. It was no different than it was that I looked away from it feeling foolish that this feeling of emptiness began to fill me, rise up filling the area surrounding my lungs as I sighed too many times. How much is too many? You cannot count them numerically, it just is.
Some days are no different, stagnant and reclusive or better than most and a shimmer of light. I could narrow how much I described sadness but happiness (content) took great effort, it was laborious. It’s presence leaving marks of stretching farther than where you have been, although no eye can see it. It appears sloppily effortless as if nothing lost could shake it’s core.
I live for days such as these restorative in making the most of what it is now, what it could be, should be or what it will really be. Lying and truth – telling becomes as if one can hold a mirror in front of their face and coldly say that is not me, I have never been without knowledge of what I truly am like.