It is often asked: “What is the meaning of Life”. Yes, Life with a capital “L”. The answer is that there is no answer. We are the answer. “We” does not mean just humans or you or me, but it means “We” as in every atom that sprinkles the universe and beyond. We are all vibrations that are linked by other vibrations to create a harmony so melodic “We” can hardly hear it. If you were to sit just anywhere and see, not just look, and listen, not just hear, to taste and feel and just be…there’ll be a slight tingling in your bones and you’ll feel those vibrations all around you surrounding your inner being. The world will be in your skin and sink into your heart and tears will spring because such emotion cannot be held, and you will ball your fist and scream and yell and moan and laugh. That bird flying ahead is you, that grasshopper that is you just got eaten by that spider, which is also you. You are the one that wrote your books and you are the one that wrote this you also are the one that wrote and thought up every great thing that has been thought up because the world is you it is me it is nobody it is everybody. We are all vibrations so strong that right this moment we are everything and nothing. We are everywhere and nowhere. We are life.
What the Close Ones Are For
Why be surrounded
With a thousand people
That you can laugh and smile with
When you can have
A few of the ones
That can recognize when
You get a new haircut
Though only an inch
Was cut?
Or if you’re feeling down
And they can tell
By the way your hands move
And can detect exactly why
With the way your eyes hover?
Why only befriend a mass
That make small talk
And only know your name,
When souls bonded with yours
Can tell your past, present, and future?
That can leave for years
And still remember
That little wish
You use to have
As kids?
Because while that bunch of people
Whisper lies
While smiling in your face,
That small band that you
Consider siblings and more
Will be there
To rescue your heart
And lick your tears
No matter how salty.
Not King
He possessed control
Over the sea of life around him,
Attempted to steer the great ship,
He called Life
To the direction
He called Content.
He did not know
One cannot control Fate,
And winds pulled,
And stretched,
He was thrown into the deep,
Deep,
Waters of Lost.
Gasping,
Air was not found.
And the question arises,
What does one do when
One cannot control
His future?
He drowns.
Because he
Is not King.
Poem Response To “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde”
Selfish
Finding himself, what went past the bones and blood,
What had dwelled in that body of grey matter,
Had been a great game of hide and seek.
It bugged him to a point of selfishness,
Where he’d dive into hopelessness,
And helplessness.
It evolved to an obsession,
For it pleasured his brain.
His brain,
The very enemy
That he failed to run from.
Even when he had not occupied it.
Self Monologue
Hate.
In a time when technology overrules our young, spongy minds, I find that it isn’t hard to utterly hate things. As a teen, there are numerous parts of life that we hate. There are basic things, such as hating to having to wake up six hours earlier than we’d like, or hating people with thousand dollar shirts that scream ugly. Then, there are the “young folk problems” such as losing a follower once you’ve hit a hundred, or even immature freshman boys that scream “sixty-nine” at the top of their lungs during math lectures. Actually, we may giggle at that, but hate the people that the comment arose from. Ugh, the people! We jaunt around campus exchanging words with friends, and may even nod at a stranger passing, but there’s always that one person that you despise over any annoying, snarky beast crawling the earth. They make your jaw clench and eyes roll, make your fingers dig into your hand and a short, hot breath of air pass through your lips in disgust. They make you fume; even breathing the same air as them sends you into a frenzy. Then, there are the things that you hate even though they haven’t done anything worth hating. Like, perhaps your charger is broken and you must sit a certain way for it to actually charge. Oh the anger and hate that pulses through my veins when it starts charging then I accidently touch it and it takes an hour to get it back perfect again. But then… there are the things that so very gently, like water inching over the sand, spread throughout our body and course through our hearts, that we love- no,- thirst for. If one reaches for that one thing they love over applying justice over that one thing they hate, what would we call it then?
Waking early is so disastrous to me and whoever is around me. So, I’ve started sleeping very, very early. But, once, I pushed away the fact that I’ll be meeting the factor that I hate in the morning. I ignored it because that would have been the future and this is now. So, I turned up my fan and turned my radio up even more. I wasn’t tired, the night made me… invigorated. I crept to my kitchen and took snacks by the handful. After creeping back into my room I inserted the new Sherlock Holmes series DVD into my computer. Let me just say Benedict Cumberbatch is beyond beautiful, my eyes could barely tare from the screen. After a chapter or two, I became drowsy. Not the type from keeping awake beyond twelve, but because of the day, and because that day had been one of millions, and I was just tired of it all. But, I remembered that I was enjoying myself and I can worry in the morning. I closed my computer, put in ear buds, shut off all my lights, and burrowed under my covers. I put on music from my phone and sat. I sat, letting the music and emotion from various singers’ voices wash over me and pull me away, away and away. I was quite satisfied. I let my worries just- poof – disappear.
In the morning, I was not in fact, tired. I enjoyed myself; it was the simplicity of it all that brought me to awe. It was kind of like waking up at the perfect time in the morning and drinking your favorite coffee while reading your favorite book outside on a cool spring day. It was just calming to the mind and body, it was beyond perfect, it was harmonizing, it was thirst. I didn’t have to dread all the things I hate when I can just grab all the things I love. Since then, I’ve remembered that in the middle of being overwhelmed, and worrying about the things I hate, I can always enjoy the things I love, because they are fragile things, and I must handle them like bits of sugar, though small, can fill you with an exploding sweetness- yet only temporarily.
Anger
It twists inside the pit of my stomach.
Pulling.
Pushing.
Every now & then it trickles out…
And a single moment could cause it to
Explode.
My Director always tells us to leave our problems off stage. He says that if we monologue about ourselves, it still shouldn’t be about us. We should be such great actors it seems as though it is about our lives.
I’m monologue-ing every. Single. Day.
An actor can only be but so good. I ask people how they are, I help them, & if even the slightest problem arises from me, they somehow, someway, redirect it to themselves. I usually don’t mind. Usually.
When all else fails, I write. And write. Always writing. Writingwritingwriting.
Because nobody can ever take my words from me.
Nobody can tell me my thoughts or wants are wrong.
They cannot tell me about how they hate one thing or another.
Because these are MY words, they’ll always be MY words, & only MY words can explain my wantsneedsfeelingshatredloveexhaustionannoyanceandPASSION.
Because they are MINE.
When no words arise from me,
worry should arise from you.
Favorite Poem- Taken From “Perks of Being a Wallflower”
Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it “Chops”
because that was the name of his dog
And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X’s
and he had to ask his father what the X’s meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it
Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it “Autumn”
because that was the name of the season
And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint
And the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.
Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it “Innocence: A Question”
because that was the question about his girl
And that’s what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle’s Creed went
And he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
And the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at three a.m. he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly
That’s why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
And he called it “Absolutely Nothing”
Because that’s what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn’t think
he could reach the kitchen.
Little Monsters
We Don’t Need A Reason
Sitting in class, next to each other. Him and I open our computers, log on to our email. We chat. Because that’s what we do every day. We might send glances to each other, or turn our computers and mutter, showing off something hilarious. He pokes my leg. I kick his. Our giggles entrapped within the bubble surrounding our two desks. A classmate’s eyes may wonder to us, or the teacher’s eyes may sweep past us. We don’t mind, we have no secrets. My test answers may somehow end up on the verge of my desk closer to him, or his may end up falling on the floor right next to me, right side up. We get good scores. A sly smile creeps up to our lips as our classmates ask how we mastered the impossible. He gives me credit. Because that’s what we do every day. When we go home, a text may appear. A couple words sent back. It doesn’t matter, because we’ll see each other the next day. It is not Love, just knowing.
Late.
You call this anger? ‘Tis only regret,
For many days & many nights this hollow secret has been kept.
Read closely, don’t miss a word.
Maybe then your curiosity will be cured.
I don’t know when I decided it, or where I was,
But I know part of it had been the humor, ’cause,
“If you can make a girl laugh, you can make her do anything.”
Maybe it had just been you, not just one factor, but everything.
But I knew I didn’t care who knew, or even you,
Because who does care when soon obviousness would become a clue?
You knew and yet nothing dared arise,
I didn’t care, which had been more than a surprise.
It had reached the point where just talking was great,
Even if …
Can you finish the sentence? Because it pains me so.
