It's okay

I'm feeling a bit excited right now. This "morning", I woke up at 1PM. Groggy. "Sore-throated" and all. I was also alone in the condo for once. After taking a quick shower, I looked at myself in the mirror and just started singing a song to myself. (I always make up random tunes to sing if there's no song that comes to mind at the moment. Yes, I am quite the bathroom singer.)

So I started spurting out random words about self-realization and basically being your own person. I sang it quietly and slowly, until I began picking up a coherent tune that I configured into a chorus. And once I finally made out that sturdy tune (and picked out a phrase to keep repeating), my voice elevated to the top floor. Maybe it was because no one was around. Or maybe it was because I felt so powerful having the whole room to myself. But my voice definitely bounced off the walls and into my heart. I felt SO strong--I sang louder and louder and as loudly as I could (I was also trying to make the words uplifting... an inspirational song is what I'm aiming for).

The lyrics are VERY rough since I only thought of them on the spot (I should be a rapper). But I'll post up the lines I liked. (It's not a very creative piece yet, either. I will rewrite the lyrics when I think of something better.)


...

'cause I know it's okay
To laugh at a stupid joke

...

I counted your sentences. I rehearsed your refrains. I frowned at your inside jokes. I mustered up a smile. I inhaled your ego. I choked on your ignorance. I was ashamed of myself. I was afraid of the situation. I chuckled at your bliss. I cursed you in the dark. I said things behind your back. I stabbed myself in the back. I felt all these emotions. I took them in, and breathed some out.

I can't take it slow

Note: I was originally going to curse and spoonfeed you. But I'm better than that.

- - - - -

You,
of whom I felt loved to death.
Upon our first meeting,
You
embraced Me like a close friend,
when I was still unfamiliar to touch
and grossly deathly afraid of the
skintoskin.

Oh
You.
I loved that,
and I loved how I met
You
under no special circumstances.
When
I was I,
and Me was Me.

You,
of whom I was drawn.
But you discovered the secret of Me.
(MeplusMe)
It was no lie; I couldn't hide it.
My contents spilled and leaked,
and I was there limping
on the floor of the counselor's office,
drenched in foreboding lingering regret
etched onto a memo pad:

Your Sophomore Schedule,

and it was done.

You
and Me split.
(we split kindly; the way that lovers do NOT do.)

You
discovered my secret--
my name is anonymous;
unknown and devoured by Your sumptuous lips.
my heart spilled that day,
and it rained of purples, greens, and reds.
and personalities, and characteristics, and apparently
our forgotten memories.

Your
mind had been reset;
and
You
asked me years later,
about how we had met.

I am sorry that I told You.
And I am sorry that I really know now,
that all that we had in the past is perfectly null.
Because...
You
can't notice me.

Envoy.

I'm not a messenger for my sister.
Nor,
do I know how she feels
about EVERYTHING.
(Her conscience is her OWN.)
If you want to know something about her,
ask HER yourself.

love is a place

love is a place
& through this place of
love move
(with brightness of peace)
all places

yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skilfully curled)
all worlds

-E. E. Cummings, 1935

- - - - -


I still don't know what to make of this. But that's my goal. To make a poem that seems so profoundly awkward that once you finish reading it, you just say to yourself, "What the eff??" Yet it can still kindle commotion and explications.

What I DID make of this: love is a place that people want to "go" to, where they feel secure (like home itself). I guess sort of like how people want to go to heaven. Love is not created, but just THERE, and can be discovered.

"Yes is a world." And when you live in a world where everyone is granted all their desires, all people (assumed as "all worlds") will thrive in unity.

But I could be wrong. I seriously don't know what this is about.


My source: How to Reduce the Ego

that's what bio does to you

in situ
in vitro
pathological
calico mosaics
gingerly

- - -

These words are just for reference in the future. I like how they sound, and I want to include them in my writing sometime.

Number 64...

I want to write a story that takes place in a restaurant. Not a fancy one (fake, but fancy). But just a relatively simple place (perhaps a sandwich shack of some sorts). And then it'll be a relatively ... typical day. Everyone conglomerated right next to each other, immersed in their own conversations, yet forced to mix and mingle out of their comfort zone.

And then a big commotion connects everyone together in a less than melodramatic way. A simple commotion? Or should each scenario be private? I'm not quite sure yet. But ... I would like that. Maybe even for a script, or a short story.

It begins simply, ends simply, but lasts memorably. I will think about it.

disclaimer:

What was written in the past
can last,
but the feelings that were felt
can melt;
and they dissolve into space
and chase
other places, other times
and rhymes.

She wears the perfume

Since this blog is mostly my "poetry blog", I wanted to put "She wears the perfume" here but never got around to it. So I'll just post it now... I want to keep track of all the poems that really capture something I felt (so vividly) at the moment (although I usually jot things down randomly on random canvases). This poem is one of them.

- - - - -


She wears the perfume,
and she wears it nicely.

It's hard to tell at first,
but there's definitely something

beneath initial wafts
and first impressions

of her.

I don't know how to describe it--
(let me gather myself, let me gather my thoughts).

She's an interesting person...
someone beyond her years.
I really see her differently,
and it's not just the scent that defines her.

Her courage to question a system
that she thought could be so flawless, and so
unshakably, unmistakably

Perfect.

She wears the perfume,
and she wears it well.


So well, in fact, that she's choking
on the illusions that the witches have brewed,

contained in a ... glass
ever so lucidly.

the drugs have synthesized with oxygen--
circulation running amuck in her cherry "snow white" heart.

And it pumps--beats--pumps--beats--,
all the way to her feet,
and her arms and her legs and her stomach.

Slowly, she's ingesting the surreal,
digesting the unreal,
and protesting the real
and learned.

She wears the perfume to cover all this. lost in
figures and places that used to be familiar, but
are really just trapped in foreign vortexes of her once
familiar mind.

And this is how she copes with it,
on the real,
dressing herself for false attention and
setting herself up for a dinner date with
disappointment and heartbreak and stomachaches.

And this is just her countenance,
her cathedral facade--perceived as high and mighty
and royal and INVOLVED.

The truth could not be so distant.

And she's crying, begging to me,
to ME,
to help her through this and to mend her
sprained ankles over missing these
FOUR IMPORTANT STAIR STEPS
to identify, and
to reach that achieved state of mind.

Minus the truth.


Finished: Monday, June 23, 2008


- - - - -

There are lots of allusions I've made significant to my past. In this poem, however, the narrator is a friend expressing his/her point of view of me. This poem describes my uneasiness with my faith (as a Catholic) and how "wearing the perfume" is a front, basically. I give the impression that I'm a very devout and religious person, while inside I'm actually having mixed feelings with my faith. This was written around finals week of Spring quarter... when I was very confused about what I truly believed in. But, as my disclaimer says, these were feelings I felt at the time, though I'm still willing to explore more about my spirituality... much more.

[Also, as a sidenote, the poem starts off simple on purpose and expands into more and more eloquent lingo. Like how perfume is emitted (subtly, at first), then inflates with a bolder scent ... like a balloon expands as it swallows helium.]

Going through this questionative stage in my life made me realize just how little I knew about what I believe in. What is Catholicism? And who is God? What has He done for us? Who is Jesus? There are so many questions I have that I initially would not be able to answer, should a "non-Catholic" be inquisitive about my religion. I'm still "semi-moratorium-istic", but I'm searching. And learning.

A personal note:

Stop writing, and
MAKE YOURSELF PROUD.

Yummy.

I love sand buried beneath my toe nails.

By the by, I almost ran over a family today. I hate driving sometimes! Augh.

trepidation

---
is the only word
i can remember
at the moment.
help me, top chef!

When I'm with you,

screw the complaining.

I'm proud to be me, and I don't give a damn whatever the hell it is you say.

I just wish I knew when you MEAN whatever the hell you say.

(But you make me want to be skinnier to please you.)

But to HELL with it--

I'll do what I want. You would-be-but-not-so-much-fatherly-PRIEST-figure. You're so blinded by propaganda, it's sardonically amusing and disappointing at the same time.

Perhaps I'm just bitter. Or maybe I'm longing - longing! - to be in love. I don't really know. I see so many people get into and get AT it. And I see them smile and laugh and cheer and hug. And then I see them break up, and I feel so heart-broken inside. It's always a risk, a risk that...can be scary. And them some people are terribly exclusive. Am I jealous? Hm. Whatever. Some people are TERRIBLY open. Am I shocked? Kind of. Others, I think they need to show MORE. Ironic, isn't it? I'm so judgmental--it's ridiculous.

Dayem yer argot 's hell'r annoyen.

I heavily advise you to kindly cut the crap.

I will

"privatize" my life and leave it for the DOGS to vandalize. In the dark? We're living on the surface, not beneath the sea! Not underneath the core, to sunken misery.

It's despicable. Impeccable. And throughout freshman year, I realized how much of "the cold life" I've been living. And it's smothering: how OFTEN I see people speak of "the high life" (quite literally, I must add), and how OFTEN they appreciate that.

I'm ... barren to foreign contaminants, seeping through my skin. Through my pores. Well, more so in the field of the senses: a warm, foreign, secret, forbidden touch. (And it's all in my mind--it's all made up in my cherry wooded mind, glazed with honey and amber.)

I'm curious. And this blog is really random.

Must my life always live in metaphors? I prefer it to be that way. But why? That conflicts with my decisions, surely. My way of "handling" people (as if they didn't have feelings, m'dear).

I write better when I am NOT seen.
But isn't that contradictory?
Writing something that no one will read?

Unbelievable. Make up your mind already (it's 3:16AM, fool!).

I will.

I want to be alone sometimes. (Not the hermit way.)
Just so that... Finding myself is easier.
For me, and for them.

I've rusted overtime.

I'm crusty.
And toasty.
And musty.

It's official

My bones are elastic,
fantastic and transformed,
the kind of way your bread molds into
fungus overtime,
sitting there patiently
to rot away without activity.

My veins? They creep their way,
through my legs and
sumptuous thighs,
webbing and threading their EVERY which ways
to the sky, and perhaps to infinite.
Manifested infinite.

Geez, I am so misinformed,
by habits that I've forced
upon-my-self.
The easy way out easily becomes
the easiest way to be suckered in and engrossed
to a pulp.

And now my poor joints
bounce, reflecting my dear mother
in snappy, crackly redundance.
And they dance, and dance, and dance
out of place.
Banished into space.