Anachronistic

My soul plays like a record player

Sometimes it is like jazz

Other times it scratches and skips

The jagged needle injured and unwilling

My mind sounds like a typewriter

The chattering tapping

Invading even the visions

Behind my sleeping eyes

My heart is like a pocket watch

With hands that skip a beat here and there

I wear it on a silver chain

Careful not to lose it

My memories are kept in a locket

Faded pictures

Worn with time and care

My ambition is a freight train

Shrieking through the night

Unwilling to stop before its destination

I long for the graceful, golden days

When these things were beautifully common

I am an antique

My hands are like a fountain pen

Fragile but noble

Delicately scrawling these lines

That are my gospel

I look at these hands and see

That they are older than they should be

Hands that know secrets

The hands of a poet

Miracles

Sometimes the pain is so strong

It is nearly divine

The world moves on

As busy as insects

And I am simply wondering

How to survive

We are meant to live

And until my last wicked breath

I will be a passionately ticking clock

Because I know

Rejection is not a reaper’s scythe

And I am a genius

With broken pieces

I can make a miracle out of failure

I can take heartbreak

And make glory

I can turn betrayal into victory

So ignore the tears

They are merely

A moment’s weakness

That help me create

The miracle you will see

In an instant

Everything will change

The world moves on

As busy as insects

And quietly

I make these miracles

That Secret Place

I sit on my porch long before the dawn

And gaze upon the night sky

I do not look to the stars

Nor the glowing moon

I see beyond

This is my in between time

Where I find my secret place

In the shadows I allow myself to dream

My eyes are open to the world

But they see universes yet to be imagined

This time is the eternity

I am still

And yet I am more alive

Than any movement could make me

And we are meant to live

Some are meant to climb mountains

Some are destined for the mundane

But I live to slay nightmare visions

I live to taste words on my tongue

I live to feel sensations

Only thought of in fantasy

In these moments halfway between

The glorious quiet of night

And the dawn that comes too quickly

For these eyes

My heart beats in a steady rhythm

Of abstraction and reverie

I am meant to dream

And without we who find that secret place

What would this world be?

Home

Home.

Darker

iam reblogging this today because I just got my first poem published and this is iy! I am overjoyed! Thank you Amydala!

Iconoclastgrey Word Artist

Streams

Darker

I am pacing, pacing, pacing.

Retracing footsteps I have walked before.

Why must I be the greatest danger to myself?

Oh my reflection,

You are razors, steel, and dangerous things.

And you have become a frozen creature.

Move, I beg you. Move!

How dare you stay trapped by your own devices.

How dare you drop and ignore your own talents.

How dare you tarnish when you know you may shine.

Why do you sleep when the waking world is no longer a danger?

To sleep to dream even as your dreams are coming true.

How I hate you, only to love you.

Is it comfort or punishment that you deserve?

Oh my frightening hands,

Empty,

But only imaginary.

Filled with the intangible.

Potential. Love.

Do not forget that you were meant to fight.

To do battle with your words.

They are your greatest asset.

So why do you…

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Home

Home.

Skeleton Key

All her life she wanted wings

Angels wings that would finally let her fly

From the time she was a child

She was obsessed with keys

Those made of metaphor

And those crafted of metal

She could not stand a locked door

Sometimes she could open them with words

Sometimes with force

All these things were keys

And she collected them carefully

These things were symbols of power

And when she felt powerless

She would hold her keys

And feel their potential

Like a beating heart

Life had given her just one wing

With which to fly

She searches for the catalyst

That would allow her to find

Its twin

And soar

With no desire to descend

The scars carved on her flesh

Speak of a time

Before she ever realized

That freedom was a possibility

Before she realized that

There was a way to escape

At that time she had only just

Found the place

Where she could run

Where she could hide

Where no one could touch her

She wrote the words

And she knew that she had found

The true lack of inhibition

Spontaneity

And impulse

To let her be who she truly was

She used to write the tragedy

The low self esteem

The enigmatic suicidal words

That she hid behind

Because it was easier than believing

That someday she could fly

Now she writes in whispers and howls

She shouts at the sky

Demanding a challenge

And when that doubt falls upon her

She touches her keys

And knows that there is way to find

Opportunity and her chance

To take flight

Another Second Sunday in May

I was at a restaurant today.

Suddenly, as I stood there with my black clothes and purple hair, I was self-conscious.

And not because there was country music blaring from the speakers and I stood out like the sorest of thumbs.

As I watched a kindly octogenarian offer candy to a willful child

I remembered.

I remembered the questions.

Where are your grandparents?

I don’t have any.

Oh, I am sorry did they pass away?

Looking at my feet I would answer simply “No.”

And then walk away.

Because any kind of explanation would only lead to more questions.

How, in a child’s language, do you explain?

How do you say it’s complicated.

My mother

She doesn’t let us have a family.

Even though she barely sees me and I am mostly raised by a menagerie of older siblings

Each as unique as hand-made glass figurines.

I love them and I think most of the time they love me.

For that I am grateful.

For that I am lucky.

But I am the youngest and invisible to my parent’s eyes.

My mother wants me to have no one else.

But refuses me herself as well.

At worst I am abandoned.

At best unseen.

Unable and unwilling to compete with my siblings.

I am lost.

I watched my friends.

They would get angry because their parents had rules.

They had things like curfews and discipline.

My parents rarely knew where I was or what I was doing.

Much less who I was.

Perhaps I was a pitiable child but I do not pity myself now.

But when I remember.

I think…

Lucky are those who had guardians.

Fortunate are those who had something to rebel against.

Charmed are those who were weighed and measured and molded.

Even if the process was a difficult one.

Look back on those halcyon days and realize that someone cared enough to give their time to you.

Look back and know that you were more than a consequence of someone’s selfish actions.

Look to the family that you were born into or have chosen and know love.