Tag: poet

Categories
Creative Writing

The Color of Life

White hairs began to appear

At just eight years old.

My aunt, adorned with fiery red curls

Gasped as she spotted the strand

That stuck out against the deep

Soil brown hair that I had

Always had my entire life.

“You’re getting old!” She laughed,

Though cackle would’ve better

Suited it – that’s what Dad always said.

I never feared growing old until

That day, because not it was too 

Close for comfort. I cried, hurling myself

Into the burnt tan couch in the living room,

Yelling “I’m going to die!”

That is all it meant to me to grow-up: 

To have my own life, to raise others,

To grow old, to die.

That’s all life was. And I hadn’t even lived

The first part yet. 

The white hair was the first sign that I realized

My Nana was old – lying in a hospital bed and 

Looking up at my family, saying goodbye.

It was the color of Granny Charlene’s skin when we moved 

Away and she died the next spring. 

But it was also the color of snow, fallen fresh from the

Graying skies. It was the color of the wedding dress

My Aunt wore when she met the love of her life, 

Eighteen years after the first wedding.

White wasn’t an evil color. 

Life was.

Categories
Creative Writing

I Was Told in a Dream

I was told in a dream that “the best ideas

Come to us when we need them most.” 

If that’s the case then why is my mind, once a hub

Of inspiration and imagination, dulled down to

Nothing?

I have to force the words out of my finger tips,

Find a meaning in the fruitless venture of

Scribbling every thought that comes to mind before

It clogs up the gears. Sticky notes of all shapes,

Colors, and sizes cover the blue cinder block

Wall in front of me as a desperate cry for 

Something to make sense. Anything.

“Read more – that’s what you need to do.”

Books cover every empty shelf and space in 

My bedroom. One day, I will read them all, but

For now I lie on the once white carpet and stare 

At the towering shelves to see what I could’ve become

Had I worked as hard as I told myself I would.

Every day is a fight with my mind, over the same grueling

Topics that I should be able to defend.

“You were so confident before.”

It’s hard to feel the same way now as each click of the keys

Is a reminder to the times that it wasn’t painful

To brainstorm what to write.

“What happened to you?”

I don’t know. Next question.

“You are a quitter.”

That’s when it’s suddenly four hours later and my stomach

Cries for the candy locked away in the cabinet. It happens more

Often than I’d like to admit – skipping time as a way to separate 

Myself from Her. 

She braids my hair as I sleep at night. With each pull, I feel

Desperate for relief. When I wake up, She is not there to give

Me the pain killers that would fix it all. They are hidden from me,

And I have to go to sleep with the headache I never asked 

For.

Part of me thinks that She took my creativity when coming into 

My life. Picking at it slowly like the leftovers in the fridge that

Dad wanted to eat but I couldn’t stop myself from trying. She likes

My mom more than me  – They locked the candy in the cabinet, 

with the key just out of reach next to the book I told myself

I would publish before 25.

I’ve been told that I’m blaming Her for my problems – that I 

Need to face them head on and get out of my own head. 

But that’s where I need to be. Sometimes, it’s the safest place

That I can find. It holds memories, secrets, and the surrealist

Reality I want to call my own. She likes it that way.

Maybe one day the vault will open and I will walk out

To the unknown. But I don’t know when that will happen,

Or if it ever will.

I continue to take the pills morning and night. One day, She will

Be gone, and I will be back. 

Free from the chains.

Free to be creative again.

Categories
Creative Writing

Writer’s Block

The typing creates fuel.

It’s the anthem of clicking that begins as the gears start turning, breaking the cycle.

The words come, escaping the machine.

Breathe.

It creates a new life

and fashions a new meaning.

The meaning loses its appeal in a review, moments after escaping the machine.

The overseer decides its fate and cuts it off.

Assassinating the newborn meaning,

They murder the young life.

Suffocation.

The words try to catch up, unable to defend against the destruction.

The anthem of clicking fades as the gears screech to a stop in their final resting place.

The typing only decays.

Categories
Creative Writing

When You Are An Anxious Daughter

When you are an anxious daughter

There is a thin line between

Excusable and overreacting.

The first can be met with advice and love

While the other is met with disapproval and anger.

How dare you feel so deeply.

How dare I feel so deeply.

When you are an anxious student

You avoid doing any work until the last moment

Because if you don’t turn it in, you can’t sleep.

You can’t think.

You can’t eat. 

You drown in the sea of expectations.

A pleasure to have in class.

The cycle continues.

When you are an anxious friend

There is no such thing as an anxiety free zone.

You beg your friend to be your bus buddy

Because you can’t sit alone.

Everytime they say yes.

Everytime you feel just as guilty.

When you are an anxious creative

Everything isn’t good enough.

The doubt engulfs you like fog.

You rip a piece of yourself out and 

Splatter it before you, only to hate it.

To hate yourself.

When you are an anxious lover

You want to be strong.

To be brave.

To love.

To be fearless.

To be there for them as they are for you.

Why is it so hard to be there for yourself?

When you are an anxious human being

Even the smallest thing can trigger

A flood of confided emotions that haven’t been

Felt since the first day.

But the trauma leaves you numb.

Someone has it worse trickles from your lips.

The validation that you pour into another’s cup 

Barely drips into your own.

Jumping back and forth between

I’m fine

And 

I AM FINE

Is endless.

When you are anxious

You are at war with yourself.