Ringing in my ears
bodies fall to grinding gears
and the bodies are of all, they are of you and I
and I wish that I could fly,
but I'm here and I know why
. . . A skirt falls to my knees,
rotting flowers and scattered bees
pollen sticking to fickle limbs,
It's where I want to be . . .
Is there any other place for a girl with my malaise?
Stunted, shoelaces undone; the calamity of choice,
“There's a million different ways, I'm sure, to get rid of that sap,”
but that tree is always there and it's where you and I lay back
A skirt unstained, a mind unmaimed
for these, I'd get down on my knees
for these, I'd find humility and teach myself how to say “Please,”
for this string could come undone when I want it made and sewn
for I want to tell you, Violet, I am proud of how you've grown
Rewind tape, stuck on “hate,”
the hypnagogia of the shrillest syllable
is depth of field gone, room noise three decibels up,
the most jagged of fables.
What I brought into this melting field of
lights that shift (from actor to foreground)
is an all-consuming flame, all judgment unwound
A mother's love held in a blanket of tape hiss
and the warmth of time passed
fizzles out as soon as it's through
If the world is a system of strings
then concrete and asphalt break up their ring,
(wings of birds flutter though spread they could further
and woodpeckers peck wood, walls left only hammered)
We could be a blanket
and all we could comfort
God knows we're a cobweb hidden in the corner
Living things pirouette their way up – they're entangled,
they don't yell and hop for joy
What it is to be a girl,
to be a boy,
angel wings clipped
fossilized tissue in synthetic alloy
For thoughts to pass the laser beam of my mind and not be pulled apart and scrutinized feels like an almost impossible feat to pull off. For the tiniest observations and judgments to not become a hoard of elephants stomping flowers and fairie girls in my head feels to me so distant.
I'm struggling with finding my voice today, my dearest God. I want poetry to flow out the tip of my pen effortlessly, for rhymes to just happen, but there's a fog in my brain or a void of anything that keeps me from getting there. Even writing this journal entry now, I'm struggling with whether I should be more expressive and honest in how I write, whether I should write the way I do to my friends. Language should feel easier to navigate right now and I know for a fact were that the case my day would be better but alas. I hope I can find my voice today but I'll survive in the meantime.
There's not much to talk about regarding my day so far. I just had the daily complementary Jimmy John's meal the facility I am in provides. I'm in a rehab / sober living program that is queer-focused, only allows queer clients. There's something comforting about living with people who are, in a sense, your kin, but I don't feel that at home. Nor do I want to be sober, but that's against good advice. Living here grounds me in that socializing and connecting with people is a mighty hard task and one that is alienating in of itself. Shared interests mean nothing sometimes, forcing people to do shit with you doesn't pan out, true connection comes from a mutual desire to engage and get to know the other better.
A lot of people here are already comfortable in their own bubble, or might experience shyness- It feels as if in this halfway home scenario where you're in close quarters with strangers, connections would develop more naturally and frequently, but that has not been my experience. There's also just personalities and attitudes I cannot deal with, too much ironic detachment and blasé rudeness, jokey rudeness that doesn't feel like it comes from a place of friendship and trust but rather out of projection. I've worked so hard to separate myself from those things and I end up at a place where it feels like no one else has, I don't feel comfortable even bringing it up. It's suffocating. (10/25/2021)
Incense stick was on the night stand, moved over to the keyboard on my desk so I could let it waft in a way the fan would push it over to where I am. It'd been to the side of a little music box that plays a vaguely Potter-ish melody and I don't really think my mom's a fan. I don't know how my mom gets anything out of reading when she is such a bitter, often loveless person. Before I'd moved the incense stick laid on my night table it, the music box, and a near-empty bottle of Monster Ultra. All the lights here are out and I drink energy drinks because I like sugar, I've been pretty devoid of energy and I'm not particularly looking for it; Maybe my mind will knock off self-destructive hyperactivity when I don't even give it the time to think. I hope I'm just digging through mundane words for a bit and soon, I'll get to the point where the grass is trimmed and dew trickles to dirt, wet sheets for seeds to lead my words to hoards of flowering bushes where I pick from shades of rose attuned to where my head was as I arose. (4/28/2020)
A crummy day, not sure I have a sleeping schedule, crusty brain and thoughts and the smell of my mother's incense to fill the room. Her office room is pretty and comforting, she isn't but she's not around so I can make the room mine for a while. The white on this screen's a bit too bright right now and I wonder if I can tinker with the settings here to make it darker. I'm waiting for someone to come to the house and I'm absolutely embarrassed by the mess I've been continually having to clean up here but I'll get there some day. I'm laying on my bed who doesn't wear sheets and acts a table for my keyboard and pill bottle(s?) and phone, a CD I've heard plenty and one I haven't heard fully, a CD player with layers of stickers slathered unto it but it no longer works, a book I picked out of the neighborhood birdhouse library, other things to listen to music on or from, my towel and an empty water bottle. (4/27/2020)