vvritingmf

[vvritingmf]

What am I, if not someone’s lover? What am I, if not mortal - with naught to offer but honeyed imperfections and candid affections? What am I, if not old and withered with you by my side, strolling through parks, hand in hand, on lamplit winter nights? You sing your off-key vintage blues, while I write. For I am not I in either realm you fail to reside. And so, I am bound to wait and bide. To lay my grave - unmarked - beneath wayward tide, so you might find me again when my soul has outgrown my skeleton in the form of sea-flowers, and a lone world is finally ours. To have and to cherish at the behest of still hours. Quietly, entirely.

[vvritingmf]

There is something to be said in the way we view language for I could not find a word, nor a blurb, that describes this feeling of feeling oddly absurd. What is so wrong with me that is so right with her?

I can only try my best to lay these emotions to rest, though in writing each poem it has become the ultimate test.

Perhaps I’ll never be able to convey what it is I truly wish to say. And so I continue making up words to this day. At least, until I find the time to stop this childish rhyme, and let the autumn wind carry me down the river’s spine.

[vvritingmf]

'The color of your skin' Is such an ugly prejudism. And perhaps I never told you that I secretly hate myself from within, that I'd spent nights crying - feeling estranged over something I could not change. And what a very odd juxtaposition that may have been, for a girl of just ten.

[vvritingmf]

I am all-enraging. For womanhood is so very caging. I feel as though I am not where I should be, And when I come back to reality, I see clearly - How a man's world was never meant for the likes of you and me.

[vvritingmf]

I should not feel shame for being born human, yet in my heart festers an inexplicable burden - a want, to feel that familiar, earthly inclusion. It is a want so miniscule to the naked eye, of lazing cats and ravens who fly. Even the mouse is considered free, and the hunted doe who rises early to peel the bark off spring tree. While they might sooner fade, the earth will be kind and enfold itself unto thee, embracing their delicate bones and singing a saccharine melody. Here, in my home of homes, I hear no melody, not even the hymn that whispers through barren canopy. I am simply stuck being stupid, sorry, me. If life is a notebook, I hold my hand astray in confusion - afraid to tarnish the papers with my most obnoxious intrusion, afraid of being everything and everyone that makes me utterly human.

[vvritingmf]

Mother of Ours

Outside, the ground has frozen over. A mother weeps for her children - hearts turned sober.

They hear naught of her cries, steadily busy with their own imperfect, pertinent lives.

They toil the seams of her brittle skin, until, at last, she bleeds rivers of sin - polluted by one and many men.

They chop her limbs and set flame to her verdant locs, crying out: “Oh, mother! Joy and sorrow… what have we lost?”

A mother of ours was the ultimate cost.

[vvritingmf]

Copacetic

I believe we, as a race, have failed a baser instinct to build sanctum in lieu of skyscrapers. One has been conditioned to fear thy neighbor, as if we’d all grown canines and morphed into sharp-toothed saber. 

One looks upon a field of wheat, contented with the way their bronze stretches toward a sky en greet. Yet same one looks upon thy herd of lost sheep, to find only discolored flesh and meat.

One shall not fuss, suffocated within harbored halls and concrete walls. One, instead, must learn to trust these paltry protocols. 

Often one asks himself; is this truly how I was meant to live? Starved for daylight like some slaughtered pig. 

Cities will grow taller, the rooms ever-smaller, while the world continues to swallow their baseless, scheduled fodder. Better, they should know, never to trust the hand that reaps a premature sow. But how would they ever truly know? When no one has taught them that together they must grow. 

Here one will remain, forever condemned to entertain a life of inhumane refrain. One watches through a frosted pane, wondering if even the snow finds relief in this eternal grief. Oh, how one wishes for such relief, however be it brief.

Perhaps one will turn to the religions created by man unable to cope with the loss of hope. In darkness he gropes at the scriptures transcribed from all-knowing popes, and finds no relief. Not even a boat to keep him afloat amidst this murky, mundane moat.

From a willow tree falls a glass rope to wrap around his beautifully knotted throat. And from his lips chokes a dying quote, heard only by the distant crow nestled within mountain’s sleeping slope.

It relays: “To turn an aphotic eye inward is to question our copacetic ways. Why we choose to remain complacent to the eve of better days.”

[vvritingmf]

Ordinary Patterns

My thoughts are never my own. My pen lies poised in an aching effort to glide, mimicking the stances of those who coincide. Its dance is staggering and hesitant, its chorus a touch too reticent. For such a melody existed once — it was beautiful, original, and so unlike your moth-eaten words. Instead, your prose claws at the vestiges of a fraying fabric. They string roses to pretend they are romantic; something whole, capable of invoking warmth and feeling. Healing.

[vvritingmf]

I crave the normalcy of human interaction that seems to evade me in the wake of others. Of daughters and mothers, friends and lovers. Never have I envied them as ugly as I do today, as ugly as I will tomorrow. This, I hold in my heart with great sorrow.