some days i think i’m playing charades

with the devil on my shoulder

silently screaming frantic pleas for forgiveness--

but how do i win an argument when i’m lying to myself?

pretending only goes so far against a figment of the imagination

(and logic is impossible when i’m too scared to think.)

so i wage an endless war against my consciousness:

the thunder of cannons and the acrid smell of gunpowder

burn into my memory;

white flag now red with blood and tears,

all hope of a truce lost in the sands of time.

each victory insignificant in a never-ending war

as the bodies lost

outweigh the battles won. 

solar retinopathy

even before Prometheus gave fire to his little clay men

there was a way to experience flame.

the pain of a thousand lifetimes etched-- into one burning point;

a disjoint pattern of-- photochemical scars

spread-- in one last brilliant memory before the world went dark.

sadistic punishment from-- the broken god:

the sorrow of Helios was never meant to be seen by mortal souls

golden ambrosia tear-tracks of acrylic ichor

frozen-- dried-- c r a c k e d-- with the effort of holding up a smile

forced daily to spread light to the world in his aureate chariot

when all he wanted-- needed-- hoped-- wished for--

was a little sun-- to save himself. 

it’s one of the days when the world feels like crystallized molasses / slow and syrupy and fake sweet with a brittle edge

and the air feels like powdered snow / even the sky wonders if it’s possible to choke on water droplets so very deadly in their softness

the gray never fades / a sense of peace despite the rushing highway (quiet enough to transform into river rapids if i close my eyes)

the clamor of people seems muted / as if a pigeon turned into watercolor and flapped silently shrieking onto a blank canvas

heliotrope purple and psychedelic forest shimmer / shades of somber pearl and beady black

hopes and dreams (but mostly my unsung nightmares) uncovered / frankenstein patchwork tents of stitched memorial quilt squares

solitude feels like a curse / raven-black intrusives put on magpie cloaks and parade their evil smiles

(birds don’t have teeth but these these these are my monsters under the feathery guise)

don’t agree don’t look at strangers don’t raise your head just ignore them no eye contact

infection beyond covid this one passes through space and time / maybe a brain six feet long would be smart enough to stop thinking

fly away on mechanical wings / let them give chase but never look back never look down

(that’s why i don’t like rock climbing / it’s cramped fingers and wondering why i practice jumping off cliffs in something other than oblique fantasies)

freedom is like mint with an aftertaste of sulfur and saltpeter

for explosions are beautiful in their finality / but it’s braver to choke on the ashes and watch them burn

(if only i can figure out how to view the flames without stepping into the fire) 

why do we say

a ‘pinprick of light’? does

that mean to find happiness we

first have to draw blood? maybe

ruby violence is a tiny window

into a braver stronger world born

from a shiny silver needle that

never leaves a scar. 

we read Langston Hughes' "Theme for English B," and my Writing Process teacher gave us this assignment. so i wrote this at like eleven at night :') by no means my best poetry ever (and i'll probably regret posting this lol) but it's the first thing i've written in a while :p

Theme for WP 

The instructor said,

Go home and write

a page tonight.

And let that page come out of you—

Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it’s that simple? 

I can’t just sit down at my kitchen table 

With a paper and a pen, 

And expect my soul to bleed as easily as ink onto the page.

I’m setting too high expectations, I think, 

Of this cheap, plastic Holiday Express brand pen

If I believe it can spout some profound poetry

On the lines of this English homework handout. 

It is silly, I think, 

To suppose that this pen, with its dented blue cap,

Can somehow spell out the meaning of life

Before it runs out of ink. 

If it comes from me, it’s true, you said,

And I don’t know what’s true.

Well, I’m fourteen, I’m tired, and I’m sitting at my kitchen table

With its chipped black paint, and I’m holding this cheap pen,

And I’m trying to finish this assignment—

I guess that’s a start.

But it’s not so easy to know what’s true,

And it’s even harder to write it all down,

When I know I won’t be the only one to read it. 

Now, if it was only myself who would ever see it, 

I wouldn’t be afraid to write the wrong thing, 

To let my pen wander its way across the page,

To make a complete a fool of myself, 

But somehow I’ve been trapped back in the same identity

I’ve been trying to outrun my whole life because

When I sit down to write what’s true,

The only thing I know for certain is that I have schoolwork to do. 

Of all the things to be branded with, this is by no means the worst, 

So why am I complaining? 

It’s easier, anyway, when your name looks best in size 12 Times New Roman,

Double spaced.

But when that’s the case—

Or at least when it’s the case for me—

I feel like every assignment, even this piece of poetry

Has to use smart-people words

To address smart-people themes 

And it needs to be profound, and poetic, and perfect. 

I’ll run this pen dry trying to get there.

So maybe these scribblings hold some deeper meaning,

But I’m probably just flinging paint at a canvas,

Hoping it’ll look like a masterpiece to you and to me.

This is my theme for WP.