Do people ever write about the cold after the rain?
There are the appraisals for clear skies and bright blues, but is it enough to keep warm?
Do poets ever talk about the greed of the fallen rain, how the droplets, dethroned from their title, “rain,” the moment they crashed landed and joined aimless puddles, rush to take heat to be air or seek a sense of purpose?
Do writers ever notice that their streams of consciousness follow the same desires, just like another body of water morphing through nothing to be something?
Just the phases of writing.
cared for drama,
yet they are magnetized
to me, my gradually rusting
mind that writes on paper bags
to escape my asylum from cruel fate.
Why do I have to reciprocate
things I never asked for?
Affection? Attention? I
I am a worthless piece of shit, let’s
get that straighten out.
I know, write, have no right to wet
my eyes or pout
Or boast or claim or judge or characterize;
Though that’s just to cauterize
his cuts, His cuts, juts where the wings were
clipped. My daddy put out a show to pay
for meals though mommy’s hands are worn,
“What do you know of chores, our days?” They say.
But she scrubbed floors, cleaned pots, worked jobs.
I work, and work, and work for a dream, splendor
rest and tranquility, for her.
But if I talk back, she get smacked; I can’t go on, I want to cut, and cut, and cut my ties
from the demon who enslaved the angel in the shape of my mom.
Red ribbons tied my wrists to him still,
So I stay here, worthless, ill.
I would have loved to write a cipher,
good enough that the world would try to decipher
the layers and meaning and life and soul,
that the sole audience aren’t just my sister and my best friend.
I wanted to shape the tale of a girl, whose internal
screams reflect the eternal struggles, make you sigh for her.
I want to stand by her, let her know that there are people out there
that would die for her,
care for her,
I want to write for those who hide
behind the hides built by the hives from the higher-ups of our society,
to put aside propriety to feel properly.
Yet all I can care about is my future property, to take liberty
of my youth to squander on late nights binging studies that hardly
dent the greater picture of life. I would be lying
if I say I don’t regret, the requests and delays
I took just to keep my grades afloat,
but I just feel degraded, forgetting how to boast
as I roast myself, offering nothing but a toast
to my new year, new life, new gears.
I can’t be stressed: I give too much
of a damn for the condemned,
demand too much for a dame
whose father told her to shut her trap.
But her mother told her to build a damn
for those tears and cut the crap.
Thoughts messier than tree’s roots, sappier
than a politician’s toots. I am happier
than the rich men. Greet the day, growing greyer
with teeth borned to be gritted, brows
made to knitted.
“Daddy didn’t teach ya how to smile?” He called.
I sneered, I don’t need to smile, I smite.
I am no damsel in distress.
Inspired by finals stresses and caffeine.