her face hit the granite countertop just like that
with the force of 14 porcelain bowls hitting the ground
and thus ended the argument
there is no arguing at that point
what is there to say?
I’m sorry but…
ruins an argument regardless how well formed
in spinning systems a world was bent backwards into something far more intangible than emotion–no room to move as socks stick to floors that won’t let loose–and it gets to be so close, the walls, the center, the drapery–and it will not let loose–and it refuses to leave–with no where to go
“It started a year ago. I lost all awareness of time and the space around me. All I could see was his trembling body aching for help. It was my brother’s fifth seizure, a battle that he was in the midst of conquering for years. The control I took at that moment was beyond my personal relationship with him and the pain coursing through my heart, the control was my ache to heal. Since that day, I have had the ambition to heal, heal the broken, and heal people in dire need. ”
I wrote this a month ago for a scholarship essay. Even though it has become “normal” for my family, it’s not easy for me to talk about.
Three days ago was mothers day. Three days ago was also an anniversary.
May 10th was easily one of the harder days that I faced in my short lifetime despite the loss that I have experienced.
Death was introduced to me at a young age and has been one of the more consistent concepts in my life: my grandmothers, my grandfather, my aunt, a friend.
But this was worse. Grieving loss is one thing but the anxiety that is paired with the potential and fear of death is a much larger burden to bear.
Over the past 6 years, I have internalized many emotions and fears that I have for his life: Once I speak of my fears do they come true? Is his safety my responsibility? When does care cross into obsessive anxiety?
Eventually, I found acceptance. But it wasn’t easy.
Three days ago, we celebrated mother’s day with … peace and gratitude. I held my tongue as we sat under the sycamore trees while the birds sang above us and simply enjoyed what God had given us.
i just have to take a break from writing poetry or writing things that matter even when they dont. I feel like we are close enough for me not to worry about like trying to be eloquent or something
sometimes i wonder if i am just hiding behind large words and pretty images
maybe it is more real for me to just say things than to try and veil my feelings by describing them in new interesting ways that are fun for you to read
you know i mean what i say in those other poems and stuff
i just feel like the poems are kinda formal and this is just more conversational in a way that feels more comfortable
so i guess all i mean to say is i just needed one week off from it all
The fembots. An early sign of the objectification and sexualization of the woman in pop culture.
Ironically, “FEMBOTS” is the title of her strictly female artist playlist on Spotify. It’s still an early adaptation of a playlist that has the potential to go down in user oliviarosebrown5’s history as the best of her creation.
pc: pinteres.com
Once a month, I find myself grazing over the 20 playlists that each have their own emotions: pain, reminisce, serenity, pure joy.
My feminist playlist was something that came to me over the years. Artists and songs that represented what it meant to be a strong woman were scattered over my several playlists.
I found Eryn Allen Kane with Leon Bridges,
Janet and Whitney with Michael,
And Maggie in a junk drawer of alternative music.
Each of them deserved to have their voices heard with clairity and without that pressure of male artists.
Enter “Fembots.”
“Fembots” is filled with female artists that taught me what it meant to love music the way I do. And not only that, they taught me about… life.
The eerie yet poetic nature of Chloe and Halle as they ponder human impatience.
Amber recreating a masterpiece with a new perspective while still preaching love’s power.
Janet understanding that we don’t understand what we have until its gone.
The confidence in being lost and letting ourselves be free from conformity is from Sabrina.
Jamila offers “A Psalm Of Self-Love.”
The female artist that I have loved since I was a little girl dancing in her underwear has taught me more than what is reflected here but that’s for me to keep in my back pocket.
It was flying through the air at full force, I think because something was chasing it. It hit the window with a loud bang and fell to the ground below with a much softer sound, feathers swirling all the way down. It left behind a perfect imprint of wings fully splayed as they smacked into the inch-thick glass above my kitchen sink.
So Dad picked up its body and threw it onto the roof for the hawk on the telephone wire to see. If a dove had to die, he said, it might as well provide for something else.
The hawk seemed young to me when it came some minutes later and carried the other bird away. I looked up and tried to see where spring had gone.
It’s hard for me to tell days from other days when the sky is like this, the color of a dead dove and completely still. I can’t remember how many weeks it’s been and today I wrote that it was May.
I looked at the calendar to see that it was the 19th and finally I realized we are in April. An entire month has gone by and to me it’s felt like one very long day.
White pillowy clouds and pink petals on the warm brick as the sun beats down is her back drop,
As she rattles on about the corrupt world filled with
a dark persistence.
/ / /
Its been seventeen days, four-hundred and eight hours in this house and its been miserable.
The anger, the loneliness, and the disconnect are empty feelings that course through my veins on a loop as I try to navigate life.
I miss them. I miss their laughter and smiles. I miss their clothes. I miss their smell.
My tears burned my cheeks at 11pm. It was the first time I cried. It was the first time I felt completely unsafe and scared.
My body aches for human contact.
photo credit: pinterest.com
/ / /
As a daughter, I go through moments of my life where I don’t see eye to eye with my mother. And I thinks that’s true for most mother-daughter relationships.
The passive comments, the snarky looks, the aggressive sighs; They never fail me when I’m in the middle of a petty argument with her.
I find myself picking on her, never giving her a break, and trying to erase her imperfections like the comfort she finds in rubbing my ears or clenching her jaw when she is stressed.
But earlier today, I found myself rubbing my own ears and snuggling into her neck when I felt alone. I find myself having her mannerisms and saying the things that when she says them, it irritates me. We come from the same branch at the end of the day.
Her and I,
We come from the same branch at the end of the day.
/ / /
I was staring at my wall today, full of photos from the past four years.
The color from Utah,
The smiles from my girls who know me best,
To the heat of a concert and
The breeze from the beach.
I felt warm inside looking at the
Blue and Orange hues
Only to realize the cold reality.
