I leaned against the slippery wet rubber of my raft
drifting endlessly into bitter infinities
as the wind lashed, the cold bit, the darkness enveloped,
and the wet seeped in from all sides,
I looked across the ever changing ocean and saw that warm incandescent light
like an embers in a sea of ash
and just barely when the waves willed it
i could see into the ship that radiated your warmth
into the tiny window with a light on
into the entire world of you
writing a to-do list
the drop of a penny
the splash of water
the cling of a glass
noise is more than just a sense
for some it is a lifestyle
for some it is an artstlye
without noise the world we know would be bland
the world would be without the beautiful sounds
crickets chirping at night
birds singing in the morning
it would all be gone
we dont notice it very often
but noise is an eccential factor to our lives
we see it as just a function of our body
but no, it is much more than that
noise is love
noise is happiness
noise is peacfulness
in my best dreams I can fly around the world
but my favorite place to fly, is the starry night sky
full of the wonders and curiosity of the universe
it has been the place of whom i love most
when i look up i can see them and remember
the times when i was succumbed by their beauty and grace
their gentle smiling face
it is not very often that i get the chance to reminisce our past
for when i do get the chance, time fly’s by quicker than a shooting star
the stars are a most amazing place
to those who are up there in peace, i envy to a degree
to those who look up at the starry night sky
what do you see?
photo credit: wallpapercave.com
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
he walked back and took shelter in the wall
averting his eyes
aware of the nerves in his front teeth
and feeling sick down in the bottom of his being
“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.
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.
Surely, goodness and mercy shall follow me.
Psalm 23:6
she rots from the inside out
invisible save the yellow in her sunken eyes
she knows more than I ever thought she could
of suffering
of loss
and like a gnawing in my gut
the unmistakable stench of raw human
bubbling to the surface
a fetid mess of spoiled hope
the decomposing children
the putrid flowers in a gaudy crystal vase
with glossy eyes
she grips at the double-stitched seam
the edges of her perishing world
casting into the pit
only to reel in rancor
then with bitterness and spite
she reaches into my throat
her bubbling skin
her gold plated wedding band
and she rips from its moorings
a part of me
cold and clean
(that night I washed my hands with crude oil)
A dove died today and I realized I’d lost April.
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.
I’m hoping for blue skies tomorrow.
From my solemn post, alone on a sun baked cliff,
I can see further than light.
As happenstance and hot horseflies circle,
I can feel those hills burst forth into mountains.
And I can hear the trees fall on deaf ears.
From my perch,
three or so feet glare at my toes.
A rigid sun hides shadows adeptly.
And the wind is coaxed by the birds.
Sure, perspective can be height.
There is altitude to be gained.
But as he increases his distance from the ground, the gravel and grass where his body will land is obscured.
OVS Journalism Blog 
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