Unspoken Sentiments

Unspoken Sentiments

Sometimes…

I wish I was daring enough to speak aloud

the words I scribble onto the page

in this notebook.

To scream at the top of my lungs

exactly how I feel – what I believe

in that very moment.

Have the courage to breathe life into these lines,

pulling them from the flimsy college rule

stained with the ink of poems past

and release them into the cold winter air

like a thousand tiny paper planes.

Have the guts to

pull the pin from these grenades

watching their explosions

with spasmodic glee.

Sure, on paper I’m brave,

I feel the words fly from my fingertips

onto seemingly endless pages,

free and clear and beautiful,

but once the ink is dry they are locked

within the margins of my mind,

sheltered and hidden deep within

like the buried treasures of old.

I keep them that way,

fossils of fastidious feelings

that will grow dust

in unopened folders

in the backlogs of my computer.

The way I see it,

the way I protect myself,

Is that no one can judge what they haven’t heard

or seen.

No one can hear my deepest and darkest secrets

if I refuse to speak them aloud to anyone.

At least that way I’ll be safe, right?

Sometimes, just sometimes,

I wish I was strong.

Wish I was brave enough

to rip the cobwebs off these phrases

and shout my unspoken sentiments to whoever will listen.

I wish I could say the way I love you

to your face.

But I don’t,

because deep down

I can’t muster up the confidence to speak my voice.

I don’t-

because I know I’m too afraid

To take that risk,

expose that intimate part of myself

to anyone or anything but the page

in front of me.

I don’t-

because I can imagine my pulsating heart

lying on the chopping block,

you with butcher knife in hand,

slicing and dicing my heart into horrifying pieces.

I can’t help but cringe

as I imagine the pain stabbing into every fiber,

even the tiniest corners of my soul,

and that image is just too damn terrifying.

I don’t.

because I’m a coward.

because I wonder what the world,

what you,

 would think of me.

original: 2.2011

latest: 4.2011

Dear Girl in the Women's Bathroom on the First Floor of Shaw

Dear Girl in the Women’s Bathroom on the First Floor of Shaw

To Whom it May Concern,

I had a lovely time, yesterday, hearing about Mike’s

luxurious locks

his smoldering good-looks,

and the way your eyes locked across the dance floor at Theta Chi,

how his hands, smelling mildly of perspiration,

cologne,

and Keystone Light,

caressed your neck and you were hooked.

I really am sorry that he’s giving you

The run-around

sending you mixed signals

that are making your head spin,

and that his frat-boy flakiness

is breaking your heart

But I’m even more sorry that you don’t have the confidence

in yourself to know you deserve better.

To know you’re only as strong as you let yourself be,

So don’t let the douches bring you down.

But let’s be real here-

As much advice as I’d like to give,  

I’m really not invested in your life story.

This might seem a bit harsh,

But given that we’re currently in

The only women’s bathroom in the whole of Shaw Hall,

All I want to do is pee in peace.

Just after I enter my stall,

on the brink of that exquisite moment of release,

I hear a metallic keening,  

suddenly pumping the room full of

“if you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it.”

then, your shrill voice,

pervading the formerly

Silent air with these immortal words…

“I swear that bastard will regret

dancing with me all night long, friending me on Facebook.

and then making out with Cindy the  next fucking night at afterhours.”   

I’m pretty sure I’m not alone

In thinking

That it’s entirely idiotic

to make the assumption that you are alone

In a very PUBLIC restroom.

That’s why it’s public, after all.

because, you know, people USE IT.

And here you are—

Stomping in like you own the world,

Or at least most of Illinois Wesleyan,

ruining my previously pleasant bathroom experience.

Now I either get to sit here and wait

Until you finish dusting yourself in the mirror

To make my move to the exit,

Or I flush now, and make you

Embarrassingly aware of my presence,

And the fact that you spilled your heart out

With me two stalls over.  

Neither of these options is appealing.

But I guess I don’t have a choice.

I remain silent,

Seething at you in my head,

As your voice

as torturous as a never ending baby’s wail,  

or a thousand years of listening to nails scratch

on an ancient chalkboard,

continues to interrupt my attempted

respite from the monotonies of class.

I wait—for my chance to relieve the building stress  

On my organs

while a veritable river of insults

speeds through my brain.

Finally you stop,

And I start to silently

Thank the bathroom gods for being so kind,

When I hear you choke back a sob,

Trying to keep yourself from breaking down.

That’s when I know I’ve gone too far.  

Until this moment,

You were just a voice, a pest—

Something I wanted to swat away.

One of those stupid green aphids

that swarmed the quad last fall,

getting into our noses, eyes, mouths,

making moving anywhere a battle.

But Girl, your tears have made you real.

Even though I never said anything,

The thoughts in my head were bad enough.

I act this way—think this way,

because I’m jealous that someone liked you enough

To at least try to hook up with you,

Because I’m fairly certain I’m dying alone.

I’m making fun of you to prove to myself

However pointlessly,

That I’m stronger than that.

I’m above you,

That I don’t need a guy’s attention to fulfill me,

Because I’m okay with being alone.

But really I’m not.

And that scares the crap out of me.

I’m also just jealous

Because you have the courage to talk about your problems

No matter where you are.

You’re probably aware that you are in a bathroom,
but you’ve stopped caring what people think,

And I haven’t.

I wish I could stand up and flush right now,

But I’m too much of a coward.

So thanks.

You’ve taught me something important.

Taught me that having the guts to speak my voice

is sometimes just as important as the words being said.

I guess all that’s left to say is…

I’m sorry,

Girl in the women’s bathroom on the first floor of Shaw.

Sorry for my needless judgment,

And even sorrier for your pain.

But, most importantly,

I hope you find someone who deserves you.

Because obviously Mike didn’t.

I hope you can see that.

I hope you can be happy.

original: 2.2011

latest: 5.2011

Finding Flight

Finding Flight  

This blank page resounds

echoes of past verbal grace

Linger on pale skin

Random assortment

language is electrified

the poem begins

One quiet quatrain

leaping through the vast divide

merging words and flesh

The sonnet alive

pulsating with borrowed light

majestically pure

A culmination

the words they speak no longer

I must be reborn


original: 3.2011
latest: 4.2011

My Ancestral Angels and Demons

My Ancestral Angels and Demons

You always used to tell me,

and still say so today,

that I am just like her.

Something in my smile,

the way I carry myself,

the deep and piercing blue of my eyes—

seems to you like a reincarnation

of that strong-willed woman

who framed your very existence

called you her baby

sang you lullabies

and raised you to be the woman you are.

In the darker corners of the night

when sleep evades my willing fingers

I often think to myself

wonder silently

and introspectively

what my life would be like

if I had known her—

seen the strength behind her eyes

and the wisdom and grace behind her smile.

I imagine

in anguished twilights

and twisted midnights

the questions I would ask

feel her arms wrap around me,

The warmth of her embrace

and the end of the silent mystery of her existence—

but know it can never be.

I feel the fresh hot tears

and close my eyes.

I imagine her saying she’s proud of me.

That’s not saying I ever felt deprived

without having her here—

you gave me and the boys everything

we ever needed and more.

I am who I am because of you.

Just when I see friends

who knew their grandmothers well,

have thousands upon thousands of memories

stored in the memory banks of their minds,

I think of how she was ripped from my life

before I was even a thought.

I hear the erratic heartbeats

 pulsing in my head--

feel the echoes of the disease that took her away.

I think,

sometimes for seconds,

sometimes for hours,

how I just want to know her,

and get the chance to say

how deeply honored I am

every time you tell me that I’m like her.

That I have her eyes,

her hair,

or her laugh.

I keep these treasures close to my heart.

I wonder what she would say.

I hope that she would love me,

accept me as you do.

I’d like to think she would,

I won’t ever really know.

But really,

truly,

I’m scared to death of the age

Of 24—

that year when you lost the woman who held your world together.

I see the expressions on your face

When you speak of her,

the pain and the anguish

behind the memories of her loss

that haven’t faded in thirty years.

I can’t help but wonder

when I’ll lose you.

My world.

My anchor.

So I pray—

whenever I get a chance---

to God,

even though He and I have always walked a rocky path—

that he keeps Edith safe in heaven,

keeps Mary-Ann as close to Him as she is to our hearts,

and keeps you with me as long as possible.

original: 3.2011

latest: 3.2011