Wednesday, October 30, 2013

A Beat

You're words are like a heartbeat in my chest,
pounding out the pulse of my feelings,
tapping out the rhythm of my deepest desires,
tattooing your being into my empty lungs.

Monday, October 28, 2013

The Labels (Alternate Title: Who will you be?)

We don't grow up knowing who we are on a personal level. Instead we grow up assigning labels and adjusting to fit into or
out of those labels. We grow up underneath a plethora of "tags," causing a definite division between our self and the self
the world sees.

We are defined by the colours of our skin, who we choose to love, who we vote for, whether we are smart or pretty. Not by
who we are at our core. The core of who we are is lost in the proverbial shuffle caused by the constant need to navigate the
changing tides of pop culture.

This is why we have a generation of children who don't know who they are, a generation in crisis. A generation of cutters,
self-mutilators; children who don't know their own worth because its never been shown to them. They are constantly under
attack, labeled against their will. Not who they want to be, but who they are manifestly "destined" to be, culturally defined.

It is time for a revolution of sorts. The revolution of the self. Its time to decipher ourselves, ditch the labels, forget the words
that have always been used on us. Its time to choose our own words, discover our own worth. This is the time of flowering,
of bursting open and revealing the beauty inside. A face may be pretty, but it does not define the core of your humanity.

Each of us has an essential spark and it is time for it to ignite. We are not the stereotypes, the labels, the ridiculing voices,
the words that hit harder than any fist. We are unique. We are intelligent. We are gifted. We are stronger than we have ever
given ourselves credit for. Forget everything you've been told and delve into your self. You decide who you will be.

You decide. Not the labels. So, all the labels aside, who are you?

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Temerity

If there was courage it seems to have fled.
Bravery is a drink best drunk by those who can hold their liquor,
not by girls with big hearts and bigger mouths.

The precipice is steep, a long fall, further than Alice's rabbit hole,
darker than a starless night.
Conjuring temerity is a lost art when facing the crypt.

She looks around, gulping the air as though it were water,
clutching the edge as though it were a hand to help her.
It doesn't pull her up and her fingers slip, dropping her down.

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

We're All Mad Here

Madness did not arrive in the form of shackles and screaming tirades.
Instead it crept up, much like a lost kitten, mewling for comfort in the dark.
It purred softly, rubbing and playfully batting.
Before long it was as if it had always been there, swishing its tail.

It wasn't always this way; we were not always this way.
The shifting of the sunlight through the windows shaped the shadows between us.
The soft lilt of a nightingale silenced the questions we never meant to ask.
The madness slipped through the door, its eyes blinking sweetness and confusion.

We danced our evenings to the muted sonatas inside our hearts.
We spun the stories of our whiskey-soaked nightmares onto our skin.
We traced the scars of the sickness into our faces and our minds.
We shaved our heads, cracked open our skulls to dig out the memories.

Madness arrived; without fanfare or a bottle of wine.
It came while we were away, on holiday somewhere far from home.
It was sly and we were lost and wandering in a loblolly before we knew it.
A bottle marked "poison" tasted like custard and we did not resist.