Friday, September 21, 2012

Unremarkable

daddy does the stage tricks
and mommy reads the fortune,
sissy likes to fly,
loves dancing with the moon.
auntie speaks to animals,
uncle chats with ghosts,
while I sit here and listen
as they give each other toasts.

for daddy, sleight-of-hand
is cheating through and through;
he claims he does real magic
when he saws his guests in two.

for mommy, good fortunes
are worse than a white lie;
she claims the cards are props,
something for customers to deny.

for sissy, trampolines
are for handicapped swallows;
her feet so light, she claims, for flight,
and bones completely hollow.

daddy does the stage tricks
and mommy reads her tarot,
sissy likes to fly,
air instead of marrow.
auntie speaks to animals,
uncle chats with ghosts,
I wander off to be alone,
while they sit there and gloat.

for auntie, talking to them,
is more body language than voice;
she claims she just listens,
and talking back is their choice.

for uncle, seers and seances
are just a load of bull;
he claims they're talking constantly,
the airwaves always full.

for me, I'm nothing special,
I've got zilch up my sleeves,
listening gets me nothing,
except them bragging in between.

daddy does the stage tricks
and mommy has a crystal ball,
sissy likes to fly,
and I just seem to fall.
auntie listens to animals,
uncle communes with the dead,
I left them to their boasting,
and they didn't hear my tread.

for me, sure, I walk quietly,
but that's just a learned skill;
it's not a gift or anything,
not bending sound waves to my will.

for me, sure, I get forgotten,
but I don't actually disappear;
my family's too busy showing off
to see me when I'm there.

daddy searches his boxes,
while mommy checks her hands,
sissy looks outside,
all without a plan.
auntie asks the spiders,
uncle questions the gods,
but they can't seem to find me,
they won't open their eyes and see me...
I'm just sitting, beating the odds.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Winning (Mature)

Mature Content
--

I can dance in the space between the worlds,
I can create dreams with letters, words,
I can light up the night with hope,
I can swallow the whole spinning earth.

I can decide left or right,
I can decide to stand and fight,
But what hangs beyond my worth
Is seeing beyond this endless blight.

If I finish my work and live in success,
I can appreciate what I've been blessed,
My ability to emotionally write...
...but I'm planning to fail that test.

If I finish my work and end it all,
Make myself win, then let myself fall,
Cut out on a high note no-one would guess.
Achieve my dream and achieve my death.

Better to die win honor pouring in,
Than cut out when the going's getting grim;
I'm planning to when standing most tall,
When the light is brightest, before it goes dim.

I'm going to take my world in my hands,
Take my free will and take my stand,
Take my whuffie and WIN;
Return to my book, my love, my friends.

--
"Whuffie" is a karma-based currency from Cory Doctorow's "Down and Out In The Magic Kingdom."

Sunday, September 2, 2012

Emily

This room used to be my world. I would sit, and write, and my eyes to the world outside would come through as post, letters, handwritten and hard-considered, for the cost of paper, patience, and postage. Once, a window, which looked out into a garden of posies, the color in my dim world. This was indeed a prison, but I was-- I am free. The world is imprisoned, and I am here free.

A new window was installed, and now my world is still brighter than ever. The post still comes, in moments instead of days, soon enough that too much thought of consequence goes right out the... well, window.

It's a window to the world, wider than that draped with curtains, more vibrant, more fast paced, more breathless. Sometimes, I yearn for paper and pen, mediums of a slower version of this world, when thought went into every word set down, when the world was smaller, and I felt not so tiny.

But I find myself drowning as much as ever. I can share my art, even as little as I think of some pieces, but I'm floundering in a realm of pictures and movies. My words are sometimes simple, but they tear at my heartstrings, and it takes closing the window to rebuild them.

A photograph takes a moment of attention, a painting a week of patience, a movie a month of planning but a relative moment to record. A poem takes my whole soul, my whole being, my whole likeness, my whole life... and courage. Courage to stand in the darkness long enough to desire the light. Courage to wait in hell long enough to wish for heaven. Courage to feel myself dying, and the world dying around me, and to let it die.

There is no immortality here, though they say everything is kept. Only obscurity, if you cannot find someone or somewhere to be found, read, listened to, understood. Even if they cannot edit the words, they can edit their understanding of them, and sometimes that is too much.

Sometimes, I yearn for my paper, my pens, and ever dream of posies.