Broken

Falling deeper down -
feeling Restless now
- Can't you see the Chameleon is
playing Tricks again

wide Open eyes
yea i'm Stronger Inside -
this World wants a Game, i'll
Put on a real good Show
just Try and hold Me back and
i Promise you Will Burn

i'm Numb to all the Casualties
lying at my Feet
Here i go Again -
Inside my Fears are catalyzed
- i'm not safe
but somehow I know, I am better now
Better now
Chained -

I Have A Dream

Every time I see the way words fall across a page and the how one can have such a way with them to make them express every feeling, color, and good or bad moment, it just increases my desire to bend words to my will.  Writing allows me to have control over any situation that I write about even if I have no control over anything in my life.  
A writer is able to bring death, life, joy, sadness, to his (or her) characters in fictitious writing and in poetry, one can use words to be able to describe colors, scenery, every situation, and the world itself.   The colors that fly across the page, the nature that comes alive, the words, they just soar throughout one’s mind and create a beautiful masterpiece once they’ve landed.  
When I’m writing I can make my world come alive and clear it of everything that is unwelcome.  I want to be able to share this ability with others; I want to be one of the great writers of my time.

     
A great writer with just one simple word can make a person fall to his knees as pain swells in his chest or rise to his feet with an over-flowing euphoria.  One word can cause a nation to make a long-lasting decision it will soon come to regret or one that could save millions.  
The bridges of relationships are built up and burned down with words; lives are saved with just a word, this nation, our universe, was founded and brought to life with a few simple words. 

     
Think about it: if we didn’t have creative control of the words we say and how we use them, where would we be?  If we didn’t have the free will to speak how we choose to, write what and how we please, what would it be like?  
As Americans, we have this freedom and we all take it for granted.  There are other nations, other countries, which do not have this freedom, they don’t have the power of free speech and to write what they like.  Some of them do not even have the freedom to write at all, many are bound to a life of silence or death will come to them and/or their loved ones.  
Americans do not have to worry about this.  We can say what we want to, to whomever, and we can write without penalty. 

     
My dream is to see that every nation, every country, state, and peninsula is able to have this freedom.  The freedom to speak, the freedom to write and be creative should not be hidden from any human being. 

     
My dream is to see every child become fully adept in writing, whether as a profession or just for themselves, but no one should be deprived of such a wonderful privilege. 

     
I long for the day when freedom of speech - in words both spoken and written - is fully free and people are no longer prosecuted, punished, for speaking their minds or writing down the words placed on their hearts.

Untitled

Acid rain and Lightening
Ripping across my Body -
teardrops Burn like Ice and Fire,
gentle Summer breezes - Alive
tonight - my Heart in Silence Be
Forgotten Memory - Restless sleep

Breakdown

You know how sometimes you just feel like bursting into tears and you have no idea why?  You know that feeling you get where you're just so depressed that you want to stop trying?  That feeling where you feel so weak and unworthy that you're afraid to try to stand up?

That's the breaking point.  It's where the breakdown's gonna happen.

You can't stop it.

You can't run from it.

I've suffered through the pain of my own breakdown in the past - two, in fact - and I can honestly tell you that it's hell to get through, but that I wouldn't have made it through alive if it weren't for certain friends.  My friends were (and are) wonderful and way more patient and kind than I deserved, but I'm forever grateful for what they did for me.  

The journey through may seem to be unbearable, but I can promise you that once you reach the other side, there will be a change.  A change for the better and a change in *you.*  It will be worth it.

"....the pain ain't gonna last forever...."  - Mandisa 'Stonger'

And though that simple phrase is, I agree, such a cliche, the message it speaks is profound and rings ever true.  I know it feels like pain is all you have, but it's not.  It will never be all you have.  I won't tell you that it will one day leave and you'll be pain-free, but I will say that as time goes on and you take the time to allow yourself to heal, it will lessen.  And once it lessen's, you'll begin to be able to stand again and soon you'll be taking baby steps and learning to walk and run once more.  

"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent."  - Eleanor Roosevelt

This First Lady hit the nail on the head with this one; what a wise woman.  No one can make you feel unworthy, unwanted, unloved, inferior, etc., unless *you* allow them to or *you* give them permission to do so.
I mean, think about how many women are in (or have been in) relationships where they're treated so wrongly and then they [the women], as a result, feel inferior, unworthy of love and a good man (or woman!), they feel like they're not beautiful; ladies, you are all of those things and so much more!  I know it's difficult to think about it in that situation and it's even more so to break away from it, but  - though it may not feel like it in the moment - *you* are allowing yourself to feel that way and you are allowing that man to treat you like that.
Be an Eleanor!  Stand up for yourself!  Take a stand and make a change.

To sum things up: Breakdown's will happen, but it's how you handle them that makes all the difference.  Let someone in enough to help you heal; allow the pain to lessen so you can enjoy the adventure [life] you're in.  Wake up and let out your inner Eleanor!  Let yourself shine and if there's people in your life who can't handle that, well, then they know where the door is and they can just leave.

How will you take a stand?
How will you handle your breakdown?
How will you make a change?

Until our next encounter,
Lauren

Government From The Eyes of A Poet

Inspired from The Completed Works of Emily Dickinson by Emily Dickinson

Hell hath told no tale as poised – debated – shot –

as the House and his affiliates

They were Fire to our fertile lands –

We ran – Frigid and fleet

to one with Milk and Honey, a Hallowed name –

“Secrets” is a daily word

buried under the magic Prison Capital

We blush for requisition be –

Senate’s Balls of Gold fall – Bastards

of Act or Accident, we have become Pregnable

A Phoebe – born in filth – clad in stolen wealth

the Death of our Country Be

Philosophy of Writing - 2013

            This past year has been hell, in most things, to get through, but I did it.  And you know what?  As I went through each situation, I found that my writing was the only thing holding me together, the only thing keeping me tied to the post of life.  It has challenged me in ways I never imagined, but it’s also caused me to grow into the poet I am today and, for that reason, I’m grateful to all that’s been thrown my way. 

            My philosophy of writing is constantly changing.  It changes as I find new methods to try my hand at, new authors and their ideas and/or habits – it will never cease to change for if it does, I will be dead. 

            Each writer has her (or his) own thoughts on their work of focus and that’s what makes us all so unique.  If we all followed each other like sheep follow the shepherd, the world of poetry, the world of writing, would soon cease to exist.  Then where would we be?  We would be useless creatures. 

Without individually having a philosophy to improve and nurture, we are nothing more than the average bear.  With it, we are invincible.  We are unstoppable.

            Think about these questions.  How many times have you felt like you were drowning in the weight of your own life?  How often have you considered giving up and forgetting about all your dreams and goals because it was “just too hard to fulfill them”?  It is seen, from my eyes at least, that all too often do writers struggle with these very questions and too often does the fire and passion fizzle out because of the pressure. 

BUT, to those of us who persevere, bravo.

We are the fighters.  We will win. 

I will fight for my passion and for my writing until the day I pass from this world to the next.  You cannot stop me – I will be as a Kansas tornado; everything that stands in my way will be ripped from its roots and tossed aside.  Sometimes fighting for this is the hardest thing ever, sometimes I get little to zero support from my family, but I know that this is what I was meant to do and, hard as it may be, I WILL continue to pursue this.  This is my love, my life – it’s my everything.

            Though my life is ever-changing, sometimes for the worst, writing is what I cling to to keep me strong.  My philosophy is this: If you find your strength is also where your heart is, nurture that fire, let it fester and grow.  And burn anyone who looks to dim your fire or, God-forbid, put it out.

The Woman Who Drinks Hearts

She hunts down her meals, intoxicates them with the vanilla bean scent of her Aveeno covered skin.  The invitation overwhelms their senses; they can’t keep away.  She moves sensually through a hidden, red-silk laced corridor with small lights setting the mood along the way.  Following her every move, they round a corner and fall head-on into several barred metal contraptions.  She glides around each one, breathing in the scent they emit.  From the air, it seems, she produces a small strip of cowhide and cracks it once – the noise resonates throughout the open concrete room.  In the far corner, there’s a round bed drenched in velvet blood and white satin feather downs.  Each man, in turn, gets a teaser before the darkest of them is released.  He’s led over to the dimly lit bed and she begins. 

She touches his smooth, mocha skin, caresses his muscled chest and slowly drags the gentle brown cowhide down his body – from his chin to the top of his precious cargo.  Crawling back up, she sets her body down, passionately presses her lips to his and seductively allows her tongue to dance with his.  His cargo soon pressed against her leg. 

It’s time.

Taking his face in her hands, she leans in and whispers against his lips, “You’ve been so compliant tonight.  I thank you.” 

            Her poisoned kisses have left him paralyzed beneath her.  She smiles as his face sinks into itself, stretching the skin to look like thin creeping vines across a building’s side.  She reaches for his chest and, swift as a hummingbird, plunges her hand inside and grabs his heart.  Pulling it out for him to see, she sets her lips to the left ventricle and sucks his soul through it.  Her own heart swells with pleasure as his eyes slide into his brain.  For good.

Finding Love in Arms

They met at Wong Chi’s, the local bar down on 49^th street near the old, abandoned outhouse.

She was clearly distraught.  Her auburn-copper hair fell in twists, catching the light reflected off of the cherry-red floor.  On her hip he noticed the bulge –

                            a gun.

“What kind of woman carries a gun?”

She smiled.

“One on the run,” she said.

“Whiskey,” she nodded to the bartender.

Whiskey?  What a woman….*sigh,* he thought.

They sat on stools dressed in red and white checkers and talked long into the night.  He asked her why.  She broke a deal.  Some men want her dead.  His daughter drowned two years before Ming, his wife, got cancer.  Ming died last year in the tulip garden.  He wiped a tear.  She bled out her story of the twisted web she was in.  Without warning, she lost her hardened exterior.

A woman crying.  With a beer.  And a gun.

He wasn’t sure what to say.  He fumbled for words.  “I love you,” he said. 

His face turned crimson.  He started to leave, but her touch stopped him cold.

She moved to face him, brought her smooth, vanilla skin to his warm cheek and whispered against his lips, “I love you, too.”

Unexpected Joy

I found this quote in the front cover of 'The Complete Poems of Marianne Moore,' and I couldn't stop thinking about it.  Just the way it was worded intrigued me so and I found myself writing.  I initially wrote this for my ACW Portfolio, but I think it deserves a place here - on my blog.  I truly hope you all, my readers, enjoy this short piece and please, don't be shy about posting an opinion or thought.  c:

“Laughter sparkles like a splash of water in sunlight” – Anonymous

To walk a Thousand Days – fortunate

eyes Glimmer with Lust

For the Crystal pool to taint its

never-ending heated Light – the touch

of A Child’s titter to Be

the Ripple found in the Sunlight

Untitled

“Inspired from Poems by Maya Angelou”

With skin like dawn

The scullery maids create a love child

From the Black-White truth of

The lip-wise owners living

in the broken air spread across their massive properties

The fruit and grains witness

The blooming horror

of the staining on the shoes

Of the grown

Rubbing the nakedness of the child’s bursting balloon belly

Whilst thick scars lay across their backs

and their tiny hands calloused

from the weight of a thousand white men

Untitled

“Inspired from Play Button Poems by Liz Robbins”

Be exposed,

              you

       weight of error

fused to the reddened child

          like Jesus on his crucifix

                       in October

         

          Tricks of smoke drip

                       off my tongue to land

       between

                       Juno’s spread legs

               

                behind the drooped laundry line

          her pockmarked mum

                       frozen in silent warmth

Our generation

              the last of the guitar bodies

       lay on colored tissue

                                  bloodied

                   by the gut-ropes hidden by

   the purple twinge we call

                                Dear Darkness

Golgatha

        Pure flesh,
life-sustaining breath,
       scarlet liquid,
ring of thorns adorned;
     Selfless love proclaiming,
"Forgive them - I am here!"
    Angry lights flash,
mighty claps roar high above;
    a mother's tears
                   ring out,
    a Father's body shakes -
       He's scorned His Son,
       A Son
                  dying
          for His Beloved
                                   Bride.