Confessionals

They were raw and ready to be devoured, hidden in the skin, aching through the bones, pulsing through the soul,
Painfully throbbing at all hours of the day. It made us weak, so we never let it show.
The gap was too wide to bridge. If we had faith we could walk, no fly, across the seas,
But poker faces, drinks that are laced with, Lord knows what, stripped us of our beings.

I'd walk into the booth and tell my sins, if I thought it would have an impact on my end.
But instead I confess my regrets through the tear stained paper and black inked pen.
Father, Father you've made it too easy for us to hide behind a guise,
So we suppress and oppress out of fear. In return for false strength we're left unwise.

We drowned in emotions and gasped for air. How did we think we could stand against the waves?
Now we're left running through the numbing wind. It's funny to think we once thought we were brave.
I prefer beaches that are rocky, with waves that clash and fog that hides the horizon,
Where the sun doesn't shine, but the rain does fall because the darkness is much easier to hide in.

I'd walk into the booth and tell my sins, if I thought someone would listen to my pleas.
I'd wear my insecurities on my wrist if I wasn't afraid of what I'd see.
I think my soul would suffer if I let my bones turn to ash
Before I had the chance to reconcile with my inner self and with my past.

The art of confessing is best expressed through the art that one adores.
Between the lines you can find what a soul won't confess, and much more.
Raw emotions, hidden flaws, quiet thoughts, running free
Only when we devour what once pained us to believe.

How much longer can indifference conceal the inner wreck?
The ships clashed onto the rocks, when the fog and fear met.
And I swear, I'd walk into the booth and confess all my sins,
Only, and only if, I had any idea where to begin.

Mute

A meek voice like my own may be drowned out in the presence of roars, but that does not detract from its value.

The Meek Shall Inherit

A prophet was on the train today; he had a slight slouch in his stance and his hair seemed
Unkempt. I couldn't tell him apart from the old man I passed by on 42nd street
Yesterday. The only difference was a stack of papers replaced the infamous cardboard
Sign. "THE RICH ARE THE MAKINGS OF THE DEVIL." I remember him saying over and over
Again. No one on the train aknowledged the
Prophet. No one on the train
Cared. But that didn't stop the prophet from continuing his
Prophecy. "THE MEEK SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH." He claimed this familiar phrase as his
Own. "WE ARE NOT DIVIDED BY RACE. WE ARE DIVIDED BY CLASS. THE RICH ARE THE MAKINGS OF THE
DEVIL."

The papers held his full analysis of the current state of
Humankind. He tried to hand them out but no one on the train accepted
It. Just like no one gave the man begging for change on the train yesterday a
Dime. I guess they can neither give nor
Receive. "THE MEEK SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH." I think I remember seeing that written in black marker on a cardboard
Sign. An empty cup sat next to
It. Who needs the gravel of the Earth when heaven is paved with
Gold? I wanted to ask the prophet but I was ashamed because I rejected his
Paper--just like the
Others. Tomorrow, there will probably be a new age thinker telling us that freedom will not exist until we free ourselves from the grasp of
Materialism. More than likely, his clothes will be fresh and he'll have brochures labeled "THE THREE STEPS TO FREEING YOUR
MIND" but that won't be enough to make the people on the train aknowledge
Him.

It seems as though nothing will ever be
Enough. Not when me have no aknowledgement for a
Prophet, no mercy for a man, but just enough guilt to make us avert our
Eyes.

A Thousand Fears

I told you that I left my steady hands
back home again but all you had to
offer me were gloves to hide the
tremurs. I've never been too good at hiding.                     

My cheeks burn too brightly to be hidden.         
                                  
My eyes falter at hiding any feelings.

Forgive me for being so forgetful but
I can't keep track of everything it
takes to be acceptable
in your eyes. I try anyways and end
up falling because I lifted my eyes off
the ground.                         

I would never ask anything of you. My
hands may shake and my feet may
stumble, but I haven't forgotten how
to stand on my own. If you must
give me something, offer me your
patience every time I fall. Offer
an escape if nothing else.

Because I'm tired of ending up here,
surrounded by a thousand fears.

I'm tired of hands that shake too hard
to reach for anything of substance.

Human Nature

Our Father, which art in heaven,
Hollow is my soul.
I've been guilt-stricken,
Unforgiven,
For doubting what I've been told.
I've been tied down,
Force fed,
And chained to the belief
That I cannot escape this guilt
Without giving up what makes me free.

I will not lie.
I did not lie --
except to myself.
Lord and Father,
When I die
Will I find myself in hell?
For you have given us this day
A chance to chase hope and search for meaning
But I turned away from hope in you
To have a chance at dreaming.

My mind has had a taste of freedom
And it's more soothing than the chains,
But still I'm left
With bruises
And an ever-throbbing pang
That sits within my heart
As I rethink all that I've learned.
Will you forgive me
For my yearning,
As I forgive those who say I'll burn?

The Lucky Ones

Have you found the beauty of
getting old yet
or is it still lurking
and hiding
within the lives of those
lucky ones
who are lucky enough to
age gracefully
would it be too much
for me to ask
you to stop fading
away from me
because every time I look at you
all I see is
the weight of sixty years
breaking you
down
sixty years that went by
too fast and of which
only seventeen you knew me
but you loved me
and you watched me grow
while I watched you grow
and now I'm watching you
slip away
but sixty years is not fair
now is too soon
for me to call this beautiful and
if I ever hear anyone say
that there's beauty in
death
then I'll assume
they've never seen anyone
dying or at least they've never seen
my grandmother
after her third trip to
the hospital
in a month
they've never seen
her smile
fade away because she couldn't
speak loud enough
for anyone to hear one of her
classic jokes
I don't give a damn
if heaven needs
another
soul to sing heavenly ballads
sixty years is not fair
and if she goes
I'll break
even further than
I've already broken
just watching her
go
and wishing that she
was one of the lucky ones.

If This is the Worst, Then Please Tell Me it Gets Better

Who do I think I am to reach for something greater than mediocrity, when excellence is for the few, and I can barely lift myself out of bed in the morning? To disappoint others is one thing, but failing to make yourself proud does something tragic to the soul. I know for a fact that I am not what others think I am. Then again, who's really as great as what others perceive them to be. It's near impossible when their view of you is blurred and you're forced to see yourself for what you really are. Flaws and all. I know that I'm my biggest critic, but I never thought I'd fall this low. When I start to tell myself that I'm not who I thought, does that mean I've finally found rock bottom? Because I'm afraid that I'm not, and if I fall any lower, then I'm afraid I'll never be.

Mother Knows Best

My mother told me I should be weak. She said that a husband should act as an extension of a father, always there to take care of his wife, because women were like babies and babies needed to be taken care of. She said that women were the weaker counterpart, and when I said I refused to be weak, she said that if a woman was stronger than a man then there was a problem within the household. When I suggested equality she looked at me as though I spoke blasphemy. Still, I stood by my opinion and told her that I would never be with a man who saw me as weak. "Then you'll never find a man!" was her response.

Her criticism didn't stop there. I remember when I told my mother I wanted to adopt. She said she wanted a real grandchild. I always thought that family wasn't confined to blood. I've met people who meant more to me than blood did. She told me I was selfish. Then she said if I didn't give birth to children, then what use was my body? I would be allowing my most important quality to go to waste. Am I wrong for believing that I have other noteworthy qualities? How can I be looked down upon for refusing to be defined in such a simple manner?

It's funny how the same thing that gives me worth and purpose is the same thing that undermines my capabilities as a human being. My mother always seemed to have such low expectations for me. As she criticized my every thought, she told me if I couldn't take criticism from her, how could I take it from the world? If her criticism was constructive I would say it was acceptable, but it never was. Now I see her telling my sisters the same thing, and I worry, not only for them but for her as well. Because this mindset that she attempts to harbor within us can only be a reflection of how she see yourself. You are only weak if you allow yourself to be. I hope she can forgive me as I refuse to be held hostage by her, and the world's, low standards for women. I will not walk in her footsteps, and I will not utter one word of her destruction to my children. Instead, when my daughter speaks of me she will say: My mother told me I should be strong, intelligent, capable, witty and kind and nothing will detract from my value unless I let it.

I Spoke Early

     I spoke early. Early and proper. At least that's what my parents would say if you asked them. Somewhere along the way from when I spoke my first words to when I began forming sentences, I developed a speech impediment. I began as a toddler who fluently spoke well above what was expected of me and ended up as a teenager who could barely say her name without stuttering. This would always lead to someone jokingly asking me, "Did you forget your name?' I'd always laugh at their attempt to joke, but inside it hurt to know that I was being ridiculed. The embarrassment that came along with a speech disorder never seemed to fade away. Every time I opened my mouth to speak my thoughts, I'd be reminded of all the previous failed attempts, and I'd force myself to remain quiet. I quickly became the kid in the class who never spoke a word. The teachers knew me as the student who always had good grades but refused to participant. Constantly, I would wish I could find the strength to overcome the impediment so that my thoughts and ideas could add to class discussion. However, my strength never seemed to outweigh my fears.
     To many, such a simple disorder as a speech impediment may not seem like a significant fault, but in a society ran by those with the strongest voices, it is easy to be forgotten among the sidelines. Human beings are social creatures by nature, and to lack such an important social skill such as communication can be detrimental to an individuals living experience. Speech is commonly overlooked and taken for granted. It's seen as something we tend to indulge in with each other to pass time. What people seem to forget is that speech is the backbone of our society. Through the development of speech, the passing of oral tradition, the creation of local vernacular and more, speech has been there to act as a driving force in the advancement of society. If not for speech, ideas could not be expressed from one mind to the rest of the world. This would lead to a huge gap in our growth as a species. To lack skill in such a fundamental aspect creates a sense of inferiority that I can personally say I have experienced.
      Speech has always been a challenge for me, but it was through this challenge that I found my passion. If not for the moments my cheeks burned red with embarrassment as my eyes bore into the ground or the days my stutter was so severe that silence was the only option, I don't think I would have turned to writing. Although my speech impediment made verbal communication difficult, I found another form of communication through written word. I am well aware that I will never be known to have a voice that flows like honey, and suppressing my speech impediment might not be completely possible, but writing has taken some of the pressure off of my shoulders. Just as communication is a driving force in the advancement of society, writing is a driving force behind my well being. It is my speech impediment that I have to thank for that.

For the Days I Don't Remember

My walls are lined with pictures of people whose names I barely remember, but I remember that moment we stood in front of a camera and smiled.

Every morning is the same. I'll wake up to a familiar smiling face, and wonder if the smiles we're genuine or whether it was just a habit that cameras tend to bring out.

Either way, I continue to rack my brain trying to hold on to the fleeting memories. The pictures are the only proof that the moments happened, and the smiles are comforting.

But in the back of my mind, I am painfully aware of the force behind the smiles and I know that behind all the comfort is nothing but false memories.

And now my walls are lined with false memories, and the photo albums in the corner seem useless.

Yet, I still find myself holding cameras close to my heart, because on the days I don't remember, the forced smiles are always there.

And a part of me still believes that forced smiles are better than none.

Excerpt From a Recent Essay

We’ve always longed for flight. It’s the one quality found in another creature that makes us green with envy. To soar the sky has always been an overwhelming desire, so we projected our yearning into the creation of fairies, angels, and superheroes all the while attempting to mimic their flight through synthetic wings made of aluminum and carbon fiber. However, our attempts were never enough. Wings, or lack there of, became a symbol of freedom that couldn’t be fully achieved in a human life. Our fascination with flight found its way into culture and embedded itself into the stories reserved for beings far superior than the average human. Culture coveted wings, turning to them in times of dire necessity as if they were the only things keeping the human race from the horrors of being earth-bound.

The Arrival of Summer; The Loss of My Nights

The arrival of summer brought about longer days
And, with it, a surge of life.
Shadows cast longer than ever before
Tempting me to hide.
The birds would soar and sing their songs
Making me envious of their flight
Over dandelions that grew wild and free
as, I wish, was I.

Starry nights were replaced with
A harsh, relentless sun.
Birds would soar through my dreams
Ending them before they begun.
Summer dreams, they're now called
As they've all become troublesome.
My only hope comes in the dawn,
When the moon is bound to come.

For it is then the moon rises
As the sun becomes weak.
Amidst the blue sky,
A faint outline is seen.
The craters add depth.
The white light shines beautifully.
It's no wonder the cosmic body
Is known to strike lunacy.

I must not forget that dandelions,
Are weak against the wind,
And those poor birds wings are limited
To this world we live in.
It is I who cast the shadows;
My silhouette that creates allure.
Summer days are long,
But it is the night that is longed for.

It Was Never Love

I've been taking an excessive amount of showers lately. It's what I do when I'm stressed. Maybe I'm trying to wash away the pain or rejuvenate my spirit, either way, I can never get the water to burn hot enough.
I guess I always knew it would come to this. Part of me always saw it in the dullness of your eyes and the coldness of your demeanor. Love could never be that passive, but then again, what do I know? I know one thing for sure; compatibility was nowhere to be seen in your relationship. I would never expect anyone to continue a failing relationship, so all I ask of you is that you don't let this ruin you. What you had was never love, but that doesn't mean you're incapable of it. Please do not become another victim of failed love.

12:31 PM

What have you got to live for in this cold, dark, lonely place
When your thoughts are not your own, and your emotions are forced and cold?
What have you got to die for in this revolutionary age
When you have no burning passion for the destiny you mold?
What have you got within you that keeps you in denial?
So fearful and reserved you won't let your own thoughts roam wild.
What words do you not dare to utter except when your alone?
Quiet whispers in the dark is your attempt at being bold.
...

To an Old Friend

It's been a really long time. I knew that we would lose contact eventually, but I always figured that by then you wouldn't mean as much to me. I figured I would forget you just as I've forgotten other characters of my past, but somehow, you've remained in my thoughts despite my constant efforts to suppress every thought of you.

I don't think you could ever understand how much you meant to me. You were my rock, my motivation, the keeper of my well-being. You showed me how to dream and forced me to believe in myself when I couldn't believe in anything else. You were the sole reason I gained the mindset that not only could I be, but I was, capable of accomplishing great things. You were unbelievably amazing, and you reflected yourself upon me.

I don't cry to anyone, but I cried to you. I told you every thing through uncontrollable sobs and you listened without comment. Sometimes all you need is an ear to listen. You were that and more. I've faced darker moments since that night, but no one is around to comfort me anymore. I yearn for our friendship constantly. Not many come close to your sincerity.

You called me the other day. It took me a awhile to find the courage to answer. Once I did, all I heard was background noise, which led me to assume that the call was accidental. I hung up and spent a while trying to figure out why that hurt me so much. I guess it was the fact that you've kept my number after all these years, but you never found a reason to use it.

I suppose whoever has the power to help you stand has the power to bring you to your knees, and bring me to my knees you did. Our falling out was abrupt and foolish--high school drama that we both fell victim to. Still, through all the drama you remained sincere. If I hadn't moved, I'd like to think we'd still be friends. However, I did move and you only called me once 6 months after I left. You asked me whether I still had the dreams and aspirations I used to tell you about, and you told me to never give those dreams up.

We haven't talked since, but you haven't deleted my number, and, god, do I hope that counts for something.

Doubt as an Open Door

From a young age the idea of certainty is continuously drilled into us. You must believe, they tell us, in yourself, your morals, and your capability, and you must do so without a doubt. What they fail to mention is that no amount of certainty will determine anything. Instead, by allowing certainty to create a rigid mindset you are suppressing the room that was left for growth. Our staunch society has created a mass of individuals who are so stuck in their ways that an ounce of doubt is blasphemy. Many of us lack the ability to embrace doubt and all of the knowledge that can come along with it. Doubt, despite common belief, is not as degrading as we make it out to be, rather it's an open door to a sound balance of understanding and insight.

Birthday Wishes

I wish I could go back in time and tell myself to stop waiting for happiness. For too long I've had this skewed mentality that one day I'd unexpectedly wake up in a state of complete and utter euphoria and everything that was ever wrong would no longer be a problem, but until then I'd just have to wait. I ended up spending my entire life wasting my time waiting and expecting happiness to be handed to me on a silver platter. It took me longer than I'd like to admit to realize that I am the only person who has ultimate control over my happiness. Happiness does not come to those who wait but to those who go out there and look for it. I should've done things that made me happy, surronded myself with people who made me happy, and built myself up into an overall happy individual. Instead, I let the principle of patience distract me. While waiting I've let so many opportunities for happiness pass me by.

I wish I could go back in time and tell myself to stop being afraid. Too often, I have to ask myself "what are you so afraid of?" Why can't I live my life without making decisions based off of the judgment of others? Is it fear? I'm invisible to the world. Why can't I learn how to use this to my advantage? No one is going to notice, let alone care about, the way I live my life. Still, fear controls me. It controls my heart, my thoughts, and my tongue, and it's eating away at my enjoyment of life. I shouldn't be so afraid that I can't even open my mouth to speak in a public setting, yet I am.

I wish I could go back and tell myself to live. I have not fully lived the past years of my life and have used the reasoning that my life will "start" once I'm a little older. I can't even comprehend why I thought this way, but now I'm stuck with almost two decades of my life that consists of little to no memorable memories. I've wasted my life by refusing to live, and have no one to blame but myself.

I wish I could go back in time and tell myself to get my shit together, but I can't. So I wish that in five more years, I won't be wishing for the same thing as I am today.

020814

The Soldiers Grave

We're predisposed to revolution
It's in our blood. It's in our veins.
The need to fight for a solution
We starve for the war we crave
But there's no such thing as resolution
When the war you're fighting's already lost
Yet I'd still spill your blood to prove a point
And you'd shut me up at all cost

Look how the opinionated turn to hypocrites
They once yelled for change today
But as their brothers drowned in red
They had the nerve to look away
Now they yell, "Don't cry over spilled blood!
It was for a cause! For change!"
And they tell their children bedtime stories
Of those who sleep in their graves

They celebrate the lives of those
They once refused to stand by
Even worse, they were the ones who convinced them
To fight until they died
Then they condemn the new born soldiers
Sneering at their hesitation to give their blood
Not understanding the simple fact
That though they fight, change never comes

Have we not shed enough blood?
Have we let them dictate our fears?
Has the voice of every activists
Not been heard throughout the years?
They say I have to believe in something
A deity at the least
So as I stand over the soldiers grave
I pray a diety has brought them peace

Revolution is continuous
Because the war is never won
We will never reach utopia
Still we won't put down our guns
We say we're fighting for a cause
We say we're fighting for a change
We say we're fighting for peace on earth
As we fight in a revolutionary rage

If history has taught us anything
It's that peace is obtained through war
And those who dare object
Are kept silent by violent roars
But who are we to blame?
The common man or the elite?
The one who sends us to our doom?
Or the one who willingly accepts defeat?

How can it be that the only way to achieve peace
Is for peace to be sacrificed?
This guise of temporary pacifism
Will surely not suffice
Change is within our grasp
Change is within our thoughts
Our state of mind can be as powerful
As the bloody hands of those we've lost

Now our earth is soaked with blood
And tears mingle with the seas
The door to peace has been bolted shut
And War will never be the key