Why I Write Poetry

whyiwrite

I write poetry because I was once a whisper in a crowded hallway,

A light breeze in the eye of a hurricane,
I was there alright, but not there enough to warrant a passing glance.

Because if a little girl shouts in a crowd but nobody bothers to listen, does she make a sound?

I write poetry because in middle school while giving presentations, male teachers would tell me not to speak so loud, to talk faster.
Silly girl, what does your word mean to him?
Just stare at your feet and mumble through it all like before.
Take the grade, and sit back down.
Be grateful for what you have.

I write poetry, because ladies aren’t allowed to yell, and spit, argue and clash.
Or have feelings that don’t revolve around the holy worship of the men who have bestowed such great rights upon women.
As if we didn’t fight, and struggle, and perish at the hands of our oppressors that have swindled and stolen our accomplishments, ideas, and inventions.

I write poetry because the word “woman” has been slung at me like it’s the Devil’s tongue whispering for Eve to eat the apple in the Garden of Eden.
Like by hearing the word woman reach my ears I should feel the hot flush of shame on my face,
Flinching away as he says
“Know your place, woman”.

I write poetry for all the women that were too busy to spill ink or lay their heart on parchment.
I write for Joan who burned for her womanhood and witches hung for theirs.

I write for women who were never taught to hold a pencil in their hand or read books, because their hands were busy callousing on hard wood broom sticks and wrinkling in dirty laundry water.

And I write poetry to the women who’s voices are louder than mine.
To the women with voices as big as their heart and stood up against evil and said “No, not today, not ever”.
I write to Malala and Angela Davis Because I heard them and they inspire me to be heard too.

I write poetry because boys are allowed to have a bad day.
Allowed to be vicious, evil, and raise their voice at me like it’s my fault life realized they’re an asshole and got in some karma.

But I am simply an over-hormonal doll programmed to only think with my heart, and not my head,
Because I’m obviously just on my period for being something other than a lovelorn lust ladling label-faced ditz that you can check out like a library book whenever you so desire my attention
…and return me when you find out I’m Sci-Fi and not Romance
(Maybe you should have read the back).

But I am not an item you can scan,
I cannot be bought, sold, or traded.
You cannot turn my pages because I am not a book,
I am a human.
But more importantly, I am a woman.

And I wrote poetry when I was just background noise and chatter during life’s intermission.
But I kept it in a journal in my backpack and it would collect dust and tears and silent cries for help in the form of rhymed words and rambling metaphors.

But hearts can only take so much and mine was spilling over the brim.
Now I shout rhymes from tabletops
Gesturing and spitting and smiling and shaking.
I write poetry because I am no whisper of the wind.
I am the hurricane.
I am the wild fire.
I am the monster in your closet,
And I am the love of your life holding you until you fall asleep.
Because I am a woman.
And I write poetry for me.

Jane Doe

Masks

mask

Everyday we abstain from our morals

Credulous souls trapped in blighted shells
Controlled by men enshrouded behind masks
Led by their need to obfuscate our lives
Repudiate the blame nothing is gained
I’m bored in deep tedium by their performance
or lack there of
No one feels remorse
Caught in an endless cycle of lachrymose
Time is running out the door
We have a plethora of people with no meaning
No means to make it out alive
to make it to the end
and try as they might
They’re still controlled by those men
Men who hide behind their haughty masks.
Atlas

Sunset, as told by an immortal girl from the roof of a short house surrounded by tall trees

SAMSUNG DIGIMAX A403

Twenty minutes. That’s all you’ll allow yourself. Twenty minutes, and, if your math is correct—which it almost never is—the sun will still be five feet below you. Seventeen feet up. Twenty minutes down. Soon no one will have to worry about you. No one will have to take care of you. You want to be down before the light is gone. You don’t want to remember leaving in dark. Not that you’re planning on dying; you aren’t planning on doing that for hundreds of thousands of years. But it is hard to be immortal sometimes. Especially when everyone around you isn’t.

These metaphors are too literal and the oak to your left stretches and forces you over to maintain the warmth of the sun. The roof breathes through its spiracles. You stare into the cloud orchard, knowing you’ll go blind eventually. You just wanted to see the faces. You’re glad they’re happy. A shadow touches your foot. You’re supposed to get down now. You don’t. The temptation of touching the sky is too much, so you scoot up a little. Twenty minutes. Your math was wrong. Freedom. Freedom of not understanding standardized. People like that could never see like you anyways. You feel bad for being so self centered. Your old friends in the sun are dancing, smiling at you. Go run with them. You remember running, but not like you are now. Dark moon, silver, mist curling up in gentle tendrils almost as soft as the dirt passing your feet, the stars falling in clattering waves called thunder, and laughing. You were laughing. Why? You thought the weather called for something other than more rain.

The sun is painting the horizon bloody and the moon is caressing it lavender and the trees are just silhouettes now. You need to get down. You touch the last inch of golden silk and slip to the ground, ignoring the cuts that suddenly cover your hands from gripping the rough edge. You’re a different person when the sun goes down, and I suppose that isn’t a bad thing.

Latrans Lupus

The Wasp and The Rat

I have a pet rat, most people say that he is gross and is contagious.
I agree.
I hate him,
I haven’t even given him a real name,
I just call him D.

I also have a wasp, while much less noticeable than D,
he is still just as horrible, I just call the wasp SA.

D and SA are always together.
No one wants D’s lack of motivation and disinterest.
I agree.
No one wants SA’s constant buzz and stings.
I agree.

D doesn’t let me go hardly anywhere,
he doesn’t want to spread his disease.
I agree.

SA doesn’t let me go anywhere because he doesn’t want to attack.
I agree.

They keep me from having any thing that could resemble a healthy social life.
I agree.
That’s probably for the best, they’re probably right.
They tell me that I only annoy people and that no one really wants me around.
I agree.

I don’t know when D and SA first came into my life,
but they tell me that they’ve always been with me.
I agree.
I desperately want to try wasp spray, or rat poison,
but D and SA just assure me that it wont do anything, and that they’ll always come back.
I hesitantly agree.

My life has become nothing but D and SA.
My life has become nothing but SA and D…
my life has become nothing but SAD.
But I do not agree.

No matter how much D sucks the motivation out of me.
I do not agree.
No matter how nervous SA makes me.
I do not agree.

I will not let them take over my life.
I do not agree.
I will not let them force me to reject medication.
I do not agree.
They try to make me think of my self as simply worthless.
But I do not agree….

I cannot agree.

Because I am terrified what will happen if I agree but mostly, I am terrified what I will do to myself if I do agree.
and with this…I agree.

-canIslytherin

Let’s Go Places

tacoma

On a cold day, in a gray house, in a well-lit room, in a good book,
I found you perched on couch cushions.
Desperate to add dog ears that mark places to revisit when you decide you want to change the world.

I looked at you. You looked at me.
You looked at our cat. I looked at our cat.
We looked at each other.
We gave off some strong signals that fell on the “let’s get out of here” frequency,
exited to our respective closets, met back at the front door, made out quickly, and bolted for the driveway.

You yelled “shotgun!” and made it to the passenger handle before me.
I let you win because I like looking at you looking at things.
I steal Polaroid glances while you observe our planet through a tinted window. 

Someday I am going to become an artist, just so I can paint your tears
as you watched that one sunset, on an open road, in a white truck, surrounded by mountains, melting into a Jethro Tull song.
“No man’s an island and his castle isn’t home,
The nest is for nothing when the bird has flown.”

Sometimes all you need is a look and an open road
to be a poet.
Late nights, headlights, and hairpin curves.
They drive us.
We let go of the steering wheel a long time ago.

I leaned over and whispered softly in her ear.
“Have you found what you are looking for?”
She replied with a quick shoulder raise.

Distracted by the sun’s fingers poking through redwood trees.

-Reese Weatherspoon

Stolen Kisses and Sleepless Nights

Stolen Kisses

I guess I’m a hypocrite for saying it’s hard to fall in love after heartbreak.
But the way we danced under the night sky made it hard not to fall

The stars filled your eyes as
You shared your hopes and dreams
We talked until our voices were hoarse and bright eyes drew weary
This sleepless night paved a path of trust
And I wondered
What’s it like to kiss an angel?

My patient angel
I am happy you waited
I took so long, and I’m sorry
While I was blinded by others, you felt long before me
You felt what it’s like to see your soul mate in love with a distraction
But the way she admired him so dearly
You decided to wait
And thank god you did

Now there’s no one else I would rather brave the cold with
Our breath is visible
Reminding me I’m still alive
With our backs to the ground
Minds in the sky
Our hearts find ways to dance with one another
While we manage to remain still
The night may be dark, but your eyes shine bright with wonder
And even with the universe above us, those eyes are all I ever want to see
Your hand placed in mine sends warmth
Radiating through the entirety of my mind and body
And my curiosity turns to pure passion

Stolen kisses in this sleepless night
I truly am a hypocrite now, aren’t I?

-Autumn Rose