Ode to Sorrow

There’s something romantic about

pouring a pitcher full of sorrow

into my brain like chilled beer in a mason jar

that I gulp down and refill, refill

until I’m filled with drunken thoughts

about my lack of – and

overabundance of life.

 

I sit on a mountain

of melancholy, and swim in a river

of despair and sulk in the sorrow

that I allow into

every single moment of my day

and there’s not a thing

I’ll do to change it

 

Sorrow,

whispering into my ear,

“Get up, go outside,” and “Sulk a little more,”

so I slip on my moccasins and traipse

to the coffee shop

where I sit in the window

watching all of the lonely people

in hopes that one

will make eye contact with me

so I can kiss the sorrow

from their lips

only to turn away

and never look back.

Intertwining

Tonight

I will sway my

body to the buzzing

of a sensuous saxophone

that guides

 

my fall

into the sea

of your pleasant remarks

that drip and drop into my mouth

each time

 

you say

blues makes you feel

lustful, or when you stare

into the caverns of my eyes

like you

 

really

see who I am –

my being as a whole,

not just my body alone in

this room.

 

Tonight

I want to lie

in bed with you to chit

chat about smooth jazz and french films

and how

 

both let

your brain unwind

after a long day, so

let us unravel together.

Our brains

 

Inter-

twine and our skin

unites under your sheets.

I disintegrate by the thought

of you.

alone again at the 24 hour diner

no i did not sleep with him on the first date. we strolled through the city, stopping inside of a little corner shop, one of his favorites because they sell expensive bottled beer. my cheeks flushed into a ripened peach as he denied my offer to pay for myself, and my nervous hands struggled to tuck my crumpled dollar bills back into my jean pocket. i asked for a dark roast, and he ordered a beer for himself. to my delight, we sat next to the window so i could peer out each time my thought process scattered into mismatched puzzle pieces.

his eyes glistened, reflecting the light creeping through the fingerprinted windows. his crisp physical features and the scent of his cologne inveigled my body to move closer to his. he anticipated that i was a sucker for cliche coffee shop dates, like the movies i romanticize where time slows to a halt when two forlorn soon-to-be lovers meet eyes for the first time. we began discussing our visions of what new seinfeld episodes would consist of, and how urban outfitters shouldn’t have the right to sell overpriced vinyl, and make it trendy.

as the sun slipped beneath the buildings, i began to pick up on his sudden gestures and movements that projected overconfidence. i started to blur out his words, while nodding my head with an innocent smile – i knew it’s what he wanted. searching for men who want to crawl inside my brain and pick through the files of thoughts and information inside has become more of a painful task than an enjoyable experience these days. his glossy gaze was not what i presumed, so i apologized for my sudden demand to jam.

my apology wasn’t sincere because i had nowhere to be. i felt the need to drive home and sit in my underwear while watching sex in the city and sipping on chamomile. in the moment it felt much more satisfying. i finally came to my senses, and wanted him to sit in solitude, or to reconsider his charm that came off so well rehearsed, like he used it on multiple women to slip them under his sheets. i refused to fall into “girl number 24, honey glazed hair, green eyes, slender build, similar to girl number 14, but less chatty.”

i strutted to the 24 hour diner and treated myself to eggs benedict and a cheap cup of coffee. grasping my cup, i turned my head to glance at the strangers mingling at the bar next to me. so enthralled by each other’s company, they left together. i watched him excitedly hop in the woman’s car, as they sped into the distance. i chuckled and mumbled, good luck under my breath.

Ramble

This morning I pried my eyelids open and began

blinking, only to see a deceased spider on the window

sill, much like the windows I wipe clean time and time again

after my skin blistering showers so I can view

my neighbor’s dying lily garden from a safe distance,

 

but don’t ask me why I think it’s beautiful or why

it makes the gears inside my brain churn about

the well-being of my own decaying body

because I don’t have an answer, and I’ll begin to think

I need to see my shrink twice a week instead

 

of once, and you’ll believe that it’s enough

to save me from myself, but frankly

I don’t think I need saving any more than you

do, so bear with me while I analyze the doomed

state of my being and visualize the toxins bursting

 

free from the cracks and scars on my hands, because

they need a release from my nervous habits that overcome

my being when I think about the cycle of life, and I begin picking

all remnants of skin left around my fingernails, or chain smoking

cigarettes in freezing weather, and I’m so predictable every time

 

life fails to pan out in any sort of a predictable

manner, although, I have been thinking more deeply as I listen

to Death Is Not The End on repeat in hopes

that Bob Dylan wrote it as a coping method for those

like me who have not completely come to terms with death, so

 

I peek out of the window at those dying

lilies for a reason, and feel as if I’m dying

with them – for a sense of validation because every single year

they die and regrow slightly different than before, but they’re

always just as breathtaking.

A Letter

Dear Human Being,

You are not a concept. Your heart beats, you breathe, you feel pain.

You’re a refugee who is discriminated against

and refused access into the United States of America, the land of the free

and the home of the brave. I write one word for this letter and erase, erase.

Erase, replace. I’m not sure what to say. “Hello” and “how are you?”

sounds absurd as your life dangles by a string.

 

What has my white skin done?

Like gazing into the midday sun for a split second, and becoming blind

for minutes on end by the outline of the circular image in your ocular

view, with traces of white reminding you of its presence. The whiteness –

it’s everywhere, disregarding the spectrum of color and continues

to wedge its degrading actions into your life, and urge you further

and further away from the white man’s world through unjustified hate:

Speak English, he demands.

Go back to where you came from, he declares.

Destroying your home with bombs, and accusing you of terrorism.

Demands, declares, destroys.

 

What happened to the colors of the rainbow? We must embrace

each wavelength our eyes perceive as colors because they are a part

of life – not to be ignored, disfavored. Because pure white contains

every color of the rainbow. And yet, this white infested world

lacks much color, while molding society like clay.

 

How can we disregard displaced human beings running from gunshots,

living in the streets, with only the clothes on their backs, and nothing

to eat? The white blinds me.

I’m sure white blinds you more when it insinuates fear as you walk into an airport.

I’m sure white blinds you when your hijab is perceived to be synonymous with Islam.

I’m sure you’re blinded when your children need a safe place to rest their weary bodies.

I’m sure your emotions overflow, when each day offers another flood of tragedy.

I’m sure the white allows your aching body to suffocate and drown, while pretending

to care. Pretending to relate. Pretending to understand.

 

What right do I have with my whiteness to feel damaged

by your affliction, when I will never understand the severity as you

have experienced it? Has privilege made the white incapable of compassion? Empathy?

Human beings are praying, while grasping their children, with every inch of their soul

in desperation to escape a world of disaster, that the white have become imperceptive of.

 

I wrote this letter to express how sorry I am. I am sorry

for the whiteness that selfishly raped your rights.

I’m sorry for the lack of concern, comfort, kindness.

I’m sorry for the self entitlement.

I’m sorry for your mother, father, brothers, and sisters.

I’m so sorry.

 

I’m sure the white light will continue to attract ignorance like moths attracted

to a porch lamp that swarm around the white light, and blinds them until death.

I wrote this letter to offer any hope that’s left – that one day, this will be a world

filled with bright, colorful light.

 

With best regards,

A Human Being

 

“H”

The dirty diesel

injects its destructive fluids

into your entire being

while your brain receptors

are fooled and

your nervous system

gives in

as the poison

deceives you.

The dirty diesel.

 

The rush –

It fills you up.

Euphoria makes you feel

alive, but only

temporarily.

Its true colors 

yellow like piss

intensely seep through

and steals all control

until you have none.

The dirty diesel.

 

Cobain said,

“I travel through a tube

and end up in your infection,”

only to be discovered dead

with three times

the lethal dose

of the deadly diesel

eating away

at his insides.

A masochistic delight.

 

The self-inflicted torture

so tempting, yet

so tormenting

purloins all sanity.

Now look in the mirror

as you tiptoe closer

and see nothing but a needle.

It speaks to you like it spoke

to Staley who swore,

“You can’t understand

a user’s mind.”

The dirty diesel.

 

Does the pain

inside your brain

take a breathtaking halt

when the diesel kicks in?

When the cordial warmth

of your skin

consumes you? Or

does reality strike

when your muscles ache

and your legs begin to shake?

Killing yourself slowly

with the dirty diesel.

 

I watched your closest friend,

and your worst enemy

suck the life

directly from your veins.

What better way

to describe

the twisted relationship

that will persistently haunt you

because you signed a deal

with the dirty diesel devil.

 

obsessive

My therapist told me to stop obsessively thinking and

said, “Whatever happens is out of your control.” Her

rational advice to my endless scatter

made me feel an urge

to start drinking.

Although thinking and drinking

turn thoughts into deep fears of sinking.

Obsessive thoughts

about the present

about the past

about the future

aid my anxiety

creeping

up until it explodes.

There is no peak, just a drop

I beg and plead with my brain

for my fears to stop.

Sometimes I wonder if it is easier

to be simply naive to worldly complications

or if part of life involves going insane

by over-analyzing to try and solve them.

Even if I solve them in my tiny,

meaningless,

powerless little brain,

nobody listens or

they see your problems as pain.

Pain is associated with suffering and

suffering does not show weakness,

it shows mental and

physical compassion and endurance.

Thoughts are dangerous, yet

they are beautiful. How

can something so beautiful twist and turn and

alter with each perception?

There I go again.

Obsessively thinking.

I must be insane.

Chaos

We watch the chaos

It occurs

We visualize it

Hear it

Sense it

Touch it

We feel it thriving

everywhere we go

We picture it

in unique ways

that often

conflict

each other

In hopes

that our way

is the right way

We want to feel heard

But each “way”

slowly

strategically

determines a path

a chaotic

scattered path

in which determines

the rest of your life

We often underestimate

the impact

of our decisions

on our being

and on others

Those little decisions

recreate the chaos

that we once avoided

Or at least

we thought..

 

Lonely

When you’re lonely

think about your neighbor

They might be lonely too

Our lack of feeling

can coincide

When you’re hopeless

Look at the sunset

It’s filled

with intense yearning

our thirst

can be satisfied

When you’re sleepless

close your eyes

and think

about the stars

the moon

the rain

the snow

When you’re sorrowful

think about your neighbor

They might feel sorrow too

that has no origin

and feels

as if

it stems

from nothing

We relate in abstract ways

that are different

but also

the same

When you feel lonely

sit alone

in a dark room

and feel

really feel

the empty nature

Embrace it

The darkness

is everywhere

whether we choose

to be blind

or openly acknowledge

the inevitable nothingness

of each

and every one

of us