My Parents Taught Me About Silence

my parents taught me about silence

but not the broken glass in the air kind

not the pain slicing through you

eyes welling with tears

swollen throat silence

my parents taught me about good silence

the kind that fills you

all of us in the car

no one is speaking

radio off

just the rumbling of the engine

and since I know the difference

I know that this silence

is not the one my parents taught me

my silence feels empty

I live in the barrel of a gun

that has just been fired

such intense emptiness that

it feels like the walls are caving in

a crushing

a bullet was displaced

somewhere in the fight and

nothing came to fill the gap

I live in a vacuum

in space, there are such cold, empty places

vacuums which consist of not a single molecule

in these vacuums, there is immense compression

as if the walls are caving in

a crushing

a bullet displaced

if you do not attempt

to hold your breath

or fight the compression,

you will maintain consciousness

for about 10-15 seconds

in this time,

you will feel the moisture leave your tongue

your heart rate will rise

your skin will turn blue

and your body will swell

it will expand

to twice its normal size

you will grow

but you won’t explode

your skin is strong enough

to hold you in

on the bad days,

I try to remember this

that sometimes,

we can only grow

when it feels like we can’t breathe

when your heart is pounding

when the silence is so intense

it will kill you

but the reason that the

human body can not survive

a vacuum is not that it is weak

but because the oxygen flow stops

so remind yourself to breathe

but don’t hold your breath

The Poet

sometimes I manage to produce a poem

that I’m proud of

and someone may ask me

“how do you write so well?”

and I wish the answer was easy

like: “Yep, I just eat an egg shell every morning

wash it down with some OJ

and that’s where all the good ideas come from.”

but they don’t

they come from this brain

this brain that never shuts up

that insists on convincing me

that my friends hate me

and that I’ll never amount to anything

the very same brain that taunts me constantly

will, every once in a while,

give me a decent thought

and that’s the problem

because if I cut the connection to the crazy

I lose the poet

and I love the poet

she’s hilariously cynical and has the best sense of humor

but as my favorite TV show character

loves to remind us

all magic comes with a price

but this magic is confusing within itself

because the poet is often sad

she sometimes joins the heckling of the brain

encourages the eternal damnation of the heart

and loves to run experiments

on the chemicals of my mind

like oooh let’s see, what if

we take away all of the motivation

increase sarcasm to 85%

and, just for fun,

add a constant feeling of numbness

let’s see what happens

and then, when she feels like it,

she’ll start whispering lines

and I translate them to paper

sometimes I manage to produce a poem

that I’m proud of

and someone may ask me

“how do you write so well?”

and I wish the answer was easy

at least as easy as they think it is

but they don’t know the poet

so I smile and simply say

“she comes with a price”

Prompted

cuts on my brain

weakens the pain

gives away blame

yet everything's the same

got myself home

always alone

barren phone

my cover is blown

won't hide from

I see what I've done

this moment was fun

back to one

back to black

back to black

got a few cracks

lots left to lack

there's a beauty to empty

for nothing exists

a place to build

a wide abyss

Love (age 15)

I really hope I’m just confused

what a great word

like my mind just switched something

but this isn’t little

could come to define me

but this isn’t too big

I would be okay

just something to think about

switched

maybe I’m just reflecting

a chameleon in a rainbow

a happy chameleon

but, nonetheless,

confused.

I’d live to be in love

maybe that’s the problem

too eager too soon

or too late

fifth grade first kiss

left for another girl

because if it were for me

it would have happened

after everything that’s passed

I still believe in that

but I’ll never know

if it’s the wrong person because

of the person they are

or the person I am

either way it didn’t happen

I’m kind of glad

because that means

I get to save it

put it in my pocket

play it in my mind

keep it in my heart,

a lonely vessel,

I’m kind of regretful

it’s hard to open a door

that doesn’t have hinges

but when it happens

when I turn the knob,

look over my shoulder

make sure I still think

that they’re worth it

I’ll know

and

I won’t know at all

maybe that’s what will

make my first special

to be so deeply terrified

yet wise, yet vulnerable

with all the fear from my past

no fifth grade first kiss

for this girl

meant to be left

confused.

What I Say is True

I’m not crying because I knew him.

not crying because I’ll miss the visits

miss watching the decline

house to nursing home

walker to wheelchair

crying because this smell will stain

this moment, these clothes, this girl

I’ve watched this become him home

thick plastic curtains, styrofoam cups

unopinionated cream colored walls

tripping over his own tongue,

confined to the wheelchair

his situation never seemed especially hopeful

not that he ever minded

in whatever superhero shirt he was wearing,

the Peanut Gallery were his best friends

but today ashy, white skin

blank, faded eyes

weathered like a map after time

of folding and use

the man in the next room

turns a page of a newspaper.

I wonder, how many roommates

has he had

a nurse laughs in the distance,

how many has she seen?

how many times has this

exact scenario happened?

family standing and swaying

like dandelions in the wind

trying not to make eye contact

with the man in the bed,

the pictures on the walls,

or at each other while pretending we’re not here

out of options, my gaze is

cornered to his nightstand

torn, yellow-once-white pages

of decades worth of comic books

stick out in awkward places

a blue batman clock stands

like an old man walks with a cane

I’ve watched these few items

trail behind him as he moved from

house to nursing home

walker to wheelchair

because these memories will change

this moment, these clothes, this girl

I’ve watched them become his friends

a pile of pages and a clock

that hasn’t ticked in years

the call came at 3am the next morning

my dad said the nurses cried

now the man in the bed with wheels

is in a box that’s not going anywhere

except away, up there

and down six feet under

asked to say our last goodbyes,

my dad tucks the omnipresent

relics and remains of his life

into the coffin and whispers

“You’re a good man, Charlie Brown”

and that’s when I started to cry

Who Am I?

I take what's left.

I'm too much of a coward to make the first kill.

My best friend is a man who hides bodies in the floor boards

But at night, I fly. Take the wind and go.

My mind looking for the next thing to get attached to.

But this time someone took me, he took me.

Put me into words.

Rapping, tapping a melody

Made me into somebody

Who can't let go.

Doesn't leave until the job is done.

'Till the last bit of flesh is picked from bone.

Why did he pick me?

Rapping, tapping at some kind of door,

Why was I on the other side?

(the raven from Edgar Allen Poe's piece "The Raven") 

"The best thing about tonight is that we're not fighting..."

"The best thing about tonight is that we're not fighting. Could it be that we have been this way before? I know you don't think that I am trying, I know you're wearing thin down to the core. But hold your breath because tonight will be the night that I will fall for you."
"Fall For You" by Secondhand Serenade
Apparently I was trying a minimalist approach in the color area. Black & white... how poetic and teenagery.