Poetry Beginnings

The first time I read my poetry to a crowd,
It felt like coming home.

Well, first- I was terrified.
Hands shaking, skin sweaty, voice trembling
But once I started speaking, it felt like I'd been doing this forever
And I mean a feeling stronger than deja vu
this wasn't a memory I had glimpsed in passsing
This was my story waiting to burst from the pages
like my voicebox was a supernova waiting to happen

Waiting to explode and light up the silence of the night sky
pinpricks of stars that look an awful lot like pairs of eyes in a crowd
just waiting
for something
to happen

I found warmth in the spotlight, so I started shining more often
Became less of a visitor and more of a regular
Started leaving my clothes in the closet and my toothbrush by the sink
cause i knew I'd be back.

I found a home on the stage.
Found out that my words hold more weight than I realized,
so letting them go lightened the pressure of thoughts built up in my head
But standing up here being honest with you is harder than it seems.

I've always found difficulty in showing strangers my dreams
the pictures that my mind paints:
soft watercolor memories and harsh charcoal sketches of opinions
chalk drawings of my childhood and smeared pencil outlines of my future
None of them have frames because I never intended to show them off
auction them to the highest bidder
who doesn't mind a mind that sometimes tastes bitter

Alternates between
sharp and biting
and warm and inviting

I never thought I'd be up here, reading my diary pages out loud
because being honest with you means I have to be honest with myself
and there are some things I'd rather not admit
some flaws I'd rather not face
and some faces I'd rather not remember

But some parts of my story transcend my own fears and demand to be heard
to be molded, shaped, and put into words
so this brew of honest tea might be a little bitter
but it has such a nice aftertaste.

One true sentence

All you ever need to do is write one true sentence.
But I’ve found that truth is in the eye of the beholder
And my eyes get distracted by all the beauty in this world
So I only get half truths
Partial pieces of pictures that I’m constantly flipping around
Making them look like they’re the right side up
Or the left side down
I never knew the difference as a kid
Never knew how I was supposed to look at the world
Always figured that my mind didn’t work the way it should have
My own mother thought I was autistic- even had me tested twice
Became worried when I didn’t speak until I was 2 years old.
I just didn’t have anything to say
I was always quiet
Preferred sitting and observing, drawing pictures in the dirt rather than trying to capture a flag
Found out that I could be happy with earthworms and snails as friends
Rather than trying to create a relationship with acid tongued children who only knew the world as cruel and mocking when it came to feeling like you belonged
The smart ones figured out that they could bring themselves up by pulling other people down
And I was always hunched over with my face looking at the roots of trees; I looked like a stepping stone in their popularity game
But I didn’t mind
Because when their freckled cheeks got sunburned from trying to chase ideas in the clouds that were too far away from them
I would have mud stripes that looked deceptively like war paint
Because I never battled with mother nature
We had peaceful discussions and playful arguments
Sometimes a game of tug of war
Where I would pull and pull and pull
Trying to prevent the inevitable
But she would always win
Always held firm
And her roots went far deeper than I understood
But I learned quickly enough not to fight things I don’t fully understand
Learned that I preferred being a lover to a fighter
Which still holds true
But sometimes I don’t know where to direct my love
So it comes out in jasmine scented bubbles that land on the page and turn into a poem
But I have to be careful when I catch them
Or they’ll disappear before I can get a good look at them
And the way they reflect my face
With oily swirling rainbows where my eyebrows should be
But I learned a long time ago
That my perception of the world is not really related to how the world is
And I was told that all I ever have to do is write one true sentence
Except there are too many words in my head and adventures to have to constrict them
So if you want me to take your advice, I’ll write a true life sentence
My own story line that I’ll pump in as much honesty as I can
That tastes like honest tea
Steeped in late nights spent thinking about the sunset I just saw
Sweetened by the honey of my memories made in the beehive of my childhood mind

Yes, I will write one true sentence
I will write one true life sentence
My own
I sentence myself to life unimprisoned
Uninhibited
Spending my days discovering what it really means to be free
Remembering that I already learned it
When I was a kid
Hands deep in the dirt
Chasing after earthworms and avoiding the earwigs
Skin dappled by pine needle filtered sunlight
When my own backyard was the biggest adventure I could ever need

One day I’ll find myself back there
Realize how much smaller it feels now that my global perspective has grown
Overturn a few rocks to see what I find
Because there are still a few mysteries just outside my front door
That I’ve forgotten to try to solve
There are some words in the back of my mind that I’m sure I’ve forgotten to say
But I was always a quiet kid.
And I’m still just fine sitting in the corner with my notepad
Letting silence expand from the corners that it was waiting from
Just to make sure that someone
Is still
Listening.

Life. I like it. But sometimes, it is scary.

My mother always taught me not to be scared of the unknown simply because it was the unknown
she always pushed me past the edges of my comfort zone
and I've been training myself to learn how to face my fears
to not back down,
not let my adrenaline high heart convince me that I should run and hide in my room
to stand my ground even if my legs are shaking

But
I am terrified of the future.
I can handle the day to day happenings
the slow process of shifting myself from the past into the present
with a wary eye on the days ahead

but the thought of not knowing where I'll be in a year makes my pulse thump like a bass drum
The realization that I have no fucking clue what I'm doing induces a fight or flight response
but I don't know where to direct my punches, so I'm fighting a losing battle against myself
and I've always wanted to spread my wings and fly away from this world- so I always settle with being flighty
staying airborne above everyone's expectations of me
I've already achieved so much.

But I have grandparents who want grandchildren
and the fourth finger on my left hand is apparently missing its halo
missing the string tied around it in a promise
that I’m not even sure I want to make.
Forget all that white flowing gown, silk trains, and glistening tiara shit
If I get married, I only want two things:
I want my father to give me away so he understands that I've always known he was walking next to me
and I want everyone to dance like there will be no tomorrow
like they forgot how good it feels to move
like they want to make love to the music that fills the room
Like their hips are mountainsides just waiting to start a landslide
Like their limbs are radioactive and can’t be contained by the lead lined walls of their list of social rules
like
like their hearts are just balloons full of hope that need to remember what it’s like to kiss a cirrus cloud

but I've never even been in love- so my wedding dreams are just momentary indulgences
desserts that always leave me with a stomach ache
and a bittersweet tang on my tongue

See, I've been so focused on my own progress that I haven't taken the time to let anyone in yet
My heart belongs to poetry but my mind belongs to science
and my fingertips are just confused as hell
not sure whether they're supposed to hold a pipet or a pencil
to bury themselves into the rich sun warmed soil, or to dig out the most honest thoughts of my mind
so I let them do a little bit of both as some sort of self conflicted promise
because sometimes the tree i love the most is a poet-tree.
dropping new ideas like ripe fruits

and I'm supposed to continue with my academic pursuits
but right now all a PhD stands for
is a Pretty Hard Decision
I could spend my life in the shimmering solace of the spotlight on the stage
or I could warm my skin in the sunshine of the tropics
Let myself translate the beauty of the world into a sick rhyming, boundary climbing, mental priming, good timing poem
or become the voice for the trees- for the trees have no tongues
call myself the lorax 2.0
or V rabbit

and it's not a black and white thing so much as it's green and purple
leaves versus limericks
flowers versus flowing lines
meristems versus metaphors
springtime buds versus budding ideas

So I figure I'll wrap an ivy vine around my left ring finger
commit myself to a cause that I know I can always stay passionate about
sit on the lap of mother nature
let her slide dewdrop secrets along my spider web connection made conscience
but I'll stencil the alphabet along my right hand
trace the outline of letters that are just a framework so I won’t fill them in
letters that become so much more than themselves once I can conduct them like an orchestra
creating verbal symphonies while trying to keep myself composed

because when it comes to the future
I'd like to think I have everything figured out
I have a set plan that I can follow and nothing will explode like a poorly designed nuclear reactor
i can act like the world doesn't like to throw curveballs that hit you in the face
or I can just admit to myself
that yes, this life is scary
but at the end of the day
one way or another
I'll be doing what I love