Nightmares part 2

We've all watched the action movies
where the hero jumps through windows and into stick shift mini coopers that he can maneuver through the streets
and barely make a safe getaway
we think, even just for a moment,
hey, I could do that.
or wonder what it would be like to be capable. to have that possibility.

but these scenes flood my mind and saturate it to the point where the spill over into my unconscious hours
where I should be peacefully resting my mind I end up running from men with guns whose only goal is to terrify me
and it works.
these nightmares- they don't go away. they only get worse.
just the other night I watched as a best friend was shot right in front of me. twice.
my own limbs betrayed me; wouldn't move as i needed them to
I was screaming down my own nerve synapses for something to click
but my blood had congealed with fear and I couldn't snap out of this dream gone wrong

I have witnessed my own father become a victim of a nonexistent plague
my sister lose her life in a freak accident
and imagine that my grandmother really isn't gone

so when I let reality pry my eyes apart like elevator doors
I lay in the bed that is crawling with invisible monsters just waiting to slip into my sleeping moments
and try to convince myself that the emotions that carried over
have no place in their attempts to make me panic

These nightmares haunt me better than any ghost ever could
because they prey on fears that will someday be realized.
for now, they just make me remember exactly what I have
and to be grateful for it
because it could be gone in a moment's notice

and i know all too well
what that feels like.

Fucked up goodbyes

I don't want to be profane
and I know that you already know this
but I fucked up our goodbye.

I couldn't look in the eyes and say anything besides "I should go."
your fingertips, eternally gentle, traced patterns around my waist and up my sides
but I couldn't even move.
all my muscles locked in a cold war with themselves trying to deny your warmth
because if I released
truly spoke my mind
I wouldn't have broken.
I would have shattered.

I'm not good with small pieces;
I don't even know how to glue a fractured mirror back together
I think it's the possibility of a bad luck curse that makes my fingers so shaky
or maybe I'm afraid I'll slip and slice my skin
adding damage to destruction

So no, I couldn't give you the proper goodbye.
I left you in New York.
and I've been back in California for a month now.
Just biding my time until I find something distracting enough can make me forget what your voice sounds like when you smile

I rode my bike for the first time in months the other day
right next to all the orange county traffic
just to hear the engines roaring next to me
and hoping that my balance was what it used to be
because those trucks drive so fast
they drive so far
and my wheels will never turn over enough times to bring me close enough to you.

I swam in the pacific ocean so I could forget how the atlantic tasted
so I could wash your memory from my flesh
let it be scrubbed away by salt water and sand that has always felt like home to me
but it didn't work.
nothing works.

You're still right there, you're always right there
you're right here
in the front of my mind
even though I'm in a new place.
I moved into a new apartment.
My neighbors have songbirds.
The other morning, I woke up to them
and thought I was still laying next to you
because it sounded like the forest outside your window
and I realize that I actually left part of myself in your bedroom
not between your sheets
but in the space between our eyes when we laid there so quietly
trying to memorize your face and knowing that I would want to forget it in a few weeks.

I couldn't say goodbye to you.
I still can't.
Now I know what it feels like to be loved.
and I can't quite let that go
just not yet.

Honesty

My name is Victoria. I'm going to be honest.
I grew up raising rabbits and digging in the dirt for six legged surprises.
I have a weakness for really good mexican food and standing in the shower for an extra five minutes.
I have more curves that I know what to do with and I recently shaved the side of my head.
Sometimes, I think I can hear whispers from the tips of tree leaves and see into my past lives if I look into the horizon long enough.
my favorite color is purple, i usually wear japanese cherry blossom perfume
and if you ask me if your pants make you look fat- I'll probably give you an honest answer.
I'll avoid any insults but I'll suggest you might look better in a skirt.
I learned that truly being blunt is only really appreciated by stoners

although I've heard that honesty is the best policy
but I'm not a policy maker, I'm just a poet
I'm in the business of writing,
and I've been told that all I 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 between the two
so yes, I will write one true sentence
one true life sentence
I sentence myself to life unimprisoned, uninhibited,
finding freedom in the truths i discover

I'm going to be honest.
I love going running during thunderstorms
I have a certain fondness for the word shenanigans and my favorite bones are the phalanges
I love good milk chocolate and jasmine tea
I'm overly sarcastic, I hate when the bottom cuffs of my jeans get wet, and I'm about 5 foot 8 inches tall.
My tendency to be honest has gotten me into trouble more than once, but that doesn't mean that I'm about to stop.
I let my thought reel feed through my lips and project onto others
but the hardest person to be honest with
has always been
myself.

London Riots

It has long been a dream held by many
to see the youth united
grasping their potential in nimble fingers
and holding it up to the sun
demanding that change occur.
using their voices even if no one is listening
if there was a revolution tomorrow, you can bet that i'd be part of it.

but when I say revolution
I speak of a turning tide
of people taking to the streets
in an organized and peaceful way
putting their foot down for what they fight for
without fighting their fellow countrymen

so tell me, rioters of london,
what do you fight for?
what sort of change do you hope to cause
when you leave shards of glass spilled over sidewalks?
when you rob the innocents because you're caught up in the moment
when you take part in a group mentality and become a follower, just another destructive sheep
when you leave damage behind you because your anger has finally found a way out
you turn your backs on each other and on yourself.

tell me,
when you set cars on fire, do you see your own hearts consumed by the blaze?
see the hungry flames growl for more fuel to consume and leave a blackened twisted mess
like you do with the rest of the city.
these riots have not been deemed economic or political
these are greedy riots.

borne from inequalities that have been festering under your skin
like a poison ivy rash
bubbling red with rage
and just waiting for an opportunity to destroy.

can't you understand
you've already lost one of your own.
August 4th
Mark Duggan
bullet wound to the chest.
red roses of defeat flowing onto his shirt
and blossoming under the night sky.

you want to let the government know they're being unfair?
take your energy and put it to work
imagine the possibilities
if you lobbied for change instead of lobbing rocks through store windows
if you stood as one instead of drawing a dividing line between "us" and "them"
the officers you fight against have families too, you know.

Stand down.
or if you won't
at least take a moment
to think
about the kind of change you want
and the kind that you are causing.

poetry, now!

Part poetry, part stream of consciousness, full credit goes to my muse and inspiration Timothy "BigBrothaaa" Cheung



Sometimes, the world is just too much. there's too many emotions wrapped up in a single smile for me to respond quickly enough to a stranger's face seen in passing
there are too many memories to be made, too many picture snapshots of time that I should save in my mind but I always seem to find that I just don't have enough memory for all of them.
too many people to hold onto and too many to miss while they're not around

and i've been told that i'm just not letting go yet
and you know what? you're damn right.
I'll hold on to everything that I can
I'll grip all the depression and self doubting thoughts that I can, squeeze them out and deprive them of any air so that they can silently die and no longer wreak havoc on the sunshine spots of souls that surround me
I'll cradle joy in my fingertips, play happiness like the piano, tinkling and trilling keys that my hands flow across, always racing each other for an audible finish line, and watching the room of stagnant legs turn into a jellyfish tentacles that are unable to stop moving
I'll backhand any unruly thoughts that creep into my mind, trying to tell me that I can't or that I shouldn't. I'll leave them with stinging sharp welts that remind them they were never welcome in the first place, and they'll know what's waiting for them if they ever decide to come back.

These are just results from some of the lessons I've learned from unexpected teachers that have the tendency to appear when I want them the least. I am the universe's perpetual student, model, and artist
I have learned that if you always look down, the only butterflies you will see will have already died. You will never get the chance to watch them float like brightly colored scraps of silk in between leaves that wave me to them like welcome mats to the sky, to the tips of endless possibilities
and my own grandmother has become a swallowtail butterfly, so I really shouldn't miss any chances I get to see her again
still dancing, always dancing, only this time with wings instead of feet
but she still has so much grace and such a comforting presence.

I've been told that I'm a teacher to some
but that's not enough- I want to be a professor in the how's and the why's of this world
I want to answer the unanswerable questions by listening to my heartbeat thump out a rhythm like a metronome
translating it to music notes trapped between thick black lines
and then letting my fingers fly across a piano, singing you to sleep with a blanket of absolute truths and trust in the future
and we'll both curl up when the moon is reflected in the puddles of the streets
and dream about our different tomorrows that may not be so different after all.