Monday, September 8, 2014

Shove the bucket

A stainless steel knife slits the seams of my stomach,

As pain peregrinates into my now plummeting body,

Flashes of false fears of friends and foe flicker past my eyes,

Big news never hurt so badly.

Can you congregate close to my corpse,

Blow the beseeching bellows of life back into my body?

Sadly no one can accomplish this feat.

Waiting for a word or whisper of my wish,

Because then, I could exhale.

Life is hard but don't let it hurt you.

 Repeat this news he gave me,
In memory my merry man mailed in,
Preparing to swallow the bucket down his throat.


Inspiration: A family member of mine died and I never wrote anything about it because I didn't know how to express it. It bugged me for awhile, but I think I've been able to write something about how I feel/felt.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

The Storybook

The pages unite, they are forming their army. 

They give up on their individual existence, too old to carry on. 

So they sit in their glass case, forbidding larceny. 

They sit idle, in their lovely parthenon. 

Reds, blues, oranges bleed through the pages. 

The pages wither, ripping at the seams. 

Seams curved swiftly, from a man with far less wages,

Wages that don't reflect the perfection, down to the pages colored cream.

At Mass they sing, with glee and joy,

Religion pumping through their veins,

They stand majestically, like Helen of Troy,

The seal of Doge, of powerful reign,

A Church in Venice, much like San Domenico
They sing with this book, in perfect harmony,

Resonating from this book, are the notes of a harmonium. 

As if time is short, they sing with urgency,

But too scared to leave their perfect palladium. 

The pages unite, they are forming their army. 

They give up on their individual existence, too old to carry on. 

So they sit in their glass case, forbidding larceny. 

They sit idle, in their lovely parthenon. 

Inspiration: The Gradual of San Domenico di Castello, is a musical book that I saw in an art exhibit on Venice, Italy. It was beautiful, so I decided to write a poem about it! 

Me, Myself, and I

I’ve gotten lost on a cruise ship.
13 floors.
The elevators were broken.

When I’m nervous
My head starts hurting.
And then I can’t shut up.

Jessie J.
Arctic Monkeys.
The Neighborhood.
The Kooks.
They brainwash me as I listen to them on repeat.

7 rings at a time.
One on each finger, but sometimes I skip fingers.
Wings, a bowtie, and a simple silver one.  
Or maybe just a wired one.

I like the sticky feeling of bindis on my forehead.
The pain of wearing tight bangles on my wrists is worth it.

Black and white instead of color.
Spicy instead of sweet.

I like faded photos,
The smell of a new car.

Etta James, Ella Fitzgerald, Jennifer Hudson and Alicia Keys.
My voice tries to imitate theirs.

Netflix is my best friend.
And so is ice cream.
Strawberry, or chocolate.

I dance like everyone is watching,
But the pressure calms me.

A B-17 Flying Fortress model lays on my bedside table,
Reminiscent of my interest in army planes.

I’m the one who makes funny Youtube videos,
And rolls the windows down, while turning the music up,
On the highway.

Addicted to the feeling of snowflakes on my tongue,
A slave to the taste of Nutella.

I fill my head with unachievable goals, like pleasing everyone.
But I guess that’s how life goes.

Inspiration: I feel like though so many people know who I am, no one seems to know the real me. So this is me. Whether you like me or not, here I am. 

Thursday, December 5, 2013

Can I go away for a minute?

Maybe hide in a wrinkle of time.

Can I take a step back from the world?

Maybe take a look out the window.

Can I be reborn this morning?

Maybe live a new life regardless of the first.

Can I fly through the ceiling today?

Maybe reenact Peter Pan my way.

Can I dance as swiftly as a hummingbird?

Maybe glide through space like I'm on ice.

Can I be as confident as my friends?

Maybe pull my shoulders up.

Can I be anyone else but me?

Maybe staying as myself is all I need...

Inspiration: We all feel like this sometimes. As in, I wish I could step away from life and take a break. Or I wish I could be as cool as my friends all. It doesn't always happen though. And some people hide these questions away in the back of their minds. I choose to talk about it. Through this poem. 

Sunday, June 23, 2013

The road

The road

The road whinds down,
Further and further.
While I'm in the car,
My stomach tossing and turning.

The road is never ending,
While the music blasts in my head.
"Locked out of heaven".

The road whinds down,
Further and further.
While I try to fall asleep on the backseat of our car,
It's uncomfortable.

The road is never ending,
While I see the other cars whizzing by us,
Like we are in a NASCAR race.

The road whinds down,
Further and further.
While the rain drizzles on the windows,
Reminds me of the subtle tears forming in my eyes.

The road is never ending,
But now I'm here.

Inspiration: I'm on a road trip right now, and this poem describes exactly how I feel right now :)

Tuesday, June 18, 2013


Please feel free to write comments and give positive feedback!! 
I would really appreciate it so I can improve and write about more topics.
 THANKS!!!! :)

Killing us Softly

They say to look desirable but innocent.
Sexy but naïve.
My skin has to look flawless, 24/7.
No exceptions.

I want to be me, but that isn't who I am supposed to sell.
Who is the real me?
It is as if, after being in this imaginary bubble of perfection,
Artificial personalities
And plastered smiles,
You start to
Lose Yourself.

My body slips away.
Size zero and 100 pounds.
Isn't that enough?
What more do they want?
Size -1?

The Media.
Such a small word for such a big network.
They portray me and sell me.
An object, that is who I am to them.
I feel fake.
I shouldn't have to tolerate their manipulations of my body.

If I am at such a horrible place,
Imagine the future generations.
It is already starting.
Toddlers styling logos like “Pimp Squad”
And girls conveyed as sex objects.

The media defines who I am.
They are my boss.
I want to quit this job.
I want to walk out the door and slam it in their faces.
I wish they knew how they're killing me.
Killing me softly.

“I want to be like Cindy Crawford”.
Said Cindy Crawford.
A person shouldn't have to wish they are themselves.
It is utterly demoralizing.

1 photo shoot.
100 shots.
10 airbrushes.
20 polishes.
30 touch-ups.
Millions of magazines.
The damage it causes the viewers.

Inspiration: I wrote about the objectification of women in the media today, and how it affects our everyday lives. It was inspired by a video called, "Killing us Softly". -RAP