Write Something. (Another Performance Piece)

Write something exciting but about nothing, that doesn’t make sense but makes enough sense that the reader might understand part of you—or the narrator because one should never assume that the author and the narrator are one in the same.
.
But I think that’s an easy way out. So someone can stomach looking at the author after she recounts her bloody tale of attempted suicide and her abusive household even when her scarred wrists and bruised face tell you she’s anything but innocent when it comes to brushes with torture and self-pity. But you just sit there and snap your fingers because she’s nothing like you—though you want her to be. You picture her in a happy home with a good life because, obviously, she just imagines a world where someone suffers because life is too boring without pain and angst and crime and war.
.
Love isn’t spicy enough without a little torment and soiled sheets. No one but children read stories for their happy endings because love and sharing and friendship and sex aren’t anywhere close to human without a hint of despair. That’s the problem, isn’t it? We’re only human. We are a violent species whom looks the other way when we commit a foul. And none of us can say we’re clean after the age of 13 because we’ve all had that moment when we’ve gotten so angry that we’ve ha to say, “What the FUCK, brain?” when we think of pushing someone into a wood chipper of suffocating them with a pillow. We resist the urge to kill not because it is immoral or wrong or even just messy only because we know if we actually committed the crime we’d get caught.
.
But continue writing your poem about nothing and everything and just try not to piss people off.

Words. (A Performance Piece)

Words. words words words words words words words.
Words across paper, across pavement, spilling through my mind like water gushing over rocks in steams, words that the moment I think of them they’re vanishing down a slippery slope of no return where nothing is eloquent and ignorance is bliss and
.
……Silence.
.
Silence radiating through my mind, this room, this planet. so deep is this silence that I still manage to find noise everywhere. Seeping into silent conversations that don’t make sense, seeping into my every thought and making me feel those words again. Fear, happiness, doubt, rage. Words that lose their meaning in that spiraling circle of silence and words and suddenly I find myself
.
……….Lost.
.
Lost, meaningless, I’ve thrown myself into that sneaky hate spiral of silence and words and I’ve got to remind myself to take my medicine but the pills have dried up in exchange for these words “Write poetry instead of pills, Amanda.” But these words are useless to find my way out if the words are silent and don’t make sense and just get me lost in the first place but it always comes back to
.
…………Words.

And that's all that matters...

Strike me down as flowery and
A romantic. Shove me aside as though
I'm the kind of person you'd hate to
Be with. You hate presents, flowers,
and candy goes straight to your ass.
But I love you.


And that's all that seems to matter.
Being with you is like drinking coca-cola and
Letting the acid eat a hole in my stomach
To the point where I cramp up and
Double over; clutching your head to
My chest, screaming, "LISTEN TO THE BEATING!"


The things you do drive me to the point
Of a dizzy high-dive. I'm just waiting to take
That last step, jumping, head first, into
This romantic highway into the depths
Of chaos and hell and
Who gives a fuck if we're sinners?


I'm corny and you like it.
And that's all that matters.

Serious Prediction. No Stares. Right There. (A Sestina)

Imagine this is something serious,

Within the realm of prediction,

And without needing to shout “no”

And thereby lead to interesting stares.

All can be avoided if you just write.

Just sign your name, there.

 

You think they’re

Nothing but serious

And don’t know wrong from right.

That they’ve forged a prediction

Making you climb endless stairs

While keeping you out of the Know.

 

But you think you know.

You think you see plots within plots, their

Continuous twists and turns creating stares

Bridging on serious.

You see that prediction

And think to yourself, “Right.”

 

So just sit yourself down and write.

Show me what you think you know

About this so called prediction

Give me your John Hancock, there

So I know you’re serious,

So you won’t have to climb anymore God damned stairs.

 

You actually want the stares

Though, am I right?

You want the attention and serious

Face-time, to be in the Know—

You want more of their

Precious prediction.

 

While they help you with your pre-diction

God knows

You can’t form a coherent sentence. There

Look at what you’ve gone to write.

You see nothing but stares

And you’re nothing but serious.

 

You think the prediction is right

You know, the stares know

They’re all serious.

Murderer's Sonnet

He draws his gun from leather strap, takes aim,
A pull of the trigger, a tongue licks lips,
Smoke trails from the muzzle—bullet in flames,
Blood splatters the pavement mocking the Styx.
How foolish she had been to wish him hell,
He thinks, while watching crimson hair dripping,
She should have known him to be this as well,
He’d drag her down with him, scream and kicking.
The police sirens wail; calling justice
He chuckles, his appearance disheveled
Somehow the sound of a gunshot just is
A way for the police to embezzle.
He sits in his prison and watches time,
Thinking, somehow, someway, she will be mine.

Non-Conformist (A Performance Piece)

I look out at their faces and think to myself,

Well, damn. There goes another shot at being

Something other than what I am. I can’t

Seem to find the right phrasing of words,

The right persona to impersonate,

Or the right brands to wear. And I really,

Really, want to be just like them.

I really want to parade around in

Cut-off jean shorts or worse…

Jeggings.

I really want to weigh less than

My seven year old niece and

Even enjoy the same music

(Justin Beiber, oh yeah).

Maybe, just maybe, one of

These days I’ll take a hammer

And I’ll try to nail Jell-O to a tree.

That’s about how difficult changing

Me into someone like you would be.

And doesn’t that just sound like fun?

I’m sure the tree would love the

Strawberry colored stain on its bark—

That same ridiculous shade that

You use to dot every i and cross every t.

See, I like being who I am.

I like being the person who wakes up at 3AM

Not to go jogging but to roll over and

GO BACK TO SLEEP!

I like my ice cream, ramen, and three

Different types of nerdism. No,

It’s not a word, but who gives a fuck?

Yes, I’ve got a “potty mouth” and no

I don’t live with my parents so why should I care?

They curse just as much as I do and twice as loud,

You should have heard the noise complaint—

Neighbors thought we were blaring some

Hardcore screaming death metal.

So yes, I’d love to join your little club.

I’d love to be in your clique and sit at

Your table at lunch. I’ll even let you sign

My yearbook. I’ll sign yours under my picture—

I’m the one flipping off the photographer.

I'm Sure You Can Fix It

Bright glimpses of color and sound stick millions to couches and still more stand cheering on the screen. Scraps of lyrics, screaming from jubilant passersby, over powers equally unsteady news casters. Hey, hey, hey, goodbye.

Hope. Change. Even other countries tune in to see someone off or, perhaps, to welcome someone home. As if to say, "Hello! Here's your housewarming present. Sorry the last guy made a mess of things!"