My creative writing professor told me to stop
writing about love. I asked him why and he said,
“Because you have turned it over and over in your hands,
felt every angle, every fault, every inch,
every bruise. You have ruined it for yourself.”
I spent the next 3 weeks writing about science
and space. Stars exploding.
Getting sucked into a black hole.
How much I wished I could sleep inside of that nothingness
without being annihilated. What an exploding star
would taste like. If it would make our stomachs glow
like fireflies, or tingle and shake like pop rocks
under our tongue.
My creative writing professor told me that those poems
weren’t what he was looking for.
He tells me to stop writing about outer space.
Stop writing about science.
Again, I ask him why. Again, he says,
“You have ruined it for yourself.”
I spend the next three weeks writing about my mother,
how we are told we can’t make homes inside
of other human beings, but the foreclosure sign
on my mother’s empty womb tells me that women
who give birth know a different,
more painful truth.
My creative writing professor tells me I am both talented
and hopeless, that everything I write is both visceral and empty,
a walking circus with no animals inside
but a beautiful trapeze artist with a broken hip
selling popcorn in the entrance-way.
He tells me to stop writing about my mother. I don’t ask why.
I pick up my books and my notepad
and I leave his office with my war stories
tucked under my tongue like an exploding star,
like the taste of the last person I ever loved,
like my mother’s baby thermometer, and I do not look back.
We are all writing about our mothers, our lovers,
the empty space that we will never be able to breathe in.
We are all carrying stones in our pockets
and tossing them back and forth in our hands,
trying to explain the heaviness
and we will never stop writing about love,
about black holes, about how quiet it must have been
inside the chaos of my mother’s belly,
inside the chaos of his arms,
inside the chaos of the spaces in every poem
I have ever written.
None of this is ruined.
Do not listen to them when they tell you that it is.
I’ve always been the one
writing for people.
"I’m not into words," you said.
“I love with actions.
I need to feel and see.”
But darling, everyone’s a poet.
“Write about me,” I begged.
So my body became your paper,
your fingertips were the ink.
You used your mouth to write
your poetry on my skin.
Did you know a flower placed in highlighter fluid can absorb the fluorescent ink into its leaves and petals? Shining a black light onto it then reveals a delicate network of glowing veins. The colours in this amazing image by Boaz Ng are natural.
See more of Boaz Ng’s work:http://bit.ly/18xEFpn
Flower, gleam and glow
Let your power shine
Make the clock reverse
Bring back what once was mine
Sometimes you need to remind yourself that you were the one who carried you through the heartache. You are the one who sits with the cold body on the shower floor, and picks it up. You are the one who feeds it, who clothes it, who tucks it into bed, and you should be proud of that. Having the strength to take care of yourself when everyone around you is trying to bleed you dry, that is the strongest thing in the universe.
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn…
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
one day your gonna see a cute boy and he’s gonna become your boyfriend or husband he won’t just be another cute boy added to the list of guys that ignored you
September 9, 2013
I saw him today, not him though; just the markings of the boy I once loved. We were dust chasing in the wind, or was it just I? The speckles of the memories we once cherished flew straight from my heart, down to the cold earth we were standing and buried themselves, alive and forgotten. And I, in my best smile,tried holding back the tears that was once wiped by those warm hands.Those little stolen kisses now whispered pain in my ear. And the smell of my love now drowns my heart with sorrow.
I write this not for him, nor for me but for the words that deserves freedom from the aching walls of my heart.
Did I really love him? Or just the markings of him?