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strangethoughtsofmaylene
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Interests: Writing random thoughts
***This is not a replacement xanga for my old xanga. This is merely another xanga where I put all the crap I think about. If you wish to comment, please do not do it just so I will comment you back...because I will not. If, however, you do have any responses or comments on anything, feel free to leave something.
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Member Since:
9/18/2005
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| who wants to be the
pretty smelling flower
suffocating in a pot of fertilizer?
not me
i'd rather be that weed
hanging off the edge of a rocky cliff
blown away with the wind
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| More poems...My eyes are strained and tired
But still I search
for the Unhappy ones-
Or rather, the ones that make me unhappy.
Confounded, flawed, imperfect things.
It gives me strange satisfaction to see them
Cut off from the roots of potential
Starved from the tree of forgiveness,
And never again associated with me.
So I cut and I cut
Until I realize,
I have no more.
***
Sure, the hospital has its charm.
There's that grouchy old doctor
Who yells at all the nurses
And never smiles
Who one day, out of the blue,
Buys me a Dr. Pepper.
There's that oxygen saturation
Going down, down, down.
We are all worried
But jiggle him, shake him, wake him up
And relief; it goes up, up, up.
There's that darn elevator that's always full
The surgeon is waiting, impatiently
The patient is waiting, scared
Alas, another elevator comes
And the person who has waited thirty minutes
on the floor above you steps out--you first.
And there's that poor old lday
Sick to her stomach, in pain, and cold.
Bring her a blanket
And her smile--it's warm.
But most of all,
There's that great moment
The moment you lose all expectation
Of a returned smile
Of a kind gesture
Of any return for that matter
And still,
You see the charm.
***
Failure,
I have never before been so grateful to you.
You have angered me before
And thrown away my favorite dream
Without even asking me, I might add.
You have snuck up on me,
Scaring the living daylights out of me.
But don't worry, I have recovered.
You have pulled my hair, in stress,
Like a bratty little brother,
And I am all the older for it.
But today, you have me enchanted.
You have grown up.
Who would have known you to be capable
Of having that strength
Of subtly using your mischief
To open for me
That door of destiny.
***
I'm the type of person who likes to move forward.
I like to feel the wind in my face
To feel the burn in my legs
And see glow of the rising sun in front of me.
I like to look for milestones to chart my journey
To pause momentarily to appreciate the present
But quickly squint, again, at the speck in the horizon
And keep moving--forward.
I like the roads to be straight
But also unique.
I'll travel the dirt, the gravel, and the cobblestone
And if there is a turn or two,
I'd still like to see the horizon
At the end of every turn.
I like to feel the physics of momentum
To accelerate and simply glide--effortless
Yet if a pebble should trip me
I'd still like to thank it
For giving me a new start.
I am a forward person.
But despite my rush to get to the end,
Despite the thrill of the chase, I might say,
There are moments where I feel tired.
These are the moments I am happy to look back
And I find myself in a good enough mood to tell my shadow
Good job.
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It is the queerest feeling
When you find yourself trapped
Between present and past.
When you are lead unwillingly back to places
You thought you had airbrushed out of your history
It is a bittersweet moment
But you tell yourself it couldn’t have been
Though you’re inclined to believe once more
It could have been.
And the lonely bear that sits upon the drawer untouched
Watches stoically
As you shut away for one last time
That single dried rose.
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A Sonnet
Tonight I see a
shooting star
Some say it is
bad luck
A ghost whose
enmity I struck
But I bask in
its memoir
Morning creeps with
graying roots
Foreshadowing
fury from above
But upon the
morning buds lies dew
A godsend out
of love
And teatime
arrives with afternoon
Amidst an air
of arresting humdrum
A shrill
reminder in fine tune
Beating against
my eardrum
Although up to
its neck in hot water it seems
A teakettle,
continues to sing.
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| With help from: Julio Noboa Polanco, Maya Angelou, Emily Dickenson, May Sarton
The caged free sings with a fearful trill
“Hope” is the thing with feathers
Of things unknown, but longed for still.
That perches in the soul.
It’s a worn path.
But.
The past is Now
If I could stand alone strong and free,
The tide rises and falls.
I’d rather be a tall ugly weed.
There is no shutting it out.
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