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Literature
insomnia
I am ill, the fact of my illness shapes the world
gently in its hands. Another night slips beneath me,
and I breathe in… hold… and release. The world
is illness-shaped and I close my eyes and build
a picture of the real world. The sane world and
the slippery slope.
If there is a slippery slope against the sane world,
I can climb. I can climb out past the rising sun,
into the day. A passionate sun on the glaze of
the earth. I breathe in… hold… release. I
will worship the day, the sun giving me
absolution.
I let the sins slip away to a quiet
place. The sun does not ask for contrition,
the illness does not ask
Literature
Hyperaware
I know the thumping of blood in my fingers,
the twinge in my back,
the tension behind my calves far too well.
The bristle of cold is too much
but the silence without the fan is suffocating.
My blankets are too heavy,
settled over my torso like the rock in my chest
but I can’t sleep without the weight.
This awareness is a manifestation of my longing;
for your hands in my hair,
your warmth at my spine,
your shoes on my floor.
This is what I feel when I can’t feel you –
palpitations, vibrations,
fixations that drive me to insomnia.
Only the trains are any comfort,
plowing away into the night
screaming here I am; there I go
Literature
Poem for a Mother
When I was four
I'd follow you into the bathroom
on sticky feet,
press my little bird hands
into the back pockets of your jeans
while you were washing dishes
at the sink,
babbling on: Mommy, Mommy,
I love you.
Then there was the youth
who played Simon Says
to your aerobic routine.
I took jumps to your steps,
laughing as I tripped,
I wanted to go
where you went
I practiced to be
who you were.
The world split sideways
and I stumbled out
a teen traumatized
by the gory birth.
I'd've sworn you did it to me:
the red plague of my face,
the heartache,
the inexplicable serrating rage,
I beat at you as an extension
of self.
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I wrote a poem with my favorite poet.
What have you all done lately?
Ahem...the pretty little parts that are in italics belong to my very dear friend and the oh-so-grand
.
I'm the plain (but very happy) jane. (:
What have you all done lately?
Ahem...the pretty little parts that are in italics belong to my very dear friend and the oh-so-grand
.I'm the plain (but very happy) jane. (:
Comments82
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This was so refreshing for me to read. You and your friend have used amazing metaphors of a golden summer, that was actually fun for me relating to the emotions of your poem. Not only the imagery worded is beautiful but it walks you through a moment that would lift our hearts 
Wonderful girl
Qita
Wonderful girl Qita