Perfect imperfection.
Opposites that attract so naturally.
Eloquent as a violin playing as the ship sinks in the storm.
Bittersweet but so beautiful.
Perfect imperfection.
Milk chocolate for eyes that stare into the clouds endlessly.
Daydreamer, daydreamer are the words that the wind whispers in her ears.
The sun shines bright trying to reveal her streaks of tears.
She wears them proud- invisible tears , invisible fears – indeed.
She still smiles.
Shy but still proud of her perfect imperfections.
Stretch marks from the miracles of life that she bore into this wretched land of man.
Stripes of a warrior, strength of a gladiator.
Battle scars etched into skin the texture of velvet made with ingredients of honey , almonds and caramel.
Perfect imperfections.
Perfect imperfections indeed.
Tag Archives: poetry
Remind Me, Please?
What is the thing I fear the most?
It’s so hard to choose just one.
To forget words.
To forget names.
To forget faces.
I don’t care if those faces forget mine.
I care if I forget the faces that I call mine.
So, I write my words down every chance that I get.
Just in case I forget that words exist.
One day these words will help me remember that I did exist.
Conversation With the Mirror
The hardest questions to ask are the ones to self.
So many levels of you, me, us, them, he, her, him.
How do you ask a question to “I”?
Do you know who I am?
Do I know who I am?
What’s more important?
What you know or what I know I am?
Nothing is worse than being a prisoner to the unconscious part of you.
To survive on impulse rather than sane, logical thinking.
To survive.
How do you do that with a corrupt mind?
How do you pick up the shattered pieces of broken promises and dreams?
How do you repair what they broke in you?
How do you get back what was stolen?
Innocence.
Virtue.
Pride.
Beauty.
Youth.
Respect.
How do you heal the scars?
Painful scars.
Wounds so deep they cut through flesh, muscle, bone- all the way to the soul.
Wounds hidden because of embarrassment.
You didn’t do this to you, they did.
But, you suffer because I suffered.
How unfair.
It just doesn’t seem right.
Did I suffer to get stronger?
Is that the way it works?
What a warped reality.
I would pray to be saved.
When it got worse, I prayed to die.
When it got worse, I stopped praying and then I just stopped feeling.
Numb to it all.
The equivalent to when you are sick and can’t taste, but you still eat.
I lived with a dead spirit, and I thrived.
I locked myself away and I didn’t emerge until years later.
Time flew by and now I stand in front of this mirror trying to figure out who and what I am.
The reflection still has no reply.
It just stares back and sobs silently.
Writers BLOCK
I wish it was easy for me to write down my thoughts.
At first the words are dormant, suspended in the deep, black abyss –
A dimension in my mind.
A place where I yearn to swim.
Sometimes, I can only access it in my day-dreams or in my restless sleep.
My place is a quiet beach.
When the world gets too loud, and the chaos is stifling, this is where I escape.
Where alone- I am me.
I watch the words, my feeling, my loves, floating in the ocean right there –
in front of me.
They form fragments of sentences with each break on the beach,
only to get lost in its retreat back to the endless sea.
Help me find my words!
I scream out across the turbulent ocean.
Bring them back! – I demand.
The roaring laughter from the waves just drown my requests.
I must look so silly.
So I just sit and wait for my words to return to me.
RaMBliNG ThOUghTS
So, I sit and write.
Not in the right state of mind, but still I think.
My lightbulbs are broken and cracked open so my ideas flow free, while my body is locked down by gravity.
These chains.
These chains are heavy, can I still break free?
I cut up a magazine for pictures of where I want to be.
A jigsaw puzzle of blue was the sea.
I used different hues, from different views trying to piece together me.
I couldn’t find the right part for my nose and there wasn’t a way for me to express what’s in my soul so I scrapped the book and decided to write a simple poem.
So I sit in the dark and write using the illumination from my phone.
I wonder if he knows?
I cry alone.
The pit in my stomach is as deep as the Pantheon’s dome.
My feelings untold like Egypt’s history hiding in Africa’s sand and soil.
Mysterious even to me.
I don’t understand my body language.
Foreign feelings, foreign dealings just revoke my passport- I’m tired of visiting.
The silence of the night creeps in over me like a blanket for a baby trying to be rocked to sleep.
Maybe I should just sleep?
Maybe it will come to me in my dream- the reason why I can’t get rid of this feeling.
I’m alive but not living, but I am breathing.
I have a pulse, so that means my heart is still beating, I just have to figure out the rhythm to the beat of my drum.
Time for me to write a text message to Mr. Sandman and ask him to send me a dream.
Nightfall Overture
Emerald, green lanterns with wings.
Watch them.
So serene, as they float suspended in the nightgown of the man in the moon’s mistress.
Midnight, black silk- translucent lace adorned with trapped hopes and dreams.
So bright, they shine.
In awe I stare .
Never have I seen such beauty.
Never have I felt such despair.
Whispering winds carry bedtime prayers.
Up, up, up!
The rapacious clouds consume them to the point of rupture.
The scent from the woes of man soon fills the air.
Let it rain.
Remind us of our flesh.
Let the tears pour down upon the hardened soil.
Let it seep down, deep, down and awaken the sleeping seeds and encourage them to grow different.
Encourage them to push harder, expand their roots into barren land, land that was said to have no chance of growth and you prove them wrong.
On this summer night your forest will grow from concrete under the magic of the moonlight.
The Last Tree
One sentence touched my soul today.
I didn’t catch it right away.
Eight softly spoken words.
Strong enough to pierce through the anger and resentment that I held.
“I am in the autumn of my life”, he said.
I no longer saw him as a man.
He became a lonely tree.
In a barren field he stood tall and was looking down admiring me.
All around me swirled his falling leaves.
Piles of unspoken memories scattered around my feet.
I questioned what their stories told and he said, “No, let them die with me.-
Only share what warms the heart and let the cold stay dead.”
Silence was all I had to give.
My soul had no words to speak, instead it ushered me to take a seat.
I offered company while his leaves continued to fall around me.
I enjoyed his shade because I know that the present easily becomes heartfelt memories, sooner than most wish them to be.
Note to Self
Maybe one day I will get a hold on this thing called self.
I will understand why I cry.
I will understand why I’m so angry at things that are supposed to be beautiful.
Some days I think I’m winning, but it’s only a brief thought without any substance called proof.
I don’t know.
My answers just keep digging bigger and bigger holes of unanswered pits of questions that I keep finding.
One day it will all make sense and I can throw my shovel away.
T.K.O
Written by: Mariana Golphin
Have you ever felt so alone that even in the sun you only see darkness?
So empty that your thoughts echo as if they are bouncing off the walls of a long forgotten cave.
At that moment you question life and nothing you do seems to fit the job description of what’s involved with living it.
Breathing hurts because your lungs collapsed from a knife that ripped through them and went straight into your heart.
How can something metaphysical hurt?
How can something so seemingly intangible hit you like a professional heavyweight boxer.
It leaves you laying on the floor of the ring.
You are drenched in a pool of your tears.
He stands over you and starts the count.
Ten!
Nine!
Eight!
You don’t want to stand.
You can’t stand.
Paralyzed, you have forgotten how to walk.
Seven!
Six!
Five!
Your conscious is trying to wake you up yelling.
Listen!
Dammit it listen to them!
Four!
Your red, bloodshot, swollen eyes fight to focus because the tears are still falling.
Slowly they appear out of the darkness.
Get up!
Get up!
Blurred images turn into familiar faces.
They are screaming for you.
They are cheering for you.
They want you to fight.
They need you to fight.
All isn’t loss.
Three!
Two!
Don’t let that bastard count to one.
Depth
