Tangled Heartstrings

(This is basically a digital copy of the portfolio/unofficial chapbook, reformatted for general consumption instead of grading. A collection of 10 edited poems out of the 23 I wrote during the semester for my poetry class. I had a personal goal of writing poetry about myself, not just about stories. Of course not all of them are personal. And a lot that are personal are extra dramaticized, so don’t take all of this so seriously. It’s a little whimsical, a little dark, and a little hopeful too. That’s just how my poetic side is. The original was in a variety of fonts, but we we work with what we have. Enjoy! :0)

One of those mornings

I awake, a sickness in my stomach 
and my vision consumed with green. 
As I push myself from the floor, my limbs
weigh on their bones, rotting and stitched together. 
I stretch to find too much missing:
a couple fingers and a kneecap
and at least one organ from the look 
of my open chest. This creature 
that is not quite me, I can see them 
from across the room, for one of my eyes had rolled 

away. Every particle of air and sound 
is trapped in a stillness. Dust 
coats my tongue, and I dare not breathe 
too hard and disturb the spider in the back of my mouth, 
finishing its web.

Once I pop my shoulder 
back in its socket and return my eye 
with a squelch, I drift my gaze 
around the room. It’s not big 
nor interesting,
and something on the wall has a stale smell. I spot 

a calendar hanging. There’s too many tasks 
written on the days in dripping red. 
I don’t remember writing them— or 
even what day it is.
But every muscle is too stiff. If I move, 
my skin may rip and unravel 
into ugly ribbons. I can’t
do any work or leave my room 
or even fix myself up. 
I can’t even try.
With nothing else to do, I return 
to the floor, hoping
that tomorrow 
this will be over.

Although as I lay there, 
I wonder,
Had I always been like this?
I don’t remember when my life ended
and the decay began.

(1st draft submitted September 5, Poetry Assignment #2, Persona Poem. This one was very experimental for me. It was my intent to be very deliberate with every aspect of this poem, and I wanted to describe a particular emotion I’ve been feeling recently that I’ve never been able to name. Originally, I had started like four other poem ideas that weren’t working and somehow things suddenly clicked with this one!)

Kills 99%

Safe in a bottle, my worries dissolve 
to sharpened dreams. As their words 
shape me to inhuman, it’s easy not to listen
when I’m lost 
in foolish, chemical serene.

I lower my head from prep school ties 
and fingers crossed. It’s 
“For the Kids” they say.
But the 1 percent that won’t be killed
is my immortal happiness.

I’ve never been afraid of germs. I am 
warning label. I am isopropyl imagination, 
defying all playground rules. 
They can call me immature, 
say that it will stunt my growth.
I’d rather sanitize my mind

than waste my fleeting youth.

(1st draft submitted, September 17, Poetry Assignment #4, Deep Memory Poem based off a smell. So this is loosely based on my charter school experience before it shut down due to embezzlement. I don’t have a lot of smells I remember, but enjoying the smell of hand sanitizer in a classroom is definitely a deep memory of mine. I completely rewrote this from the 1st draft, but I kept some of my favorite lines and the overall concept.)

Ode to Fluffy

When you passed, I did not weep

My heartstrings are a tangled maze
But one remains in a brilliant red
Still wrapped around your memory

Spilling my sorrow on concrete floors
Drowning in darkness behind my eyes
Your clink-clinking sparks a glow

A pressure on my stomach
My fingers find soft stormy clouds
Until dirt coats my nails
Our loneliness intertwined

When I fall silent, I can hear your rumble
And I know I am loved 

When you died, I did not cry
For you already held my tears

I took a breath in your name.

(1st draft submitted 19, Poetry Assignment #5, Ode Poem. This poem is as much of a eulogy as it is an ode. My cat passed over a year ago, but I’ve never really given any opportunity to write about it and celebrate her. She totally deserves it! It was originally a lot longer, but I want to work on writing shorter poems and focus on that imagery.)

Weeds

There’s a garden of flowers on my face,
and to twist and wrench them free,
the scars refuse to fade.
The tangled flowers on my face
take root in every space,
too thick to breathe breathe            breathe.
There are flowers on my face.
It hurts to pull them free.

(1st draft submitted September 26, Poetry Assignment #7, Triolet Poems [#2]. A triolet is a type of formal poem, and it has a specific structure. This one’s actually about my struggles with severe acne. I’ve been wanting to write this exact poem for a while actually. Maybe in another I’ll expand on this concept.)

How to find a grey hair

It’s not unlike finding a needle in a haystack where
you won’t see it if you’re searching. It’s better to sit there 
in the straw until you feel a sharp prick 
take your arm. That’s when it is evident
and gleaming. It’s no wonder why scarecrows are ensnared 
to stillness when a needle might have snuck
underneath their burlap. It’s no wonder I am struck
to find a silver thread
spun into my scalp. It’s lightning-lined elegance
dances in the mirror. And it makes me wonder 
if I can see something broken inside me. Glass shards rewinding to repaired
then to sand. Melanin spills through my fingers. I can offer
only pleads for sympathy
to my ever-aging hourglass. Instead,
I am given a field where I stand, stuck
in one place. Roped
to an upright wooden coffer
like a fallen deity. I pray with the starving crows to my own horror,
waiting for needles to finally 
stitch me in silver.

(1st draft submitted October 8, Poetry Assignment #9, Create-Your-Own-Rhyme-Scheme Poem only using enjambment. If you can’t tell, enjambment is the technique of continuing a sentence through the next line. I had a hard case of writer’s block with this one. However, I managed to make this in two sittings, and I’m happy with the product. Trying to focus on sound while also encapsulating my thoughts about this grey hair I discovered a couple weeks before writing this. I had also completely rewritten the middle of it when it came to editing the final draft.)

Written By A Boy Named Valentine 

(Aka “Another Ode to My Ex”)

The moment we met, I was enamored by your melody. 
Like shepherd, you found my hand, led me 
deeper into tender darkness. I displayed my damaged essence. You said you would 
mend it and set me free from the hell inside my head. Your mouth molded my
name into Valentine. And I echoed: 
mine. I melted into
your pretend.

In your embrace, you drew 
the melody from my breath, 
and edited the meaning. You reduced my 
words to 
remnant,
to a metaphor of myself. For you 
I was only a body. Bleeding. A 
marionette to your affection. 

To separate 
my
self
from endless shadow, was to 
remember 
what you promised.
I now realize 
your words 
were empty 
poetry.

(1st draft submitted October 10, Poetry Assignment #10, Wafts and Weaves Poem. So the prompt for this was to pick two vowel and two consonant sounds and integrate them as much as you can into the poem. I chose the “m” and “d” consonant sounds and the “eh” and “ee” vowel sounds, basing it on the word “mendacity”. Even though I know sharper sounds would have done better with this topic, I wanted to see what these would do instead. This is a persona poem in the POV of a character of mine named Valentine. You may recognise both him and this poem from “By Val.” He’s also a poet and the alternate title is what he would title it. I feel like he would have multiple poems with this exact name. Originally, I was yet again really stuck on what to write about, but the day I wrote this I was fixating on this character so hard I could barely focus. So I killed two birds with one stone!)

Clock Out

The sun is setting. I’m working at this retail store,
alone with my thoughts in a cage of clothes,
and I am assigned to the sales floor.

Badge reads Brand Associate (in training) but it’s more 
like a sign for night-shift free throws.
It’s way too late to be working at this retail store—

to be shopping at one too. Yet I am a pleasant encore
of “Are you finding everything alright?” And it shows
that I’m pitifully lost on the floor.

Each day I’m exhausted far before
I clock in for the boredom overdose.
The moon is out. I’m working at this retail store.

My arms and shoulders are growing sore.
The buzzing fluorescents announce we’re closed,
and I am still sleeping on the floor.

Every 16 bucks an hour is a goddamn chore,
but “adults” suck it up and silence their woes.
All is quiet. I’m working at this retail store,
and I am lying dead on the floor. 

(1st draft submitted October 18, Poetry Assignment #11, Villenelle Poems [#1]. Another formal poem here with a specific structure. This one is basically about my experiences starting to work at Old Navy. A poetic rant if you will. Everyone’s gotta complain about their job a little! I only ended up completely rewriting on stanza here.)

Dodecahedron

Halfway through last year, you stopped hugging me,
But you still join me in the living room,
Asking when we can play more DND.
You don’t understand why I reply, “Soon.”

You treat me less like a storybook, more
Like a soulless video game. A hero’s 
Side quest to ignore if there’s no reward.
An inconvenience to your ego.

I treat you less like a brother, rather
Like a wicked jester. Like a headache.
You offered me a fist bump. I answered
With a tease about your recent breakup.

If we’re too cool for shared couch company,
Is the illusion of “right” worth the price?
When our tongues tie up into fists, maybe 
We can both take a breath and roll the dice.

I took ten minutes to get dressed today;
You called me pretty and pinched the next page.

(1st draft submitted October 27, Poetry Assignment #12, Sonnet Poems [#1]. Again, another formal poem. Surprise! A poem about my brother. Decided not to make this one a rant because we’re both kind of jerks to each other sometimes. Aint that just how it is sometimes. Familiarity breeds compempt.)

We ants

We ants parade along cursive
sidewalks, indiscernible
scribbles to the moving shadow.

(1st draft submitted November 12, Poetry Assignment #16, Haiku Poems [#1]. Apparently, haikus don’t actually have a syllable count as long as it’s 2-3 lines. That’s just what the quirky Americans wanted the rules to be. For the haikus, we all went around campus as a class and observed nature to write about. I found some ants! I wanted to describe how equally beautiful and silly they are. And how often we overlook them when they’re so interesting and complex.)

Lost and Found Form

Name— To whoever stole my empathy: please return it. 

Description— I know that I had it, and I know that it was stolen. I just can’t recall when or where. It fit in my hand, a little bigger than an apricot and twice as sweet. I think it was neon purple or marigold. Or maybe an odd sort of pale blue. The color of wet wall paint. But in the sunlight, it turned to a mellow rainbow. I had simply put it down for 15 minutes. Then it was gone.

Phone Number— I know it was stolen. I’m certain it was. I didn’t just misplace it or forget it was there. I promise I looked everywhere, (under my bed, between my teeth, in every pants pocket) and it’s nowhere to be seen. It didn’t break it either; I checked the trash. And it didn’t run away from me. At least I hope not.

Email— Please give it back. I miss it a lot. It’s hard to cry at the theatre now. Hard to give to charity or to comfort friends. Even harder to focus on anyone but myself. Someone died, and people looked at me funny when they didn’t see my empathy. Without it, it’s a battle against my selfishness and my apathy. I struggle to stand up. I’m outnumbered.

Signature— If you have any empathy in your heart, please return it. By the day I die.

(1st draft submitted November #16, Poetry Assignment #17, Prose Poem. Y’know like a poem in a format that’s not a poem, most commonly in paragraphs. The writer’s block was really hitting with this one. I had tried a couple different ideas that just weren’t working and on the edge of defeat, started writing this. Thankfully, that’s when it started to come together. This is basically about my struggle with empathy. Not what I expected to write about, but that’s poetry for you.)

Bonus Poems

(Ones that just barely didn’t make the final 10 but I’m still proud of. Though they’re less edited than the others.)

dreary tune

this song of my sigh is a dreary tune,
and i hardly have a good reason why:
i blame the cloudy day on my gloom

my head is shrouded in fog. there’s no room
for any sort of daylight delight
every heavy sigh is a dreary tune.

from morning light till long-past-noon,
a sea of grey has been painted on the sky.
i blame every brushstroke on my gloom.

it always seems to affect my mood
when the sun whispers a hidden goodbye.
i answer with a downcast tune.

i can’t help it. i know it’s rude
to curse at something that can’t reply,
yet i always blame the clouds on my gloom.

perhaps tomorrow the heavens will bloom
into the light i’ve been denied
and my heart will be free of gloom.
one day, soon, I will sing a sunny tune.

(As previously stated, I was having writers block on my villenelles. Because it was so cloudy specifically. So I wrote about exactly that)

1,380

One thousand three hundred and eighty songs
and not a single one clicks into place.
My thumb spells out a new beat. A far-gone
metronome hitting Skip until it breaks
into two-to-five too-short minutes of 
concentrated endorphins. A promise 
to be plunged back into ennui. Purga-
tory for my finicky subconscious.

I need something that halos the today.
The color of an energy drink. Glow
of broken glass. Quality of raw clay. 
Ripened, perfect, like an avocado.
It’s gotta hit right. Fit through the needle 
eye of my need. Strike the very center 
target of my cranial carnival.
Trading the tedious time for pleasure.

Shouldn’t a playlist find me one slice of
heaven out of thirteen hundred eighty?

(I was listening to music and skipping over and over again for the perfect song. Sometimes its good to write poems about the simpler frustrations in life.)

birdwatching

You, dusty wings
twitching with paranoia,
prolong my springtime memory.

(Another haiku written in nature. This was about the birds of the area. We’d sit there and stare and always they’d simply fly off before we’re finished admiring them. How rude!)

After In the Shadow of Giants by Luke Barela

in the shadow of giants
i have lost all sense 
of singularity i stand
a whisper 
in your ancient echo
im left only 
with questions.
looming gods
please humble my broken 
vessel these hollowed retinas 
have been at war with beauty
you are formless deathless
dead you are
groaning eternal
your eternal 
vigil 
a silence i hold between
trembling fingertips

(This one is an ekphrastic poem, meaning it was written about a peice of visual art. This amazing paintings was at one of my college’s art galleries. There was so many breathtaking works; it was so hard to choose. With this one, the words just clicked/ I spent a long time marveling at and wondering about it. Most of all, I was curious why the artist depicted was painting this scene and what was going on in their head, so that’s what I chose to write about.)