Congratulations You're Alive.

You know when you sleep all day,
And you're like, "Damn, I wasted a day sleeping."
Sometimes I feel like that except -
I didn't waste the day sleeping.

MY ATTEMPT AT REDEMPTION.

i am what isn't most.

i am physically stronger than most (even though i'm not strong enough to turn a stubborn pipe valve with my fingers).

i am more honest than most (even though i can't follow through with my own occasionally found philosophy).

i am more realistic than most (even though it often costs me a sound and temperate reputation).

i am more aware of my dignity than most (even though i struggle to resist and i make those intentional slips).


even though they are unable to slip through a pair of jeans,
and look satisfyingly slim and decently fit,
my thighs are stronger and more shapely than most (even though i'll never come to terms with mod-coined cigarette pants).


although i am shorter than most,
i am more curvy and physically healthy than most (despite my naive disorderedly eating habits).

i am a flawed, finite being.
but a flawed, finite being who looks into the mirror day after day to assess who she sees, who knows what undying guilt feels like, who contemplates over every helping hand she's offered and every bloody nail she's hammered.

i am a flawed, finite being who remembers everyone she's hurt and struck with a fiery blaze and left behind with a blinded gaze.

before i can embrace another, i must embrace myself (including my thighs and derriere).


i may have a black heart now, but it wasn't charred to begin with.

Irvine Essence

Rich.
Girl.
Stomp ing shoes.
Wind between her hair
(always blowing in her hair).
Sun in her shades
(never sparkle with a care).

Thin.
legs.
Glowing in the night
(even though there is no light
where she's from).
They say that she's a feisty one.

Nice.
Clothes.
They always tend to see
(prices far beyond the fee
that they can pay).

Cold.
Stares.
Coming from the one
Who has opted out the fun
that is here.
She brought out everything she had in fear.


And still,
She is
un.
hap.
py.

She wears the perfume

I labeled this poem to categorize the different works submitted in Scribbles. You're more than welcome to label your submission to help readers identify the type of work you've entered. Labels can also help clear any confusion, content-wise.


- - - - -



She wears the perfume,
and she wears it nicely.

It's hard to tell at first,
but there's definitely something

beneath initial wafts
and first impressions

of her.

I don't know how to describe it--
(let me gather myself, let me gather my thoughts).

She's an interesting person...
someone beyond her years.
I really see her differently,
and it's not just the scent that defines her.

Her courage to question a system
that she thought could be so flawless, and so
unshakably, unmistakably

Perfect.

She wears the perfume,
and she wears it well.


So well, in fact, that she's choking
on the illusions that the witches have brewed,

contained in a ... glass
ever so lucidly.

the drugs have synthesized with oxygen--
circulation running amuck in her cherry "snow white" heart.

And it pumps--beats--pumps--beats--,
all the way to her feet,
and her arms and her legs and her stomach.

Slowly, she's ingesting the surreal,
digesting the unreal,
and protesting the real
and learned.

She wears the perfume to cover all this. lost in
figures and places that used to be familiar, but
are really just trapped in foreign vortexes of her once
familiar mind.

And this is how she copes with it,
on the real,
dressing herself for false attention and
setting herself up for a dinner date with
disappointment and heartbreak and stomachaches.

And this is just her countenance,
her cathedral facade--perceived as high and mighty
and royal and INVOLVED.

The truth could not be so distant.

And she's crying, begging to me,
to ME,
to help her through this and to mend her
sprained ankles over missing these
FOUR IMPORTANT STAIR STEPS
to identify, and
to reach that achieved state of mind.

Minus the truth.

Yesterday: Ages Ago

When we sat on a bench
Small talking, taking pictures
Feeling unnoticeably awkward
And getting to know each other.

When we drove around
To what seemed like Neverland
(because we got lost
and decided to just go on
OUR very own adventure)
In the middle of the night while
KOST-ing it.

When I slept on the couch
And YOU were my blanket
(not because you didn't
or couldn't make your way home.
Oh, the dumb excuses you made...
But because I didn't,
actually, couldn't make my way home
and you wanted to stay).

When you came from across the room,
Held out your hand,
And we rolled, we glided, we sweated...
WE danced.
(Points of contact: body to body;
And you held my hand
With only a few fingers interlaced
Because you knew I liked it that way).

When I thought you were mine.
And you figured out that I'm yours to keep.
And now I'm in too deep to jump out.
In to you, in to this triangle of
Unrequited, unconditional love for you,
the way you say you love her
(And yes, she may see the best & worst with you,
But she doesn't accept it the way I do;
Cliche but true:
She doesn't see how your imperfections
Really do make you perfect...)

When you called me your sister,
And I smiled in returned
And yelled out, "Whattup, bro!"
And you frowned because you realized
That's how she sees you.

When you leaned on my shoulder,
And laughingly whispered, "I love you, man."
And I respond, "I love you."
Oh wait--that was today.
Actually... that's every day.

Empires.

When fools can be leaders,
And leaders can be fools,
We'll have ourselves a revolution.

Plans.

We live our lives to expect the worst.
Yet we plan for the best.