Wanderling❁

This week's words

 

 

---

 

In love with this book of poetry by Beau Taplin. His words are simple, but meaningful, much like his philosophy on life. There's hardly any lyricism, but all of the impact that a searching soul needs.

I love reading it outdoors, where I'm reminded of the simple beauty of mother nature, my own trembling mind, and always love itself. Here are some excerpts that spoke to me deeply:

 

"The Best Revenge"

"Truth is, the best revenge is seeking none at all and investing that energy in your own health and progress, prioritizing personal goals you've been neglecting, and working toward creating a passionate, prosperous, and fulfilling future of your own."

 

"The Riot"

"I cannot be still for long. There is a riot in me all the time.  A needy, restless voice in my heart endlessly urging me onward. I ache for new experiences and my hunger for adventure is boundless. My entire is a perpetual loop of longing for something else."

 

"A Muse and a Friend"

"I have found a life for me in you, I know it. Someones I could fight for and fall with, who could move me to soar further than I ever would on my own wings. I see a lover, an accomplice, a muse, and a friend. Someone I could create something meaningful in the world with."

 

---

 

oceans away

 

---

keep pretending you don't feel that

sweet, warm ache in the place

where you keep your air

keep pretending, if you're afraid

of falling to your knees

or losing your heart when

you finally understand mine

but never pretend

that a missed lover, oceans away

isn't better

than a missed chance

---

 

"Harder"

 

---

a good sort of pain

isn't something I understand

though by now, I should

since I'm always asking myself

when in your hands,

do I heal, or do I hurt?

---

 

pachamama

 

 

---

she is mother

sister, ancient friend

begging her blossoms, her women

use these hands

to raise one another

and kindly touch the soil

at each other's feet

instead of tearing down

the vines that reach

---

 

photo: sunset over Orlando, Florida, july 2018

in high school, I

 

---

would arrive late, most mornings, and skip English

to hide in the center stall

of the darkest bathroom

because I knew, no-one would come looking there

re-reading the same book

and waiting for the bell that I would ignore

quiet as a small, dark tree

looking down at my awkward brown knees

tragically grounded to that very spot, yet

at ease in my privacy

because I knew one day I'd be a glorious force

of compelling words, and provocative eyes & mind,

and one day, I'd be so bright someone would tell me

I should stay modest and remember my roots, but

bitch, when I was seventeen

I did enough of that.

---

 

seeking self: expression ❁

 

 

 ---

 

Expression through art is essential.

 

It reminds us that we can re-channel the energy imbibed from any unwanted or unexpected circumstance, or seize control of our own sadness and insecurity, and craft something beautiful out of ourselves again.

 

The cosmos speaks to us in mysterious ways. Oftentimes, the exact message we needed to hear finds its way to us through someone else's imagination and art. Share strength, share love, and share the story of your journey out of the dark - you never know who you might inspire.

 

I've come to believe art is vital to our existence for this reason. One of truly defining qualities of human higher consciousness is our ability to see beyond what our eyes merely observe, and re-imagine our surroundings as away of coping, healing, and celebrating. We can rearrange words like tiles in a mosaic, play and paint with color, capture photos that challenge point of view, forge dramatic sculptures from nothing, and drape our bodies in ornamentation that makes us feel like things of beauty. Things of beauty: exactly what we were born to be, and born to create. Sometimes I write poems. Sometimes I am the poem.

 

When done with genuine intention and honesty, your art is your mirror. Do you like what you see? How much of your time do you spend trying to be someone you think others will approve of, or someone others will adore?

 

Expression is not meant to prove anything to the world, but rather, to reclaim your identity for the audience within. But sometimes people hurt us, steal, take advantage, and lie. Sometimes your body houses feelings that you aren't allowed to express. Frustration breeds, spending days listening to the screaming voices that wish to get unleashed, but may never be. If this is you, and if to heal, you must take revenge on the unfeeling world, do it quietly with your art. Make them all finally feel, too.

 

---

- faren rebecca rajkumar

not a victim

 

---

will I ever get them back

the things that were borrowed

the things that were stolen

right out of my mouth

out of my chest

and I could make a list

if forgiveness was not a gift

I already gave

---

 

an uneasy jealousy

 

 

---

 

Recently, I found an old & worn copy of David Copperfield from my childhood, and just as I was about to put it in a box to donate, the cover fell right off. What to do with a coverless book? A story with no name?

I decided to experiment with blackout poetry for the first time, and was surprisingly satisfied. There's something secretly delicious about hiding away some words and framing others, and it reveals much about one's mind, mood, and priorities. I think it's the start of a new series of poems that I'm happy to share. This art form, known as "erasure", is a version of "found poetry", not unlike found object art, that uses existing prose to create new poems.

Thank you, Charles Dickens, for lending me your words. I promise to keep making something new of each page, and I pray my patchwork poems don't make you roll in your grave.

 

"... drive me crazy

between the two of us,

where I lay

tears, together

our darkened house

more often I came to know

an uneasy jealousy ..."

 

---

 

origin

 

---

and the thing is,

I've been writing poetry, too

somehow

those words that never

find a way to your lips

have been wrapped around me

and living, breathing

between my skin

and his hands

they always were

and always will be

---

 

the act

 

---

a lightning flash and his face

was changed into the smile

of a lost lover I had

been trying to forget

but in the place below my navel

the all-seeing eye,

the sudden storm

it overcame, when

he held my waist

and spoke without words

and I was returned

to earth, to me, free

from the meteor of burden

the ghosts of the past

and wondering, did he just

slip me out of my clothing

or out of my mind

---