old. Wednesday, 15 July 2009

lately, i've been thinking a lot about victoria. and it's not something that's highly out of the ordinary, but, at the same time, it's been years. years. since i've physically been in the same vicinity. this morning i choked up thinking about distance and the things it does to people. anyway. this isn't a love poem..

i keep my promises..

in my pocket.

in the locket you never gave me,

in the pauses that never saved

your promises

vanished before you even

thought to stand by them, by me.

what we are carrying

now is forgetfulness at its peak,

a ripe fruit i forgot to hide from you.

i never meant to be your eve,

never meant to give you that one taste

that would destroy us,

but here we are.

you have risen from the ashes

of Palestine and I...

am still climbing that ladder we sing about

without our hymnals.

you never liked the binding anyway

you said the stitches never let the pages breathe

and i got your metaphor.

the doors of the church though

were open and we sailed through the pine

to meet the sun.

there are things in this life

i have not yet begun

to understand.

there are songs in that hymnal in your hand

that neither of us have learned

how to play

but i know how to sing your praise.

i know now that when i take from the well

i must give back

'cause you're no Jesus

you can't feed me from nothing.

i know.

that your promises were miracles

waiting to happen,

that i threw them in a wishing well

and drowned them.

there are some things

we just cannot come up from.

© 2009 Marcea L. Brown. All rights reserved.

it was five in the morning

there is a knock we all need answer.

yesterday, i bought a piggy bank

to store all my wishes

that one day, when i pull the cork

i can remember what dreams are made of.

today, all i can do is consider myself lucky

for every birthday my great-uncle has lived to see

for every tear we never had to shed

because this life is just too beautiful

and ugly is just a curse we say to people

who haven't found out yet how to say no,

who haven't played their own heart's strings

so they still don't know how to say fuck you to the world

and create their own symphonies

like august rush. who will make me cry today

who has an affair with the moon

who hears music where people hear poverty

who hears music where people meet deadlines

that leave their lifelines thirsty.

and i too have been there.

my mother had to hold my hand constantly

because i thought my life's lines were escaping me

and the only way to keep me sane was to hold them prisoner

but she understood

that sometimes you have to let go,

sometimes you have to go a little fucking crazy to remember

that even though you think you're out of symphonies

your soul still hums the rhythm of your birth

and your feet still tap to the rhythm of evolving

into something more beautiful than the wreckage you

got yourself into.

and yea everyone else can call you phoenix

but honey,

it takes a lot more heart to stay and lick the ashes clean

and i know now that tears are a catalyst for creation.

once, you said nothing is ever finished.

and i believed you then, like i believe now

that things are forever changing and

there may not always be an ending;

there are some thingswe just forget to resolve

and sometimes i revolve, circling the same pathetic

tragedies like i never knew there were other ways to get around you.

tonight, though, i will surround you with the music,

will kneel daily to sing 365 hymns and raise

365 prayers to heaven and ask her to bless

the 365 veins that keep you searching for lifelines,

for birthday parties, for beautiful,even ugly,

for your mother, who whispers i love you3

65 times under her breath

each time she feels your heart breaking.

and i will pray you don't forget

that somewhere, there's something

that's full of dreams

break that, let them free.

© 2009 Marcea L. Brown. All rights reserved.

when i am king...

i have always been one for leaving
and you have always been one for loving me anyway
when my wandering bones
touch your doorstep this time
i know i will not be welcomed...

remember me when your soul is creaking open and you feel like you can let a little memory in.
like the first time we fell
and the last (few) times we vowed we never would again
like the time we thought it was fucking hilarious
to put the smuggled kitten in a dorito's bag
remember me like the way we stayed up til 714
every day one summer
falling asleep to dashboard and smashing pumpkins
in fact, remember me in this way:
mellon collie and the infinite sadness: 1979.
david bowie. buddy holly. conor oberst.
uncle dave's naked No Doubt guitar pickin'
the spice girls. dance routines to n'sync and the backstreet boys
my quest for new original sound
perideum flux (whom i never found)
junkie rush. green day (before american idiot)
hooba freaking stank.
even my lesbian music that you pick up on because it and you were
just that awesome
remember me in the essays we stole from each other
and the songs we wrote together,
in our inability to stick with any of the musical instruments
we just keep on buying.
remmeber me in the ways i sought you out,
in the ways we never really knew each other
but understood perfectly
our manic attempts to grasp something larger than what we knew.
remember me, but not in this,
the last way i (never) say good bye.

© 2009 Marcea L. Brown. All rights reserved.

world, pick us

this isn't a poem. you can stop reading if you're looking for something deeper than i'm willing to offer today.
yesterday, i met someone who was so fucking rad, i'm making plans to travel cross-country to meet up.last night, i couldn't sleep because i was an anxiety-ridden fool for a friend of someone i just met (and who probably thinks it's creepy).today, i'm making a re(v)olution and not apologizing for shit. tomorrow, i'm packing my bag and going somewhere beautiful, if only for the night.this life should be made of the strangers you care too much for and the friends you meet that remind you there is ground to walk on, but the clouds are much softer. let's go there. let's hold hands and dreams of places we've never been to.
you know who you are.
you clearly know who i am. even though you don't.
i don't take back things that i say, mostly because i am always wrong when i am writing and if i'm not, then there is something you're missing. if it's honesty that you want, i suggest you look again. if it's roses and hearts, and sun beams that you want, i suggest you look elsewhere because everything i say tells a story and it might not be the one you want to hear, but it's the one i don't want to keep in. and it might not be the most flattering but it's the one i know.
this is the first time i've been honest with myself. and with everyone else. i'm keeping myself on that track.
anyway.
thank goodness.

© 2009 Marcea L. Brown. All rights reserved.