The Aftermath of New York
There’s darkness within me.
Oh, my heart!
So full yet incomplete
The world has taken its toll on me,
And left us with only steel.
Silent minds are often shallow;
Asleep beneath the false sunlight, they hide away.
There’s darkness within me!
Oh, my heart!
Hide me from the livid trees and groves of entropy
Dolce Vita,
The rich man goes first,
And the rest are soon to follow.
Charcoal black is the afternoon sky
Dolce Vita, we all shall die.
10/23/17
The Aftermath of New York: Always Before the Storm
Upon my return,
Backs to me, I go unnoticed.
I am invisible again,
Knuckles pressed to the glass window pane
Before it shatters like my heart did.
It was all I ever had.
In the city,
There’s no talk of the bright meadows or the thick woods.
No talk of hiding in the barn on warm summer nights
Giggling when the girls screamed, “BATS!”
Overgrown pine trees,
Sap on my hands
It was all I ever had.
When did I start to slip?
I guess it got cold that winter.
I should have wiped my eyes in the fall
When the goldenrod made me sneeze.
Running to the fields beyond me,
I was a failed representation of my mental state.
It was all I ever had.
When the sky cleared for spring
Was when I lit the match.
I didn’t want to be invisible, so I bit the hands that fed me.
People closed their ears
And even turned their heads.
I wanted autumn to come again
It was all I ever had.
Upon my my return,
Backs to me, I go unnoticed.
He’ll keep his eyes on the 50 yard line
And only turn his head if I bother to show my face.
Fingerprints on my wrists when I had to leave,
I guess I never was invisible.
His kind words were all I ever had.
So when I return, I flash my smile
In respect to the bridges I burned.
Pick me my goldenrod, 66,
But leave room for me in the headlines.
– 8/28/17
The Aftermath of New York: Always Before the Storm
By the time I was five,
my nose had become akin to the smell of damp dirt and diesel fuel
and my eyes to mud tracked hallways and a sea of blonde heads and dull, grey eyes
By the time I was seven,
they realized mine were hazel-brown,
and that my daddy came from the city rather than a small town
so his shoes were always clean
By the time I was twelve,
the rat-faced boys learned hit heads on the field
but I was the one running the yards to escape
like white-tailed deer
praying not to end up a summertime meal to somebody with a camouflage smile
By the time I was fourteen,
I ran out of breath
and put my hands around the throats of the hicks who called my old Cadillac too clean
before realizing if I choked them it made me just as blind
By the time I was sixteen,
I was long gone
and knew there was more to people than just the dirt on the
soles of their shoes
so whenever I return to the town
where they spit on my black boots,
I let them.
4/18/17
The Aftermath of New York: Always Before the Storm
What reason have I to be repulsed by my own species?
My own kin, as if my mind is abstract enough to separate it from theirs.
None. Not one that is fair
Because I am as much of a product as they are
Forced to stare at my loved ones
Blue faced in an extravagant prayer laced box
Worth more flimsy green paper than I could accumulate in two years time
And am told to call it closure
As if it wasn’t a complete and utter disgrace to the deadman
Whose soul twitches with embarrassment
Under sorrowful empty eyes.
I’d much rather be a wort covered toad,
Or a writhing worm stuck to the pavement.
A beetle under a shoe,
Or an unwatered blade of grass.
Yes, maybe then, I could leave this foul world in peace when it is my time leave it.
No one would look twice.
No one would have to lower my lifeless carcass into a box
That was half heartedly decorated by the hands of a laboring child
Who never saw my face,
But had to take something home to mother so they could afford supper that evening.
No one would bother to stare.
Maybe then I wouldn’t be cradled like a fool
Or kissed with formaldehyde
As if humans actually cared.
5/24/17
revised: 8/27/17
The Aftermath of New York: Always Before the Storm
Drops of sweet salt fall to the pavement
where a tom cat licks them up like sugar
but not fast enough to stop a wave in the lakes
that I am forced to be afraid of.
I’ve read the posted signs
“10,000 shipwrecks”
and the gale warnings that make my screen glow in the early hours
as I prepare myself to wade in the vast, open waters
holding my breath
where the rip tides stir silently
threatening to drag me out.
I am not the Edmund Fitzgerald
your waves only lure me in deeper.
“Save me from myself; don’t let me drown!”
I sing to the sea
like the radio sings to me
the sea that’s not an ocean
the sea with no salt.
I laugh
but only at my mind sometimes
I am not afraid of myself
rather what lies beneath the waves
before I find a passing seagull
who tells me to look east
find the sun to feel the rays
that warm the water on the winter days.
The cat lays next to you on the blanket and licks your hand
your skin is the softest cream
you chuckle
but not enough to make you shut your blue eyes
that read “I love you so, forever and more”
and I believe them
oh, I believe them
and the sweet sea blue.
I dive headfirst into the waves
with gills.
– 8/5/17
The Aftermath of New York: A Simple Poem
(Thought of at the National September Eleventh Memorial, 6/11/17)
I was asleep in my cradle
safe, sound, untouched
miles and miles away from a newly acquired knife in a nation’s heart
when I should have been wide awake
should have let the fear strike me and leave its battle wounds
as it set into the jaws of millions
when the gasoline gushed into the office space
illuminating a man’s face
with sunken eyes on the 101st floor
asking, “Where is God when I have to jump?”
and I know he thought
how he wished he could grow wings
like the jet planes that landed at his feet
like he was living a little boy’s dream
but he didn’t wake up before it turned into a nightmare
and how he wished he could land without feeling any pain
but sometimes the world doesn’t work that way
so he tipped himself over the edge
hoping someone would catch his last words
with a prayer to his family
before he fell
down
down
down
and shattered in a sea of red and rubble
making a fireman’s stomach churn
and President Washington turn over in his grave
so now I stand
where thousands had wished to brush off their shoulders and walk away
or maybe even go back up to save the day
and I watch a leaf fall
down
down
down
silently to the water
and a passerby flip in a coin
because it’s easier than offering a shoulder to cry on
but I’m old enough now to understand
the wrath of an unforgiving world
and I don’t have the heart to scream out that gold doesn’t dry tears
nor does it wash away a sea of red
or dab up spilled gasoline
or mend the beams of the 101st floor
or give a desperate man his very own wings
because where is God when we have to jump?
6/12/17
The Aftermath of New York: A Simple Poem
To know
that when I look into his eyes
I will see no monsters lurking in the depths
that wish to turn my veins to ice
but instead a sea of morning light
with a warm “welcome home” sign the color of autumn leaves
means more to me than I could ever describe in this jumbled poem.
To know his hands
will always be careful
not to tamper with the thin fabric of my heart
that has been torn like the “take one” papers at the corner store
or unlock the diaries in my mind without permission
that hold words such as these
but filled more so with ink stains
that haunt me while I sleep
means more to me than I could ever jot down on this paper.
To know that when he holds me close
his heart beats steadily for the art of love
to tame the monsters of the dark
to sew the fabric of my heart
to hold his breath
or even watch his step
to ensure that I sleep soundly
means more to me
than just a simple poem.
-Peace to the Piano Prince.
Originally Written: 3/27/17
Revised: 7/6/17
The Aftermath of New York: A Simple Poem
Run.
Run like the water in the stream.
Seep through the pores of the earth, and find its darkest secrets,
But don’t run away from me.
Trust in me.
Trust me like the waterbird trusts the tide.
I will not let you fall beneath the waves when we set out to sea,
But don’t float away from me.
Water will wash us clean of troubles, of fear, of insecurities.
It will rinse our eyes free of tears after late night calls that distance miles apart,
Or cool our boiling blood when the world will not listen to the peace we sing.
Water will carry us through the trials of time.
Our love will be forever preserved in the crystal glaciers of the north,
Or in the bellies of parched children on another shore.
Let it forever live on.
Without doubt,
Without drought.
Love me.
You are my source of life.
7/5/17
The Aftermath of New York: A Simple Poem
We are the daydreamers.
A story kept in the pages of freshly printed books with glossy paper.
Protected from the brutal winds of the world while we are young
Given fairytales to drink like sweet tea
But told only to sip, not to swallow.
We are the daydreamers
Kicked out of our cloud castles when our fairy godmothers made holes in the pillowy, white safety nets we thought were our floors,
Scolded us,
Engraved, “G R O W U P !” into the soft flesh of our delicate hearts,
And watched as we fell,
Landing face first onto a cement reality.
We are the daydreamers
Who still have hope for this miserable world.
The ones who think the sun smiles as it rises.
The ones who think skin is like silk
And that true love exists outside of the fairytales we were raised upon.
The ones who get by on merely slivers of faith,
Like maybe Peter Pan really does wait patiently on the other side of some golden gate.
We are the daydreamers
But we have grown to accept our fates
Just as we have accepted the bitter taste
Of coffee at 5am.
The Aftermath of New York: A Simple Poem
She’d walk across the shards of our broken hearts to escape her mother, but what does that make me? A sister? A friend? A victim?
Someone who tosses and turns in the calm of the night because I could never say that vanity and pride are different, that one can be proud without being vain, with a flare in my eyes rather than paranoia because the ghost of who I used to be still sinks its fangs into the base of my neck.
But who am I, anyways?
I’m someone thrown to the curb on the streets of Queens, among the trash and unpaid cellphone bills because messages of, “You’re too busy,” stack up until finally one of them says, “Goodbye”.
6/16/17
Writing by Lannah 