It’s Never Too Late to Start National Poetry Writing Month! (NaPoWriMo)

April is National Poetry Month and it was a hard decision to forgo NaPoWriMo but I just couldn’t make it work with trying to find a job. Now I’ve had my interview and will be hired once I pass a pre-employment sandwich formula test…

I didn’t want to miss out on all the fun I just had to write some poems… Now, I’m feverish thinking I should just write the full 30! I may add in a few revisions here and there but I have a small start already…

Ageless Plastic People

I never could fit

in the plastic mold.

Thoughts run like a nose

in a circumstance of constant cold.

I unwrinkle the winks and smiles

that once indicated youth.

As the lines and frowns return

I learn to love the process of growing old.

Until, I too am resigned to the back shelf

flaking off next to greening cheese.

Throbbing, bobbing eyeballs popping

masked by the sound of knees cracking,

back breaking, body hurling toward the ground.

More to come in the next few days. Hopefully I can make it to 30!

Revised High School/Pre College Poetry with Images

Swallow

I swallow the sky, taste stars and breathe out. Watch as galaxies glow in their iridescent emptiness. Worlds are cast in meaningless darkness until her eyes shine on them.

Q&A

Look into a mirror and fall through. Empty coolness in expressions

like the time in the driveway you shook me,

“I still wanna be your friend!”

Or the time on the phone you said you didn’t love me.

Did you lie? Are you still lying?

Like the time you promised just because I was crying?

Pillow soaked reaching above for something to hold.

Am I going to die? I feel it running through me!

Shame! Resentment! Devastation! Revelation! Pain!

Why were you hiding? Where does the mask end and skin begin?

Night Song

Sweet and gentle night where are you hid away?

Imagine a cold breeze whistle through dark trees.

Long for the moment when winds grow silent

to be held in darkness, hiding from secrets.

 

Light is far too hot and bright, burns scratched up eyes.

I need to see the moon tucked in its velvet sky.

 

Birds are far too noisy for sleep.

Days so sad they make me weep.

 

Yet, in memories of gentle nights I find, you.

Nice to dream when stars start to gleam.

 

Never forget the comforting song

of time spent all alone in the dark.

Short Poems with Photography

This gallery contains 9 photos.

Dry leaves engulf flames signal sin miles away… Magma melts tangled roots leaves empty hallways hallowed veins wait to be full… My lips melt wax crimson beads unbutton a curved spine… Asylum eyed girl sits across a mirror making crisscrossed … Continue reading →

Partially Before We Died (Full Novel–Draft)

A Technological Distopian Novella for Adolescents and Adults

Introduction– Luck’s dreams, eye-sight and upbringing
Prologue– Losing More than Sight
Chapter 1– Meeting Roman
Chapter 2– Checking the Map
Chapter 3– Three Travelers
Chapter 4– The Plan
Chapter 5– The Hospital
Chapter 6– Mom’s Room
Chapter 7– The Elevators
Chapter 8– Lookout Lighthouse
Chapter 9– The Other Side of the Wall
Chapter 10– The Many Faces of Naomi Lowman
Chapter 11– The Elders of the Wood
Chapter 12– The Tiger on the Carousel
Chapter 13– Reaching Roxy
Chapter 14– The Way Back
Chapter 15– The Record Room
Chapter 16– Ending the Program
Chapter 17– Lucky Downloaded
Chapter 18– Captives in Comnet
Chapter 19– The Machine-Made Man
Chapter 20– All We See or Seem
Chapter 21– Back to the Woods
Chapter 22– Finding the Key
Chapter 23– Face to Face with the Past
Chapter 24– Awakening the Dreamers
Chapter 25– Locking In
Chapter 26– The Operation
Chapter 27– Disconnected
Epilogue– On the nature of science and art of dreams

Our World

Waltzing in a whirl wondering when I will feel the warmth again. Dancing in circles desperate for more, a deeper feeling, more meaning of being.

Lost and alone, you stand there, but where is our world? I can’t find you so lost in mine, in and out of consciousness, barely aware, mind confined, to the place hide in.

So scared you’re not here. Have we have grown apart and lost it? I hunger for the love we had, I want you in my bed, I want to know us again.

Sinister Masquerade Mask Photos + Spooky Love Poem

Tell, tell you what’s been on my muddled mind. Blue cues revolving like a spider’s eyes at a fly spiraling downward to suicide. Twisting insides, maggoty, golden, curling clues… fake little diamond rings dangling from warty fingers.

I’ve lost a sapphire slipper so I’m waiting for a frog to kiss my cheek, a dark cat to cross my path. No raven watches me undress my sorrows. No light sees the potion, nay poison or knows its full name. No words can incant my soul like his, barely whispered in the night. Wrapped in his silken threads I do not wish to struggle free.

Reenactment

I was sipping sweet sorrow
right through his broken arrow.

Silly thoughts of sometime last January:
We proclaimed our willingness to leave
our lovers in padded karaoke kissing booths–
Then, shared more than a glass or two
behind frosted windows.

I still see him whenever I please,
but his pillow hair is made of dreams.

Keepsakes

I breathed in the fresh, crisp air. Another jolt of lightning pain pulsed through my body like electricity filling the empty space around me with the sound of panting.

I felt for my backpack. Inside I found my wallet with stiff fingers.

Inside: my Ohio state driver’s license, credit cards. It is possible no one will ever find me. I frowned at the photo of myself. No one will find you, April DuWitt, 5’4” eyes BRO.

Silence is maddening. I began looking at the things I kept behind my identification. These things, if it were possible, seemed to say more about me than my government issued ID card.

A movie stub and Walden’s member card. A phone number jotted down on a piece of ripped notebook paper with no name. Twenty eight dollars…

My heart sank. A group picture from my Junior Prom. I looked at all of the familiar faces; familiar but strange. Everyone seemed young, even though the photo was from only three years ago. I look at face after face, remembering, laughing, crying, regretting every single moment I carried with me.

Now I was sinking, almost comfortably, into numbness and became unable to move.

Gazing upward I stare at the diamonds of my tomb, treasures innumerable shimmering magically above. I hold remnants of an expired life, my life, in frostbitten hands. My breathing is slow, drawing in each empty, cold taste.

I know no one will find me. I relive happier, warmer days as ice crystals overcome me. Frost offers one last kiss. My lips and every lie they ever told are silently and eternally preserved in this case, forever.

Her Stormy Eyes

You update me from far away
my window pane is pounded
with a flash of hot rain.

What was that I wished on the star for?
I wanted you to call me back
to tell me what you wanted.

I hope this doesn’t shut off,
that I don’t blink out of existence, for you.

I’ve been waiting since our last
Indian Summer. Held up like a prisoner
pushing myself more morphine.

Dulling the pain with casual smiles
and imaginary stabs in her back.

Hear a few scratches outside the door?
Wonder for a moment if there will be more…

It’s sweet to think of a couple
kissing on a sidewalk
eating to contentment
sliding down their spirits…

Until you consider:
that was my wish
and those aren’t my eyes
staring back at you.

Happiness Kills

repost from blastedgoat

I was playing around with a few lines I found in an otherwise blank document. I was taking notes on a conversation I had with a poet friend of mine named David. All I typed was “poets listen to long playing records of words” and “happiness kills creativity.” Enjoy and look for some edits more than likely… I must like you all, you are seeing my first draft!

“Happiness kills creativity,” he claimed.
I never got the point of using said
when one wishes to be more specific,
be more specific.

Don’t get long-winded,
forgetting your point
in the first place.
Poets listen to long playing records
filled solely with words,
no notes, except
the long pauses.

Slithering s’s complement
that constant cadence
of c’s and k’s.
To say nothing of the nuance
of n’s softening her hard consonants.

She never said a word after that.
When you want to be more specific,
be more specific

She doesn’t utter a word,
but they flow from her clicking fingers, tonight.

based on a conversation quite a long time ago with DRC.

Slipped

Once that someone heard it
it belonged to him.
She could not take it back
or force it down her throat again…

REPOST from: blastedgoat

Magnetic Poetry

I found these words on an old webpage. The code used to allow users to move the words around to make their own poem. Here is the skelleton of a poem that might have been… or a poem that is, loosely feeling like itself lately ;P I am in an oober weird mood today! It is also Mother’s Day, btw.

he she what beautiful ghetto fabulous mobile loser chinese freestyle fashion and at where pop sucks alternative rocks vintage and music life i am a warrior you said and when why art freak identity crisis guess will cheeseburger pie is geek rap for today dweeb if it’s too loud turn it down say the worst ? ! the huh? love infatuation typical sexy flower moon star the eyes kiss gaze destiny forever time eternity good-bye

back

(I also found the code I used to use to do this nifty little number, not such a biggie here on WordPress but it used to take forever to link all your pages together!)

Dream Boys

Other-worldly dreams keep me at peace
pressing lips, familiar amalgamations
possess piercing and forgettable eyes.

It seems as though appearances
are constantly changing,
a million copies of his face.

Some of these strangers
resemble neighborhood boys
playing with bright plastic toys.

Capturing Parallels

Pretending nothing happened?
Telling lies for we must not tell the truth?
Every time you accidentally mention my name,
brush me off your shoulder, edge a little closer
on a floral couch…

When I rested my head on your shoulder
on the train I wished you were mine again.
Even if you were disguised behind
a handsome strangers eyes,
the softness of your shirt gave rise
to the silentest of cries.

I could not believe that this dream
was sure to leave. I look for you night
after night until I get your face just right.
It’s comforting, there is no ring.

Sometimes, these strangers speak what you cannot.
Sometimes I think: I think, you like him, I think he likes you.
Thanks, smiling foreign dude!

A butterscotch shot, you’ll feel it in your sleep
with no hint lingering on your waking kiss.

I roll out of bed and try to remember
if I was dreaming of now or September,
under oak and apple trees
while we run from cops, skin our knees.

If this were the last moment of my life,
I would be sad. Accepting that this moment,
aside from all the noise of machines in the distance and
the strange fellow with the grey hooded sweatshirt
that just walked by is perfect:

I am sitting in the shade. I hear the spinning spokes
of a ten speed bike as I want for the clock to strike
the afternoon with four loud booms.

Chimes that string the leaves together
only so they can grow weak and detach…

I am sitting in the shade I hear the spinning spokes
of a ten speed bike as I want for the clock to strike
the afternoon with four loud booms.

Chimes that string the leaves together
only so they can grow weak and detach.

A Strange Dissipating Girl Has Gone Missing…

A strange dissipating girl has gone missing. Her father can’t seem to remember where he placed her. He thought she was leaning against the wall, next to the red-clogged drain. He and his wife wear matching snarls and necklaces of soft white baby teeth.

Waiting

I’m sitting at the drug store again trying to score drugs again.

Can’t say right when it began, only I can…

The date is meaningless, the occasion trivial

like the way it gets hot in a parked car.

The way he won’t answer even when I somehow know the answer.

Please pick me up, Indian Summer, way too hot for October!

Imagine haunted houses sweltering in this early autumn heat.

Can’t wait for things to cool down, burn my own tongue sometimes…

Get so anxious, wonder how close I am to the edge.

Maybe this is out of line. Maybe it’s all your fault.

The Sky

The sky seemed strange
still so large
eyelash dangled
between
orange-blue-orange
clouds

Coming As We Were

You’re soaked in bleach for a trend,
acid burning holes through jeans.
You flaunt faded tie-dye tees that
used to be more vibrant.
It stings your eyes to hide
that now forgotten shade of brown.

Insides burned like an exploding sun,
a boy’s haircut on a nine year old girl!
Curls chopped to the ears… Please,
turn away to laugh at that last line.
Some memories fade much faster than scars
from canning on our old dining room table.

Considering We’re ‘In Bloom’

Bruised fruit sliced so deep knife is hitting seed.

Separate pulpy lives from as seen on TV.

Mimic rock bands, don’t tell mom and dad

we stay up late, rot our teeth.

Impossiblities

Parking lots. Lockers. A million high schools blurred into one.
A twisted hallway, a tiny dark classroom.

Chalkboards containing unfamiliar names, dates, words…
I’m failing to understand the dream,
begin noticing people from reality.

A missing tooth in a red plastic treasure chest.
I must put these ideas and more to rest.

Amusement parks complete with Ferris wheels, and
dizzy rides spring up allowing me a place to hide.

We drive on highways or down gravel roads,
across giant bridges but every time we swerve.

I fly through windshields. I wake, raking air
into breaking lungs.

Impossible details,
imprints of my sleeping life
interpreted in waking life…

It goes on like that until I click
the light pulling on a grimy white string
ending up in various versions of my bedroom
with all the lost antique furniture.

I get so lost. Confused. Then my mind turns to you.
Blank. Smiling in a sleepy state, demons set to rest
until I wake.

How Many Times?

3 in the morning and I miss her. Been over a month since I heard her say a word, more like a purr. I turn over only after knowing the ghost has gone… Memories vibrate out of  buzzing ears. “Is she dead or alive? How many times did I dream of her tonight?”

Every

My little Ginger is gone,
I am all alone.
I hope she follows me with every .txt
every journal
every notebook
every blog
every picture
every movie
every book
every night
every dream
all my life.

Bleed Through

Does it bleed right through from me to you? Are my thoughts placed flat or running like a racing rat? Do you notice the absence of incense or the abscess of stress that grows in a knot in your gut? Does it bleed through a white shirt? Gory tie dye design, screaming circles of deepest red. Finally spiraling out, flickering off, going to bed.