A little graveyard girl

Just been working on it for a couple of days, not sure if I like the rhymes or not... 

The marble girls spy

while they whisper and lie

perched atop mausoleums.

Shadows coax ghosts 

from up top rusted posts

waiting for snickering voices.

While the graveyard mists 

and abnormal wisps

penetrate my skin.

The cries and the creeping

my heart stops, so does the weeping

and I fall beneath with the bones. 

And while I sit here, I wish I was somewhere else

Something short, something new, nothing borrowed, but a little bit blue.

Talking to the walls, 

they answer back 

in a low husky growl

curling up from the molding,

I've been here

for far too long,

wasting my words

on faded rose patterns 

and chipped white paint. 

Being stuck in my own head and business is the worst....

It has been more than a little while since I have posted anything that I have written. It's not that I haven't wanted to, it's just that I have been working on things piece by piece, coming up with lines here and there. I've started a new job, been busy almost every weekend, but I still get a little time to write, yet I will promise myself I will soon try to plan more. Here is a little something I've been working on.

Stuck

Sitting still
on a styrofoam couch,
words try to pry themselves out from behind my teeth
but any movement, even the subtle purse of my lips makes a sound.

Feeling cramped, alone, unable to move,
I listen to the fans wave hello, or maybe goodbye.
No, not goodbye.

I won't leave,
I can't leave,
I never leave.

You placed me here,
planted mines in my heart
and dynamite in my skull.
If I move, speak, breathe,
I detonate.

It's been awhile

I know it's been awhile since I posted, but I've been busy with my final papers for my senior seminars as well as on spring break. But I've still been writing. I wanted to post once more before I move over to Tumblr. I will make sure when I make the switch I post what my link is there.


Change

Submit to the continuous cycle
of the icy air
turning the leaves gray and lifeless,
the rain bringing back the buds,
and spring rotting into summer.
The tulips and the daffodils decay
falling onto a dehydrated path.
A path of change, of punishment
upon where your tiny figure stands,
filled with fear and remorse
curiosity and desire,
as your delicate hands shake.

A soul must find peace
within itself and its surroundings,
before breaking away from its temple,
and escaping the succession of time.

-AW

Sometimes titles are the hardest

I've been taking more time recently going over my writing before I post it. I think it makes me feel better to make sure what I'm posting online is something I'm proud of, even if know one else sees it. I was thinking of moving my blog over to tumblr since so many people follow those accounts, maybe soon I'll make the switch.

Untitled

Feed me to the lions
like sweet fresh meat
on the bone,
laying in front of
wide open jaws
and salivating mouths,
screaming like women
from hunger.

Stripped clean and displayed
in front of my predators, nude.
The taste of cotton
and polyester, displeasing
to the prowling carnivores
who want flesh,
my raw skin, my soul.
They want me vulnerable
and alone.

Rest

Yesterday I didn't post. I'm a little disappointed but it did give me more time to work on the piece I'm posting tonight. I was driving at night the other day and passed a church. I am not a particularly religious but the church was beautiful. It stood rather strong, looking somewhat undisturbed. It was inspirational.

Prayers at Rest

Dragging my feet along the stone sidewalk,
nearby a cross stands solemnly
amongst a dirty grey sky,
looking dead in contrast to the dim lights glowing from inside the red glass windows.
Its arms hammered multiple rusty nails
into a wooden post stripped of any gloss stain.
The September winds and rain
won't destroy it's hold
even if the holy symbol starts to waste away,
by termites and spiders
hunting for new holes to sleep in,
a safe haven from the storm.

I don't sleep, I walk.
I know the sounds of the town,
the chime of the chapels clock,
the quiet ticks in between that keep others asleep after bedtime prayer.
I listen to the termites eat their weight in oak,
and see the spiders spin silk to catch the ones that chew themselves full.
The building stands tall, alone looking tired and old.
In need of callused, working hands and new wooden beams.
I slip through the slightly open doors, blow out the table of candles,
and put the church to sleep.

-AW

The sense of smell

I know I wanted to post everyday but the events of today took longer than I thought. I will post twice today since I am only 40 minutes late, one now and one tonight. This poem I wrote in my gender and horror class. I'm not sure what inspired it, and it's in an early draft stage. I'm excited to see what will come of it.

Untie My Feelings - I Dare You

The smell of something
warm and living,
in the company of another.
Both engulfed in a potent cloud of lust
when entangled in each others arms and emotions.

"Never provoke my anger or jealousy," she mumbled as she shook her head.
"I keep my feelings inside,
harnessed by knots, strings and ties.
Undo them and I'm afraid of what darkness you might find."
An old soul missing a lost lover, lies,
impure thoughts, grim memories.
"The dark can be friendly though," she said.
"The dark hides what scares you
in a cloak of cold black air.
It will keep you safe, us safe,
at least for now."

-AW

Nature, my best friend.

I wrote this poem awhile ago but I still love it. I have a serious attachment to nature. I love being outside with my shoes off, feet in some cold water. The sunshine is my best friend. That's why I love this piece.


Too Far Lost

Barefoot in a shallow creek,
watching minnows swim up from under
when my toes turn over the rough gravel and smooth stones.
As I look down into the clear pool,
An old friend stares back.

Not usually getting the chance to see the cracked skin around my eyes,
the worry lines,
in a burning light as radiant as it is now,
seeing it break out of a barrier of clouds.
I only see them often displayed in old faded colors,
with blurred lines surrounding their shape.

Now, looking at the clear image below,
my tired eyes reveal the sadness of a lost soul
waiting to sail out to sea,
a crooked smile knows it’s too late to ever become whole.

-AW

Polaroid Picture

I wrote this during an evaluating writing class. It just seemed to flow.

So I Can Remember

Please take a Polaroid picture,
and tack it to my bedroom wall.
So I can remember the blurry faces of us, happy,
in our white lace dresses
ripped nude stockings
and daisy made tiaras.

We left our blue canvas shoes over by the lake,
even though Momma told us not to.
She was afraid we would lose them,
which we did.

We forgot all about the shoes
as we laid in the grass,
looking for luck, dandelions and ladybugs.
We ruined our dresses in the dirt,
Momma would hate that too.
But we were just having fun.
Fun I wanted to remember from that Polaroid.

Time to shed some light...maybe.

Something new tonight. Something about new beginnings, but leaving a piece of yourself behind.


Molting

The shed skin of a snake
laying in the grass
leaves behind a heavy presence
of two bodies.
One gone, one no longer whole.

All that's left is fragile.
A layer of scales, veiny ridges
and absent pieces of lost flesh.
Soon it will break down into flakes,
then into dust that will combine with the wind.

The skin will no longer linger,
the missing body growing a new,
but the presence of a wispy slither,
imprints a path of existence.

-AW

Positive vs Negative

Maybe I should write more pleasant phrases, string together more positive ideas. But both positive and negative strings are beautiful. So I think I will create whatever comes to mind, not what people think I should write. This one is somewhat dark. Maybe positive ones will come from my thoughts tomorrow, but today these are my thoughts.

Writing

Drinking cheap merlot,
getting lost in a velvety mask of thoughts.
Filling each crevice behind the eyes
and the holes of the cork that lay on the cold metal dinner table
as they flow through the air and onto the paper.

Think about the pen, the ink, the words,
the permanent words,
the poisonous words,
the cancerous words.
The deadly phrases slowly take over your white blood cells,
your red blood cells,
your tissue, your bones, your soul.
They come from your mind and flow through the blood in your veins
to the tips of your fingers,
to the shaft of the pen,
to the strokes of the ink.

You write them.
You believe them.
You see them to be true.
They cannot be erased.

-AW

Oh Tinsley...

Last september I met the new love of my life. My crazy, fifty-pound, pitbull/boxer, Tinsley. However since she came from a shelter and a life without love, she is so happy to feel love and be around people that she sometimes forgets her manners. But I love her anyway.
Here's and old one edited a bit. Enjoy.


Companion

It rained.
The uncut grass is knee high now.
Within the field, I lose her for awhile.
I watch her tracks as she explores
the slender green blades that wave back.

She leaves a trail as I follow far behind.
The weeds sway as she passes,
innocent worms stamped into the damp ground.

A chance to explore on her own,
to feel free in the wind.
A chance to make friends with the grass, the weeds, the worms.
But she is my friend too, so
when I put my fingers between my teeth,
she'll always come running back.

-AW

Inspired by a bottle of cheap red wine

I've been working on this for a few days now. Maybe it's a little too dark or maybe its too melodramatic for some people. But I like it anyway. It's still a work in progress so I'll post a later version after I've worked on it a little more. 

Untitled

Enclosed within her own mind
when the panic hits
her skull caves in,
and the pressure within the back of her head
becomes unbearable. 

Look at me she said. 
Look at me she screamed!
While spit and vile bits of bile
fly off the tip of her tongue and crooked front teeth,
staining the shattered mirror in front of her.

Pieces of glass and her sanity lay at her feet,
dispersed into hundreds of minuscule, beautiful shards.
She will always be cracked, and when she tries to put herself back together
she is left with pricked, bleeding finger tips
and red smears covering her reflection.

-AW

A little less dreary

I have a bunch of new poems and writing in progress that I am not ready to post. When I do post it, I think its dark and intense so tonight I've decided post something a little lighter. This poem is from my writing poetry class last semester. Enjoy!

A Mantis Praying Above

Barely did I see the mantis
resting upon the maple.
His wise eyes staring directly up at the morning star,
praying to Artemis
for another hour, another day, another month,
that the little blue jays beaks will continue to nibble the seeds
from the highest of branches.

He is praying that the birds stay perched up top,
instead of spreading their new feathers,
and venturing down to the territory
of tiny, helpless, nonwinged creatures.

-AW

Thanks Frank

Today in my senior year seminar for my communication studies major we watched The Bride of Frankenstein. This class is all about gender rolls in horror movies. Well I was inspired by the black and white film, some of the dialog and the first scene of the film. This is a work in progress.

"I grew my creatures like nature does, with seed."

As the Mill Burns

The torches were grasped by forceful grips
as the men march off your tongue, burning the roof of your mouth.
You beg for them to surrender,
to cause no more harm to those innocent, even guilty.

But the words rolled off the tip too late,
for the men have already marched over your shoulders
down the ridges of your spine and off your toes.

They move toward the mill
that housed evil, their worse fear.
The flames touch the walls
and the once standing building unleashed hell.

"It was a matter of grave importance" he said.
Important enough for the men to lie in the graves
they dug for themselves with broken knuckles and chard nails,

There in the wreckage

bones and blackened hands
grip charred wooden beams, boards and blades
stripped of all their strength.

They lay dead with the men
waiting to sink down to the inferno,
with the torches still lit, lighting their way.

The first of many

Occasionally I feel like a writer. I love it. Defining the words on a page as they define me. But then I remember how small I am.

I've been writing for my entire life. We've had our ups and downs, pauses and new beginnings, not to sound cliché. But here I am an 'almost' college graduate not knowing what to do with any of my degrees. But poetry helps me breathe. So its time for another new beginning. I'll post some poems from the past, some in progress, some new, or whatever else I want. And even if no one is reading I'll be really just posting for me.

By the Sea

When the sun is masked by mist in Florence Italy
the lady bugs come to commit suicide by the sea.
They migrate away from the aphids
wanting to be in their own company.
Hoping the fish will save them
when a wing breaks, a leg breaks
maybe both, maybe all.

But the jellyfish sting the black spots
while the crayfish and the sunnies and the bass swallow them underneath,
only vomiting them up
when they jump out of the water
not wanting the wingless, the legless, the spotless
or anyone to breathe.

-AW