Pistachio Nuts

As a child, I loved pistachio nuts. They were something my mom would buy on occasion because they were expensive but she loved them too. But when she did, she'd be selfish with them and would only spare me some if she hadn't finished the pack within a few days. However, here I sit in a house where pistachio nuts are left on the island of an ombre, wooden kitchen for snacking in and between meals or rushed rides out of the house to whatsoever location.

As I stood there sipping on my wine and breaking open the shells of the pistachios, I realized the beauty of change and the things we value. If you asked me right now what my favourite type of nut is, pistachio would not be the number one contender. I might have a hard time deciding between almonds (which I am allergic to) or pecans (which I barely ever eat, and when I do, I can never really decide whether I completely love their taste, or totally despise it). However, pistachio is not at all at the top ranks. See, when things are rare to us, they are more beautiful and more desirable for whatsoever reason. There truly is something in wanting something you absolutely cannot have. This should be clear in the fact that I crave and love almonds even though I am allergic to them and they are one of the few things I cannot eat.

However, as we grow and have the pleasure of experiencing all these thing that were rare or kept from us, we realize that they are not at all as special as they seem.
....This revelation is something that I am going to take into the new year, because it is something that has been demonstrated to me time and time again, however, my child-like mind and naivety kept me from realizing it. Yet, all it took was a bowl of pistachio nuts and memories of my sweet, beautiful mother that brought the lessons of the universe into my perspective.

Rarity only means beauty because we receive it in small doses; but that does not mean that your diamond in the rough is more rare than the gem you've find amongst the many stones of a sandy beach. It really just lies in a change of perception and a change of perspective; and that is something I need in this new year. Because my diamond in the rough could well be hiding in the shore of gems I have so inconsiderably dismissed as inadequate.

Discomfort in my Own Skin

I was uncomfortable in my own skin for 17 years. I could not love myself because of the colour of my skin for 17 years. I spent more money than what was necessary to turn my mane of a head into flowing locks of golds.
....I was uncomfortable in my own skin for 17 years because every day served as a reminder of how imperfect my blackness was; because the vulgarities you yelled etched into my skin like the hot tongs used to mark slaves.

..and after 17 years I realize: My black skin is just as beautiful as yours, and my kinky hair is as it is supposed to be. Black does not mean ugly, and your laughs cannot define me. Your preference is not my concern, and your hatred isn't either.

I was uncomfortable in my own skin for 17 years....and that is exactly what is wrong with our world.

This Old Heart

Our hearts.....we're so in touch with them; or are we?

I hear my heart beating everyday. I hear it through my ears, I feel it pumping through my veins. I feel it reaffirming itself as it pounds against my chest when I well up in anxiety thinking about all the unknowns in my life. It's like a silent symphony that plays loudly but so often that it gets forgotten... but it is there, ever present, this huge fist that looks like it's covered in blood and meat.

My mind is far too plastered to think about any of this in the conventional manner it usually would....so I am allowing myself to type as I feel and I think without a second look to clarify my thoughts or what they intend to say.

But here I am; just letting my heart beat as I listen to the sound of angelic words that are supposedly empty because apparently words don't speak loud enough. But as I lay here, they are all I have. In my mind, in my thoughts, in my subconscious these words are everything and they are just pouring out of me, flowing so freely, against my own will. Much like my heart which pumps without any direct instruction from me, these words just keep coming..... And with words come memories. Images that need to be painted by only a collection and specific placement of alphabetic symbols.

.....and this old heart. This old heart that has been broken, torn apart, reassembled, shot at, stabbed, ripped out, put back in etcetera, etcetera, this old heart beats another day. And in the name of anything on which I can rest all my hope, I hope that it continues to beat against the wild current that attempts to drown me. Because I need this old heart to live. I need this old heart to spare me another chance at friendship and love, at happiness and lessons, at everything. I need this old heart.

A Formidable Zest for Life

...as I sit here listening to Frank Sinatra's "The Way You Look Tonight", I have a smiled sprawled across my face. As the tune tingles its way down my spine, with my head rocking from side to side and my shoulders bobbing up and down to the rhythm of this classic, I reminisce about everything.
As the days pass by and the year finds itself coming to an end, I find myself feeling happy and content despite the menial issues that prevail that would ordinarily have me wishing death upon myself. But for once, I go to bed thankful for the day that was and praying that the universe will grant me another chance at life come tomorrow. For the first time in a long time I want to be alive, and I have this formidable zest for life.
Yes, nothing has worked out how I had hoped. Nothing has gone according to plan, and I would cry day after day about it, feeling as though I had failed myself. However, now that I look at the situation again, I realize that everything has worked out the way it was destined too... Most of you probably rolled your eyes at that one. Blegh, destiny; who needs it.... amiright?
But I believe much of our lives have already been scripted, and the only role we play in it is figuring out how long it takes us to get there, depending on the decisions we make day to day. So, since I'm smiling instead of crying, I must've made a right turn toward my destiny.
....and now I'll lay here, soaking in my happy as the smell of my conditioner fills the ambiance, and smile with more than content.
Speaking of....I should probably write in my journal too.

A Good Feeling

I feel good. I feel........something.

See I'm feeling and I'm allowing myself that luxury. Yes, it's a hurricane and beach days to storms and spring days. But it's divine. It's refreshing. It's like a cooling mint in a mouth that has been thirsting for days.

My life is a full one, honestly. My life has layers and layers that need to be dissected and that will certainly happen when the one decides to walk on in.... But all that baggage is an indication of my livelihood. It's an illustration of my mistakes, my risks; ambitions and hopes that tried to be reached but fell through the cracks. It's an indication of the soul that lies within the broken. It tells me that I've been living, despite the fact that I've been crying because I felt like I wasn't.

Man....I'm in such a good place. I'm breathing. I look in the mirror and see beauty and am content with the way I am. I know what my dreams are and I know what I want to pursue... But I'm okay with the idea that life will throw me curveballs and I'm excited for those too, because that only adds more dimension and depth to my life.

I have loved and I love and I am loved. I dream. I write. I aspire. I miss because I have people to miss. I'm lonely but I've found the beauty in it. Now I wait patiently for life to bring everything else it has in store for me. I'm reading to keep exploring and I'm glad to say that i don't know who I am. Because I am like a ball of clay and day after day I'm moulded into something new and different. And boy, like new clothes, gifts or cars, isn't that exciting!? It's all excitement..

Finding Happiness in Lonely

   Being by yourself has a strange beauty to it. The lonely, the cold - It's all beautiful in its own strange way. 

   Yeah, you probably spend most of your time conjuring up memories, unable to control whether they'll be good or bad. You probably find yourself weeping and sobbing then suddenly laughing and smiling and feeling warm surges sparking at different corners of your body. 

   See, there's beauty in lonely. There's something so happy about being alone and being sad. There's something joyous about every tear you shed as you think about the first time you told him you loved him, repeating it through your tears as loud, rave music blared from nearby, beach sand spilled into your shoes and the ocean kissed the shore. There's something joyous about that incredibly broken and sad feeling you get when thinking about just how much everything has changed. 

   The beautiful thing about it is that your life is moving. That is to say that your day in and day out aren't the same, and that a year later you can recognize the extent to which everything has changed. A static life is a sad life. A mundane, monotonous, "do the same thing every day" kind of life is useless. 

   In all honesty, that sad and that lonely is a blessing. It's a moment away from the harsh world and a moment to be introspective. You cry about the change but you forget that the change symbolizes that you've been living instead of just being alive. You made strides. You changed your yesterday. 

   ...so yes; it hurts sitting reflectively by oneself and sobbing about the changes in your life, longing to go back to the life you knew; but all of that makes it one of the most beautiful things too. 

Watering Down the Things That Are So Pivotal to Who We Are

   The word relationship finally makes sense. Relation-ship. Relation Ship; therefore, a friendship, a loveship? A parentship. A siblingship. 

    It's the question of what ship are you relationed/related to? Makes sense now huh? See, that's why our first mistake was calling the most significant of these ships by the name and virtue of the general ship. We forgot what the relation was and that had to stand as something besides a relation. Allyship? Partnership? Soulmateship? But we reduced it to………. relationship

   That's the funny thing about us; this superior species we call the human being. We have a way of watering down the things that are so pivotal to who we are. The things that lie core to our existence. We water them down and live in a haze, unknowing, and in a treacherous search for enlightenment. We live in and out of this obscurity only bringing more ache to ourselves than happiness, because we believe we know the entirety of what knowledge is, when in fact, we only know the most minute fraction of it. 

   The love we have for someone cannot be reduced to a simple relation. Heck, even friendship got it right. Even that word sticks to it's virtue of where this ship harbors in it's bay. Yet, we can so easily refer to the most intense love, the most intimate, the most robust and the most impassioned of these ships as a relationship. 

   We're losing touch with love and romance, and by me I won't have it. Call me naive, gullible or any other synonym you'd use to describe anything that isn't hard-well stuck on the idea of whatsoever nonsense has substituted romance; but I am a believer in true love. I am a believer in the quest to find your soulmate. I am a believer in an all encompassing love with one person that suddenly puts your entire world into perspective and makes it whole.

   Don't get me wrong. This is not to say that we should all be on an hour-to-hour lookout for the one that is our supposed soulmate, or that we should spend 20 years neutered. My point is simply that we need to believe in romance and bring passion back into what it means to love. We need to redefine the conventional relationship and uplift it with aromas of sugar, spice and everything nice so that it can be elevated to the stratum it deserves. 

   ...because when I love, I am going to love passionately, deeply and with everything that I am. No holds barred, no stone unturned. Because when I love, it'll be with the one that my soul has been longing for, has been calling for, and has so patiently been waiting for. When I love, it will be pure and passionate, emotional and encompassing. When I love, I will not be afraid, because I will be inlove with a fraction of my whole, and my whole deserve all of that. When I love it won't be a relationship. When I love, it'll be a soulmateship. A love-of-my-life-ship. A wholeship.

...and here's to December.

...and here we are folks, calmly entering the final and most exciting month of the year.

There has always been something about December. Between the realization that you've made it halfway through an academic year, and knowing that all at once you get to start over (metaphorically), there is a thrill that comes with this month.

For me, December has always been a month of heartache and reflection, and a time that allowed me to grant myself a clean slate. A brand new page on which I could accidentally spill the ink of this grand, unerasable pen I call my life....and as I sit here, smiling at my excitement of what is to come, I begin to reminisce on the year that was. I think about the progress I have made personally from exactly a year ago and I shed a tear of happiness for the memories that will forever be encapsulated in this year that has so quickly glided past me. Day in and day out I beg for the beginning of the end, for December, and as the time sluggishly passes by, I know that I will eventually be granted with it... and here it is, in all its glory.

So here's to December; my most treasured time of year. Here's to all the tears I'm going to cry as I reminisce, and here's to all the memories this time of year will conjure. Here's to the strides I've made and the lessons I will deduce from all my mistakes. Here's to a new type of December, deserving of a new type of me.

A Funny Thing Happens When You Begin to Find Yourself in a New Place

A funny thing happens when you start finding yourself in a new place. This haze that you existed within turns into a new hue. Crazy as it was, it continues to be, but you find yourself floating blissfully there. Words remain just that - words. You take them in, hearing and sometimes listening as the syllables roll off of the tongues of these individuals making the shapings you'd imagine the farmland's "rolling hills" would, as they say. They say - Life becomes a lot of that. Yet, your haze is wholly consuming and none of it matters anymore. All the mistakes you've made, pain you've felt and things you've lost.. They turn into this mirage of a life that is completely separate from who you are. And you used to think they made you; they defined you.
Oh child, were you wrong. Your erotically driven thoughts of love and life and love have been put to rest because you are consumed by this new existence. You inhale and exhale and the way the air loops in your lungs seems different than it did three months ago... You realize you're gone. The entire world as you knew it changed; it has been changing. But you were too wrapped up in your petty unfortunities of day to day life, leaving breadcrumbs to take you back to your sorrow once in awhile and make the action justified.
But a new fire has been ignited. You no longer linger on those. The breadcrumbs are slowing folding into the land upon which they lay, leaving no evidence of what had been your life before the new hue in this haze. Everything is loudly silent. Playing second fiddle and the backdrop to the bigger picture at hand - you.
Moving in and out of cities, these living organisms that we try to understand but that are much more complex than we can fathom, you find yourself. A lonely, singular being, happily content and whole in her alone. People moving by, breathing in and out, depleting the oxygen of the world, killing you slowly, softly. Forgetting the ones starving in deserts afar, sand smacking dead centre into their iris, making them blind to what's ahead, both then and in time.
A funny thing happens when you begin to find yourself in a new place....and the funniest part is that now, child, you're finally smiling inside.

.

There's only one thing that hurts more
Than knowing they don't love you.
The only thing that hurts more,
Is that he's going to bed with thoughts,
Without you.

Reservation for the Reserved

Reserved.
The word resonated in my head to the point that it's pronunciation was altered. You know that feeling, when you say a word one too many times and it simply stops sounding like itself? That's what it felt like.
Reserved. Reserved. r e s e r v e d.

There was nothing wrong with the word or with what it connotates, but somehow, when used in relation to me, it was offensive. Not, '____________ist' offensive, but offensive none the less, and I just couldn't figure out why. I didn't understand why my conscious mind was rejecting something that was directed as an observation and somewhat of a compliment. I don't know why I felt uncomfortable in that. Reserved. It was synonymous with shy, a description I put on my own character when I described myself to strangers, or rather people who weren't fully acquainted with me. Reserved. It wasn't a bad description of me. If anything, it came rather close to accurate. I was reserved and I did keep to myself, always in some sort of reflection.. I was reserved. I am reserved. Am I reserved?

I came to realize that the problem was not the word itself, or the manner in which it was meant to describe my personality, but rather that it was a reminder of something I tried to run, or maybe hide from. Reserved shouted WEAK. DEPENDENT. INCAPABLE. SOFT. VULNERABLE. BRITTLE. RESERVED. It screamed all these things, but denoted none of them. Yet, it brutally attacked me with them and the memories that came along. It made the 12-year old version of me come out and go into hiding on my surface....and in that moment I truly was it. Reserved.

The matter of the fact is that the single utterance of the word made me realize that I am still on a long, winding and relatively endless journey. At 16, having reached the lowest point of my life thus far, I realized that I needed to get up from the misery I laid in, and ascend the steep hill that laid ahead, despite the amounts of times I rolled over backwards and started right where I had begun. Once I reached level land, something that felt stable and assured me that I would not find myself face first in a ditch of everything that left burn marks in my skin, I set up camp, and became the happy camper that was deluded into believing she had reached the top of the mountain; the end of her journey. But I was mistaken, and here I find myself again.

When it comes down to it, I needed a knock on the head to bring myself back to reality. I needed to realize that I was, in fact, mistaken about everything I thought I knew.

.....and that's all thanks to my being 'reserved'.

Popping Slang, Poppin' Mollies

I can't help but to LOL
(Smiley Face)
When you say my name.
And beeteedubs,
You're the main.
You deserve all my love.
So, FYI, I can't let you go,
That's a loss on my part,
But I'm SMH
because I can't let you know.
So I'll BRB when my courage's up,
and I can tell you what's on my mind.
...OMG, just hold on,
I shouldn't take too long.

Home

The majority of us are raised in one country, going to school on the same route for 4 years, taking the same path back home, and routinely doing certain things day in and day out. As we approach our senior year in highschool and our hearts start pounding at the idea of leaving home for the big, bright world where opportunities blossom ripe, we forget just how much we're going to miss the familiarity of home.

As I sit here, on this bed which is noticeably smaller than mine, lofted up God knows how many centimeters from the floor and looking out of my window into the darkness, I realize that I forgot to 'take in' home. I forgot to walk around my house aimlessly for hours on end and just absorb the feeling of the sun seeping through the curtains into the TV room, or the way the wind blew through the hole in the kitchen window. I forgot to go down to the dusty lounge; he one that was reserved for special events and for visits from the grown ups. The one that I snuck into as a young girl, breaking the rules for the thrill of an adventure. I forgot to stand under the makeshift sunroof that ran through it. I forgot to stand there and just allow the sun's strong beams to flow in and lick my skin the way the African sun does. I forgot to do a running dive bomb into my pool like we did when I was younger; when I was younger and had my friends over for sleepovers and swimming in the summer. As I carried my suitcase out of my room on that last day, I forgot to take one last look at home and say goodbye. I forgot to make a memory of home through the eyes of my 18 year old self. I forgot that when I get to see home again, I won't be myself any longer, and home won't be what it used to be... I forgot just how important those last few moments were.

Thinking about home hurts. It doesn't hurt because someone hurt me. It hurts because everything that convinced me that my life had no value on this earth lurks within the constraints of those walls. It hurts because I see myself losing my consciousness over that bathroom sink. It hurts because I can hear myself screaming into a pillow trying to muffle the sound of my hurt. It hurts because it echoes the vibrations that were sent through the earth as my heart was so carelessly ripped out of my chest by the other half of my soul. It hurts because people left there. They left there and left me in there. They left me in the mess that they would make and that I'd be drowned in. Home hurts because it took away from me. It took away components of my being that I needed. Home hurts because it took away my happy and gave it to me in doses so small and so dragged apart by time that it seemed like it was merely trying to keep me on the cusp of life rather than give it to me.

Being away from home hurts, even though home hurts. Despite the immense and constant pain that lurked in my shadow there, home is also the place I found love, it is the place that raised me, it is the place my bestfriend resides. It is the place that echoes me....

Africa; Forget Me Not

Forget me not, 
Cold, brisk African air. 
Forget not how my tears watered, 
The cracks of the Sossusvlei 
Seeping deep into the cracking veins of the Earth. 
Or how my warm breathe, 
Spread through the air, 
Breathing out a thirst for opportunity. 
Forget me not, 
My Africa. 
Forget me not, 
As my soul explores, 
In search for return.  
Forget me not, 
Cold, brisk African air. 

Do not forget

Do not forget to do something that scares you, for it is the only way you can be alive, at least once, everyday.

Do not forget to explore beyond what you know, for it is the only way you can know more.

Do not forget to kiss the lips of the ones that make you think you love them, for it is the only way you'll be able to know when you really love.

Do not forget to smile with every footstep at a passing stranger, for that smile may be your last.

Different in the Distance

Hey there lonely.
You looked different in the distance.
They way your hair swayed,
and the scent of lavender days,
and star studded nights
that seemed to be you,
They made you look different in the distance.

Hey there lonely,
You looked different in the distance.
I didn't realize that you moved
Across the Atlantic.
To where my dreams dazzled
And patriotism inspired.
Oh, but you look different in the distance.

Hey there lonely,
You looked different in the distance.
Almost as appealing as freedom,
From the somebodies I used to know.
But somehow still a barrier,
From the one's I'm yet to love.
Oh, but you looked different in the distance.

The Final Chapter: A Goodbye

For the first time in a really long time, I had a conversation with an individual that not only stimulated my mind, but also allowed me to be completely and utterly myself, no holds barred and no fear of being called strange, weird, or any of the other uncouth terms I regularly have thrown in my direction. Not only did I experience a moment of refreshment, but I also experienced enlightenment, and for the first time in what feels like centuries, everything fell into perspective.

It is not only that this person's words evoked something inexplicable inside me, but somehow they were able to lure my mind's worries out of the dark and show me that there is a globe of pure happiness surrounding me. Obviously, I cannot single-handedly credit an individual for the epiphanies of my being. Paper Town, a novel by John Green, also evoked something in me that I cannot explain. I find it questionable that this conversation and my concluding of the novel occurred on the same day. It does, however, make sense that the universe would communicate with me in such a blunt manner as I am always blind to the messages and signals it subtly attempts to send to me, but something this blatant could not be ignored.

Someone told me about how they guard their work. They keep their 'Mecca of Brilliance' to themselves and I quote, "Showing people will take away from the work being mine and only mine.. It takes away some of the originality. It takes away the purity of the imperfect crooked writing and cut out magazine pictures slowly but surely footing their own path and telling their own story. Even I don't know what it all means yet." - And, in that moment I felt as though every question I have ever asked about myself had been answered. I share so much of myself on a daily basis, giving myself away, piece by piece. Letting everyone and everything else in, when I don't even know what exactly I am yet, or where everything within me is headed. My thoughts, my feelings, my ideas. I jot them down on these public forums; be it my blog, my twitter page, I share my 'mecca' and so I give myself away.
However, maybe this has been the mistake all these years. Yes, I do enjoy sharing and I do enjoy knowing that somewhere, someone is reading what I write and can empathize, and in those moments, I am not alone. My misery is accompanied. However, perhaps sorting myself out needed to start with sorting MYSELF out instead of using my misery to help others. My misery, which had no answers, which I somehow expected to help others.
Not only that, the more I share, the more people are able to take whats mine and make it theirs; thereafter it's never entirely mine again. I have shared a little bit of my mind everyday, and eventually my mind will no longer be mine. It'll be inhabited by the tenants of the world who will, sadly, not give me any credit for my brilliance!

Thus, as of now, the only medium in which I will wholly express myself and allow my inner most thoughts to roam freely and my poetic choice of words to string together to make metaphors and analogies that may someday be analyzed in a Literature class' study of 21st Century literature, is my journal. My brown, leather skinned Journal, which is as human and alive as I am.

Do not be mistaken and assume that my journey as a blogger was not lucrative. Blogging has elevated me to a place beyond anything I could have imagined the day I set up this account. But as is with all things, one leads to another and on this journey, I am certain this blogspot was a necessary stop in bringing me here, and now that this new destination is reached, in time with all the other amazing things that are about to happen in my life, I feel I can conclude and pay homage to everything that this blog was to me and has taught, as well as all the places it has taken me.

Do not yet chuck me out as a fading ghost, because I will forever remain amongst these pages; writing and reading and laughing and stumbling over words and ideas, and pouring my heart out and crying on my keyboard, and you will still share those moments with me. This is not a goodbye to blogging; not at all. I will forever post and write and remind you that I am alive and making strides. The only difference now, is that I will not share all of me. I will not share the words of poems that pour out through my hands, and I will not share the tales of my pet peahen and peacock who are forever falling into and out of love. But these are not the only adventures in my life; and as exciting as the start of a new year, the reaching of midyear brings many more thrilling adventures and tales that can be told.

....and so, this is a final chapter. A goodbye to my poetry and a goodbye to my heart. But as one door closes, another opens. Who knows what I will venture into writing next. I don't even know. But not knowing is the exciting part of it all, isn't it!?

Well, cold feet are for the faint hearted. I am ready to jump into this vast expanse of water eyes closed, stark naked. So, let's go!

Sincerely,
Just me, a girl,
Arlana PS.

Always; Arlana PS

Jumping through the hoops of time, day after day, we let minutes pass us by. Minutes during which we are morphing, cell by cell, into someone we weren't, a mere split second ago. Then one day, you sit down and look at it in the broader sense, 6 months later or 5 years later, and lament over the changes.

Two years ago, I would never have imagined myself to be the girl, or rather woman, I am today. Two years ago I was a frail, insecure 16 year old who was so afraid to be anything either than the sullen bitch who put up a strong front to ward off all traces of negativity. Although insecure and scared, I would never allow myself to show weakness and my tears were reserved for the privacy of my bedroom and my feather-filled pillow. Two years ago, I would never have imagined that I would have lost one of the greatest friendships of my life or gained a handful of inspiring friends and sisters and brothers.

Over the past two years, many nights had been spent crying. The amount of sleeping pills that needed to be consumed in order to put me out of my misery if only for awhile is shockingly uncountable and thinking about it now, at the end of it all, completely not worth it. Yes, emotions often run wild during these hormone filled teenage years of lives, and each and every one of us does something stupid to get rid of the pain, but sitting in this position, luckily still alive, I realise how much could potentially have been thrown away, and all for what? A little heart ache, a little insecurity and alot of self loathing.

In retrospect, each second I spent crying was perhaps necessary to get me here. Get me to this place where I can sit in the silence of my thoughts and tell myself, "It's alright." It's alright that you allowed yourself to love in vain and it's alright that you hated yourself because you didn't feel good enough. It's alright that merely seeing a face could break you down to a pulp and it's alright that every single minute of your day was spent contemplating why that moment was the right one for giving up. It's alright that you didn't fight for yourself and it's alright that you allowed yourself to be vulnerable. It's all alright because every one of those incidences brought you here and made you this. Yes, in the words of FUN, "I've got nothing left inside of my chest, but it's alright".

Some nights are likely to be spent crying and lamenting over the mistakes that I've made, the loves that I've lost and the minutes that I have wasted; but I am hopeful that as of this moment, the girl that was me two years ago has morphed into the butterfly of who I am now.. Young, courageous, beautiful and eccentric in all it's brilliance and now that this first chapter of metamorphosis has played out, I am ready to pursue the life that I am destined for. As of now I allow myself to move forward with no regrets, no take backs and no self loathing. All I can give myself is a clean slate and the world. My happiness and self worth is dependent on me, and only me and I am happy with myself and every decision I have made that has led me to this place.

Believe. Breath. Be.
Always,
Arlana PS

Message to a love

The nights are cold,
Even when you're lying there holding my hand.
Your breath, unwanting of me,
Is warm on my skin
But the cold of your cruel heart exudes louder,
More frequently,
You're desire to leave.
I'm sorry, first love,
For letting you walk away,
Could I wish,
I'd ask you to stay;
But what's a wish for a man I don't know.
Wishful thinking, I guess I must say.
Let me mention the strength of my heart.
A muscle with marshmellow consistency
That you baked sweet like a s'more
With what was once your humanity.
But the fire is out of your eyes,
And only a deadly stone cold remains.
So even when you're lying there holding my hand,
The nights are cold.

A want I can't attain

When I started blogging, I wanted to escape the world. It was a means by which I could set free every ounce of emotion that I kept caged up inside of myself. Writing on this blog was like entering an alternate universe, where many different versions of me could take a peep into my being and understand who exactly it is that we were; who exactly I was. It was a way for me to detach myself from the weight of everything that I had to keep on my shoulders. It was a way of setting myself free.

However, as I grow, it is less my emotions that I want to escape from. Escaping my emotions just hasn’t been enough, because my emotions are me. The person I need to get away from, is myself. I don’t know if any of you reading this have ever felt like you wanted to breath the essence of yourself out of your body, into a glass jar and exist solely of your energy. Exist solely of your soul.
It is difficult living in a body that you want to rid. Not because you’re not happy with it, or because you don’t feel adequate in it, but because this physical existence brings you more ache than you ought to suffering. It is disappointing that you have to live, day in and day out, in a manner that you’re not happy with. Seeing and feeling what you don’t want to feel, when instead you’d like to drift through the universe, wondering and exploring, interacting with other forces of energy and truly being alive.

I no longer want to feel, yet I know that it is not something I can just stop. No, feeling is something that very largely defines me, and although I would prefer to be emotionless, or better yet, a simple, drifting energy, it is not something I can attain.

I really just want to rid myself of this state of being. I really just want to exist freely.

Housewife

Yes sir,
I will kneel on my scarred knees
To tie knots on these shoe laces of yours.
The ones that do not match your tie,
but work wonders for your eyes.
Let them meet mine while I tie,
These shoe laces on my knees.

Yes sir,
Let me scrub the floor with bristled brushes on my knees,
To add shine to this marble floor of yours.
This floor that so coldly caresses my back side when you're on top of me,
but leaves scars on my baby bottom.
Let it leave scars on me,
This marble floor I scrub on my knees.

Yes sir,
Let me take care of you on my knees.
Unzip that fancy zipper that keeps your manhood away from me,
The one I sewed onto your new tailored pants.
Let me unzip the zipper sir,
On my knees as I belong.

How I feel about not finishing NaPoWrimo

I would have loved to have 30 more poems in my pocket by the end of April, but seemingly time was not on my side.

It is quite sad, however, that I was unable to finish NaPo. It's a huge splat in my face that I've either been wasting a lot of my time on things that I deem less important because the ranking of importance happens to go like this:
1. Sleep
2. School
3. Write
4. Eat
5. Have a life.....
So, my time allocation has been majorly off and my efficiency as a monopoly, is, well, null.

Either that, or I haven't had enough time on my hands which I'd rather not except to be a fact because even when time is limited, I need to write. It is my sanity. This pretty much explains the loss of my mind over the last couple of weeks. To make it all worse, the last time I wrote in my journals was at the end of March on my birthday. I barely wrote. It was less than 50 words.

I don't know what's happening to my life. Oh my golden shrine shrimp Goddess of life, help me?

Well, I still have finals for a couple of weeks. Until the end of those, my life does not belong to me. It belongs to my textbooks. -.-

She.

Prowess,
Power she possess.
Six is just a symbol,
She'll be selling it for less.

Cornerstone,
Never lays alone.
Pound her with a shovel,
She'll dig her grave on her own. 

NaPoWriMo: Day 11

You cannot quantify love.
It could be the brisk morning and the dew;
That is love to a lemon.
Cool and cooling,
Droplets on its yellow sweet skin.

You cannot quantify love.
It could be that heap of shit;
That is love to the beetle.
Stench and stinking,
A honey like, sweet taste.

You cannot quantify love.
It could be razor sharp to a wrist;
That is love to another.
Dripped and dripping,
Red pools of passion.

Stench of Destiny

The meter is running up,
Up like my heart beat before we crash.
Before we collide with our destiny;
Much like how me and you weren't meant to be, but were.
Burn my feet on the heated rocks you threw.
Trying to evade your love raping me;
The smell of it, lingering on my scarred flesh.
Drenched in that God awful stench.
The pong of your love,
What was not our destiny,
But was.

NaPoWriMo: Day 10

An Unfitting Together

We are actions that belong together,
Like a nose and a smell;
A pinched nose and a stench.

We are the oneness of nature,
Like the oceans and islands;
Hurricane forming oceans and dead islanders. 

NaPoWriMo: Day 9

Thirst

Her marble teeth bit into her red stained lips.
Sharp edged, pearl daggers,
Stabbing tender flesh.
Red raindrops silently gushing out,
Dripping like the tick of a timer,
Into coffee scented recollections.
Blue eyes searched conniving,
Drinking in the unperturbed ambiance,
Of a foggy city's cafe.
The clank of teaspoons against saucers,
Tenderly washing out her ears.
Until the cling of a bell sneaked up on her;
Hairs jumping rabidly on her skin.
The dark silhouette approaching,
She let down her lustrous hair,
And at the moments touch,
Her pearl daggers and ravenous claws,
Exposed.

NaPoWriMo: Day 8

Ottava Rima

Let's make a vision of lost sight.
Take daydreams by the hinges and ride on the tides of imagination,
A scientifically ruined canvas basking in crayola delight.
Forget the theories of evolution or creation.
Pencil sketch ocean tides on higher heights.
Wind up your God and make him a 'Jack in the box',
Paint portraits of Hades and forget the equinox.

NaPoWriMo: Day 7

A brute

There it stands.
It is a brute.
It appears ugly.
It is divine.
Shall we call it love?

NaPoWriMo: Day 6

Mad as a hatter

The madness,
The kind of a hatter.
Sanely insane,
We are as such the human race.
We are this madness,
The kind of a hatter.

NaPoWriMo: Day 5

Baby, no more

Question the glint in my left eye,
Why?
Are those sparkling water tears,
Running down your coffee brown?
Dusted lashes,
Draped mascara.
Cry baby,
Don't cry anymore.


Question the glint in my left eye,
Why?
Is the man sticking it to you,,
In your thick coffee brown?
Portly stature,
Panting bosom,
Virgin baby,
You're a virgin no more.

NaPoWriMo: Day 4

Misery Needs Company

You say you want to comfort me,
but you don't leave me alone.
The misery of company,
it's like sucking on a dessicated bone.

I told you that the tunnel's light,
And the ocean's colder blue; 
Were brighter than the crisp cold night,
And harsher than Poseidon's hue.

Now you're falling fast into the vast escape,
Of my mind's dark, empty slopes.
Lingering in the depths of death,
Dancing with glorified ghosts.

NaPoWriMo: Day 3

What if Mother Nature was a whore?

What if Mother Nature was a whore?
A woman who spread her legs as wide as the oceans reach,
So that vessels could land and flourish,
And birth the human race.

What if Mother Nature was a whore?
Perhaps it would explain why dandelions look nothing like sunflowers,
Or why the Sun is nothing like the Moon,
Although they are siblings of the sky.

Mother Nature must have been a whore,
To birth the the sea and the sky,
So similar but not alike.
Vast and Blue, but fathers by masses much unlike.

What if Mother Nature was a whore?
Would we continue to revel in her beauty?
Or expel her from our graces,
As we did Mary Magdalene, the Bible's harlot.

Mother Nature, you whore.
Birthing ugly and beautiful all at once,
Daddy, Daddy, Father Time.
Mama Nature is a whore.

NaPoWriMo: Day 2

Yesterday

Yesterday seems far away,
Lurking in the distance,
It's remnants remaining in today,
Holding on with mulish persistence.

It says, "question the rising of the sun,
From the East and not the West.
Question why the wind chooses to run,
And never lingers for a rest."

Yesterday is a truth, waiting to be told,
It hold's on to our memory,
So that even when ours get old;
It can whisper these secrets in our reverie,

So we call it Déjà vu.
A 'Frenchly' named phenomenon,
A machete cutting through,
The fungal growth our hopes have grown on.

NaPoWriMo: Day 1

I'm a bit late on the start... But late is better than never.. Though never late is better. (Not sure where I heard this but it's running circles in my mind. -.-)

A Woman's Demise

She walks in beauty, like the night.
Supple peaks poking out on both sides of her.
A glorified woman;
Who's youthful exuberance echoes through the streets,
Yes, she walks in beauty, like the night.

She walks in beauty, like the night.
Show stopping the luxury cars that pass her by.
A graceful movement of her hips;
Seducing the headlights of their chariots,
Yes, she walks in beauty, like the night.

She walks in, Beauty.
She is the night.
The cold smack of a whip like the wind,
Or the crackle of a rubber band on five hundred dollar bills,
Yes, she walks in beauty, like the night.

She walks in beauty, but like the night;
The men she lay with are quick to draw;
And without notice, she's on the road,
Walking towards the sunkissed horizon,
Her beauty, like the night, is no more.


Prompt:
Write a poem that has the same first line as another poem.
First line from Lord Byron's (George Gordon) She Walks in Beauty.

Simple. Inspired.

The Three Oddest Words

When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.

When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.

When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no non-being can hold.

- Wislawa Szymborska

Vast Night Sky

The melody of crickets,
As they chirr in the background;
While she stares at her reflection in a mirror.
Reflecting off the glasses framing her face
Oval shaped,
Eyes
Face
Lips
A rounded girl.
Stick figure; thin and slender.

She stares at her black painted eyes
Wondering what that glittering glimpse of hope is;
What does she see beyond the mirror?
Glimmering in her eyes,
Like stars shining distant
Nearing the moon
A heat,
A warm kind of dream
A solar system she is naive to.

She stares at herself
Looking past what she sees
Beyond the little particles of matter that sum up her human being
What is she beyond her human,
being?
A dense black hole.
The night sky in her eyes cannot tell
but they are dark enough to embody the shadow that is within
Because she is a shadow within,

She.
Analysing the light that hits her skin
At angles that alter the way her slender shape, shapes
Realizing that she is only a sum of parts
A divine singular individual summing up.
Her night skies know,
They tell it.
A dark whole of matter
Unzipped like a cloak,
Not more than a sum of parts

Inferior to the galaxy
Specks of dust glowing in a magnificent kind of sunlight
They look not much better than what they are,
Nor bigger than what they are
Inferior to the galaxy.
Staring into the reflection of her reflection;
As Crickets chirr in the background.

I think I fell (In love with you)

I think I fell in love with you 

Be cause, 

We spoke of art, 

History and mythology. 

I think I fell in love with you then

Because Artemis 

Pleaded me to;

Run

My hand through

Thick hair

Medusa. 

I think I fell in love with you, 

When 

I tripped over shoulders;

Boulders

Of my own soul’s kidneys

I think I fell in love with you then.

Adonis

Adonis is

This ache that echoes through the entirety of my being

This shadow of yesterday’s debris

An incessant dark cloud that hovers above my mortal self

Adonis tells;

Tells me to be selfless,

Selfless and selfish to my sentiment

Demands that I be selfish

Adonis, why do you hit my with your stare?

Pound me on my tender bosom with your masculinity.

Why do you allow my guts to churn for you?

What divinity has sanctified you with this aptitude?

A peacock in species,

A supreme man.

Lay me down before I falter to your desires.

Catch me with your suave manliness

Like a shadow lurking unseen in the dark,

He withdraws.

Withdrawn as I yearn for him

But when the light strikes his silhouette,

As the hens begin to coo in their cages,

He mounts the mare.

Adonis, a prosaic romantic,

Dare he ask me to be selfless,

Selfless with my being.

Adonis, how can I?

Adonis, how can I,

Refuse?