Origination

There's a place inside my head where the words come from.

There's a place where everything is truth

And nothing is hidden

And everything is beautiful

And sharp enough to cut yourself on.

I call it There.

Words are the tears of the weeping willows

And the songs of the birds

Pierce your heart

Because they sing of you

And who you've become.

The trees and bushes are stained glass,

Vibrant,

Transparent,

Knife-edged.

The ground you walk on is pillowed by the smoldering embers

Of the short lived fireworks

That blocked your vision of the stars. 

You walk down the path,

Your feet burning,

Slicing your palms on the foliage,

Asking the birds who you will be

And catching the words falling from the willows

Only to read

Pain and

Hate and

Joy and

Confusion and

Rest and

Motion and

Beauty.

You take them apart

And assign them meaning

And create a mosaic

Of revelation

And the willows cry more emotions

And the birds sing more truth

And the trees cut more captivation

And the ground releases more smoke

And suddenly

You is I

And I write

The tears

And the song

And the blood

And the ash

And There

Is

Satisfied.

Lines and points

At what point does music stop being noise?

Why does it want me to feel it and why does it try to understand me and why does it understand me better than I understand myself?

At what point did poetry become more than words?

How can I feel poetry more than I can feel my own emotions?

At what point does "having sex" become "making love?"

Is that just our way of trying to soften the edges of our language?

At what point do I admit that I want to know what it would feel like to be drunk or high?

What would it be like to stop worrying for a little while?

At what point do I tell people what I really think?

Why doesn't that girl understand that orange is a fruit, not a skin tone?

Why can't I tell people to stop expecting me to fix the shit in their lives when I can't even deal with my own?

At what point do I admit that I want to be like everyone else?

What would it be like to be a "tight kid?"

Everyone is watching and everyone is waiting for you to screw up and everyone wonders what it's like to stand by the knight at lunch and everyone asks themselves why they remember these kids' names.

What would it be like to have people know my name?

At what point do I figure out who I am?
When I said I'd pray for him and his family, I think I was lying. I don't pray.
Why did I tell her that prayer was the answer when I haven't knelt down in months?

At what point do I admit to myself that I'm not really Mormon?

Honestly, I wonder what I would say if asked about my religion.

I go to church.

I go to mutual.

I go to seminary.

I pray in Sunday school when asked to.

I recite scripture mastery along with the girl who rails on the Sunday Mormons even though I think I'm one of them.

I don't think God would recognize a sincere prayer from me if he got one, considering how long it's been.

At what point am I seen for the sinner that I am instead of the spiritual that I'm not?

At what point do I get scared by the fact that you'll all know who wrote this in a couple months?

Because I'm not.

I guess it's probably time for someone to find out.

I've been told to doubt my doubts before I doubt my faith.

I don't doubt the truth of the church.

I doubt my place in it.

I don't doubt that the church is the way back to heaven.

I doubt that heaven is where I deserve to be.

--Alis

To that kid who wanted to be an astronaut:

Have you ever wondered who asked her permission?

Who took the sky's desires into account?

We look at her stars and we take comfort in her sun and moon and clouds.

Did we cry when she lost her virginity?

Did we ask her opinion before we started to take her over, satellite by satellite?

Or did we tell her that she was asking for it by dressing so provocatively in her twinkling stars?

Ask the sky about her support group with the rain forests and the ozone layer.

Ask her about her daily therapy sessions with the sun and ask her about the clouds that pass over her face when she cries.

Ask the sky who she wanted to be when she grew up.

She would say that she wanted to be love.

She wanted to be the constellations that lovers look for to find comfort despite distance.

She wanted to be the light shining in the windows of the house where the new baby sleeps, prying tears out of the mother's eyes when she looks at the young mirror of her own face.

She wanted to be Polaris, leading scores of wanderers to hope.

She wanted to be beautiful and mysterious and enrapturing.

She never wanted to be the moon reflected in the tears of a girl like her.

She never wanted to be the darkness where our fear always hides.

She never wanted to be the sharp contrast between heaven and hell.

We did this to her.

The Space Race made her feel wanted until she felt walked on.

We had to conquer the beautiful and the untainted, but she never needed us to take over.

Leave her secrets secret.

Leave her alone so that we don't ruin her like we ruin rock formations with our spray paint, trying to leave our mark.
Our attempts at making things our own always end in destruction.

We'll tear her apart until there's little left of her and until we can bottle her precious stars because we think that beauty should come in a color, a scent, a powder.

Tell her she's respected, because she's tired of being seen and not heard.

Tell her you appreciate her, because you and your love can share her light along with your hearts.

Tell her she's loved, because she'd rather be loved than screwed and she usually gets the latter.
Tell her your fears, because no one understands them better than her.

Love,

--Alis

My body (machine is super keen)

From my skin:

Touch more.

Don't be afraid to scratch me.

I'm the one holding you together.

Be comfortable with me, because I'll always be with you.

We'll grow old together, and when I get laugh lines, just know that they're from happiness.

Don't mourn your wrinkles, because they're a map.

They show who you truly are.

Let yourself be touched more.

Also, feel free to punch the people who tickle you.

That's legitimate torture.

From my brain:

Fill me.

You've done well so far.

I appreciate your hard work at school.

Well, I appreciated your hard work up until this term.

This term is doing all it can to keep you from graduating.

(#allyoueverdoiswritepoetryanymore)

(#notarealhashtag)

Go do your calculus homework.

You know that I can figure it out.

You haven't even given me the chance to try.

Let me try, because you know you need logic.

Also, because you tend to be an idiot when you ignore me.

From my bones:

Break me.

Stop being afraid.

See how long it takes me to heal.

I'm your support.

When you fall, I catch you.

You are made out of me.

I'm beneath everything you do, helping you to walk, run, dance, write.

I move because you let me.

Let me move.

Keep moving, because I'm itching to let people see you.

I'll be behind the scenes, making it happen.

From my heart:

Follow me.

When you see that boy, talk to him.

When you don't want to hear someone's whining, tell them.

Do what you want.

Do what I want.

Together, we won't have any semblance of safety.

We'll take risks.

We'll jump off the high dive because we know that if we belly flop, we'll recover.

We'll kiss some boys because you're 17 and it seems impossible that you've made it up to this point without having done so.

We'll ignore everyone else because their hearts are bad at taking over and that's what you need right now.

Who cares about everyone else?

We're going to do whatever we want.

I'm your life force and I can end it

right

here

and you know it.

Believe me when I say you need me.

Feel me in your fingertips as I work to keep you alive

and feel me in your stomach

and feel me in your ribs

and in your head

and in your neck

and in your feet

and feel me in every inch of your body

because I am the feeling

and I am your life

and I am the one telling you to live it.

Start listening to me,

because without me,

you're

nothing.

W i t h  m e ,

y o u ' r e

e v e r y t h i n g .

Nothing whatever.

I just need to record thoughts here. Expect nothing.

My artist friend decided to sketch me because he "needed new subjects." His picture looked prettier than what I see in the mirror.

I tried to quit Dr. Pepper. "Resistance was futile." - quote: the thirty-two ounce sitting next to me.

My friends made me leave before I could give that boy my number. Now I'll never find out if we were musically compatible.

Someone please explain why this is so sexy. IT'S A LUNG CANCER STICK that I'm unreasonably attracted to when it's between Benedict Cumberbatch's lips. AM I A PRODUCT OF BIG TOBACCO??

I really, really like the 50's. I sometimes wish I was born back then, but then I remember the whole widespread misogyny thing and that 2014 isn't too bad.

Writing has gotten a lot easier since I started this class. I don't know what it is about acknowledging the writer inside me, but the more I let it out, the better it gets.

It makes me really happy when I get a comment. I'm a blog junkie, and I spend more time refreshing my stats page than anything else on my phone. I know this blog should be about me, but I like knowing that people like my writing. That's only human, right?

I've discovered that this is what I love. At this point, I feel like writing is necessary to my survival. If I don't write, I think I might explode from all the underutilized words coursing through my brain.

I don't like country music. No offense to all those fans out there, but when I listen to it, all I hear is "my dog and my truck and my acoustic guitar and my pretty little honey. Listen to my accent and imagine me riding a horse into the sunset with a red solo cup in my hand."

A (shortened) list of places I want to go someday: Rome, Florence, Venice, Paris, EuroDisney, Brussels, Amsterdam (thank you John Green), New York City, DC, Philadelphia, London, Cardiff (really just Wales in general), all the Scottish castles (there are many), Madrid, Normandy, and Tokyo. I could go on for years. I wish it were possible to do the Amtrak Residency.

I write little notes in various binders, loose pages, sticky notes, etc. of lines to build around, such as this one:

The trash can is more full of poetry than my head.

I never really know what I'll use them for. They just end up everywhere. A seemingly endless supply of one-liners all over my possessions.

The best hashtag is #hashtag.

The poems for AP Lit are all ridiculously hard this term. I'm avoiding my analysis by writing this.

I don't like bacon. My dad doesn't seem to understand that people don't like what they don't like and that they can't really change their tastes. He doesn't like tomatoes and  I don't call him weird for that.

Today a lady told me I should be wearing a coat. I almost had to physically hold my tongue to keep from telling her that the cold never bothered me anyway.

I don't usually swear, not so much for morality reasons, but because when I do swear it carries so much more weight. With other people it's like, "whatever, she swears every other word." When I swear, people listen.

It amuses me to see the literal everyone unceremoniously picking wedgies after going down waterslides. I know that I do it, too, though. So, whatever.

I hope I don't end up having to room with a crazy, since I'm taking my chances with a roommate. There are too many horror stories and I don't want to have to add one to the list.

That's about all I have to say for now. Thanks for reading, I suppose.

Just for you.

I wrote this for you.

I wrote this for the kids who are covering up their bruises because of so-called "love."

I wrote this for the kids who sneak painkillers because they think numbness is better than pain and the kids covered in scars because they think pain is better than numbness.

I wrote this for the kids who count calories for control because the media's favorite words are "skinny" and "pretty."

I wrote this for you, the kid who wears a mask.

The kid whose heart is more broken than my ideas.

The kid who's tired of hiding behind a smile and a laugh because life is never perfect, no matter how much you pretend.

The kid who was castaway on an island and has been waving at passing ships only to be ignored.

We're the same, you and I. 

Tell me who you are, because I want to know.

Maybe I know your name, but that doesn't mean I know your story.

Let me inside your head, because thoughts become desires and desires become actions and actions become identities.

Give me your thoughts so that we can share our humanity.

They've told me that beauty is pain, but I'm not so sure it isn't the other way around.

So, show me your pain, because I'll tell you it's beauty.

Share your thoughts and fears, because we're all afraid of ending up that poet found in the hotel room with the gun still between their teeth.

Spill your emotions like blood, because the world wants to see the suffering it's caused and I want to see how you're doing resisting the darkness,

because pain is beauty and I have the scars on my soul to prove it.

--Alis

You and her

You're dead.

You're dead and she cried.

You died.

You were her first kiss.

Then you died.

You were the only man in her life.

Her dad,

He died.

You used to hold her.

Then you died.

I went over there,

the day you died.

She couldn't even tell me

"He died."

You died

And she tried to follow you.

I know it was an accident,

And I know you couldn't have,

But I think she still wishes you left a note.

I guess I didn't know you very well.

I wonder how many people went to your funeral who never talked to you.

"You were an inspiration."

"You were so strong."

"I want to be a person like you, someday."

I also wonder how many people will lie at my funeral.

--Alis

A dose of reality

Honestly, 

I'm terrified.

You scare me.

You scare the hell out of me.

You read my words and they mean something to you.

THEY'RE JUST WORDS

I want to scream.

I weave my words like a spider weaves a web.

I'm the spider, you're the fly, and my poetry is the web.

You're caught.

What if I told you I lied?

Solstice Everston was right.

Art is professional lying,

And I lied to you.

I lied

I lied

I lied

I lied

I lied.

I don't know why,

But this blog is an escape from reality.

I've never been in love.

I've never had a boyfriend.

I've never even been kissed.

I die a little bit inside every time someone acts surprised at that.

You all believed me, though.

Why wouldn't you?

My words were so pretty

And you related so much to them.

I know heartbreak.

I know what it's like to look in the mirror only to find a knife in your back.

I know that because of some crap friendships.

I don't know what it's like to have a boy break my heart.

The closest I've been to a relationship was a week long and as awkward as an accidental butt grab.

It was terminated when he and my friend made out while I was out of town.

That was what "For the we that was" was based off of.

I turned my life into a Hollywood screenplay, 

but based off of a true story is never really the true story.

I turned my emotions into a story,

Several times,

And you believed them. 

You believed every. Single. Word.

If I talked about love, assume it's a lie.

I'm done, though.

I don't know love.

I'm not even sure love exists.

Disregard me.

Stop reading what I say.

This is for me,

And I have to write what I know.

I'll tell you what I know about love:

I've never been in love, but I love her. I have to. She's my best friend. If I don't care, then what she tells herself is true. I woke up sobbing in the middle of the night because I had a dream she killed herself. I have to answer the phone, because if she's alone she'll come to school with two more parallel lines on her arm. She breaks me every time she cries because she ignores what I say. I never like them. I've never liked one of them, and I tell her that, but she just sees someone to save. I keep my mouth shut while she cries a couple months later because no one ever wants to hear "I told you so," but that's all I have to say. I'm terrified that she knows that.

This blog has to be my reality now,

Because creativity is real.

I need to be real.

But, Nelson,

I'm scared.

You asked me to tell you about myself.

I'm scared because I'm not sure who that is anymore.

You asked me to prove I'm not a robot.

I'm scared because I don't think I can.

You asked me to write about my childhood. 

I'm scared because I don't remember much of it.

You asked me to write about love.

I'm scared because I'm not even sure what that is.

You asked me to be different.

I'm scared that I never will be.

You asked me to write about the concrete.

I'm scared because even bricks can be broken.

Nelson, you asked me to write about my fears.

I'm scared because I can't count them and they feed off of my fear and they're getting bigger and bigger and bigger like rolling a snowball down a mountain and my fear becomes an avalanche and I'm suffocating underneath it all.

I'm scared you hate me.

I'm scared of you not reading my blog.

I'm scared of my words becoming meaningless

Because I'm the girl who cried love.

You deserve to know the truth more than I deserve to live an idealized version of myself, though.

Now I just have to be real.

Real is all I can be.

Real is what I can't be.

I'm terrified that you know that.

I'm terrified that you don't.

I'm terrified that you don't understand.

I'm terrified that you do.

I'm afraid.

I'm afraid.

I'm so, so afraid.

--Alis 

Wonderings

Maybe I just don't want to let you down.

Maybe I just don't want you to let me down.

Maybe I'm trying to free the bird in my chest pecking at me to get out.

Maybe its beak just punctured my lung.

Maybe my heart is getting itchy and uncomfortable.

Maybe I can't scratch because it's beneath the skin.

Maybe I scratch the skin anyway.

Maybe sometimes I think I'm one of the people who froze in the Atlantic when the Titanic sank.

Maybe I'm the one who designed the ship.

Maybe I'm the iceberg.

Maybe I'm bad at trusting.

Maybe you don't know that because I can't trust you with that information.

Maybe I'm just a cliché.

Maybe these words have been written.

Maybe there isn't a clear point to this conversation.

Maybe this isn't a conversation.

Maybe this is a lecture.

Maybe these are answers in the form of questions.

Maybe these are questions in the form of statements.

Maybe I'm the person that would have attended public executions.

Maybe I stormed the Bastille.

Maybe I dropped the blade on Marie Antoinette's neck.
Maybe I'm Marie Antoinette.

Maybe I'm a history geek and no one else knows anything about her except "let them eat cake."

Maybe that bothers me.

Maybe I'm going to die.

Maybe I'm going to live.

Maybe I abandoned any semblance of logical thought around the third line.

Maybe all I am is a set of those foot long matches you light the grill with.

Maybe I'm just not that useful.

Maybe I'm that dandelion fluff your parents tell you to stop blowing away because you'll just have to pick the weeds I spawn.

Maybe curiosity killed the cat, but at least it figured out what it was missing.

Maybe I'm missing something.

Maybe I'm just tired.

Maybe I just don't know who I am anymore.

Maybe I do, I just don't want to admit it.

I just don't really know.

Maybe I'll figure it out at some point.

Maybe not.

Maybe "maybe" is just a placeholder for when we don't want to tell ourselves the truth.

Maybe not.


--Alis

Fear and Blood (not the fear of blood.)

I think I have a preoccupation with blood.

I'm sorry.

That's creepy.

Really, though.

I love pilot g-2s (the pens). I love the way they write. Ask me to describe it, though, and the first thing I think is that it's like you're writing in your own blood.

I don't know what it is that intrigues me.

It might be the link between life and death.

The human connection.

We give blood to others to save lives, donating a portion of the cells we need for ourselves.

I associate blood with death even as it pumps through the veins in my fingers as I type this.

I look at the scene of a car accident to see if any blood stains the pavement underneath scraps of metal and swarming policemen.

I'm looking for signs of life, and seeing blood there makes it more bleak than it already was.

I used to be afraid of losing blood. When I was a kid, I would pick scabs out of habit, then suck on the wound, taking back that little ruby teardrop into my body, thinking it would replenish my bloodstream.

Red is vital.

It is life and anger and fire and pain.

Red is the color of the muscle that keeps me alive, pushing life into me.

It is the color I see in my peripheral vision when I'm trying not to scream from frustration.

Red is the color staining the knees of that one pair of jeans I keep along with my scars to remind me that life doesn't have to be comfortable to be worth it.

The lines I can see in the crook of my elbow are blue, but I think of blood as red. 

Inside my veins, the blood is me. When it runs down my drain after I nick the back of my knee with the razor, it belongs to nature. I lay no claim to the red, even if it was keeping me alive just a moment ago. It's not mine if it's diluted by the water that sluices down my body and back toward the earth.

Today I accidentally sliced my thumb on the scissors I confiscated from my best friend, but I was too busy watching that crimson bead well up between the layers of skin to worry about the pulse that throbbed beneath it.

I don't think I would cut to feel.

I'm just scared I would cut to watch myself bleed.


--Alis