The Colors of My Life

After noticing the rotted mangos, gerry curl greased seats, over-bleached hair, modern technology, sour tasting chocolate, modern geometric signs, high-end shoppers, zit-faced teenagers, flock of seagulls haircuts, knitted grandma towels that reek of breakfast the week before, angry mothers battering their young children, and old women cribbage groups who meet every Monday night grasping my attention I feel that I need another drink. After my only friend has run off with a boy whom she doesn’t know all that well, my night only begins to reek of anxious. reputations of those who surround me. fake-bake, immature, raunchy, bleached hair, speckled faces don’t bring intrigue in their favor.  Although they think so, it makes me glow with joy, know ing I will not allow myself to succumb to that level of sugar coated immaturity.  Slur red syllables caress ing the top of my mouth, which has happened before.  Stom ache, but I don’t complain. Body complaining, but not showing.  Falling from my seat.  Getting back up as my knee scuffed the floor and my skirt almost lifted up above my head.  Not knowing how to fix myself, I pull my hat lower on my face.  I can’t see at this point, and everything is spinning. Spinning to the point I don’t know what will happen next. I head for the door, as I am the last person to leave. Time has passed so fast.  Lights down.  Closing door. Hold my hand.  My linger ing appendages fall helplessly down the stairs, without direction.

After noticing the rotted mangos, gerry curl greased seats, over-bleached hair, modern technology, sour tasting chocolate, modern geometric signs, high-end shoppers, zit-faced teenagers, flock of seagulls haircuts, knitted grandma towels that reek of breakfast the week before, angry mothers battering their young children, and old women cribbage groups who meet every Monday night grasping my attention I feel that I need another drink.

After my only friend

has run off with a boy

whom she doesn’t know all

that well, my night only begins

to reek of anxious.

reputations of those

who surround me. fake-bake,

immature, raunchy, bleached hair,

speckled faces don’t bring

intrigue in their favor. 

Although they think so, it

makes me glow with joy, know

ing I will not allow

myself to succumb to

that level of sugar

coated immaturity.  Slur

red syllables caress

ing the top of my mouth,

which has happened before.  Stom

ache, but I don’t complain.

Body complaining, but

not showing.  Falling

from my seat.  Getting back

up as my knee scuffed the

floor and my skirt almost

lifted up above my

head.  Not knowing how to

fix myself, I pull my

hat lower on my face. 

I can’t see at this point,

and everything is spinning.

Spinning to the point

I don’t know

what will happen

next.

I head for the door, as

I am the last person

to leave. Time has passed so

fast.  Lights down.  Closing door.

Hold my hand.  My linger

ing appendages fall

helplessly down the stairs,

without direction.

The Girl in the Closet             In only times when things become overwhelmingly chaotic does she come out.  Her recessive tendencies are only noticeable through her actions of disbelief.  The small innocent child that I once knew, now lives within her.  The silence of being in a small-enclosed room, with no window is where she lurks.  The happiness she rarely feels only exists within me.  Balled up in the corner, she takes on all the pain, which I set aside.  Her childlike nature only takes on maturity when mine relapses.  The lifeless body, which she doesn’t understand, gives her an endless misunderstanding of her insanity.  Sitting there, knowing what will come gives her the knowledge, but no sense of direction.  The flickering candle, which only exists in her mind, is her only way of examining her conscience.  The rough texture of her skin, gazes up at me in admiration.  Her eyes ponder for a definitive outlook on the world that surrounds her.  Tap.  Tap.  Every delicate tap of her perfectionist fingers on the concrete floor, gives her timeless misinterpretation of time well spent.  The times I am living as though there is no tomorrow, she sits wondering when the day will come when she leaves the room.  Trapped.  My own way of life gives her the power to live her structured, predictable timeline.  The static break in monotony only commences at times when I attempt to be someone I am not.  I am she.  When I sit in my quiet room, I am not me.  I only exist in a state of being in which life is lived from day to day.  No plans.  My counterpart lives a lifetime in one breath.  Silence.  Always jumping to the next moment is what she does.  I must only see through the past, and live in the moment.  Her distinguishable grin never changes, static.  Lifeless emotion.  No surprises.  Nothing to look forward to. She knows her plan.

The Girl in the Closet

            In only times when things become overwhelmingly chaotic does she come out.  Her recessive tendencies are only noticeable through her actions of disbelief.  The small innocent child that I once knew, now lives within her.  The silence of being in a small-enclosed room, with no window is where she lurks.  The happiness she rarely feels only exists within me.  Balled up in the corner, she takes on all the pain, which I set aside.  Her childlike nature only takes on maturity when mine relapses.  The lifeless body, which she doesn’t understand, gives her an endless misunderstanding of her insanity.  Sitting there, knowing what will come gives her the knowledge, but no sense of direction.  The flickering candle, which only exists in her mind, is her only way of examining her conscience.  The rough texture of her skin, gazes up at me in admiration.  Her eyes ponder for a definitive outlook on the world that surrounds her.  Tap.  Tap.  Every delicate tap of her perfectionist fingers on the concrete floor, gives her timeless misinterpretation of time well spent.  The times I am living as though there is no tomorrow, she sits wondering when the day will come when she leaves the room.  Trapped.  My own way of life gives her the power to live her structured, predictable timeline.  The static break in monotony only commences at times when I attempt to be someone I am not. 

I am she.  When I sit in my quiet room, I am not me.  I only exist in a state of being in which life is lived from day to day.  No plans.  My counterpart lives a lifetime in one breath.  Silence.  Always jumping to the next moment is what she does.  I must only see through the past, and live in the moment.  Her distinguishable grin never changes, static.  Lifeless emotion.  No surprises.  Nothing to look forward to. She knows her plan.

katespadeny: live colorfully. Life doesn’t get much better then this…  Doesn’t color make you happy?

katespadeny:

live colorfully.

Life doesn’t get much better then this…  Doesn’t color make you happy?

An artist, my daddy. The scribbles that decorate the newspaper every morning when I wake up. Blue or black ink, ranging from simple words to the extravagant telephone numbers covered by spirals perfectly rendered. That’s an artist. He always tells me stories of when he was a child, wishing he could draw. The simple stick figures that he could draw were never good enough. He always speaks of the day when he could draw. He claims that on a Sunday he opened the comic section and drew the comics exactly as they were in the newspaper. All of the comic drawings were the same as the ones in the newspaper, but only larger. He couldn’t find the paper the next day.

An artist, my daddy. The scribbles that decorate the newspaper every morning when I wake up. Blue or black ink, ranging from simple words to the extravagant telephone numbers covered by spirals perfectly rendered. That’s an artist. He always tells me stories of when he was a child, wishing he could draw. The simple stick figures that he could draw were never good enough. He always speaks of the day when he could draw. He claims that on a Sunday he opened the comic section and drew the comics exactly as they were in the newspaper. All of the comic drawings were the same as the ones in the newspaper, but only larger. He couldn’t find the paper the next day.

Piece of tattered and torn newspaper from two weeks ago, covered in potato skins, grease, black ink, milk, cookie crumbs from my moms homemade blueberry cookies, pork chop bones, and applesauce from dinner last night.   Sitting in that final period English class on a Thursday afternoon kills me. My stomach churns, as my dry mouth waits for something to appear in front of me to seize my appetite. I envision a fish sandwich, juicy battered bread coating the buttery thing. Crust that I can bite into and feel the hot, thick, fatty grease run down the sides of my teeth onto my gums. Onion rings slide down my throat after they release from the beer battered shell. Onion slices running down the back of my throat; slimy yet enjoyable. Chocolate milkshakes, one after another freezing my throat washes it down. Every last inch of my stomach, full. The excess of this feast of mine will remain there.

Piece of tattered and torn newspaper from two weeks ago, covered in potato skins, grease, black ink, milk, cookie crumbs from my moms homemade blueberry cookies, pork chop bones, and applesauce from dinner last night.

 

Sitting in that final period English class

on a Thursday afternoon kills me.

My stomach churns, as my dry mouth waits

for something to appear in front of me to seize my

appetite.

I envision a fish sandwich, juicy battered bread

coating the buttery thing.

Crust that I can bite into and feel the hot, thick,

fatty grease run down the sides of my teeth

onto my gums.

Onion rings slide down my throat after they

release from the beer battered shell.

Onion slices running down the back of my throat;

slimy yet enjoyable.

Chocolate milkshakes, one after another freezing

my throat washes it down.

Every last inch of my stomach, full.

The excess of this feast of mine will remain there.

Her red curly hair spun straight out of her head.  Those glasses those glasses they slid down her greasy slick nose to where they now rest. The tip of it only replicated by those tulips that exist between the streets. Traffic going one way, and then the other. Passing as if there is no day to end. The crashing of the bowling ball into the pins scares her yet it makes her feel comfort. The smoke filled air is what she is in search of. Her breath is only taken in by that of a smoker. Unless you have a drink to spare. Her fair complexion makes her seem like a raggedy ann doll. She sits and smiles. Her breasts as large as the pins that one would have to knock down. They roll down her ample belly to meet square form her body. A box. and what she has to hold her up might only be that of those would call legs. not trunks to say the least. their branch like nature makes you want leaves to fall from above. her oversized shirt comes only half way down her body to cover her jolly like figure. To her drunken dismay she doesn’t know that her red lipstick covers half of her right cheek. That red was the red that she saw fall from the trees in the fall. It only existed on the ground at that alley. She wanders nightly, but travels daily. And as I say the homeless man who does still reside on the corner, does notice all of this, but continues to ignore. Only the homeless man who resides on the corner knows her name. The tulips that create that ever so perfect pattern between the street is where she stays. The sidewalk is her domain and the trees from which under she lie are her home. Next to the bowling alley her drunken thought process proceeds to speak of her husband whom she once loved. Younger men swivel by her as her pelvis makes a motion only one can explain to see. She loved me one man said as they walked by. with a smirk on his face. he didn’t know how to react to the supposed woman wishing to fondle him.

Her red curly hair spun straight out of her head. 

Those glasses

those glasses

they slid down her greasy slick nose to where they now rest.

The tip of it only replicated by those tulips that exist between the streets.

Traffic going one way, and then the other.

Passing as if there is no day to end.

The crashing of the bowling ball into the pins scares her yet it makes her feel comfort.

The smoke filled air is what she is in search of.

Her breath is only taken in by that of a smoker.

Unless you have a drink to spare.

Her fair complexion makes her seem like a raggedy ann doll.

She sits and smiles.

Her breasts as large as the pins that one would have to knock down.

They roll down her ample belly to meet square form her body.

A box.

and what she has to hold her up might only be that of those would call legs.

not trunks to say the least.

their branch like nature makes you want leaves to fall from above.

her oversized shirt comes only half way down her body to cover her jolly like figure.

To her drunken dismay she doesn’t know that her red lipstick covers half of her right cheek. That red was the red that she saw fall from the trees in the fall.

It only existed on the ground at that alley.

She wanders nightly, but travels daily.

And as I say the homeless man who does still reside on the corner, does notice all of this, but continues to ignore.

Only the homeless man who resides on the corner knows her name.

The tulips that create that ever so perfect pattern between the street is where she stays.

The sidewalk is her domain and the trees from which under she lie are her home.

Next to the bowling alley her drunken thought process proceeds to speak of her husband whom she once loved.

Younger men swivel by her as her pelvis makes a motion only one can explain to see.

She loved me one man said as they walked by. with a smirk on his face.

he didn’t know how to react to the supposed woman wishing to fondle him.