Busy

Lately, far too busy for the hustle and bustle
that is the business of a sweet, simple, rightly-timed poem.
Mind is churning, flying at miles per hour,
worrying
moving
thinking
processing
working
all these things wear me out
and I forget what I need.
To express.

Wrote this on the fly today. I’ve been a busy woman as of late, because of work and a variety of things. I need to remember to take it slow sometimes, and write. I’ve been neglecting it.

Had a bit of a story in my mind I wanted to get down. I don’t think I’ll finish this any time soon. A note: I am obsessed with airports and traveling and especially romance while traveling!

I slowly opened my eyelids, wary of the bright lights above my head. I knew if I opened them too fast I’d get a quick, sharp pain, right to the temple, and that wasn’t a desirable feeling at this particular moment. However, opening my eyes quickly might afford me a glimpse at my neighbor, of whom I am convinced is an extremely handsome Jude Law look alike. I had yet to confirm this suspicion. His accent was far too roguishly British to belong to anything but.

Gathering up the tiny bit of courage I kept in store for situations like these, I risked a peek, flashing my eyes to my left. My neighbor was in conversation with a young child next to him. I let my line of vision slowly fall on his face, smiling weakly as I felt my heart start to thunder. Even better looking than Jude Law.

Between the pounding of my heart and the now sweating of my palms, I began to develop a minor panic attack. Did I pluck my eyebrows today? Was there a hairy caterpillar waiting to greet this delicious gentleman next to me? I prayed to every god I knew that I hadn’t drooled in my sleep on the 5 hour flight.

The anxiety grew as I began to realize that people were rising out of their seats, ready to depart the plane. Not yet, not yet, please not yet. I needed more time. I needed him to look my way. Talk to me. Give me a sign that it was OK to proceed. Slip my number in his pocket. Something of that sort.

When he stood up from his seat without even so much as a glance my way, I knew it was too late, and I had lost. Slow to act, never to succeed. The motto of my life.

I’d like to share that right now I’m working on writing a young adult novel in verse. For years, I’ve been writing short stories, beginnings to novels, and they’ve all gone absolutely nowhere. I think I’ve finally discovered my “thing,” if that’s what I want to call it. I’ve recently read a few great novels in verse for teens (Shark Girl by Kelly Bingham and I Heart You, You Haunt Me by Lisa Schroeder), and I’ve realized that genre is out there existing, and I need to be a part of it.

I’m really excited about the story I want to tell. I may share bits and pieces here. None of my past poetry that I’ve posted on this site will be in the novel. I want it to be fresh. New. But I’m sure some of my common themes will pop up. Any insight into this genre that anyone could share would be great. I am going to try and get my hands on more novels, and read and write, read and write.

Hurt

So there’s the times when
I feel so lonely,
it just hurts to exist
and the heavy weight of it all
hurts my lungs and I
can’t
breathe.

I wonder

wonder,

if they notice this absurd pain
of mine.

It passes.

And then I’m me again.

But I can’t help worrying about when it will return.

Sweet Pain

Your hand burned my chin,
the curve of my
neck
Where you last
touched me,
before you
left,
forever.
And the pain spreads
like an uncontrollable
wildfire
straight
to the heart.

OK

I know you
said,
I’m OK
We’re OK
but I can’t
help
feeling
that I broke
your heart
and
mine,
more than
a
little.

Solitude

This frozen solitude
of regrets, dreams
that’ve died–
the cloud of
it blinds
my escape,
and
I fall;
breaking
along the way.

Wreck

Exhausted eyes,
I watched as he
slept,
as I felt
regret,
and looked on
from above,
that our friendship
was too great
to demolish,
not even for the sake
of a passionate love.

I was going to enter the Mystery Box Contest #1 at Poemeleon some time ago, but never got around to finishing my entry. Here is the beginning:

A wad of long-faded lira clung
to the clips
of the metal bill box the busboy
bought that time
in Pisa.

A deep, grinding tune banged out of the thumpity-thump car that was riding slowly, following me on my walk to school. I knew the car. I knew the driver. I ignored both, shoving earphones quickly into the crevices on each side of my head, evaporating the hateful sounds. I began walking faster, almost jogging. I couldn’t face him, not today. Not today, of all days.
—
“Ellie.” I turned and faced the voice that spoke my name.

“Hey, Aaron,” I choked out, hesitantly, face fire-hot, nervous, yet excited, that he actually knew my name.
—
Yesterday I wrote a poem, and today I wrote one also. It’s not any good, I suppose, but it means something to me. I have nothing else to say. I have nothing else to feel. That was all taken away from me the day my world ended and the path disappeared and I trickled down a too-fast stream into a million pieces. The end of the end of the end of me.
—
I’m the quiet girl who sits in the back of the room, or maybe the front, so that way I don’t see anyone else, and it’s almost like I’m the only one there. Yes, that’s me. Completely visible, yet wholeheartedly not there.

I raise my hand to answer questions, and I am polite. I get A’s and B’s in all my classes, and teachers adore me. I may be in one club, but never any sports, and definitely not the drama club.

I’m the girl that crushes so hard on the completely wrong guy, and the right ones, too, but I’m unnoticeable, and therefore, all I do is crush. I may or may not have been kissed by the time I’ve left high school. And it may or may not bother me.

I’m the girl who mothers want their sons to marry, but the girl that sons never want to marry. I’d be the best mother to a child, but maybe I’ll never have one of my own.

I’m the girl who always thinks that maybe, just maybe, this one will turn out right for me, before it completely falls apart.
—
I flung my hand of cards at the table, attempting, and failing, to hold in a too-large grin.

“Flush,” I called out, sweetly.

Mumbling and groans from around the table as I circled my arms around the chips, pulling them towards me. I’d won yet another hand of poker, and was on my way to winning the whole game.