Velvet.

We stole

An hour.

To say hello,

Again.

 

We stole

A piece of time

And made it our own.

Amid the trains

And the busses

And the shops

And the people,

We stole

Glances.

We smiled,

Eyes crinkling

Hearts beating

Cheeks seizing

Absorbing

How it feels

To be together. (Again).

 

We traipsed and traipsed

Over the same

Ground and ground,

Lifting all our baggage and carrying it around,

Piling it up in corners as we sat

So we could get

Close.

Closer.

 

We stole

Back

Fragments of

Thoughts and

Feelings

Swept

Around constantly

By distance

And (my) doubt.

We took

Our (sliver of) time

And put everything back together. (Again.)

 

We stole

A cuddle on a bench, a kiss in an elevator, a picture in a reflection. Embraces by the trains and the busses and the shops and the people.  

 

I trembled, like I always do

When I finally get to see him.

I rested my head

On his chest, beneath his chin.

A vision of velvet emotions.

I leaned my body into his,

Lined my heart up with his,

Let myself be wrapped up in his,

Love.

I let my erratic pulse sing with the silence,

And my incessant thoughts rhyme with the quiet,

And my tireless unsettled movement tango with the grounded hush,

Because all I really wanted

Was time.

 

We walked by all the people and we walked by all the shops, and he got on his train and I got on my bus.

 

We stole

An hour,

And said goodbye

Again.

 

~~~

Ella

Song Quote:

I wanna feel what love is, I know you can show me. I’m gonna take a little time, a little time to look around me, I’ve got nowhere left to hide, It looks like love has finally found me. -I Wanna Know What Love Is, Foreigner

 

Shining, Elegant, Weightless White

In an uninspired moment, I tried to think of something to write. My brain seemed to be tired of words. I’m scared fibro is taking over. I wrote this:

Like a thin sheet of aluminum foil,

Wrapped tightly around my forehead.

It’s thin,

But heavy, heavy, heavy.

Pain has turned it into a dark, somber, rusted gray.

 

I imagine white acrylic paint and a paintbrush.

I painstakingly paint every millimeter,

Over and over,

Until the layers are threefold thick.

It’s a shining, elegant, weightless white. 

 

I wave my magic wand,

Wingardium Leviosa,

And it floats before me,

As I observe it in all its glory.

 

When time comes to me,

I open up a stark white pouch,

Place the luminous pain within,

Open up my drawer,

Slide the pouch inside,

And bid it good bye.

 

Until I see you again.

Yours truly,

Ella

Song Quote:

Try and stay out of your head, I have seen you invent the damnedest things there. –Take a Bow, Greg Laswell

(My new ‘song of the week’ is waiting for you on the right side of your screen)

Excavations

Copyright sickandsickofit.wordpress.com

The excavation site

Hidden beneath a pile of other important things in my drawer, lies a folder that is full to the bursting with slips of paper. Every page has some words, written at some point in my life, and when I open that folder, I travel back in time.

It’s amazing really, how I’m instantly transported to how I was feeling, where I was, and what I was doing when I wrote something down. There have been many days in my young life, but the ones that I remember the most are the ones when I had a sudden urge to write- and I took myself up on it.

Sporadically in life, pretty much from age six, I would get bouts of motivation, generally in the direction of: “I’m gonna be a writer!!! I’m gonna get published! I’m going to be in The New York Times!” During one such bout, when I was around twelve years old, I sat cross legged on my bed, and wrote something on a piece of ripped notebook paper. It was my old bedspread, the highly colorful one, and I was staring at the mirror that was glued on the back of my door (before it fell, and broke).

This is what I wrote:

   I wish my mirror were my life. When I look in my mirror, I see what I am meant to be. I see myself with a fancy hair do, all dressed up at my very own book signing. I want to be famous for my writing.

  I look in the mirror, but I don’t look the way I really do. I look like a writer, posing for a picture while she writes her next bestseller.

  My mirror is the only one that knows; knows what my life should look like.

To be honest, there are pieces written in bouts of motivation from when I was much younger than 12, but they’re slightly embarrassing, so my drawer is their permanent residence.

Besides the motivated snippets, the folder is mostly full of products of hard times. It’s sad to think sometimes that most of my poems are ones of great depression, sadness, guilt and discontent. At the same time, that’s what I use my writing for: it’s a place I can turn to when it feels like nothing else is right. To quote the great Oscar Wilde,  “Words! Mere words!… what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of flute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?”

Fast-forwarding a year, I sat after quite a horrible day and wrote this (and I’m making sure not to edit myself, even though I really want to):

Why is the world such a hard place to be?

Why can’t I just spread my wings and be free?

Be heard, be known, for the things I can do,

Let it be known, that I will make it through.

 

I don’t want to think that no one will hear it,

If I fail, I won’t admit it.

I just want a chance to be heard,

Help create a better world.

 

I don’t think that’s taking it too far,

If I just keep trying,

It can’t be too hard,

I will keep reaching for the stars.

 

But it all comes back too:

 

Why is the world such a hard place to be?

Why can’t I just spread my wings and be free?

Be heard, be known, for the things I can create,

If only there wasn’t so much at stake.

 

My hopes my dreams, my innocent will,

To help the world with the best of my skills.

I can write the poem, that comes to terms with the world,

With just that single world that will be heard:

 

Free.

 

But now a tear is tracing its track down my check,

For in writing, it certainly sounds absurd.

 

At least it  has a slightly positive edge to it. Some of these transport me to a really, really bad time. Like this one:

Let’s make the bed,

Fold the dirty clothing,

Pack up our bags,

And hang up the happy drawings.

 

Throw away the tissues,

Return the garbage to its place,

Comb through our hair,

And patch up our face.

 

Strangle all those sobs,

Dry up all those tears,

Leave not one trace of sadness

“I was never here”.

 

There was a lot going on. I had no choice: life kept moving, so I had to as well. I’m worried I might be depressing you all, but I know that I also worry too much (there’s a poem about it). I’ll only share one more with you. I wrote this just last year, when I was worrying about something:

Borders are

As borders go

Separating,

Existing.

 

Some borders are paper thin, hazy, fragile,

But hold within them

The power to destruct.

 

These borders are

Long

Thin

Lines.

 

Tread carefully.

 

But the border, the line, that

Scares me most,

Is the one I balance on when I act

By the sheer power of feeling

Empathy, love, worry.

 

Then I walk the border of

Making

Things

Worse.

A single toe out of line, and that power to destruct

Is free.

 

And on that supremely uplifting note, I will now stop the barrage of sadness, and share some facts of happiness:

  1. I now have a place to write regularly, and it’s full of positivity! I have self-discipline, and write regularly, and you are all lovely people, and leave me uplifting comments. I now can write of happiness, and not just sadness.
  2. I have a much better support system in place than I used to. My family is as great as they always have been, but I now also have a bunch of friends that really care about me.
  3. I have matured since I was 12, and though I still write poems of depression in epic proportions, I also hold on to some perspective. I have a good life, even with Fibromyalgia.
  4. My math test is over! I don’t know if you feel the same way I do, but in my book, this is definitely a fact of happiness. I was stressing out about it so much, but it went really well, so now I believe all my hard work was worth it and I am happy. Next one in three weeks.

 

I hope I have now lifted your spirits after having lowered them. Otherwise, I would feel guilty. There’s a poem about it.

Wishing you all a wonderful day and happy reading,

Yours truly,

Ella

 

Song Quote:

Welcome to the inner workings of my mind. –Hurricane, Ms Mr

 

IMG_2175

While giving my drawer a photo-shoot, I realized I was photographing one of my most prized possessions: my Song Quotes notebook. It is a beautiful little thing….

 

IMG_2174

A hundred points to anyone who can leave a comment below stating which books are on my shelf… (hint: there are fifteen in the picture). Let the games begin!