Homestead Eyes
And we’ll stay here awhile,
Til just you and I fall asleep
You won’t know until you go,
you won’t know until you go,
you won’t know until you go.
Homestead eyes,
a curious smile
Sailor’s touch,
No sign of a crutch.
Pulses thready,
almost hot, almost heavy.
A near miss,
turned copacetic kiss.
I didn’t know I could surrender like this.
Is this what they mean, when they say,
“I didn’t know it could feel like this?”
Hardworking.
Rustic ease,
a gentle motion,
this is feeling the fear,
without blowing it out of proportion.
Flying, sighing,
Curled up in your corner,
With you, something tells me I won’t have to look over my shoulder.
A lotus intact,
only seconds, inches from warmer.
Soft lips,
and tepid hands,
slip of the tongue,
I couldn’t withstand.
Safe.
Forehead kisses
and butterfly wishes,
please,
don’t be another one
of my near misses.
Kind.
Panting, chanting,
I remind myself,
there’s no more “can’t-ing”
You could take care of me.
Homestead eyes,
a curious smile,
maybe, just maybe,
you’ll be the one to stick around a while.
Shhh.
Pace through the morning, you fuel my mind
And I miss you so much, but you’re not out of sight
You’re still with me
In my secret life
In my secret life…
Is it possible for me to see you, the way I’ve always wanted to be seen? Is it possible that you’re human, afterall?
Can I forgive to forego, surrender to somehow finally let go?
Are you allowed to be in pain, too?
One truth need not eclipse the other, or so I’ve resisted all these years. Black and white, yes or no, all-or-nothing — the binary fragments blinding my perception.
Yours or mine…your love used to feel so divine.
Here and then gone, I hate how much I’ve missed you all along.
In the battle of good vs. evil, you’ve long carried your trophy of deceit with a self-righteous smile.
What happens to the truth, if I embrace ambivalence? What becomes of my story, once I hold space for yours?
With compassion our futile enemy, I don’t think there’s anything left of you and me.
Staring hollowly, I’m left to ponder.
Dozing with a painful curiosity, I’m faced with radical acceptance — again and again and again.
Far from innocent, I too must atone.
Eventually.
Right and wrong willfully aside, how can I miss something that never subsides?
Why do I long for what I never really had? As my worry turns into dread, invasive sadness persists. As preoccupation points toward danger, anger clouds my true intentions.
Still, I am reminded of you. As my throat closes, my face fills with an uncomfortable wetness, warm and otherwise blurred to the markings of reality.
Nowhere left to turn, I sit with it.
Daring it to stay, I somehow allow it to slip away. One jolt, and then two, my body tells me what to do.
I miss you, more than I want to.
I miss you, more than I need to.
Meeting someone new inevitably brings me back to you. Still, I am reminded of you. The cursed love affair that used to send flips through my stomach, frolicking about in my mind — I can’t move on without you.
You used to be so kind.
At the first glimpse of trouble, I panic. Will I lose someone else, the way I lost you? Will they leave the way you did? Will it be my fault?
Sadness envelops me with sweeping glare, reminding me I’m not quite there. Your presence lingers, buzzing in the background, knowing full well I can’t let lift a finger.
I hugged you a few weeks ago. Foreign and out of touch, I nearly shuddered in your embrace.
Will I always feel the longing?
Will I always yearn to be chosen?
Will it ever not ache?
WIll I ever mend my first heartbreak?
Faceless in a crowd,
I feel it.
Voiceless in a shroud,
I see it.
I miss you, Mom.
I, I…
Do you remember the good?
Do you miss your Mandy girl?
Do you wish for quality time the way all mothers should?
Somewhere between then and now, you decided I wasn’t worthy.
Somewhere between furrowed brows, I learned to desert me.
Grief — love with nowhere to go.
Anger — energy with a purpose.
Were the early years just for show?
Holding absences, a lotus in bloom.
You took your love away in one fell swoop.
I, I…
My melodic nightmare echoes in the silence
You always scolded my inherent defiance.
Shh (please tell)
I, I, … can no longer dwell.
Vacant & Alive
Holding Absence, Webster Hall, New York, NY
Blue is vacant,
Blue is alive.
Blue with the crowd,
I stand here quietly proud.
Pushing, circling, stopping and going.
Lights go out.
Pits in my stomach sinking with song,
I’m shaken by a familiar yearning to belong.
Tiny fires blazing up above,
Who are you when push comes to shove?
Acting out of character, reveling in the scene.
If only for a moment, I embrace the nude and the serene.
Observing, observing, opposite to emotion.
Only mildly intoxicated, I coexist with the commotion.
Firing, wiring,
Oh no, there goes a little desiring.
Neural yes and neural no,
My body doesn’t know the meaning of slow.
Number yes and number next,
Left awaiting the impossible text.
Absence held and nothingness felt,
Guess that’s another notch on my belt.
Have I always been this brave?
Have I always been this fun?
Have I always been one stroke away from glistening under my own sun?
Green with the tides,
Seated under black and white skies.
Blue is vacant,
Blue is alive.
Luck of the Irish, pick of the Polish.
Right place and wrong time,
I can be quite devilish.
Green with the tides, I take in your touch with an unexpected stride.
White in the foam, white in the sky,
It didn’t take much to fantasize.
Pulled into the undertow,
Lost in the afterglow.
It could be nothing, the story’s not real.
I wish it changed the automatic way it makes me feel.
I stand on my own,
My footing steadies the rugged undertones.
Okay either way — this table wobbles no more.
Pillars propped up one by one,
Is this how secure people get it done?
Yes, no, yes,
Dare I be a little selfish?
Dare I feel alive?
One grin, a two-toned smile,
This is how I use my feminine wiles.
Blue is vacant,
Blue is alive.
…Blue is everything I can’t surmise.
Blue in Amsterdam
Green windows in sight, a brown plaid seated next to me.
Red ache around the corner, pink hope in the air.
A fierce yellow echoing a mellow otherwise unknown.
Black sinking into my stomach, pockets of purple invading my mind.
It’s blue in Amsterdam.
What might’ve happened, this time?
Would we have gone skating together? Would I have told you about my past? Would I have felt the back of your head cradled between my fingertips, as I gently lulled you off to sleep? Would I have made friends with the soft patches that framed the parting of your hair? Would we have gotten close, my yellow meeting your brown, somehow turning into an orange? Would we have listened to music together, discovering each other’s favorites along the five? Would you have embraced the pink, letting it swirl above and all around us? Would you have kissed me with clarity, and acted with intention? Would I have met your father, and learned about your passion for racing? Would I have let you see me for me, feeling the fear and showing up anyway? Would you have comforted me in tough times, bringing lightness through laughter and rhyme? Would we have become a team, bearing the brunt of each other’s burdens? Would you have looked at me and smiled, thinking, “Man, I think I’ll stick around for a while.”
Would you have liked me more, if it weren’t for scarlet in Schenectady?
If it weren’t for blue in Amsterdam, would I have been enough?
No, you didn’t do anything at all. It sounds ridiculous, I know. It wouldn’t be fair to you, you say.
And I believe you. I have no reason not to, anymore.
But if it was me, it would be easier.
At least then I could grapple with the things I could change. At least then, I could still rearrange.
No, I remind myself. Mom may have drew barbed-wire parameters for her love, keeping me tangled in the clutches of her cables — but you deserve it, Manders, just as you are.
Perspective given, perspective gone, I move through the pain purposefully by song. One road bleeding into the next, tears roll down my cheek with each melancholy remembrance of text.
It was just coffee. It was only one dinner.
It sounds ridiculous. It was nothing you did, you say.
But still, I wish you could’ve stayed.
Red aching in my familiar dark, I feel the embers of our lingering spark.
Pink coming down, tears permeate this town.
Blue in Amsterdam, yellow at home. Oh, the courage I have just shown.
Orange just beyond my grasp, I carry on with formidable rasp.
Blue in Amsterdam, blue at home.
I wish I knew what we could’ve become.
Swirls of Bittersweet Cognition
Cowering on tiptoes, I stand inspired.
Balanced with complacency, I’m ashamed to be proud.
Consciously pulled toward avoidance, I yearn to create.
Spinning, yet flying, I’m muddied by the purity embedded from within.
Swirling in slow motion, I dare to dance with a destiny I now know I desire.
Carrying the hum of misfortune and the buzzing of promise, true fulfillment lies beyond the static.
Will I, or won’t I? I will. Right?
Behind gritted teeth and chattering fingers, I inch myself toward my truth. With space expanding between my thoughts and feelings, I allow myself to be who I’ve always been.
With each new word and with every minute stride, I step into my own.
I can do this, I remind myself, over and over and over.
I can I can I can I can.
There is no summit, I repeat tirelessly, willing the chasm of self-doubt and trepidation away a little at a time.
There is no summit. There is no summit. There is no summit.
I’m doing this for me. I’m doing this for me. I’m doing this for me.
Coming into my own? Reuniting with my long lost self? Is there not a love story more gratifying than that of one’s bittersweet homecoming?
Willfully ignorant, conveniently in denial — Amanda is now emerging. Artistry long sequestered amidst a siren song, she is me, I am her, and we are here.
Beneath the fear, beyond the noise, that’s where I finally exist with an everlasting poise.
And so I sit with the ambivalence in every keystroke, ironically forced to embrace the gliding of ink onto paper as I fight the urge to stop, stop…stop. It’s almost as satisfying as it is frightening.
Only people who are good enough succeed.
My lack of success must mean I’m not good enough.
No. No. No!
When will it feel safe?
When will the excitement return?
When will the smallest step feel enough?
When will I believe in the worth I know I innately carry?
For today, seven minutes is my victory.
For today, eight minutes is my victory.