Is it okay that I started so late?
Dancing with Words
“Dance for me.” I whisper to the words entrenched in the blades of my being.
When they listen, they dance diligently at every turn.
Going at a h y p n o t i z i n g speed until
they
d
r
o
p.
PTSD pt 2
It seems like all things have finally left me. I mean to include words too – my most forgiving savior.
I am convinced that it is part of the final stage of this long odyssey I’ve en-trailed on for almost twenty-two years.
Heavy, hot flashes of headaches and turbulent washes of emotion fill my days.
For over a year, I could scarcely feel emotions that deeply and now they are beginning to cloud me. They make everything almost impossible: work, course-work, and preparing for an entrance exam so I can achieve my dream.
I am still breathing and pressing on. That has to count for something?
I wish I could capture this toxic milieu of feelings and sensations into poetry. I don’t even want to try. That’s how I know how far gone I am.
I do know something with a troubling amount of certainty: It will get better, but not before it gets worse.
PTSD
Everything is so far away — a tonic away.
Poison’d
Trauma makes abrasions,
lines and circles that exquisitely permeate
and colour the lens of our eyes; the blood of our mind.
Poison’d in entrapment.
Boundless
I am neither here nor there,
my mind, set on tempests.
While the heart,
plainly beats.
flowing words–hold me close;
I am sanguine.
Brimming with
the rich redness of life, repose,
and everything in-between.
With nothing behind,
I cry and cry in sweetness: bound to no thing other than me.
Contemplation of Beauty
Skin: There are miles to me.
Eyes: A deep onyx.
Tresses of Indian ink hair locks hang free
on my petite frame.
Is this beauty?
The transient and evolving features that define me?
Can you see past the flesh that envelopes me:
Hear the lofty and intricate thoughts of my mind,
The exorbitant way I love things?
The warmth of love I feel
for you and me?
Does the flesh win this waging war of time and space
or can you see me?
Tides
I have the same dream every night: I am on a beach. My eyes are closed and my hands – stretched open. I am bathing in the sunlight and marveling at the easiness of the moment. Then, my eyes open.
I see the shore, which looks boundless, and a wild jungle positioned miles behind me. I realize something with a pang. I am on an island alone. My only company are the tides which stream in and out in a rhythm I can’t quite capture.
Just as I overcome the intensity of one tide, another washes me over: I am left perpetually drowning.
Awaken
“Awaken,” I whisper to something inside of me, hoping to stir something; anything.
I feel hollow and dreary like a metal pipe placed in an assembly of plumbage.
Spring
“Spring forward, spring back.”
They tell you.
They don’t give you an outline: They don’t tell you why.
“Spring forward, spring back.”
They command you.
The nature of it is p e r p l e x i n g;
bristling and jostling with kinetic energy.
Dark and invigorated.
“Spring forward; spring back.”
They threaten, without highlighting the good,
the bad.
Something Beautiful 
