Discontent

The stars are shining
The sky is bright
The coffee is hot
The breeze just right.
For five seconds, everything is perfect.
But then you remember-
Sunny seas
Bright sands
Warm teas.
And it's not perfect. It's not perfect. It's not perfect.
And if it's not perfect, it's not enough.

~Sam

You have been warned.

Time will fly.
Even when it moves like a slug,
You will look back
And realize it has flown.
You will look back
At the years you missed,
The life you skipped
In the blink of an eye.
At the moments
Which felt like they'd last
Forever.
And you will realize,
Forever's come and gone
In the blink of an eye.
You will look at old chats,
Conversations and pictures,
Memories and moments,
And feel twinges of old tsunamis.
And you will realize
Time really does fly.
In the blink of an eye.


~Sam

Cuts

You know what I'm terrified of?
Cockroaches, lizards and sundry insects aside,
Love aside, loneliness and loss and death aside,
Failure aside,
You know what I'm truly afraid of?
Those sharp cuts, that slice straight through,
Deep and true,
So swift and sharp and sure,
You don't even know they're there.
Not until years later,
When you're bloodless and lifeless and dried out-
When you've slowly lost every bit of your essence,
Leaking through cuts you don't know you have.
Because you can't see them, feel them,
Because you can't see or feel emptiness.
Not until you're empty,
Not until it's too late.
I guess what I'm truly terrified of,
Is finding my cuts too late.

~Sam

What Am I Doing?

What am I doing?
I open up your chat window
And stare at it quietly
Praying, craving, wishing, hoping
You'll say something
(SAY SOMETHING)
I scream at you internally
Not a flicker of emotion crossing my face.

What am I doing?
I eat a slice of pizza
I really don't need
While I flick through your pictures
Again- nothing new, but old is still gold
There's the funny one, the cute one, the hot one
Same things, same place, same order
Nothing has changed.

What am I doing?
I chat with your friend,
Your mom, your dad, your girlfriend
All the while glowering at your picture
Waiting for you to say something
A link, a rant, a picture, a hi
I'll take anything
Just say something.


~Emo Sam Part III

Click

Something just clicked
As I talked to you that last time
And things that were floating
Settled once more into reality
As I wondered why
I was spending so much time and energy
Effort and emotion
On someone who wasn't even real.

~Emo Sam Part II

Not About You

Tell me you love me.
Tell me you choose me.
Tell me you'll change your mind for me.
Tell me you'll trust me.
Tell me you'll make me trust you.
Tell me I'm important.
Tell me I'm right.
Tell me I'm enough.
Tell me sometimes, I'm everything.
Tell me you won't leave me.
Tell me everything.
And listen to me, and maybe I'll tell you, too. 

Maybe I already have. 


~Emo Sam

Too many people I know, know about this blog. Bah. 

An envelope full of memories.

Emptying out my backpack-
Too full of fly-about sheets for my sanity-
I rifle through a month full of memories.
Receipts, from conversations and lunches,
Their faded typed lettering reflective of so much more than numbers-
Reflective of squeals squealed and hugs inflicted,
Happiness relived and memories both shared and made.
Hastily scribbled napkins with dates and times and tiny snippets of life;
Tickets, which say the flight time is two hours,
But I know better- I know how many years and weeks and months it took to reach there.
Boarding passes, reminiscent of a stinging embarrassment, when I left one behind on the counter-
Reminiscent of the night of sleepless revelry that led to such forgetfulness-
Reminiscent of all that came before and all that came after.
Cards, thrust into my hands by eager shopkeepers,
Symbols of purchases made, of another day and another friend, of brownies and twinship,
Of a slight rebelliousness in the air that day,
Which leads back again to other days,
Other memories-
A lifetime full of memories.
My envelope full of memories.

~Sam

Disequilibrium

~Super rough draft which probably should not be published without more work, but who am I kidding, I'm not going to improve this later when the feel is gone.~

Fat people are yearning to lose,
Thin people wouldn't mind a bit of gain.
Corporate lawyers want freedom and passion-
Struggling artists money, warmth, a roof.
White people want that gorgeous tan,
Coloured people just want to bleach it away.
Guys want to be able to cry,
Girls want to be able to walk alone at night.
Tall people want to be petite,
Short people want to grow some more.
Blonde wants to be brown, brown red,
And red just about anything else.

They tell us we should be happy with who we are,
But nobody wants to be who they are.
You could smush everyone together,
Cancel out all the insecurities and make that perfect girl,
But even she wouldn't want to be who she was.

~Sam

Terrace Nights

I step out onto the terrace
And I can feel the relief enter me
As tangible as the breeze touching me.
I look up,
The stars have put on a show tonight.
I look around,

The trees are still.
The release leaves me
As the dogs bark over the songs in my ears.
But even the howling, fighting mongrels
Cannot take away the serenity of this scene.
When did a dog's howl become serene?
I look up,
I swear I saw that star move,
Run over to its neighbour.
But no, it's right there.
I wonder what the stars talk about?
Do they look down at us and wonder at our lives?
Can we be that important?

~Sam

Surfaces

At 5 a.m., having brilliantly failed at achieving a state of slumber, a picture came to my mind, of the surface of seas, hiding various life histories and dramas below, represented by various striking images. I wish I could paint so I could draw this series, I don't think my words are doing it justice, but I can't, so I wrote it as best I could.

____

The surface is clear, beautiful even. Calm and peaceful. Serene, reflecting the brilliant blue sky, the sea gulls soaring above. Perfect.
But look from a particular angle, and you will see through the surface. Down below, things aren't clear or calm, not peaceful, not serene. Anything but perfect. Down below you will not see the blue of the free sky, but the grey of a man's raised hand, the black of a woman's bowed head. You will see scared eyes peeking from behind a curtain, staring longingly at the open door. Freedom, a few footsteps away, a few lifetimes away.

Another sea, another surface. Dark, this time, reflecting innumerable shining stars. Breathtaking.
How many of those stars are dead, in the time the light has taken to reach this surface? How many blinked out, unable to take their own weight?
Under the surface, the punctures will not be the bright of stars in a black sky. No, the punctures will show other colours. The dark of grime, the crimson of despair. What colour is hopelessness? Red blood, slicing across a wrist, an ankle, a thigh, a throat.

Another day, another sea, roiling in the storm. Waves so high you cannot look through. Daunting, brave, indomitable. Stunning.
Perhaps not so below. It is calm below, calm and quiet. An undisturbed room, a made bed, a neat closet. A house not a home, pervaded only by silence. The silence of searching eyes, searching, searching, for a way out. Not all exits are blaring signs, looking to be found. Not all doors can just be walked out of. A silence of suppression, borne of years of quiet fortitude and hardening soul. A silence stunning like a slap across a bruised face.

Another dark sea, but lit bright underneath. Shining auditorium lights, brightening jeering faces, echoing harsh laughter.

A pale blue ocean, glinting with beautiful coral. Coral, which is mere decoration on armour, built of years of smiling at the face you want to punch, standing when you want to cower, of unsought battles fought with trembling, hardening fear.

A sea glinting, dancing, silver as a mermaid's tail; a surface only thinly covering the screams renting the air, the hand forcing legs apart. The tears squeezed from shut eyes, the nails tearing the thick skin on scarred palms, the memories relived.

Dull grey water, but what brilliance below. The shingled sea-fish swimming astray, the weeds waving in glee. A stingray, bemused smile permanent on its face; a jolly dolphin passing through.

Green, frolicking, choppy waves, pushing against a cliff; a dancer's soul beneath, legs poised, body prepared, arms high for a battle of ballet.

What is below your surface?

~Sam

Unsolicited Advice [A Work in Progress]

Be honest.
And be genuine-
Two different, important things.
Be unapologetic,
I repeat: be unapologetic,
Except where you feel you have done wrong.
Then apologise and move on.
Be strong.
And that means crying and calling for help
When you need to.
Be self-assured,

Because no amount of beauty or wit

Can match the knowledge that their judgement does not matter.

Be free.

But remember the soul of liberty is in its restrictions.
Believe
And stop putting yourself down before anyone else can.
Because no one can truly put you down except you.
Think and laugh and breathe and cry
For life is short and you won't even know it till it's over.

~Sam

Mum

This is not very well written but I love my mom and she deserves a poem okay.

She'll tut at my long nails and coloured hair,
And worry for five whole minutes about a safety pin poking me.
She'll sing disgusting old songs to get me out of bed

And call my six foot four inch brother her little baby.

It'll pinch like betrayal the first time she leaves me alone,
But she'll take even my hate if that's what's needed to prepare me for this world.
Though who am I kidding- I could never hate her,
(No matter how I might rant and rave that she doesn't understand,

That she never understood)

She'll always be my home.

~Sam

Two minute "poetry"

I remember a scene from St. Clare's
Or was it Malory Towers?
One of those Enid Blyton books.
Where a character, a French girl,
Wants to get out of class
And decides to fake a stomach ache-
Only to point to her heart instead.
Or maybe it was the opposite,
And she mistook stomach for heart.
Either way, the point stands-
That there is such an odd connection between the two.
Butterflies in your stomach
Usually signify trouble for that racing heart,
And nothing causes nausea as bad as impending heartache.
My heart will miss my family when I leave
And my eyes will cry and my throat will be sore
But it's my stomach which will be the first to get troubled.

It's my stomach which has become the first to get troubled.

~Sam

And we danced all night, to the best song ever!

Yes, I occasionally listen to One Direction.
Best Song Ever is actually the second most listened to song on my playlist, courtesy a night of frantic working to which it provided the background music.
I even go on a Taylor Swift spree at times.
I have the posters of six famous paintings on my wall, and I couldn't tell you the name or artist of more than one.
I read young adult-and worse, I enjoy it, in a way I never enjoyed Lolita or The Fountainhead.
I make grammatical errors, while correcting others'.
I used to typ lyk dis unironically.

Go ahead, judge me on that.
But know that you are judging me on that which means nothing at all-
And I say this as a person who loves music and art and writing and reading-
That means nothing at all.

If you want to judge me,
Judge me instead on the manner in which I snap at my mother,
When I think she doesn't understand me.
Or the way in which I go, tail between legs, and hug her,
When I remember that she understood me before I even knew myself.
Judge me for being so arrogant, and having so many self-esteem issues,
All in the span of a single thought.
Judge me for what I preach and believe in, and what I continue to practice-
For those being two separate things.
For my weakness, when I go get waxed anyway-
For not being strong enough on my own.
Judge me for what affects me, what angers me, what shames me
What causes conflict, what makes me laugh and what leaves me cold.
For crying for a Titanic but averting my eyes from Iraq.
Judge me on the manner in which I judge others.
I'm a horrible person and I'm a wonderful person,
But you won't know which until you judge me on something which matters.



~Sam