Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry #56

There is a world of questions and predilictions
inside that logical, mechanical mind of yours,
a constellation behind your furrowed eyebrows,
and a secret curving with the cautious way you try
to hide your rare, golden smile.

Buried deep within those eyes that endlessly wander
and dance through universes and alternate realities,
are stories of childhood that you stumbled in, while telling,
and confessing, in that strained, honest way of yours –
“I don’t know what to share, because I don’t know what is important.”

I imagined my hand caressing the stubbles on your cheek,
as I whisper in reply: “Everything is important.
All of you is important to me.”

You said:
“I don’t want to know you as you posture yourself.
You act in a way that half represents yourself,
and the other half defends yourself,
and I want to cut through that barrier and know the whole you,
as much as I can,
because the guard you put up
is so little about you
and so much
about the rest
of the world.”

Darling,
the rest of the world frightens me,
but your giant hands that curl with the gaps in between my fingers,
keeps me satiated,
full,
and all-knowing.

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Reviews

Zone 6: Project Almanac Review

The premise has been done to death – time travel is first exciting and full of hope and promises, only to go awry in the hands of fatal human error. Reminiscent of Marty McFly‘sadventures in Back to the Futurescreenwriters Andrew Stark and Jason Pagan use teenagers as the vehicle for time-travel wish fulfillment, in the form of first-person mockumentary narrative technique.

Project Almanac tells the story of five brilliant high school friends who follow a series of clues that leads to the discovery of blueprints for a time machine at MIT-aiming teen, David’s (Jonny Weston) dead father’s basement.

Read the full article here. 

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Day to Day Writing#55

This has gotten to a crazy point where I jump at the sound of my phone and get depressed over messages I don’t receive, where I stand in my position shifting my feet, scanning the crowd and waiting for you to come talk to me, and getting miserable when you don’t, where I obsess over what you’re doing constantly, and comforting myself when you’re not near me, where I’m counting down the seconds until you do something mischievous when we’re alone that makes my heart jump and makes it hard for me to cover a shit-eating  grin, where I look forward to being caught in a corner with you, where no one is around, and you spread your arms to pull me in for a quick hug while everyone’s backs are turned and I fall into it so smoothly yet cautiously, all the while looking behind our shoulders to make sure nobody is watching, where I’m starting to ignore everything that’s been piling up around my life – missed calls, emails that need replying to, video games and books that need finishing, just so I can talk to you all night – I didn’t anticipate this to accumulate to this but it’s what’s happening and I’m not entirely sure if I ever want to lay the blame on infatuation, or delude myself into thinking this could be something else.

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Day to Day Writing # 54

She sleeps against him, with her young secrets pulsating through her heart hardened by trauma, weakened by fear, doubled by the chemicals that swims through her senses, decorating the lining of her nostrils in barely visible halos; the only proof that it exists within her are the red scratches on her cheek, ones she unconsciously digs with her nails in the early hours of the morning.

There isn’t a tale he knows from her past that isn’t embellished or hidden; everything she tells him is a re-telling of truth, another version of another story she is too afraid to divulge. Once he felt her wake up in what he thought was terror, and asked if she was okay – except it wasn’t fear that opened her eyes, it was guilt, but there was no way of knowing.

Last night, they stood in front of each other inside the elevator, their reflection on the mirrored ceiling conveying polar opposites, despite the fact that both their sweaty palms gripped the silver railings, their fists clenched, their backs hunched, their legs tightly wound against the other, the distance between them like a chasm they cannot cross, silence muted by meaningless conversation.

Once she walked down the stairs from his apartment building and held her coat tightly against her in the cold December morning, smiling at the way he discreetly held her against him all night, softly breathing, and could not understand whether he was the mirror that focused her past, or the heavy smoke that annihilated it.

It is within those early hours in the morning, before the waking of the sun, before his offerings of honest conversations, their only common ground for intimacy and desire, before his eyes open and he leaves the bed to fill her glass with water, does she lay against him, silently, slowly becoming the woman she had always wanted to be at 5 am, that frigid January morning.

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Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry #53

Every time I have to write something that’s hard
a lump forms in my throat
and my stomach tightens –
my head starts aching and it doesn’t stop,
and it throbs along with the pounding on my chest.
Most of the time I solve this problem by closing Microsoft Word
and never looking back,
but inside I know I’ve given up.

It happens so rarely that I go back and finish what I started.
Each attempt is a panic attack.
Each story is a battlefield.

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