This is called "Not Rhyming."

Shout out to Gold Lion Arts' Poetry Greenhouse!

So as not to tread on your toes,

So that you cannot tread on mine,

I build a ten foot fence

Around my box,

Where I keep my distractions.

Anything to not feel

Or connect.

Let me be your other

I will make your pancakes

And your decisions.

I want to be needed by the needy unwanted.

Read me the map

And I’ll drive.  

Mimosa Hostilis: Round two.

Body vibrates, curls, uncurls. Mechanical whirring fills the head. Both ears ring.

“You again?”

*sigh*

“It’s okay sweetie, this happens to a lot of people who see the Truth. You come back a few days later, wanting to suckle at the teat of infinity. Well, I can show you again, but you’re not going to like it.”

Streaming: eyes, nose, pores.

Why does it feel different this time?

“You’ve already seen it now. The elation you experienced last time was largely due to receiving new information.”

I knew that. I know that.

I’ll just vibrate here in the puddle of insanity anyway. I’ll just nestle up to the Mother.

Too exhausted and weak to purge, I wearily hold onto the drip[, drip, drip] as it fumigates my brain.

{expelling your waste is key to the trip; if waste is held onto, no movement can be made in any direction. the overflowing energy MUST move, so instead of going forward or backward, it creates a tiny wormhole through which I travel to a new dimension of ego games.}

He reads poetry. Pretty rainbow lights, exploding flower prisms on the cloth walls of the blanket tent: a quiet spectacle surpasses roman candle displays. Ehts szO byoutifulll….He kisses the ripe fruit, drinks her nectar. Legs quake and shake. So much information for this newborn body to download.

He retreats when reality knocks on their door. 

So sensitive.

Tears flow freely here. The tiniest bite of pear is overwhelming to my new tongue.

Heart hardens.

“Shell must harden before you can hatch.”   

Thank you.

Scorpio Moon Ramblings.

This rhyme dictionary,

Collecting dust on the shelf:

I’m gonna use it

To string words together,

To free up my Self.

Without further ado,

Here’s Amira: Act two:

The spinning of our planet is making me seasick

When I lose control, I can be a real prick

When did I lose you?

Why did I chose you?

Your age, your sign, your face

Never mind,

This isn’t the time nor the place.

I can solve all the problems of the human race,

But put me, Like a rat,

Inside your maze,

That hall of dusty mirrors

Has me lost for days,

Months, three years now,

And I can’t get out.

No matter how loud I scream or shout

Nobody can hear me.

Nobody can find me.

I’m looking for the Way, the Tao, the Day

When my mind will be freed from the decay.

I'm looking for freedom 

From this encrypted shit I say,

When all I really want is to dream and play.

When All I Really want is for things to stay

Comfy and cozy, 

Keep my glasses rosy.

I want to build a Self, but not if it takes work.  

I want to build a you who isn't a jerk.

Or maybe a Me who doesn't get hurt. 

I'm not a Duke, I'm a writer.

I looked to the first people I knew to define me. 

She says, “You and David were my most strong-willed children.”

She also says, “David was always ambitious, but John is more intelligent.”

So THIS is what Intelligence looks like?

Will, Intelligence.

“Gifted” meant I (we) needed more homework? “Gifted” meant I suffered from paralyzing social anxiety by the time I was seven, to the point of making me vomit every morning before school in anticipation. I didn’t want to be gifted,  I wanted to be happy.

Ignorance is Bliss.

Stupidity could be ecstasy.  

The best I can do sometimes is feign ignorance.  

An Amira Onion: Where are you, Mircat?

Or, How much of myself is actually other people?

Ballet and drawing belong to my sister, Larissa. Larissa was make-up too.

Anxiety and panic come from my mother.

A need to compose myself, from my father.

Being self-conscious comes from every young woman in my life.

Self-loathing and resistance-to-existence, my brother John.

The tendency to see the world as a stage and every moment as a chance for a new, dazzling performance, from Matthew, the Core-mate.

Then there’s this tiny flame somewhere in my heart: the Constant, my personal Truth.

There are words I can accept as descriptive of my being. Who or what is this Amira-thing? 

What, in my family of seven children, was always mine? 

What did I do of my own accord? 

To Her Majesty, Arcadia Kalina

Before the doctors had even cleaned you up, they tossed you, writhing and screaming, onto my bare chest and pulled an ugly knit hat over your tiny conical head. You were puffy, red, gooey, and easily the most beautiful creature I'd ever laid eyes on. 

Being accustomed to warm, wet, dark, enclosed spaces, you were generally appalled by the cold, dry, bright, open multiverse. In a sort of silent protest, you refused to open your eyes for a good long while, perhaps hoping that if you couldn't see the world, it would go away.   

Now, about thirty baths later, you're finally getting the hang of this world-thing you were thrust into. Digestion isn't as horrifying, smiles and frowns take turns on your visage, you've discovered some remarkable appendages at the ends of your arms, and you can even tolerate a diaper change for more than a millisecond.

Starry-eyed and full of wonder, you begin to explore the universe. Some things, like stuffed yellow bunnies who light up and sing at you, inspire great pleasure to your senses. Other things, like the sound of velcro or sneezes, offend you entirely. There is much for you to see and experience, little Arcadia. I feel indescribably lucky to have my first front-seat viewing of the human journey. 

Shining, Shimmering, Splendid.

I adore the day after a night of rain. The grass and trees are all well-fed and meet the eyes with a green splendor incomparable to that of a merely sunny day.

The earth is damp, still absorbing.

The moss is bloated like someone after a thanksgiving feast.

The sun hides partially behind clouds, brightening but not blinding.

The air is warm, but with a crispness reminiscent of autumn.

I wish every day could be the day after a night of rain.

Tear Gland Malfunction.

I am suddenly terrified that I will die before I can convince everyone I know how much I love them and how grateful I am to have them in my life. Every blooming moment I spend not showing people that I care for them is a moment (selfishly) wasted.

X_X