by Nyasia Drye
I’m not sure if this is a correct beginning--
Not sure this will have enough lines.
I’m not sure if I’m going to have enough stanzas--
If I even need them for that matter.
I’m not sure I’m even doing this right at all, or wrong--
Because, well isn’t spoken word, isn’t poetry just kinda like, freestyling?
Shouldn’t the words just flow off my tongue, from my fingers to the page like dew off the slick back of a leaf, or something like that?
I’m not sure--
Sure of most things.
I’m not sure because my mind is racing, and racing and racing and racing and racing and racing on this track nonstop, but only it isn’t going anywhere. It’s running in an infinite circle, digging this rut that it’s in deeper and deeper till there’s no point out.
And when I finally stop, stop to look around and see my surroundings and what’s really there? It’s empty. Dark. And when I look up I see the light and for a brief moment I feel like I can feel it shining down on me as if to say, “you’re almost there--just a little further and you’re out.” It’s voice is so clear, beautiful--like silk, draping over me. I smile, because this is it. I know this is it. I reach out my hands, stretching them high above ready for that sweet escape. But there’s no one to pull me out. Then the process, that habitual, ritual, consists.
I get so caught up in my mind to escape the reality of my reality because somewhere along the line I learned that it’s best to keep to myself, that it’s better to be alone because no one can hurt me--that my worth is determined by how I am portrayed in the eyes of others. My waistline. What organs I have in between my legs. My sexuality. By how many golden kisses of warmth the sun has decided to place upon my skin. Or--somewhere along the line I learned that I am no more than what you can see.
Not by my love and appreciation for the colour purple. Not the movie, the actual colour.
Or that I cuddle with two bears when I go to sleep because I don’t want the other to feel jealous and left out.
That Tim Burton is my idol, that I rather I sit in my room in pajamas reading manga versus a date at the mall, that I speak insanely fast when I’m anxious and excited, that there’s a weird birthmark, thing on my left wrist--
that I much rather be watching Tom n Jerry or some sort of christmas special because that’s less painful and awkward than sitting on the edge of your bed writing about things that you yourself hardly understand, things that scare you to the point that you want to jump out of your skin, to the point that you rather be anywhere, doing anything else other than, sitting, on the edge, of your bed.
Thinking. Thinking. Thinking, and thinking.
By what’s in me. By what defines, me.
But why does that matter, why should any of that, matter?
I stopped staring in the mirror at a blank reflection because that stranger's no stranger no more. I got to know her, and she has gotten to know me.
I tell her she's beautiful and she smiles and says the exact same thing to me.
And I believe her.
And she believes me.
And we stand there, as one. For we are one and have always been.
But we know that now.
She knows she doesn't have to take another look for all the boys who never have or never will, that she doesn’t have to second guess her existence, her importance her worth--that we're all carbon based and some day, that will cease to exist, that she'll shed her skin and what will remain is a beautiful soul, an individual that's worth the time, that matters.
And she smiles and she says these things to me.
And I smile.
Because I believe her, and she believes me.
I’m not sure if this is a correct beginning--
Not sure this will have enough lines.
I’m not sure if I’m going to have enough stanzas--
If I even need them for that matter.
I’m not sure I’m even doing this right at all, or wrong--
Because, well isn’t spoken word, isn’t poetry just kinda like, freestyling?
Shouldn’t the words just flow off my tongue, from my fingers to the page like dew off the slick back of a leaf, or something like that?
I’m not sure--
Sure of most things.
I’m not sure because my mind is racing, and racing and racing and racing and racing and racing on this track nonstop, but only it isn’t going anywhere. It’s running in an infinite circle, digging this rut that it’s in deeper and deeper till there’s no point out.
And when I finally stop, stop to look around and see my surroundings and what’s really there? It’s empty. Dark. And when I look up I see the light and for a brief moment I feel like I can feel it shining down on me as if to say, “you’re almost there--just a little further and you’re out.” It’s voice is so clear, beautiful--like silk, draping over me. I smile, because this is it. I know this is it. I reach out my hands, stretching them high above ready for that sweet escape. But there’s no one to pull me out. Then the process, that habitual, ritual, consists.
I get so caught up in my mind to escape the reality of my reality because somewhere along the line I learned that it’s best to keep to myself, that it’s better to be alone because no one can hurt me--that my worth is determined by how I am portrayed in the eyes of others. My waistline. What organs I have in between my legs. My sexuality. By how many golden kisses of warmth the sun has decided to place upon my skin. Or--somewhere along the line I learned that I am no more than what you can see.
Not by my love and appreciation for the colour purple. Not the movie, the actual colour.
Or that I cuddle with two bears when I go to sleep because I don’t want the other to feel jealous and left out.
That Tim Burton is my idol, that I rather I sit in my room in pajamas reading manga versus a date at the mall, that I speak insanely fast when I’m anxious and excited, that there’s a weird birthmark, thing on my left wrist--
that I much rather be watching Tom n Jerry or some sort of christmas special because that’s less painful and awkward than sitting on the edge of your bed writing about things that you yourself hardly understand, things that scare you to the point that you want to jump out of your skin, to the point that you rather be anywhere, doing anything else other than, sitting, on the edge, of your bed.
Thinking. Thinking. Thinking, and thinking.
By what’s in me. By what defines, me.
But why does that matter, why should any of that, matter?
I stopped staring in the mirror at a blank reflection because that stranger's no stranger no more. I got to know her, and she has gotten to know me.
I tell her she's beautiful and she smiles and says the exact same thing to me.
And I believe her.
And she believes me.
And we stand there, as one. For we are one and have always been.
But we know that now.
She knows she doesn't have to take another look for all the boys who never have or never will, that she doesn’t have to second guess her existence, her importance her worth--that we're all carbon based and some day, that will cease to exist, that she'll shed her skin and what will remain is a beautiful soul, an individual that's worth the time, that matters.
And she smiles and she says these things to me.
And I smile.
Because I believe her, and she believes me.