jayellen

jayellen Apr 2017

tic-toc

they say that writing
is a gift
and that those
who have been blessed by it
hold the world in their scathed
palms

they say that writing
is power
and that if
you can wield your pen right
you can make others feel
as you feel

and i'm afraid that that's why
i stopped

i cannot curse another
with these countless thoughts
that always tic-toc
and tic-toc

i cannot allow myself
to make another hurt
because i have felt much pain
this is no gift, my dearest,
this is a curse

i tried to stop
i try to stop
but i am afraid that
my writing is as endless
as the tic-toc of the clock

jayellen Apr 2017

museum art

he tells me I'm a
pretty painting
and that he'd love to
meet the artist
I tell him
my blood
sweat
and tears
caused all of this
"pretty"
he laughs
and shakes his head
hand rising to touch
a "no" croaks from my throat
"you can't touch
museum art"
he gives me
a look of determination
and says
"what if the art
is no longer
the museum's?"
his hands reach up
and he tears me from
my safe, safe wall
and steals me
he strokes each delicate
curve
with a rough, shaking hand
a hand shaking with
lust

he tells me I'm a
beautiful bird
and that he'd love to
acquire a feather
I tell him
my feathers
help me
fly from
"monsters"
he sighs
and shakes his head
hand already catching my throat
a "no" squeaks
from my chest
"birds were meant
for freedom"
he gives me
a look of exasperation
and says
"but what if the bird
is put in
a cage?"
his hands clasp me
and he rips me from
my safe, safe perch
and steals me
he plucks each delicate
feather
with a rough, shaking hand
a hand that shakes with
need

he tells me I'm an
intricate book
and that he'd love to
meet the author
I tell him
I am the
author
and I
wrote each word
with pain and misery
and
if he desires to read it
he must gain a
"key"
he cackles
and shakes his head
hands already tracing
my barriers
and what lies beneath
them
my mouth forms the word
"no"
and my tongue spits it out
from the fire in my stomach
he tuts
and shakes his head
a look of unwithering
victory
and says
"what if the book's
covers are simply
torn off?"
his hands reach up
and he strips off
my safe, safe barriers
he runs his shaking fingers
over every word and
punctuation mark
fingers that shake
with lust
he skims his burning eyes
over every letter and
accent
eyes that burn
with need
and once his satisfaction is filled
he leaves me
with nothing but paper
but I must thank the man
for he left me
*a pen

jayellen Apr 2017

lost

everytime i touch
a cigarette ****
to my dry lips
all i can feel
is the softness of your kiss

everytime i empty
my scattered mind
i hear your voice
soothing everytime

i can feel
your gaze
i can seal
your kiss

but i cannot

i like to
lie
to myself

for

i'm lost in the pages
in which
i mapped
each spot
of your
body

i'm lost in the drawings
that i sketched
of your
eyes

        and might i
        just add
        how cursed
        and wretched of a
thing it is
        to be lost
        in something
        that will forever
        remain a*
            memory

jayellen Apr 2017

anjelica

i change the pronouns
in my poetry
from me
to her
and no
do not be mistaken
i am not her
and she is not me
i do not know this lost girl
yet i do understand her

i have dreams of her
she has eyes that scream
with bags sinking beneath
plump with everything
that she
hides
her hair is unkempt and wild
she tells me her only goal
is to finally be as free and wild
as the drooping loops
her skin is porcelain
and i fear that i might drop her
that my rough touch will not soothe
and that she will break

her cracked lips part
and she says her name is
Anjelica
a pretty name
yet seemingly
too clean for the broken doll

bruise is a pretty shade on her
she has red scars
that chase the dip of her back
and
her voice fills any empty room
as though she is
fighting for a place to speak
as though she is
fighting the silence

i walked slowly and uncertainly
to her room
my feet moving out of instinct
dancing along a cobblestone path
with white cherry blossom petals
scattered like my rambling thoughts
i reach her door
and place a shaking hand on the ****
i twist it and pull it open
moving slowly and cautiously
as not to wake her up
but i am afraid that
she looks even more
damaged
when she is asleep
i reach my arm over her
and she stirs
her stained mattress heaves
as though it's carrying
a burden much heavier than she

her eyelids blink open
and her cracked lips part
as she asks if i'm here for cigarettes
i apologize repetitively
quietly
softly
because i am scared of anger
and she says it's okay
and that she understands
but darling i do not think
your mind could comprehend
how i need them
how i need them to breathe
how they are the air that i breathe
how i breathe them much more simply

i leave with the cigarettes
tucked in my dress
a burn in my hand
and i leave
my dear Anjelica behind
to the destruction of her dreams
and i must confess
i am haunted by memories
and i hoped she held the key

i changed the pronouns in my poetry
from me to she
and i swear they are not about me
but i see myself scrawled in the ink

jayellen May 2016

Come to Me

When the sky is shouting,
when the Gods are crying;
come to me.

When the light is dark,
when the day is done;
come to me.

When the good is bad,
when the whole are broke;
come to me.

Come to me.
I will save you;
I will mend you.

Come to me.
I will fix you;
I will heal you.

When the dark is the only thing relevant,
when the archangels are hell sent;
come to me.

When the Heavens aren't holy,
when the dead are breathing;
come to me.

When the living are drowning above water,
when the happy are crying;
come to me.

Come to me.
I will hold you;
I will love you.

Come to me.
I will comfort you;
I will indulge you.

When the dark is light,
when all you see is hope in the moonlight;
go from me.

When the happiness is a diamond; valuable,
when the pain no longer resides; is gone,
go from me.

When the broken are whole,
when the emotion-starving are full;
go from me.

Go from me.
Share it with the sick,
Share it with the poor.

Go from me.
Share it with the sad,
Share it with the overwhelmed.

But: always come back to me.

When you feel your heart stopping,
when the hope is drained,
when your happiness plummets.
Come to me.

jayellen May 2016

A Dying Poem

The rising of a sun,
glossing over every dewy leaf,
and my heart had been broken by a thief.

Blue skies illuminated by a golden god,
proudly hanging above,
and she starts cursing love.

Gently wisped clouds gliding,
cumulating and growing,
and my happiness is slowing.

Eagles soar higher,
animals prowling low to the ground,
and she's above water yet still she's being drowned.

The sun is setting,
the sky starts crying,
and my poetry is dying.

jayellen May 2016

September Rains

September rains are back again,
and oh; how I've missed my old friend.
Sprinkling wisps running from the clouds.
Black lightning making thunder rumble; loud.

I'm sitting on a grassy *****,
looking for my happiness through this horoscope.
Joyous shouts coming from within,
feeling this freedom of being alone (but not feeling lonely) overcome and win.

Stardust layered upon my heart,
and I swim in my shames whilst wallowing in the dark.
I can feel the daggers shooting through my mind,
telling myself that I'm not okay. But I'm just fine.

September rains are almost gone,
and now the sun's coming out before dawn.
I watch as my friends, the dark clouds gather in the sky,
and I ready my muddy dress so I can say goodbye.