I touched your voice,
beneath the cage of a speaker.
And that became
all I knew.
-b
withering heights.
It’s funny how
A skeleton that was once so
so strong.
With chastity
and colour,
could wither into
a rack of
desolate,
pervasive,
heartbreak.
And all I can
do is
watch.
-b
sacred.
I carry with me all of our yesterday.
And I spill out all of the tomorrow that’s
clawing from the anticipation in my collar bones.
Leaping from the sweat tucked in the backs of my knees.
Sitting fragrantly where I keep our love.
Your love that sits with the delicate
weight around my finger.
Your love that found a home in the
ridges and roads of my skeleton.
In the calcium of white on my nailbed.
Your love that filters through my type O negative
stream of vitality.
Rare and sacred.
-b
I would do anything to be
in this photo again.
A magnet to your side.
I would do anything to have your voice
be not in a speaker.
I would do anything, to drown
in this distance, and be
falling once again with you.
I would do anything to have your flesh
become my flesh, and your eyes mold into my eyes,
and your palms sink into my palms.
And your plans, become my plans.
My future, becoming your future.
I’m drowning in this distance.
Come drink up this distance.
I am aching in this distance.
-b
scraps of long distance
In missing him, I felt the continuation of hollowing. I lived in memory. Flipping to each page of our three month tale to find a jump start in inspiration. At times I was surrounded by people and chatter, and I would hit my auto-pilot button, while zooming off into the piece of the past I had collected.
I wanted crawl back into the tapestry of his cotton skin. When I found myself buzzing in the face of anxiety, I flew to the sound of his voice that lived in the center of calm. When the prickle of loneliness crept up and nestled behind my neck, I dove back into the crook of his arms. When I wanted to run to him I did; letting my lids fall, and our chapters race over me as they came.
-b
Your lips burn
holes to release
the water in my lungs.
I am hugged
by the waves of my own purged
silence.
-b
Happiness is the consequence of personal effort. You fight for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel the world looking for it. You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your own blessings. And once you have achieved a state of happiness, you must never become lax about maintaining it, you must take mighty effort to keep swimming upward into that happiness forever, to stay afloat on top of it.” - Eat Pray Love.
Eat Pray Love
Elizabeth Gilbert
Pretty girls are smart too.
Multiple strings of events have led me to write a post that may get me in a bit of trouble..or more so lead to a debate or two, but I think it’s time I said it. In the simplest plain english this is how I feel: in any industry that requires intelligence and a magnitude of professionalism, young attractive and usually vocal women, are not taken seriously. And to be perfectly honest I am very sick of it. I have not so much felt this in a room full of women, but more so a room full of men- where my credentials whether they are big or small are belittled and brushed off as the next blabbering female. No, I don’t consider myself a feminist, and I am hardly trying to accuse every male of being a misogynist but it is simply the lack of respect I have received lately, largely from a male demographic, that has set me off into a rant. Being a 20 year -old, female aspiring writer, 3rd year journalism student, with a lot to say and a loud way of saying it, I have had to keep my opinions under a respectable lock and key for the sake of my professionalism. But whether it is in a community newsroom, or a small Vancouver freelance conference in the back room of a bar, how is any young student, writer, female, whatever, supposed to be taken seriously if there is no credibility given to us? Aren’t students, and more specifically youth supposed to be the “future?” We are the ones bringing our new vital education to the table, and I am still confused as to why I am made to feel inferior; I should be inspired by those with experience in the business-not patronized.
So I am shamelessly going to say as a young 20 year-old aspiring writer, and a vocal female, I hope when I kick ass in my career, it’s the ones who snickered at me in the newsroom that have to read my piece in the paper every morning.
-b
❧
Lover, lifer, writer. Journalism student, and Vancouver freelancer. This is my personal blog with a lot of my own poetry and intimate entries. I am continuously inspired by successful, talented and innovative women, and I try to reflect that as much as possible. I hope you enjoy.
"Cento" Copyright © Andrew Brinker 2011.
