Right before I write in the morning, I like to meditate. It’s the only chance I allow myself to be completely consumed with my thoughts from the chicken sitting waiting for brining in the refrigerator to ways I can better my chances at getting at least an interview. Most times I would feel comfort in the weight on my chest because it reminded me that I was human and this was real. The blood would rush through my system releasing itself on the pages of my journal reminding me why I appreciated my pain.
The smell of sunshine always seem to make my mood lighter. It always brightens up even my gloomiest of thoughts which is especially essential since today, I didn’t want to be gloomy. I wanted to lift the weight off my spirit and send happy kisses to my soul. I wanted to feel alive again.
Feels like I’m intoxicated
I’ve lost all control
This drug has me feeling
Feeling numb but not cold
My feet dangle beneath me
As I look down from the clouds
What madness is this?
but I just can’t keep a frown
A smile on my lips
As I tango with the stars
I’m blowing kisses at the moon
This entire universe is ours
A sudden warmth
A touch so gentle
It makes me weak
I’m sailing back now
On utter bliss
It drove me crazy
Our first kiss.
Often times I find myself being most assertive when I’m scared. Today I find myself frantically fighting for a cause, for a purpose; fighting for my voice. So many writers seem to have honed in on their niche, on that voice that can transport readers to the endless crevices of their minds and back. Yet I’m stuck, in a quicksand of bleeding paragraphs and corny analogies. Who am I kidding?
My usual swift Brooklyn strides slowed to a crawl when the question decided to antagonize me. The tiny hand seemed to grip my index finger just a little tighter; excitement bubbling inside the fragile frame. His grin squinted his eyes until they almost disappeared behind the dimpled cheeks I kiss every night. It was the same smile I saw in the mirror when innocence was written all over my face. And it was that same smile that made me question if he was gonna survive another day.
Kiss me when it rains
So I could feel the difference
When the cold dies
And your warmth awakes
I could feel it from a distance
Place your lips along my sorrows
blowing bubbles deep into the holes
Don’t forget the biggest one
Near my chest oh how it hurts
Even my soul sits in the corner
Mumbling softly to the wall
Telling secrets to the windows
Wishing light would come afterall.
Kiss me when it rains
So the water drowns the screams
From the senses deep within me
Pleading I turn around and leave
Another battle I’ve lost
To the monster of my dreams
The knight in shining armor
Left the blood stains on my knees
Kiss me when it rains
So I can forget you
Kick myself in the ass when I remember you
Fall all the way back in love with you
Before I have to regret you
Kiss me when it rains.
The early morning band rehearsal shimmied beneath my windows, sounding through my sleep. It drifted me deeper into my memories, playing cheerfully with my fingers as it led the way. The choir I heard now was from the village church where my parents got married on my 9 month birthday. The songs reached the ceilings and danced off the colorfully stained glass standing tall against the walls. It reminded me of what my childhood was; took me to a place when I remembered why I stopped going to church.
I have friends issues. If ever I denied it, I lied. Growing up I’ve always been the type with my girlfriends’ numbers on speedial and their business in my back pocket. It wasn’t unusual to find my socks or even underwear in the bottom drawer or my favorite bracelet dangling near their mirror. Nowadays if it weren’t for the infinite storage of memories within the albums on Facebook, I probably would have denied denied denied.
Today I woke up with an itch; not the type that causes my eyes to curl backward and my fingers to work scurrily at my skin, but the kind residing inside; forcing my body to shudder and anxiety to inch it’s lanky limbs around my neck. The decision to place my phone on vibrate deemed useful to my sanity when I reviewed the missed calls from the numerous 1-800 and UNKNOWN numbers. Sometimes I plead with Verizon to block all the bill collectors but turns out, I’m on their shit list too. I remember once when my mom was sitting at the kitchen table in the dusk of night with a calculator at her finger tips and a growing knot between her brows. It was the one aspect of independence I didn’t want.
The mellow Samsung tune gracefully pierced the gentle morning air. The digital numbers on the tv cable box read 8:00, or was it 8:09; the fog was still fighting to blind my eyes. The sick pink dial pak felt cool between my fingers when I reached over my restless toddler to the nightstand mini drawer. And as my throat clenched and relaxed coaxing the pill into my vast interior, the words seem to pour out of my mind; “Luck favors a well-prepared man.”