So, I sit and write.
Not in the right state of mind, but still I think.
My lightbulbs are broken and cracked open so my ideas flow free, while my body is locked down by gravity.
These chains.
These chains are heavy, can I still break free?
I cut up a magazine for pictures of where I want to be.
A jigsaw puzzle of blue was the sea.
I used different hues, from different views trying to piece together me.
I couldn’t find the right part for my nose and there wasn’t a way for me to express what’s in my soul so I scrapped the book and decided to write a simple poem.
So I sit in the dark and write using the illumination from my phone.
I wonder if he knows?
I cry alone.
The pit in my stomach is as deep as the Pantheon’s dome.
My feelings untold like Egypt’s history hiding in Africa’s sand and soil.
Mysterious even to me.
I don’t understand my body language.
Foreign feelings, foreign dealings just revoke my passport- I’m tired of visiting.
The silence of the night creeps in over me like a blanket for a baby trying to be rocked to sleep.
Maybe I should just sleep?
Maybe it will come to me in my dream- the reason why I can’t get rid of this feeling.
I’m alive but not living, but I am breathing.
I have a pulse, so that means my heart is still beating, I just have to figure out the rhythm to the beat of my drum.
Time for me to write a text message to Mr. Sandman and ask him to send me a dream.
Tag Archives: creative writing
Nightfall Overture
Emerald, green lanterns with wings.
Watch them.
So serene, as they float suspended in the nightgown of the man in the moon’s mistress.
Midnight, black silk- translucent lace adorned with trapped hopes and dreams.
So bright, they shine.
In awe I stare .
Never have I seen such beauty.
Never have I felt such despair.
Whispering winds carry bedtime prayers.
Up, up, up!
The rapacious clouds consume them to the point of rupture.
The scent from the woes of man soon fills the air.
Let it rain.
Remind us of our flesh.
Let the tears pour down upon the hardened soil.
Let it seep down, deep, down and awaken the sleeping seeds and encourage them to grow different.
Encourage them to push harder, expand their roots into barren land, land that was said to have no chance of growth and you prove them wrong.
On this summer night your forest will grow from concrete under the magic of the moonlight.
Note to Self
Maybe one day I will get a hold on this thing called self.
I will understand why I cry.
I will understand why I’m so angry at things that are supposed to be beautiful.
Some days I think I’m winning, but it’s only a brief thought without any substance called proof.
I don’t know.
My answers just keep digging bigger and bigger holes of unanswered pits of questions that I keep finding.
One day it will all make sense and I can throw my shovel away.
Memoir
Author: Mariana Golphin previously published in Pennsylvania Bards- Northeast Poetry Review
You said she wasn’t worth anything.
Making her feel smaller and smaller everyday.
Until she disappeared.
Little sad invisible girl she was.
An orphan with a mother.
Lights out! Click.
The pain hid in the dark of her eyes.
A prisoner of unchosen circumstance.
A victim.
A victim.
A victim.
Did they not see her scars?
How could they not see them?
Oh, I forgot she was invisible.
They only saw her when she smiled.
They only heard her when she laughed.
They turned their backs on her when they heard her crying.
They turned their backs on her when they heard the screaming.
She was invisible again, I guess?
So, what saved the invisible girl?
Her mind.
Her imagination.
She would transport herself to the stars every night and walked across the surface of the moon.
Sometimes she became a mermaid.
Swimming in the abyss.
Discovering sunken treasures, long forgotten by the world.
She transformed her pain into poems and her emotions into characters.
Even with broken bones, and open wounds her spirit perservered.
Soon she found herself enamored with a secret garden.
Overtime, she would constantly fall victim to the thorns of the roses.
Mesmerized by their warm smile, kind words, strong embrace.
Longing to be loved, she soon became numb to the weapons of the roses.
She bled internally.
She bled slowly.
She bled in silence.
She grew into a woman.
Well, she had the stature of a woman.
Inside, the sad little girl was still there.
Peeking from behind a torn curtain, in an abandoned apartment.
Scared to see the world.
Scared to walk to the door and open it and free herself.
The poor child.
She lived in the shadows and watched the world from the eyes of the adult women.
Until one day she awakens to the sounds of people calling her.
Telling her not to be afraid, not to hide anymore.
It was safe to come out.
Friends saved her.
Hope saved her.
Love found her.
Hands reached out of the darkness and tried to lead the scared, battered child to the door.
She was so heavy with burdens, she couldn’t lift her feet to move.
She began to cry.
All the pain and torment rolled freely down her pale cheeks onto the floor.
Soon she was drowning in it.
The poor child.
Struggling in the vicious, turbulent, tumultuous, viscous waves of dispair.
Forced to relive the pain, relive the beatings, relive the verbal attacks.
She almost succumbs , but then she remembers, she was a mermaid.
She remembers her adventures.
She swims towards the door, and grasps the handle.
She takes one last look at the long abandoned apartment.
This was not her home any longer.
It never was.
She opens the door and leaves.
I am a survivor.
I am real.
I am powerful.
I am what you said I couldn’t be.
I found my voice.
I found my strength.
You lost.
I won.
