Words

Sometimes there are so many words inside of me
brewing like a dozen kettles of water in my veins
itching, struggling to be given life.
And it scares me so, so much
knowing that they might never reach a page.
Instead left to decompose in the obscure caves of my interiors
where nobody will ever get to see their scintillating magic.

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I Thought She Was Her

I thought she was her
and she is
but sometimes she forgets
and I wonder
and wander

-- Saul Williams

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The Nostalgic's Headquarters

I’ve memorized this room
It’s perimeter
Each ridge of the cold floor
I’ve memorized it’s heartbeat
A soft beating, blood like milk that runs through the veins of the walls.

I’ve memorized this room
And all it’s widowed thoughts
Prolific beginnings but now disposed fetuses lying
To be forgotten in the deepness of the furniture.

I’ve memorized this room
And I’ve listened intently
To it’s chambered music that doesn’t disguise
The quiet pain that echoes in the unfanned air.

I’ve memorized this room
And all it’s terminology
There is blood in the walls and death in the sheets
My flaws hung like an item on display and grief like liquid gold
Glittering in the stillness.
I’ve memorized this room but all you see are painted walls and lack of space.

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Hush Little Baby

Baby, tiny as a handful

You fit so neatly in the palms of my hands
Doe eyes, porcelain skin and silken strands on your marshmallow top
That I admire each golden morning as it glistens near the rising tributary
Your eyes melt into the rippling water and glisten when the shoreline touches your delicate ankles

Between the fall of the moon and the rise of the sun
You effortlessly slid through my freckled arms and crawled somniferously to the ascending bank
Small body in a trance, curiosity glowing like the moonlight on your tender skin
And as I lay sleeping, dreaming of your warm breath on the curve of my breast
Your body, in rapid gulps, was swallowed by the speeding currents

I heard your weeping call and frantically ran to each corner of the house
Emptiness hung in each room and softly called out to the rising trickle of the river
So I ran to it unaware that my bare feet left droplets of blood on the sharpened twigs that lay fallen on the earth
And despite my rapid movements, I was too late for the river took your faster then it took my breath

Only the deer will see you now
As you travel down the muddy banks of the river
And although the river took you faster then it took my breath
It forgot to take my tears- my tears that are mine to drown in
Falling like waterfalls and causing currents to ride up my crimson-stained feet

I cry in deep torrents and watch the water ride up my shaken body
Engulfing my pores and restricting my limbs
Each tear that crashes around me another reminder that you're sailing further
I cry harder, deeper, stronger and the unrelenting current builds up and takes me away
As it follows the echos of your shaken cries

Now we're both sailing on the platform of our backs
Keep your head above the water for the deer will watch over you
And the water will cradle you and become my freckled arms
Sweet baby, wipe away the tears on your lashes
For I will be there to hum lullabies in your ear soon

© Crystal Ball

Picture credits: 1, 2, 3

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Clementine

There is no history between you and me
But a scribbled breath
A folded note
Tucked away between the cracks of my floorboards
sweet silver treasure.
I keep a strand of your hair in my locket
And the memory of your lit eyes brewing like grains of sand on my palms.
Clementine, I can hear your steady breaths when I walk between shadows.
I sleep in graveyards comforted by a decaying epitaph
that cradles what could have been,

what will never be.

© Crystal Ball

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Inspiration & Lack Thereof

I've noticed that I've had very little inspiration when it comes to writing for quite some time now. When I go through periods of little or no writing my body literally responds so that I feel a sort of chaotic entropy due to lack of words flowing through me. If this makes any sense at all, when words, ideas and sequences of prose or poetry do floating through my insides I feel a different type of chaos. A heavy weight is carried through the deepest parts of me and I want nothing more then to release all the weight and feel light once again. When it gets to the point where I think it's as unbearable as ever, when I think that I will not be able to go on any second further without some form of release, it all flows. It flows out and everything is released as if it swam out through the fingertips of my hands. All the words, all the thoughts all the images that have been jumbled inside flow out through currents out of the tips of my fingers. They all come out and line themselves up so that I can order them onto lined paper, a scrap of paper, (any writable surface, really) or a blank document on a computer.
But you see, lately there has been no overflow of weight and especially no currents flooding out of my fingertips. There is a very subtle amount of poetry circulating in my head at the moment. I have little desire to devour a piece of paper with words, scribbles, images and whatever else wants to come out.
And this is scary. Terrifying, actually.
You see, for the longest time I knew that I was going to base my life on writing. I just knew it.
And ever since I started college it hit me... I mean it really, really hit me that I don't know if I want to major in creative writing anymore. Writing is my deepest love, my soul mate and the one thing that will never fail to take me to a place where I can be whatever the hell I want to with no restrictions. And when I really think of the careers I would be able to pursue with such degree I feel like they aren't right. I love teaching and so getting a Masters degree or higher in creative writing and then teaching at a university level is more than just a decent job, its one that I was able to see myself doing for the rest of my life. But now I ask myself if I really want that. I feel that if I go in that direction, the way I view writing will forever change. Sure, my capabilities will increase ten fold, I'll be exposed to different styles and the boundaries I live in now will all be diminished... but then writing will have to be something I have to do and maybe not something I want to do.
I'm so incredibly confused at this moment. I mentioned to a friend of mine that for once in my life I have no direction. Ever since I was young enough to dream, there was something I wanted to be when I grew up. Sure, a Spice Girl or Britney Spears aren't the most obtainable futures but at least I was set for a moment's time.
Knowing myself though I probably am just going through this stage because I haven't actually taken any creative writing courses in college yet. I'm hoping that once I do, my love for words will go through a sort of Renaissance.
On the other hand, what I have been having urges for is photography. I've been attached to my Canon Rebel ever since my Dad bought it for me back in June. I've considered studying photography but I know for a fact that I definitely don't want to make it my primary career.
Either way, the whole point of this post is to share some of what I think is my best work (okay so maybe that's not the whole point). I have so much to learn about the way a camera functions, after all virtually everything I know is self-taught.
If you would like to follow more of my future work and hopefully see it grow through the process, visit my flickr.











P.S.
I really want to begin posting more of my poetry and short stories here. So be expecting some in the near future.

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A Book I Shall Not Read

You were real in my sleep
Like a paperback on a shelf you stood still
I approached you, my heart making waves and reflections
My cheeks smelled of Spring, the trees in my eyes, the roses on my lips
And your hands look like Autumn, the dirt in your hair, the honey leaves on your lashes
We could have run away and crawled inside a house of grass
Our eyes would have turned into a million shades of emerald
Our shadows would have danced with the moonlight on still waters
But like a paperback on a shelf, you stood still
And when I pulled you from the rest and turned a single page
You left paper cuts on the tips of my fingers
So I tucked you away between a tragedy and a fairytale
And woke up with sore hands, the smell of Spring deep in my sheets.

© Crystal Ball

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