The Library of One Book

There was a library
in the heart of a modern city
sculpted by the hands of time
gargoyles covered with plants
pillars with ropey green plants
twirling from the bottom
to the top
Big wooden doors
straightened by rusty
henges extended from wall to handle


It’s like something extracted from
the big Disney book of stories
surrounded by the concrete jungle
of lifeless towers
grey and iron studded with windows
looking down at the fairytale library

I paced my way
intrigued by the old temple-esque looking place
I took the first step on the nature encrusted stairs
and the plants ruffled with life
it felt like it’s been a while since someone
touched life with life
the leaves swayed towards me
I felt they were forgotten
and danced with movement once
they felt a presence
nature is human too

Once step ahead of the other
I felt levitated
the plants lifted me up
excited to bring me to the door
the green stems covered my soles
my soul felt mystical
lifted
something was mysterious
but I felt it was normal
an escape from the fictional world
of stories and success
on these stairs you’re already a success
you’re already treated like royalty
like the way you were intended to treat yourself
naturally

I got to the door
Big wooden planks aligned
like my to-do list was
firm and organized
clipped together
by good behavior
And the perfect morals
I felt as though
they were trying to intimidate me
like they did,
when I didn’t
accomplish one

However, this time
I just looked at them like a fantasy
a story I read once
but didn’t finish

I opened the doors
breaking my list in half
feeling as if I broke
my own commandments
that never actually worked
letting the light in

After all breaking up
doesn’t mean all darkness
and heartbreak

The creaking noises
summoned the rays of the sun
to align the path towards the center
the dusty particles felt like fairy dust
in-situation the mind does f$%k with us
changing things for what they really are
into what we want them to be
I was basically standing at the entrance
of a sun-lit dusty path
but in my mind’s eye
I was standing on the red carpet
of a royal forgotten castle
with fairy dust floating everywhere
embracing me with
magic

(sigh)

I looked around
the library was empty
wooden shelves with genre signs
a familiar feeling took over
the heart beat in a different way
as if to remind me of the emptiness
it has felt for quite some time now
a silent “reminder” that this
not only seen but felt

My eyes scanned the vicinity
looking for something
but I don’t know what it is
my steps made their way to the corners
of various aisles

To my left I read a  
“romance” sign
leading me down its aisle
but….  
the floor felt like a treadmill
moving in place
I stepped on it
and I felt like I was on repeat
the faster I walked to get to the end
the more it pushed me back
—
reminding me of the time outside
stuck in one place
walking in one place
surrounded by the empty shelves
of romance

So, I stopped walking and the pathways
of that aisle pushed me all the way to the front

I stood up
brushed the fairy dust
off my shoulders
a metaphor
of things that I carried
for no reason
that I gave more importance to
but eventually turned out
to be simply – dust

I saw another sign

above another
“Fiction” with an arrow to the left
“Mystery” with an arrow to the right

the fork in the road
was a pillar tilted
towards the right
because it was broken
as if signaling me to take that way
so I did
the aisle was different
colder than usual
the fairy dust
turned to a mist
thick with vagueness
the shelves are also empty
“Maybe it’s a marketing stunt”
I thought to myself as I slowly
stepped into the unknown
reliving my last 3 years of
being in the “newness and questioning” phase
what’s happening?

Apparently, this is the norm
and questioning “it”
sets you in the mystery genre

“how dare you not know how
a situationship works?”

“how dare you question
how things work today?”

“how dare you question
the digital creator of things?”

“how dare you feel
and talk about your feelings, fearlessly?”

“how dare you say it as it is?”

The mist caught my breath
I couldn’t breathe

I ran out through the
other side
I found myself in a hall
with  
2
staircases
rounded like a crown
leading to
just one book
in a bookless library
basking under the sunset-colored rays of the sun
with the cover facing me

‘Have I been here for that long?”

I squinted to read it
my eyes aged
so I grabbed it

Titled
“It’s About Time”

I opened it to the first page:
“Imagine the moment
you kick-out the old books
Imagine how much space
your mind has to fill
with newness”

Looking down
I twisted to face the library …
suddenly all the shelves
filled with books
golden and new
…

A quill fell into my hand

I turned to chapter 1:
“Once upon a now,……..”

it was ready
to be written  

Explore mirjan.’s 634 photos on Flickr!

 






 

Band Aid Mind

It’s been a while since
I’ve written
My rusty neurons
have worn their running
shoes and kick-started
running thoughts
I hear them in my brain
those rusty creaking noises
painfully moving
the idea from one side
to the other  

It’s been a while since
I connected to the heart
my ear pods have been
stuck to a phone replaying
old tunes of old days
with lyrics looping
my memories
of you, of them,
of things that no longer
should linger

It’s been a while
since I thew up
now that words I want say
sit around my neck
choking me with the weight
and fear of what would happen
after

It’s been a while
since poetry meant something
since poetry was inspired
from current events
from feeling
or lack of
from knowing
or lack of  
but suddenly things
have evolved too quickly
a millennial brain didn’t catch up
with “situation- ships” that is
apparently super familiar
to kids these days

It’s been a while
since I felt at home
wherever it may be
since my bed felt the warmth
of company
my own company
since I saw my reflection
for the way it is
away from the evil filter
of dysmorphia
that chews the confidence
and spits it out as insecurities
that happen to be
my every “outfit of the damn day”

It’s been a while since
I removed the dust
from the rose colored glasses
that has accumulated
due to the visual pollution
taking over my eyes
my lives

It’s been a while
since my legs could
hold up a decision
that has crippled it
for year

It’s been a while since
I have sharpened my pencil
to pierce the toxicity
that’s the latest fashion selection
of the season
strutting down
the band aid that’s been
falling apart
trying to keep
things
held
together

It’s about time
since
I cut the anchoring chains
that held me back
from addressing
things for
who they really are
because clearly
someone’s got to do it
for all naked sakes*
of mind

Landlines & You

I miss holding the handle of
a dial phone
touching the invisible
connection
that will link me to you

I miss lifting the phone handle
the (click noise)
opens the line of connection
between you
and me
I place it on my cheek
it hugs my face
then  I lean on it
balancing it between
my shoulder
and face

I miss
finger-flipping through
my memory
running forwards
while going back in time
finding your* number
rotating the rotary
making sure I get it right
because a false number
connects me to a different house of “hello’s”
a false memory can direct me
towards an uncalled for conversation

I miss not knowing
if the person I’m calling is home
because it’s a landline
– and it connects you home…
It’s a lottery
dialing the number
the right one
and getting them
at first try
a tiny “yes” it’s them
fills you with
simple genuine
happiness

I miss hearing
A mom’s “hello” a dad’s … sister’s, brother’s
till the person contacted
picks up and says “I got this”
then you hear the successive
“hang ups”

I miss the laying on the bed
and listening to each other’s day
in detail, describing encounters
leaving the rest to imagination
spending hours decoding
speaking in full sentences
no lols, no omg’s,
looooooooong attention spans
were a blessing
sewing stories via landlines
no excuses of batteries dying
but only “dinner’s ready”
and hanging up
with the utter
“I’ll call you back”
or
“I’ll see you tomorrow”
the ”bye” with a curfew
or the endless hours
of planning because
there’s no other
way of connecting

I miss
calling
the past
(rrrr (rotates)….. ring….. rrrr (rotates)

Hello?

Dissecting Sorry

“Sorry?“

You read that right
Usually when it’s followed
by a question mark
you ask for clarification
or a “come again?”
reaction

Let’s dissect this word
(So) (orr*) (y)

So
Or
Why?

So, at first
We were taught
to insert this word
as a form of apology
“What do we say?”
after making our classmate cry
when taking away his ball?

“Sorry” –
but what goes before that is a story,
that he never wanted to give me that ball
and he never shared
so why would I be sorry
(So)… what
(Orr) you know something…?
(y) would I be sorry?

“Sorry”
After, knowing that genders
do separate…
“Sorry for interrupting” the man
who took my idea and ran away
with it
(So,) if that’s the case
Should I be sorry?
(Orr*) should I own up
to thieves because
stealing is bad or
at least that’s what the ethical few
still believe in
then…
(y) would I be sorry?

“Sorry” for asking
(So), why the h3ll
would I be sorry for exercising a right?
(orr*), is this some insertion of politeness
dressed in behavior that’s been hammered
across the years to make you “acceptable in society”
to blend you between the lines of niceness
away from the rudeness that’s truth’s façade
(y) would I be sorry?

“Sorry” for actually no reason
it’s like word-vomit
that fills the space
that shouldn’t be filled
just to implement a presence

Put that sorry away…
for
your introduction
shouldn’t start
with
sorry…

Gifting Gone Wrong

I wanted to buy you a pencil
to sharpen your vision
drawing the obvious
highlighting the flaws
circling the pros
and taking note of the cons
and maybe rewrite everything
add new things, underline
the uniqueness and
dating the date
immortalizing moments
stretching them, planning them
summarizing them,
turning them to bullet points
expanding on others
keeping all things
in your hands
because at this moment
you’re a god
in control
of the uncontrollable
storytelling the could be
loving the boldness of
and maybe narrating
documenting
the noticeable

I wanted to buy you a pen
to engrave impressions
measure the intensity
of your day by the depth
in paper…
to read your mood
as per the color
to scratch the things
you don’t need and make it clear
to scribble over the unwanted
and create a cloud of doodles
over the worlds that clouded
the seen scene

I wanted to buy you a brush
made from the kolinsky sable,
(a Siberian weasel that’s hair is said to cost three times the price of gold by weight)
so everything that you paint
shows traces and laces of what
the heart wants to explain
but only knows
how to paint
giving you the freedom
to express,
undress,  be less
be more, foresee
predict, or actually
none of the above

I wanted to buy you
a quill so you can dip
your unwritten
in wet ink and glide
over the paper
spilling everything
without limits
exposing nudity
tracing the pointy part
over a body
snow white
hungry to be touched

I wanted to buy you
a pencil, a pen,
a brush, a quill
but I totally forgot
that what you don’t have
is a canvas
first

Photo: © TOILETPAPER

Tarot Telltales

I heard my tarot the other day
it felt like the universe is looping
because things read the same

She’s not to blame
the cards fell out that way
there’s no shame

From 10 of pentacles
to divine feminine
these thought tentacles
wrap around my thinking lines
(enough rhyme… it’s not me)
linking things that never made sense
to cards and illustrations
embodying the imaginary
the over-thinking to a
fortune-teller or wait..
to a future-teller with no facts
fabricating a story
out of pictures on cards
that simply “fall out”

“This truth to my right
resonates with some” they say

I automatically place a person
on that right, that only makes sense
in my world, in my imagination
in my daydreams…my nothingness
that yearns to become something

“You’re connecting with
the alignment of the planets” they say

Do the planets know I exist?
Does the universe place
the stars, and connects
the dots to make a line
for me to write my own story?

“They are watching you
without you knowing”, they say
Doesn’t the whole world
watch itself?
Don’t we (see)k
the truth in each other?

“Souls don’t meet by accident” they say
I thought that was the magic of
soulmates – crossing paths
or not?
These cards are silly
or are they?
Why did the 3 of cups fall
instead of the 7-7 portal?
Does gravity really want to f$ck with me?
Does it really have another job other
than making things fall?
than making us fall?

“The portals are open for your manifestations”
they say
What portals?
Do you mean opportunities?
Is this an awakening?
Should I stand there and shout
what I want?
Where are these portals?
Did all roads lead me here instead of Rome?
(Even though I’ve always wanted to go there)

“Your masculine”
“Your divine feminine”
“Your chemistry is magnetic”

Are these things that we crave to hear?
Is this the loophole that keep tarot listeners coming back?
To hear what we want because we don’t hear it
in this world, often?
anymore?

The clicking and clacking
of letters on screens
have silenced the courage
of a heart’s ability to speak

No voice is brave enough to
walk up and say
I am drawn to you…
Is that why
we write?
Because we too believe
the universe’s thick skin
made our words
too emotional
to seep through
its layers

Artist Unknown

(READ)Y YOURSELF

I’m pretty sure
you read yourself
in my lines…
and if you haven’t
well,
now you do

I am pretty sure
you found yourself
settling
between my lives lines, finding your
place in the equation
that doesn’t really have a formula
because 1+1= apples in my world
nothing makes sense
just your name does,
your idea does…
if it fits, it hits
and it hits hard

You also probably found yourself
sitting in a comma
breathing down my neck
as you read the details
without being labeled
without a sign of you
but the subtleness
goosebumped its way
on your skin
a sense of awareness
overcame you like a lover’s body
on yours
skin on skin
close enough
to mean you
close enough
to.be.felt.by.you

You probably
saw your name
in different paragraphs
written in different letters
in ways you never knew
you could be addressed
in adjectives, adverbs,
verbs, similes and much
more muchness

You probably
squinted to see yourself
in the end of every verse
of you, every description
to see yourself in a world
that ends you, begins you,
clones you, creates you,
ideates you, morphs you
that world is a little black dot
.

You might have also thought
that you were the center of the poem
the narrative, the story, the hero,
you might have also turned a blind eye
to the fact that you might have also been the
villain, the side-kick, the wise man or woman
the caregiver, the diverter, the helpless,
the manipulator, the muse-blocker,
you my friend have taken many forms
that have shown me many verses of me
the pencil holder, the doodler,
the scratcher, the dreamer


You might have thought
that writing about you made me visible
you might have, yes, I won’t shy away from that
because that’s a fact,
but read this again,
you might be one the same line
as what you have made me
as what you have made me see
made me feel
and that is the best self-reflection
I have written
about

Painting by @robinfrancescawilliams

 

Genre-ations*

Time took my name
out of a book
and wrote it in a different one
leaving a blank in my past chapters

It removed me from a narrative
a story of  
a great childhood that
revolved around climbing trees
bruising knees
sweaty pony tails
from playing basketball under the
streetlight with the neighbor’s kids
who became friends over
games  
then suddenly hearing mom
from the balcony
“Kids come up, it’s 9pm”
“But mom, we’re winning!”

Someone removed my name from
the teenage genre
when crush names were written
on notebooks
where they sat in the back of the classroom
when I stole glimpses
when I felt shy, I blushed
innocently – there was no agenda
just two people in different groups
finding their identity
the outfit they’d wear
beyond the school uniforms for the
rest of their lives
from book-smarts
to crushing on street-smarts
because that was rebellious
and being a rebel was
the coolest outfit
sneaking cigarettes
and smoking them
in secrecy

Boys and girls met in
coffee shops and spend hours
exchanging CDs and showing off
their CD players – Walkman’s
pirated and if you’re lucky
you’d get an original
now that was something
a lyric booklet
and changed your mumbles
to actual words – you mastered the art
of singing with your favorite
System of A Down – song…
but the pirated ones,
those started with
“listen to track 4- I think it was Fade to Black, by Metallica”
because there were no  booklets,
just flimsy – illegible copy
written on the back on
CDs

Low-cut bell-bottoms
high-top red converse
messy Alanis hair
braided friend bracelets
innocent times
disconnected
but oh.so.connected
twirling fingers
on landlines
“Hello, Aunty,
Can I speak to (insert friend)?”
memorizing phone numbers
and talking for hours
laying on your belly on your bed
with the radio playing
moving your feet back and forth
while the posters
of your boybands
look down on you..
and you look up at them

Someone removed my name
from a teenage drama book
and placed it in the aisle of
adulthood
nestled between the titles of
emotional intelligence
and why men love bitches
(it’s a real book)
naughty and nice
Getting over your eating disorder
healing and other things
how to deal with a break-up
finding your path
while forgetting
the fact that all of these titles
redirect you places
away from
yourself
and into your-self…

Someone removed my name
from the books of accepting adulthood
to accepting life
and all it’s fuck-ups
I am in the process of meeting
the new characters
of this book,
some of them I have known
we cross lines,
sometimes we’re on the same page
and others we are chapters apart
that’s ok, though
I realized this is life
however, we still exist between the covers
Some of the characters are just a conversation
others are fairly new
like anxiety… I never liked her
there are even are those who aren’t inked well
and dissipate in the page- they’re not clear 

There are those with misspelled names
and unwritten stories,
some exist in a jumble of letters that I have
yet to put together

Someone removed me from my past
and placed me in a book
where my letters are bold
the next words are double spaced away from me
Today,
I am not my eating disorder
I am not my cheated past
I am not my traumas
I am not my failed relationships
I am not my drunken fu$k-ups
I am not my wrong-doings
I am not my depression
I am not my anger-tantrums
I am not my ill-judgement
I am not my forgetfulness
I am not my stuttering nerves
but I know whoever put me
in this new book,
in this new aisle
made sure I passed
through the whole
damn library of genres
to come up
with my
own

Disclaimer: I am sorry to those I have hurt – miss-judged – and wrong-read. We pass through a lot to find the genre that suits us – however, don’t ever squeeze yourself in someone else’s story – be the book next to theirs.

THE FACES OF PHASES

In that phase
where comparison
flew out of the window

In that phase
where social detox
hit me like running train
leaving me limbless
without the extended
arms of advice
of free favors
of putting them first

In that phase
where the drink
isn’t my go-to
but my pleasure
too dangerous to over-do
and too dangerous to control

In that phase
where I was walked-away from
and I walked away from
leaving me map-less
and leaving them —
well just leaving them

In that phase
where the maps I have
and had planned
turned blank white
from the acid of anxiety
alcoholism and comparison

In that phase
where looking at things
requires glasses of age
where experience needs to
surface from under the blankets
of fear of growing up  (FOGU)

In that phase where
you’re planning a future
or actually living the present
lost between catching up
with the running times
or laying back, lounging with the classics
remaining the page-turner you are
in the midst of scrollers

In that phase where
divorce is heard in your circles
side by side with pregnancies
planned or unplanned
quitting, planning on it
leaving a relationship
or living a situation-ship
cheating, meeting

In that phase where
advice is no advice
at all, because look around you
we’ve messed up
we’re messed up
some have it good on the surface
and wear a great deal of outfits
to conceal
others mostly hopeless ones
can’t conceal
their laundry is hung
for the world to see
their truth dirty or clean
dances with the winds of change
… that’s actually courage

In that phase where
you’re presence
on people’s tongue
is good, bad, and ugly
but deal with it
it’s ok

In that phase where
listening is actually
a trait that I have acquired
a hobby,
people are full of stories
and we
never.actually.listened

In that phase
where I tell people
“thank you for the head’s up”
after I fuc%ked up
where shame is no where to be found
where mistakes
are actually “oh well” moments
versus the judgement of
one’s self

In that phase
where courage is actually
being naked and loving it
literally and metaphorically
flaws, age, trauma,
trust-issues, secrets,
pseudonyms
secret-lives,
fuck-ups
cheatees, cheaters,
back-stabbed marks
scars of yester-years
flaunting warrior marks  
you might have been bad
turned good
too good
or too bad
but
by God
wherever you’ve been
(lowers glasses, scans you)
you
look
damn
untamable  

 

Warped Mots (mots: “words” in French)

I found a notebook
with squiggly lines
zig-zags
the furthest from being aligned

Then it hit me
what if these lines
are made for those
whose stories
were never
“aligned”?

What if
our names
if they were to exist
on the same line
will break it, due
to the weight of
forcing things
to be balanced?

line “snaps” in half

What if our
schools of thought
were built with
heavy granite blocks
of lessons that having both
on the same straight line
will crumble it,
shatter it?

What if our differences
are too diverse
for single words to carry them?
What if a poem isn’t the right
place to exist?
A story isn’t either?
Some say “differences attract”
but ours are two electrons
who repel each other
with such force
that even when
brought together
turn around in circles
in the air …
imagine
two negative magnet ends
there’s no force that
makes them attract
and when you do, there’s
this invisible
globe in the middle
that we can’t crack.

What if this book of
squiggles and doodles
carries these words
around just to make you step
back and look at the bigger picture
how messy it is
but
how beautiful it is on paper
and
how unreal it is
in reality

What if
were not meant to be aligned..
instead we’re just drawn to each
other?

https://www.printmag.com/designer-profiles/book-artist-candace-hicks-reimagines-notebook-paper-with-needle-and-thread/