I was looking
I did seek
in silence for
I could not speak
in colours
were my expectations
built upon
a myriad of
false assumptions
that good
would
be rewarded
what part of the brain
will only grieve
for all that we
chose to believe
before we discovered
resignation?
beneath a tree
of dying stars
I sat one day
to count my scars
each a tale
that I could tell
if I were ever
feeling well
each a lesson
still unlearned
each a time
when I got burned
similar in appearance
yet not all the same
there are many that
still bear your name
those I do not
wish to heal
for they remind me
how to feel
the probing tentacles
of
love
at some point,
as the coldness grew,
I forgot
how to cry.
in the silence
love withdrew,
I forgot
to ask it why.
at some point
it always seemed
to matter.
then,
at some point,
on a cold and barren day,
I noticed it
had gone away
at some point
I no longer felt
loves overwhelming surge.
here, then gone
I wondered when
those two points
did merge.
upon my cheeks
I felt no tears,
I tasted not the salt.
at some point
when her spirit flew,
things came
to a screeching halt.
at what point
does love
become just a small part
of regret?
this is where I used to wait,
by the door at thirty eight.
to catch a glimpse
of a thing most rare,
the sight of you floating
through the air;
in your dress and evening coat,
you would not walk,
no
you would float.
for this is where
you would retreat,
where the floors knew the pleasure
of your feet.
where the air was consecrated
with your scent.
this was where I,
the unwashed went.
where the walls were anointed
with the voice
that I came to love,
I had no choice.
At thirty eight,
NOT thirty nine.
this was the Cathedral
of You, the Divine.
the past gives way uneasily
yet pieces still remain
a sign on the road
to nowhere
memories buried
deep in the brain
the battles fought
take their toll
another stop
on the road
6 oz of beef
on a seeded roll
some days
you want
to explode
Madison Cunningham – Beauty Into Clichés
Madison Cunningham – Beauty Into Clichés
Oh how I feel for the sky
Overused by poetry and rhymes
It’s in the sentence that follows
“We stayed up all night”
Oh shouldn’t it concern me
If we shrink beauty to fit into our minds
Don’t have to listen to the whole song
To know what’s in the third line
Tell me should I feel right
Tell me should I feel fine
About tossing the meaning for the sake of the rhyme
But aren’t we good at turning beauty into clichés?
Oh how I feel for the lonely girl
Quickly made into a woman by the world
They combed sense through her hair
Straightening out her curls
While you’re waiting for someone to see you
You make fast friends with abuse
And you’ll do just about anything it tells you to
But I’ll never feel right
I’ll never feel fine
With shaping the meaning to fit in the rhyme
Changing the human into what sells and buys
But aren’t we good at turning beauty into clichés?
It’s never, ever so alphabetical
You go out of order and they call you heretical
And you just said what nobody had time to hear
Pretending the truth isn’t explicit
Won’t sensor the people affected by it
It’s like the first time you ever heard real music in your ears
It’ll never be enough
It’ll never measure up
Turning the depth of the ocean to the size of a cup
But aren’t we good at turning beauty into clichés?
It’ll never make sense
If you make sense of it
All the things that make you cry out of happiness
But some things are just better left unexplained
But aren’t we good at turning beauty into clichés
under the light
of a burning star
we oft times wonder
where we are
we oft times question
what we see
we wonder what
it is to be
alive
there’s a hole beside the wall
where tomorrow comes to call
in shadows
I try to keep my head
yet the harder I try
I cannot believe the lie
of you wishing
you were somewhere else instead
come back to me in Spring
when all the peasants sing
and flowers bloom
every time we kiss
embrace me in Summer sun
tomorrow you’ll be on the run
never again will
we know times like this
the shadows point the way
getting longer every day
soon nothing
will ever be the same
it’s happened twice before
as you walk out the door
you hear the highway
whispering your name
come back to me in Spring
when all the peasants sing
and flowers bloom
every time we kiss
embrace me in Summer sun
tomorrow you’ll be on the run
never again will
we know times like this
never again will
we know times like this
girls gather in dream
to talk about dancing
the way girls do,ginger rogers recalling heels
stained girlish pink
with blood, her blood sacrificed
in pursuit of perfection,
weighted dresses floating
like her soul,the girl on the neon sign
laughing about her flight
up the pole, untouchable
even when touched,joan of arc stepping with
deadly grace, calling holy
fire into her eyes
as bright as the glint
of the light on her arcing
blade, unextinguishable
by any flame…in this way the multitudes pass
the night, girls in scuffed up
shoes and grass-stained pants,
girls corseted and uniformed,
soft and scarred,
lost and found, sharp
like broken glass and strong
like willow trees,remember dancing.
photograph by Elliott Erwitt
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