Speak For Yourself

(Or the time I paid a lot of money to be published in a real, live, poetry book.)

Hey kids, this is for real. Speak For Yourself is publishing a book. And a lot of amazing poets are in it.  Buy one, maybe?

Okay, that's all.

Here's one of the poems I read at Thursday's poetry slam:

November 12.

Nineteen years, 31 days, and I'm still breathing

the same air I've always tasted,

clouds and oxygen tainted
with flecks of a blue-green mist.

This isn't the first time I've wondered what the world is made of,

and it isn't the second time, either.

And I mean, what is the earth made of, beside dirt and clouds we can't touch?

I'm counting leaves that fall off the trees,

because every winter everything dies.

Everything dies and we all die just a little bit more every day.

This isn't a cry for salvation, everyone know you have to

whisper for salvation.

You have to try without asking, earn those angel wings on your own.

You can't cheat on this one.

My hands are turning purple.

Touch me again and I might crack

into a thousand slivers of ice covered in blood.

I need you to keep your distance,

and I need you to breathe out my name every day,

even a small whisper will do, darling.

I've cried out your name in my dreams

3 nights; 87 times.

I just need your hand to hold mine,

because I found out what the sky tastes like,

it tastes like a hallelujah.

But this, this right now, this is what a hallelujah looks like.

This is what a hallelujah feels like.

Yeah, I'm a coward who's afraid of fear and hope and rejection and you

But I'm a coward who's touched the ice with bare fingertips,

only to find herself inside of a miracle.

So here's to you, darling.

Hallelujah.

Forever Yours,

Rachel.

You don't need wings to fly: An ode to you.

This one's about you, and your hands.

The way you smiled at me this morning, you dimmed all the stars and they fell out of the heavens.

God was jealous of you; your perfection shines more than the moon.

My bones are aching, my ribcage is heavy with your words, they're weighing down my heart.

Here, take it-I don't want it anymore.

I want you and I want something real.

Every word you speak is the language of God & God has a soft spot for poets.

Poets & Artists; you're both and he has a soft spot for you.

There's a hole in the sky, but we call it the sun.

You realize more than anyone that it's a window to heaven, & even you can't deny it, love.

That's the way the angels visit.

But this isn't about windows to heaven; it's about you and your feather skin, soft & pale, hair the color of beauty.

Angels can't be as beautiful as you, you shine brighter than the heavens.

You don't need wings to fly.

You only need your words.

Darling, God is jealous of your poems & He's jealous of the way you walk.

Talk to me again, & let me stare at your perfection.

This one's about you, and your hands.

Good hands; Good heart; Good soul.

Destination: Unknown

I counted the stars last night.
I took the stars from the sky & created a forest.
Our voices became road maps,
our destination: unknown.
Let's measure our feet in centimeters & see how long it takes to tip-toe across the Golden Gate Bridge.
We'll reach the clouds & swallow them whole,
keeping them inside of us,
to protect our souls from self-destructing.
We'll create a new universe,
our own version of Paris, France.
The stars will be our poems;
the moon an original work of art.
The red thread on your shirt will be used to pave a road,
and the shoes on your feet will be the first to walk it.
Invincibility starts here,
but we'll start in Manhattan,
and work our way across the mountains & skylines.
A flock of birds will come out of your mouth,
& the sky will be painted the color of your eyes;
I think that's what love is.
We'll stand in the center of the universe we constructed with our bard hands, & I'll whisper,
"Hallelujah, hallelujah."