Poetry by Anna Keeler
Sing(Sing) Me To Sleep
I make a cell out of sage bundles
And ashtrays
And built my insanity on a platform
Of serenity--
A word that has never rented
Any space in my vocabulary
But still addresses me like I’m the management.
These walls wear the sincerity of a real home,
But its walls are really paper
And bite my lip when the flames
kiss their foundation.
But its walls are really paper
And bite my lip when the flames
kiss their foundation.
How easy was it to abduct me from the corner of
You’re not smart enough to be autistc
At the intersection of
Your pretty ears are too small to hear voices?
Was it less bothersome to feed me rat turds
Instead of klonopin
And revoke the card that could give me some repose?
Because I know and you know
That in my life there was no such thing,
But that didn’t stop anyone else
from ripping the skin off the universe.
Y’all put on the eyes and smile of the cosmos
And deliver me
In the name of My Best Interests
And tell yourself that this prison
Is too introverted for you to ever understand;
Because it was roomy enough and it was comfy enough
And at least they fed me once in awhile.
You don’t see the vociferation
Punching its way through the drywall
And demanding that i come tend to its issues.
Because I was too dumb and too small
And too this and too that
Do this, girl, do that
Until tranquility was an abstract group of letters.
I learned to make the cell
Instead of letting it make me
And found the bundle of harmonious
Inevitable death left me with pillows and bedsheets.
The electric chair doesn’t lurk in the corner,
It loiters,
But I’m not afraid of
The teeth it whittles from soap bars--
Because smog can turn white it condensates long enough.
It won’t cuddle, but it hums me to sleep.
Return or Exchange
The man who created me was too cruel to be an artist
And threw all five of my senses into a kaleidoscope.
I taste numbers
And smell colors
And hear supernovas dying
long before their light burns out.
And threw all five of my senses into a kaleidoscope.
I taste numbers
And smell colors
And hear supernovas dying
long before their light burns out.
With the precision of a rubix cube
But with half the accuracy
I move and function
Until my mechanics are barely visible.
I carry the burden of twenty-one years
Without any spectrum,
Each year devouring more bitterness than the last.
My throat is a juxtaposition of
“Don’t look at me” and “please see me”
And i carry the need to be held in my hands.
Because my pockets are already full
Of words I was never able to say
And the eyes that I couldn’t bring myself to meet.
Movement is tied to recognition,
So I make myself into a blur of
Amber bear
And lapis lazuli
And dried wine stain
And ice aged sun
And all I hear is that my flexibility is a gift.
“It’s a gift,” says the eyes
That I originally couldn’t meet
And they ask me why I cannot see that.
I cannot recognize that which
Has no business trying to exist,
I pack myself into a box
And mail myself to typical, whoever he is,
And label the parcel,
“Dear god, return to sender.”
Trich-ster
I fill the bald spots on my head with the healing powers of self-esteem that is promised to me in a care package. Calcite and sunstone and rose quartz promise to take me away on the most-expense paid trips to gaiety.
They stare at the few pictures that exist of me from adolescence and see the instant I started to shed my curls, but it didn’t feel like my hair, dear stones, it felt like my skin because I was always told my only impressive feature was my hair. Sunbaked corn poppies and the veins of forest soldiers found their way onto a scalp that could never love them.
They try to return to the earth, the the core, the center, where affection is free from the constraints of the human psyche. But they soon find that even a cool surface can prune their fingers until they start to itch and the only way to calm them is to pull.
I’ve heard so much about this mortal being known as the calm but have only acquainted myself it with its sister cell, the storm. She arrives just in time to knock my bus off the road and the blacken the colors that were once within my grasp.
I ask my chakra where is my calm? Where’s that special trip that you all keep promising?
Then I remember that hope is the carved from the same tree as defeat. The gems lied to eat my leaves.
So I let them.
I fill the bald spots on my head with the healing powers of self-esteem that is promised to me in a care package. Calcite and sunstone and rose quartz promise to take me away on the most-expense paid trips to gaiety.
They stare at the few pictures that exist of me from adolescence and see the instant I started to shed my curls, but it didn’t feel like my hair, dear stones, it felt like my skin because I was always told my only impressive feature was my hair. Sunbaked corn poppies and the veins of forest soldiers found their way onto a scalp that could never love them.
They try to return to the earth, the the core, the center, where affection is free from the constraints of the human psyche. But they soon find that even a cool surface can prune their fingers until they start to itch and the only way to calm them is to pull.
I’ve heard so much about this mortal being known as the calm but have only acquainted myself it with its sister cell, the storm. She arrives just in time to knock my bus off the road and the blacken the colors that were once within my grasp.
I ask my chakra where is my calm? Where’s that special trip that you all keep promising?
Then I remember that hope is the carved from the same tree as defeat. The gems lied to eat my leaves.
So I let them.
Zombie Logic Press By Jenny Mathews of Tiny Drawings |
This is amazing, I don't even like poetry much and this speaks to me.
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