Is It Too Late?

One of the first poems I had ever written was when I was twelve. I wrote a quaint little poem about colors and I submitted it to my teacher, Mr. Someone (For lack of a better anonymous name, I will be referring to my teacher as Mr. Someone). Although I did not realize it at the time, I was head over heels for Mr. Someone. See, for a twelve year old girl, who never felt like she fit in anywhere, having a teacher who believed in you was everything. Every morning in Mr. Someone’s english class he would set aside thirty minutes for free writing. He told us we could write anything we wanted. I asked him if I could write a poem and he said, “of course!”
So when he gave me back my poem about colors, I was pleased to see that he loved it! His exact words were “Hey, I’m color blind and I love this!” I was mortified. I had no idea that I had just wrote a whole page worth describing colors and handed it in to a man who could not see them. Despite this minor embarrassment, Mr. Someone continued to encourage me to write poems and so I did. I wrote poems about sadness, happiness, friendship, courage and my fears. What I did not understand at the time was that this teacher had reached in through my invisible wall and turned on this creative engine I did not know existed. I truly loved writing. It gave me a sense of freedom to speak my mind that I never really thought I was capable of. So, then, what happened?
I grew up. I changed. I listened to those who told me creative pursuits would get me no where and make me no money. Instead, I took the advice of those older and wiser than me, also known as my dad, and followed in my mom’s footsteps. I majored in biology and became a laboratory technician. Three and half years later, that is what I am today. But the truth is, I am not happy. If I could go back, I would tell myself to write a different story. In fact, maybe that’s exactly what I am telling myself right now. As I pick up the keyboard and begin to write again, I feel alive. I feel like my truest self. I want to write every day and be free of the confinements I have been locking myself in since I decided that following your passion was not what “normal” people did. It’s okay to not fit in. It’s okay to be different and it is never too late to change.
-N.B.

I Am The Troll

Please do not tell me I am not who I am,

Though my worth has dwindled

From the girl I have been.

Heavy winds free my soul,

Sweep me up into your storm.

Self awareness formed this bridge,

And now I pay the toll.

To know oneself truly,

Cuts deep into shallow skin,

Fresh blood pools in waves,

Crashing and burning deep within.

Who am I, I now ask,

The naysayer who tore me in half,

The disbeliever who crushed my spirit,

The false friend who would not hear it.

Those around me,

Who pocket my blame,

In a coat, on a rainy day,

Disappear behind glass windows

Of the house I call my home.

In my home, which I call safe.

Spiteful souls, there are none.

But as a I gaze into the mirror,

And look upon my broken face,

I see the truth reflecting back,

Behind the barrel of a gun.

-N.B.

Escape

Green leaves, fallen too soon,

Crunch beneath my fast feet.

If only I could see above and below,

Simultaneous wishing, where reason and my wants meet.

“Stop running,” He says,

While my heart pace quickens and my legs itch to escape.

But his words can’t stop this nightmare.

Everyday the Earth crumbles beneath me,

And his words can’t make me safe.

So I run,

And all the while, eyes wide, I am scavenging for a new route,

Because happiness escaped me,

And I need a way out.

 

-N.B.

 

 

 

Too Far

Enconsced in the warm embrace of family,

I should be there.

Miles of distance separate,

For what purpose I ask myself as I sear.

Happiness out of reach,

Not here.

Circles envelope in my mind,

Of stories, or circumstances,

Of how they need me

And I, them.

My past plays on rewind.

As I sit here, perched in dilemmas,

And give birth to lifeless dreams,

This mindless heart reflects on her sorrows.

Too tired to try,

Too hurt to care.

Not here, I say.

I should be there.

-N.B.

The Right Thing

Criticism strikes like a knife to my soul,

Disguised as a joke,

But the pain stings sincere.

Was the right thing to spin the wheels of my rusty mind faster?

Was the right thing to never ask at all?

I am unaware of how I got here.

I am unsure of how my story ends,

All I know is this static condition,

And it was I who set the tone.

Forever pleasing,

Always willing,

Like a dog for approval’s bone.

I just wanted to do the right thing,

Let me try, Oh no, how dare I,

If I asked, shame on me,

I should’ve known.

The truth cuts deep,

When it stares you down in your reflection.

Accept your faults, and leave thoughts be.

But still I wonder,

What miraculous event will move my needle?

Its foundation stiff and stern.

A sea of mistakes, I’m always swimming,

But to drown, despicable me, I yearn.

No book or words could teach me,

My mind will never learn.

Come up for air,

Bad decisions, I breathe in.

One word, One trigger,

And my gun of sorrows lit.

Tragic clarity consumes my hope.

And then I know,

The right thing was never here.

The right thing required better.

Silly girl, too blind to see,

The right thing was not inside you.

The right thing was never me.

-N.B.

Desert Lullaby

A small excerpt from a fantasy novel I am working on:

Desert Lullaby

Cursed am I, for the crickets do chirp,

At night in a land, so quietly serene,

So desolate and vast,

As I sit here gazing at the dust in the sky,

I am but nothing

But a mourner, a sea-side foreigner,

In the desert of my mind,

Shalt my body whither so divine.

-N.B.