maya angelou

1

i think that maya believed that the caged bird sang because there was hope. there was hope that the bird would eventually be freed. i think that the bird imagined what was out there and couldn't help but sing, because if it didn't sing, it would be acknowledging that there was no hope for a better life. it sang because not to sing would be to admit that there was no hope, and a life without hope isn't a life worth living. i absolutely understand that idea. i am very familiar with the feeling of being trapped, whether it be physically or mentally. sometimes, when i feel as if there's no way out of a decision, i start to feel suffocated, like i can't breath unless i am in my car driving far away from here, getting away from this penitentiary of a city, of these suburbs. i am confident that i would go completely insane if i didn't have dreams, aspirations, hope to get out of here. looking forward to that escape is sometimes the only thing that keeps me going. 

5

i don't think i could ever go so long without speaking. i talk all the time, to friends, to strangers, to animals, to myself. my voice is something essential to who i am as a person. without my voice, i would no longer be sophia. i am consistently speaking up and speaking out. i have very strong opinions and when i see something that i think is wrong, i can't help but to say something about it. my voice has gotten me into trouble more times than i can count, but i love it. i love my words, i love my ideas, and i wouldn't change it for the world. i simply couldn't live without it. maybe that means i am not strong enough to be able to live silently for so long, or maybe it means the opposite. 

10

i absolutely agree that easy reading comes from hard writing. it's extremely hard to formulate thoughts that people are going to be able to identify with and then translate them to paper. if you are able to write something that can absorb someone completely, make them feel like they're not even reading, you're doing something right. i don't think everyone can do it, either. i think it takes a special type of person to write something that your mind just glides over, that you aren't even aware that every word, every letter, was carefully crafted and formed just for this piece. you aren't reading that piece, you're feeling it. there are some books that i read where i physically speak them out loud just so i can feel the words in my mouth, slipping off of my tongue. that's the kind of work i aspire to write. 

blue white orange black

As I shifted my gaze out to sea, the world became eclipsed in blue. The sky glared almost electrically, looking like someone had adjusted the saturation to 100%. At the horizon, it melded into the sea, blending into the cool waves. Leveling my gaze downward, the incoming tide provided a steely contrast to the pale sand in which my feet were firmly planted.

I turned away from the water, hiking up the shifting sand to my beach towel, and flopped down onto my stomach on the white hot sand.I squinted into the blinding light, watching heat waves bend the scene before me. I absentmindedly ran my fingers through the sun bleached dunes, picking through pearly shells as I drifted to sleep.

When I awoke, the whole world was washed in orange. The burning sun dipped so low in the sky that it nearly touched the water. It was now a glowing fireball, light glinting off the waves like sparks. I pushed myself up to watch the streaked sky transform as the sun sunk even lower, digging my feet into the saffron sand. 

In just a few minutes, the sun had disappeared, blackening the previously bright beach scene. The whole beach was washed in shadows, darkening the valleys between dunes. The water was now an oil slick, beckoning ominously of the things beneath it. 

foggy mirror (ci 126)

i stand near enough to the glass that my breath
fogs it up in gentle puffs. 
in.
out.
i breathe, opening my eyes to the broken scene before me.
my hands linger over the smooth surface, poised. 
for what, i'm not sure. 
i have the sudden urge to press my hands into the faultless surface,
break it into a 
thousand 
tiny 
rippling 
rings.
it shows me what i can't stand to see,
the person i can't bear to look in the eyes.
in one swift motion, i shove the mirror to the floor.
it crashes
cracks
shatters
splinters.
but i don't care. 
i can't see the brokenness anymore. 

paint chip 231a

gentle waves wash over the emerald shore,
keeping time with their soothing roar.
higher and higher the sun climbs,
but hours slow their passage on island time.
angry clouds begin to roll over the sun,
lightning and thunder crack with the sound of a gun.
soon the storm begins to slow, 
leaving only a drizzling rain to show
that once the waves had crashed and the boats had swayed,
but on the bayside now, lightning shows no longer played. 

sunny apricots

to tame the bright blooms is nearly 
impossible but yet many ignorant
gardeners have tried to purge the
elegant flowers of their
radiant and unruly nature which causes them to be so 
loved by those who adore their
inviting and
luscious flowers of orange and purple striped through with 
yellow

haiku

shining harbor light
reflects off the hazy sea
shows boats the way home

my thoughts they spiral
walking down memory lane
sweet hints of the past

staring straight ahead
sterling silver eyes that glint
unwavering gaze

Empty Shell

I am three years old, nearly swallowed up in towering bubbles, swimming through suds in the large tub in our master bathroom. My mom has set out candles around the bathtub, and they cast long shadows on the gray walls and tile ledges. Light glints off of puddles that have formed from water sloshed over the edges in my careless splashes. I swim over to the edge of the bathtub, resting my arms on the cool tiled surface. On the ledge is a large colorful conch, an indicator of the bathroom's beachy theme. I pick it up, slowly turning it over in my hands. The outside is bumpy and white, with rust colored patterns running from the bottom and spiraling eventually into the pointed top. The inside, however, is smooth and flat, pastel sunset colors brushed across its surface. I study it, remembering hearing that if you put a shell to your ear you'll hear the ocean. I bring the shell up and press it against my ear, squeezing my eyes shut in concentration. I listen. A vague echo is all I hear. Where are the crashing waves? Where are the crying seagulls? I set it back down. That can't be the ocean.

I am five years old, stooped over the sand, scanning the beach for colorful shells and washed up treasures with my mom. My toes brush over the sand again and again, hoping to turn over something that catches my interest. I grip a plastic grocery bag tightly in my hand, already growing heavy with my latest discoveries. A broken sand dollar, a copper colored jingle, and a kitten's paw shell the size of my pinky nail are just a few things I have deemed worthy for my collection. I continue my search, venturing closer to the ocean, my feet padding along the spongy sand. Water rushes across my ankles, bringing with it a large array of shells. One catches my eye and I reach to pick it up before the tide pulls it back. Retrieving it, I lay it in my palm for further investigation. It's a fairly average shell as far as shells go, but it's in perfect condition. Smooth edges, no holes worn into it by years of water and sand dragging across its surface. The shell is white, so white it almost looks bleached, which makes it unlike most of the other shells in my collection. This is my favorite one so far. I clutch it in my palm and angle my head towards the sand again, sun beating on my shoulders, and begin looking again for something else to capture my fascination.

I am ten years old, walking through the aisles of a souvenir shop. These shops are everywhere in Florida, becoming more frequent as you near the beaches. There are cheap snow globes with palm trees in them, perched on dusty glass shelves. Alligator heads of all different sizes peer out at me with their glassy black eyes, mouths eternally thrown wide, their needle-like teeth set into their stiffened jaws. I walk by quickly, trying to get away from their empty stares. I reach an aisle filled with shells. Tubs of them, every kind imaginable. I wander by in awe. Although I know these are shells, they look nothing like the ones I scavenge for on the beach. These shells are huge, so much bigger and brighter than any I've ever collected before. They're also in perfect condition, no cracks, holes, or chips. How do they find shells like this? I marvel at their flawless condition, imagining professional shell scavengers scouring every beach to find shells this perfect, just to put them in a cheap souvenir shop for fifty cents each. What a sad fate to befall such beautiful shells.

I am…

I am the middle child, confined to being a comparison of others, not an entity in myself.

I am the “rebellious one,” the one who can’t keep her mouth shut or her head down.

I am brazen and ferocious, called intimidating by some and passionate by others.

I am feminism and the belief that everyone was created equally.

I am something, I am nothing.

But I am also a love for broken things, for broken people.

I am the one who will be there after everything has fallen apart.

I am mix CDs and sweaters and hot tea on gray and rainy days.

I am Netflix and naps with friends, buried in masses of pillows and fuzzy blankets.

I am poetry about the things that fascinate me.

I am music in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep and no one is awake.

I am a gunshot that sends me running, adrenaline rushing, with kicking legs and beating heart, over hurdle after hurdle.

I am strength in numbers, a group of friends with so much love that anything is possible.

I am the ocean pulling itself onto the sand and grasping at ankles, I am snow settling on a quiet world, I am mountain peaks pushing into the sky, and stars splashed across an infinite background.

I am dreams of travel, of big cities and natural wonders, of a job that I love and a person that I love more.

I am ready to get out.