It's Hard.

       It’s hard.

      It’s really, really, hard. When your mind is saying, yes, yes, let's do it! and your soul is chiming in, this will make you happy; but your body simply replies with the same answer every time, like an old man on the bus who says the same words to the driver every day when he nods goodbye: I’m so very tired.

        I’m sorry, I can’t do it. 

        It hurts too much.

       All I want is to practice the piano, or sew, or take a full-length shower; and if I go ahead and do it anyway, afterward my body is in even more pain— a lot more.

       Then I have to take more medicine,

       and my mind gets even more dizzy, 

       and when my soul says, you can keep moving forward! I want to grab it by its hair and shout and sob and show it the dull, burning flashes of frosty lightning tracing every path my neurons connect to with a silent scream.

       Yet even when tears are streaming down my face and all I need more than air itself is a hug, but I can’t get one because everyone else is asleep— I still hear my soul, quietly flickering away in my shaky heart to keep it warm.

       You will.

   Your will is stronger than fatigue.
   Your hope will overcome depression.
   Your strength will carry your pain.
   Your determination will sharpen your mind.
   Your faith will shape your future, and
   Your soul will keep you warm.

       I hope you have a good day. I'm super sleepy so I'll be watching The Great British Bake-off and drinking plenty of fluids. 

        Love,

          Joelle.

Aliens?! or Ghosts?

DEAR
      Mystery lovers:
           Hiya, folks. I wrote a lyrical short story a while ago. Short, confusing, supernatural, and mysterious. You can read it on Wattpad as well, if you'd like, but here it is for your (hopefully) (possible) (maybe) enjoyment: Lights.

Lights.

            It had been twenty-four hours since he could think. Rotting trash molded beneath a pile of leaves was the last thing he remembered. The torpid scent of rot mingled with morning light tickled his eyelashes; he groaned and opened his eyes. The sky was bright, but cloudy. There was no trace of what had happened the night before but for the wavering colors still painted on the back of his eyelids.

               He slowly pushed himself to his feet and staggered through the rusting leaves, trying to find the road. A blue glint beckoned him through the trees– his ancient Jalopy, caressed by a muddy ditch. He looked up and down the road, hoping to see a sign of civilization, though he’d searched last night in vain; but just past the bend there sat a shiny new diner.

            The bell squeaked in time with the swinging of the door; he shoved his way through the rush of new smells toward a stool. There was no one else there but him, and he closed his eyes for a moment. “You all right, hon? Look like you’ve seen an alien.”

             He looked up abruptly; a slim waitress stared back him, unashamed curiosity on her face. He frowned. “Why not a ghost?”

              She shrugged and slapped a menu onto the counter. “We don’t get many of them around here.” She disappeared into the sizzling kitchen, leaving him alone for a moment. A high whistle pierced through the kitchen door, an odd tune that frightened him. He closed his eyes again to calm the storm within his head, trying to remember what had happened last night. He’d been driving, and… that tune… it was familiar…

              The clatter of plastic against counter forced him from his reverie; the waitress was back. “So…” she looked at him appraisingly, “…watcha here for?”

              His brow furrowed darkly as he observed the glass of water and small slice of pie she had placed in front of him. “Dunno. Needed to get away.”

               “From what?” She snapped her gum; he jumped.

              “The sameness of it all.” He stared at his fork, as if wondering what it was for. “Too much sameness. No change. Stuck in a loop.”

               She stared at the fork, too, their reflections distorted in the bright tines. “Gotta job?”

              “Computers.” He stopped; he hadn’t gone on a long drive to mull over what he had wanted to take a break from.

              “What about computers?”

              “Anything.”

              “Tell me about it,” she said.

              So he did. He told her what he loved about computers; what he hated. He told her that computers were sometimes better than any person; they listened to everything he said; they never talked back, they never gave advice. He told her what he wanted to do, which was a lot; he told her what he had done, which was little. He told her how everything was the same, every day, every night, every week. And then he looked up again; she was listening with rapt attention. “You listened.”

            She nodded, snapping her gum; he didn’t jump this time. “Waitresses listen, hon. Part of the job description.”

               “Do you want to know a secret?” She blinked curiously; the gum snapped.

             “I think I saw a ghost last night.” He studied the fork, wondering why he couldn’t stop talking. “There was a lot of rain. I ran into a ditch. Then there was lightning, but it wasn’t lightning; it was all these round, fuzzy, colored lights, bouncing around in the rain.”

             “A natural phenomenon.” She walked to the coffee machine and poured a mug, then came back.

            He shook his head. “No. Unnatural. Definitely.” He watched the steam curl upward from her coffee, spinning itself into a weave above the mug. “There was music. Whistling– the lights were whistling. Some creepy, wandering melody.”

               “Like this?” She puckered her lips. He jumped, knocking the fork and the crust of his pie to the shiny floor, and she stopped whistling to laugh.

               “Like that,” he said.

              She smiled strangely. “Ghosts. They like to sing.” Then she nodded toward the window; there was a blue flash in the corner of the glass. “Need a tow truck?”

           He shook his head; she winked at him. “Seems like you do know what you came here for.” At his curious look, she went on: “Something to break the sameness. Like ghosts.”

           He blinked slowly and took another sip of water before standing to leave. “I suppose it was ghosts, then.”

               “Or aliens,” she said.

               He smiled, pausing mid-step. “Or aliens.”

             He pushed open the door, the bell squeaking, and walked to his old blue Jalopy. He stared at it for a moment, then opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine started after three tries, spitting out a rusty cough. It took three more tries to drive out of the ditch and onto the road; the old automobile shuddered as it climbed onto the weathered asphalt.

             He took a deep breath, waiting for a moment, then drove on in the direction of town, past the spot where the diner sat.

              The diner wasn’t there.

With A Knowing Smile,

Joélle.

Loo Thoughts

DEAR
      Bathroom Thinkers:
           It is so freaking hard to play the guitar. Everyone lied when they said it was easy. I have been practicing like crazy! In the Christmas spirit, here's a pretty guitar version of O Holy Night. I feel like classical guitar is underrated. It's harder, but it's so beautiful.

           Poemmas now continues! Here is a very strange free-write I did in the women's restroom in university. Everyone else chose places to write that were more outside the box. I thought inside the box for once-- or rather, the cubicle, as it were. And yes, you read me right, the restroom. Washroom. Loo. Bathroom. Toilet. Yup. Enjoy:

Loo Thoughts

       Muttering to oneself, rifling through bags, dropping with a clatter. Voices ricocheting off the walls, keys dangling with a clash-- so many sounds. Chance meetings when the door is touched from both sides at once, running water dancing over all other noise. Whispered phone conversations held in the far corner, foolishly assuming tiled privacy. Chapstick running away, red-yellow-red, chased by only visible fingers, hoping it won’t go too far. Rushing feet in colorful straps shuffling, hurrying, waiting, trapping, snapping at the door.

       Then silence. But the silence isn’t really; air swirls in from high above, circular muttering. Claps and voices seep under the door, from so far away; removed. Sound reigns in this room of squares, the only place where sight is second. Monotony is torn by new arrivals, slowing down as though this is a restful place. Noses rubbed raw sniffle with abandon, feeling free to be loud among the tiles. Sweeping screechily lightly spreads, echoes spiraling through. Rips and rustles, bangs and splashes, sighs as mirrors catch someone in passing.

       Why do we feel different here? Really, we are less exposed in our carpeted halls, where footsteps make much less sound. 

With Clean Hands,

Joélle

Six Word Memoirs

DEAR
     Short attention spans:
            Hullo, folks, how are you doing? It's the fourth day of Poemmas! Does anyone actually read these posts? If you do, comment down below! Today's another quickie, I'm pretty busy. :) Ever tried writing in short sentences? Six words each, to be exact. It's harder than you would think. For instance, check out this poem:

Six Word Memoirs

I could take you somewhere fantastic!

Emotion was never so damn thick.

I tried to be somebody else...

Commas were never used so often:

Paints with words to make pictures.

Thinking about writing is not writing.

             I don't suppose anyone noticed yet... Every sentence in this post but this one is made of only six words, just like the list above. I certainly do try, don't I? Hope you enjoyed this quick post! Write you later, my two readers! I really do need more readers. Would you mind sharing this blog? Thank you so much, happy December!


With A Nod And A "Mhmm",

Joélle.

Ranaway

DEAR
     Lovers of the dark:
       On the third day of Poemmas, my blogger gave to me: a really dark stream of imagery. This poem was written about how confusing the depths of an insomniac mind can be, and how reality and dreams mangle together during the night. I hope you enjoy it.

Ranaway

Stumbling away from the haters of joy,

sobbing, spurning– into

darkness hope flailed. Reason, lost, turned to crash

into the inky trees, its headlights smashed.

Limping, blaming, unforgiveness

was bloody, hate spurting; it shook blindly, accusing

the sliver moon as it innocently looked on,

shining sadly, dripping silver night.

Coughing, grabbing, fear

tripped through the underbrush, following

the abandoned wails of unforgiveness. Hidden

behind the forest’s shadow, shivers

caressed hope’s spine, despair freezing her heart.

Losing light, failing, hope peered up

as the silver moon innocently looked on,

shining sadly, dripping bright slivers of night.

Depression’s soiled tendrils, calling, pulled hope

away, as she lay on the shriveled hands of trees,

rotting on the cold earth, gasping, curling into dark.

Dreamy terror slowly emerged; fear

and unforgiveness found hope’s fragile form, aged by

misery. Her shivers ceased, eyes stared;

hope died all alone.

With A Slight Shiver,

Joélle.

Depression in Poetic Form

DEAR
     Depression:

             I have been thinking about serious issues all day-- if you're not sure what I'm talking about, read my previous post-- I thought I'd continue Poemmas with this rather deep look at the depression center of my mind. I wrote this two years ago, in a college class, and it's one of the most personal things I have ever created. I hope you like it.

Grey Thoughts

I.

A tiny void of ink, black–

my confusion blooming in that one small droplet. I

see thoughts pressed down, as shaky handwriting far

too heavy for someone who appears to be bright,

sunbeams. Emotions slowly becoming something else-

Black, curved, marching; dripping

I can taste them, touch them, almost.

But not quite.

II.

My ink feelings

leave velvet teardrops, shaded with

night, across stark paper, yet

all I see is distorted beauty:

lovely words saying terrible

things, drowning in an inky

wash wrung from my thoughts– I’d

hoped they would fade,

but the paper appears as an open wound,

raven scars biting pale skin.

III.

I'm stuck in

the exact moment between day and night,

just waiting. I'm

falling through the twilight sky, still waiting,

fading. My heart is grey, dim, alone; surrounded

by frozen sparks. I am sitting

in the arms of an autumn tree, slowly losing

my colors. – I shiver

I am covered by a bittersweet avalanche when

I cry;

the skies' tears join mine. Icy tendrils

bind my mind and my fears turn to glass

with one side. I can just see out, but no one looks

in past the glaze of laughter.

I think I might break- like glass,

like ice, like mirrors, like lies.

With A Blot Of Ink,

Joélle.

IT'S DECEMBER?! (Christmas and Apples Galore)

DEAR
      Fellow PSL lovers:
             It's the crazy, overly-commercialized season of cold and snow and cookies! Yay. Anywho, I have decided that it's time I picked up blogging again. I need to do something constructive, right? I decided to post a new poem every day until Christmas to celebrate noticing the beauty around you in everything. After that, I'll be posting poems regularly, just not every day. Hope you like them!

            Quickly, though, OH MY GREAT GOLLY GOODNESS, you must check out some fantastic Christmas music by my favorite acapella group, Pentatonix. Click here to listen to the gorgeous Pentatonix Xmas Music!

         Annnnd here is poem number one! Enjoy. Share this blog (and the Xmas playlist!) with your friends, it would be greatly appreciated!

The first red bite was love without sight; 

crisp, bright. The colors of autumn 

flooded my mouth– the taste of 

cold sunshine as it drips, 

shimmering, between 

my stiff fingers 

as they reach 

for the 

branch.

Apple 

         Yes, the title is at the end. I love poems, because you can change the rules any way you like! And apples are red. That's Christmassy, right? ;)

With Plenty of Spice And Everything Nice,

Joélle.