Poem on Saturday: An old forest fire

I have a midterm on thursday, but i’ll come over tomorrow

what are you doing

did you remember August?

They said you’ll never see him again, the voices

yeah fuck that,

i’ll see him tomorrow.

what are you doing

i’ll stop everything I’m doing, will

you let me tell you that you fucked it up?

that day we napped, kissed, tensions built up walls along my skin,

cement that cracked with skin and skin, and cement

and lips cracked too, open, my blood fell onto your eyes,

did they bleed too? or did you think I could trust —

coldly bruised, i knew that you’d hit me up 2, 3, 4, 8 months later.

with a couple of girls, yeah you remembered me most.

my blood stained your eyes, you felt my skin the other day,

Didn’t you?

you think it’s ok to leave things unresolved, tangled up, leave your necklaces wound up,

Leave your people and tell them tomorrow, or 8 months,

What’s the difference anyway.

what are you doing,

her tight ass, yeah you fucked her too, huh.

I saw you holding hands on Valentines Day, she’s your girlfriend?

i doubt it.

You can’t commit for shit, I know you mostly.

but i know that she’s hot, and you like heat,

reminds you of blood, my kisses on the windowsill,

when you yelled at me, “do you know how much it hurts, Brianna?”

yeah, i’ve been feeling it for months,

you didn’t ask though.

But you remembered, and you thought about it for a second,

math is the only thing you’ll ever love, i know that.

we know that.

I look at you and understand your brain, and i’m not mad,

but don’t fucking pretend,

don’t tell me you’re doing well,

You’re fucked up, will

you let me go?

doubt it.

 

**

B

On: Writing Poetry

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found sketch – incomplete. 

I often think back to when I first encountered poetry. I was about 6 years old and had just started first grade at Le Lycée Français, an international French school in Los Angeles. I had never had homework before, as they only started giving it out in first grade. So when my French teacher announced to the class that we would have to memorize and recite a poem of her choosing every Friday, I was both nervous and curious. Intrigued, I raised my hand and asked Madame Renoir, “qu’est-ce qu’un poème?” (“what is a poem?”). Amused by my innocence, she proceeded to read beautiful combinations of words I couldn’t quite understand — but I fell in love with the rhymes, the rhythm, the emotion, and the discursive nature of poetry itself. I didn’t know why it existed, or how anyone could understand the content, but I knew that I had discovered something very special indeed.

Fast forward a few years to 10 year old Brianna, and I had been reciting poems every week for four years, honoring the words of Jean de La Fontaine, Paul Verlaine, Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Aimé Césaire, Racine, Jacques Prévert…etc. I was becoming quite the poetry aficionado, scoring 20/20 on every recitation, perfectly enunciating and inflecting, I had fallen deeply in love with this new language. It was like a secret code, a complex problem that could be interpreted differently after each reading. I was entranced.

In 6th grade, I was assigned to write my own poetry in English class. Not any different from my six year old self, I raised my hand and asked, “But Mr. Kennedy, what should we write about? I’ve never written a poem before, how do I do it?”. What I didn’t realize was that I could write about anything I wanted, and that there was no right or wrong way to go about it.

And I chose to write about my depression. And I shared it with the class, after everyone had shared their poems about trees, sports, traveling, and their pets. And I was deeply embarrassed. But I had discovered a new way to express myself, a way that I understood more than anything else in my little bubble.

So I went home and I wrote. I filled up journals with poetry, pages smeared with blood, drawings, scribbles, and calcified salt deposits. I didn’t show anyone anymore, because the more I wrote, the more honest I became with myself, which meant my words were pretty grim. I learned a lot from a very young age, and grew jaded quickly.

In High School, I wrote sophisticated shit — I analyzed my life and the absurdities I experienced. I wrote about love (or so I thought it was love), and I wrote about things I didn’t understand. I wrote about suicide because it was on my mind. And I wrote about nearly dying, about hospitals and doctors and trauma. But I was less honest with myself in High School.

I didn’t write as much my first semester of college, I was happy and in love so I lived life instead of writing about it. But once I experienced real heartbreak, I retreated back to the only think I knew: poetry. I spilled my heart out; I cut it open and dissected my feelings for what they were. I learned about myself and my limits — but I disregarded my limits, I went past them and discovered my middle school self again. I hadn’t changed a bit; I was just as empty as I had always been. I was just as alone. But poetry helped me realize that it was all okay, because the emptier I felt, and the more honest I was with myself about how I felt, the easier it became to accept life as such.

Poetry was and will always be my shoulder to cry on.

**

B

poetry on thursday

“I can be an asshole”

but he was falling for me fastly

I couldn’t tell, but i saw his eyes well up up up

we got high 

started to chew on the lack of emotion

i thought i over reacted

But he knew that his silence hit the walls of the room

Reverberating

through my bones, warmth left the first layer of my skin, the walls

built up, resentment shook my lungs,

burn burn

I IMPLODED 

and maybe he lost me, scared, what’s wrong, what’s wrong?

I didn’t feel like a woman, like my ethos prevailed

weak, pushed up against that blue fence

i was scared

little girl, little me — scared to lose him

mother didn’t take my tears,

“you’re the reason i can’t go to work”

I am not sorry,

they stuck their hands in places and motions i didn’t know,

Eleven years old

i learned fastly too

i learned how to close up, shut up, die away slowly,

don’t complain, you have it good —

but i couldn’t be a burden,

i didn’t want to lose them, him,

did you know that i knew

how to lack of sound, no emotions since I was eleven?

I will be patient, patient and soft, soft and lackluster,

i’ll moan if you’re quiet,

touch you, kiss you,

when you want me to,

i’ll grovel for your affections, it’s the only know-how i know.

so when you’re not speaking,

not emoting, 

just know that i know,

I’ve lived to know how to read,

to understand silently, look at your eyes and know,

i know,

you can be an asshole.

 

**

B

“Wut” issue 1

Yeah, we’re releasing our first-ever Blend publication, “wut”, very very soon.

As like, a printed, tangible thing. 

And as a big fuck you to every guy who has made me feel like shit. I may have been voiceless in my relationships, but never as an artist.

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Calling out every human who has been left feeling broken and lonely by a man, “wut” is an ode to self-empowerment, to standing up for yourself, for breaking down and feeling weak, to feeling and being unafraid to feel.

All poetry/drawings/pictures were created and experienced during times of great turmoil and disempowerment.

format:
A5 softcover zine
50 pages
words/images/drawings

you can buy it at the BlendShop! (very soon)

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If you’re interested in pre-ordering a copy, comment below or email me at bhd@berkeley.edu, and I’ll send you something special along with the zine 🙂

**

B