The Amaranthine Poet

Read You Like a Book

November 1, 2007 on 5:25 pm | In Everything | 13 Comments

This morning, a dove flew over my car as I was driving. At least, I think it was dove…it was a white bird…soooo. Anyway, I have come to the realization that I am a garden with no fence surrounding me; Is it scary when a complete stranger is able to read you? Is it scary when every gesture, each vocal modulation causes you to become an open book? I want to write books, but I did not realize that I am the pages within. I want to write; I want to obliviously meet millions of people by chopping down my thoughts: the tall, thick trees rooted in my soul…stop them at their continuous growth, cut them down, and distribute them to the world like loose leaf paper, exposing my history, my age through my annual rings. I want my thoughts to intertwine with yours. I am extrovert as I hide behind black ink. You will never have to see my face, you will never find my leaves, but you will know where I am.

So, people say that I do not set my boundaries close enough, so I will build a fence that no force can pass. Some say I need to get angry. I say: For all of those who live to destroy, for all those who trample over my orchids and set a veil before my sun: I will not allow your malice to disturb my peace. I know you hurt others because you are hurt. I will take your pain and smear it over the sky; Wash your remorse with expressive poetry; calm your thunderous voice with trembling songs. Art is my vengeance, my kiss.
Your words are bane. Your thoughts are shards of glass. All those you think of bleed under your oppression. You will never find rest in the shadows. You will find yourself at the tip of my pen. You will become my story. Thank you for being my muse.

One question wastes space in a mind; Why do you ask, “How is s/he doing?”
-S/he is doing well, I think, at least from an external observation. As of her/his internal status, I am unsure. If you want to know, sit with her/him under the drooping sun and read her/him. S/he is a tragic novel, simmering in the afternoon’s heat. Let her/him narrate with a voice: thick, like molasses, heavy with tears; fragile and laced with laughter; pounding and fierce with anger, choking with passion. They are searching to fill, you are reading to be fulfilled. Read them.
<3 Jenna Awad <3