Space

I am pressing, pushing
I simply want to be in
You criticize my existence
You think my life warrants no space

I am trying not to breathe
the oxygen that is yours
Why do I feel this chastisement
for doing nothing at all

I want to do many things
But I'd rather not get in your face
get in your space
it's yours to take

I want to sing a million songs
make slowing hearts run fast again
to make connections, breathe air into the vacuum
and
space

dancers unite
the shrinking women
 in respite
rise

the air was meant for you to breathe
the oxygen finds its home in you
your blood
to energy
feed

one step
three steps
five steps at a time
it's okay to speak

Our Journey

I used to smile in your presence, dance at your feet.
I used to make some pitchy melodies
I used to raise those tiny hands up high
I used to hope, to long for paradise

Then I saw you closer
the crinkles in your eyes
the deathly things you'd speak and sigh
I kept silent, a pawed creature
I'd smile strained smiles
I was a captive in what seemed to be
your kingdom of lies

of restraint, of despair
of people saying this was true
of people believing or dying
no paradise

You sent me away
to a happier place
where I could choose not to look into your eyes
where I came to terms with who I was
an undernourished creature who needed love
I got swept in by the tide
washed up out of the system's disguise

Now today I realize
That I don't know who you are
I've sung songs and written poems
seen the creases on your face
seen your white wings laced with steel
I've seen your strength and your might
But I don't know
I just don't know
Help me come to terms with my life.

I hear voices and sing songs
I paint pictures of you
But I can never truly
only partly
peripherally
look into your eyes

snipped poetry

Reaching
taut arms
Determined
to fall

Groping
in the dark
Wanting

breath is a miracle

why is Warmth
connected to connection
let me

I do splits in my head
pirouettes
I fall in my head
headfirst
into the oceans of you
you
the ever-invisible you

I wait for anxiety
to thrust me into
glory

trash cans and trash bags
and forgotten orange peels
float
in the river outside my house
and into

remembered no more
sweetness
forgotten
tasted and
buried
harnessed and

hold
silvery golden
warmth
fire
connection
remembered

Writer, not a speaker

I'm a writer not a speaker
A creeper not a sleeper
Passively aggressive but not aggressively passive

I wear leather
I wear lace
I'm the past and I'm the future
I'm a creeper not a sleeper
I'm a writer not a speaker

Peripheral

My poetry was laced with you this year.
I don't know if you noticed. My being can only contain so much before some things are displaced. From my attention, from my feelings, from my affection. Like my eyes that have a limited field of vision, my heart's eye had limited vision too, and it was focused on you.

And although you're worth my vision, I wonder if I'm giving you too much. You see, while you were at the centre of my affections, I find myself at the peripheral of yours, barely making it, forever ready to be displaced by the tiniest drop of something...new.

And though the blood that flowed through my brains was saturated with thoughts of you, most of its effect on me was fatigue. I struggled to be seen by you.

You see, dear friend, I'm not sure where I stand in the divisions into levels of attraction. And I'm rather worried I stand very low, where I may end up unnoticed forever.

So I wonder now if I should be satisfied to stay in your peripheral. Do I have the right, no, the capacity to demand more than your peripheral?

Do I have the right to demand being the centre of your, or anyone's attention?

You see I must now decide, dear friend, if I should settle for peripheral, or be content to only be the object of my own affections, with perhaps a German shepherd to lean on, and to pamper myself knowing no one else will.

Thank you for making me decide whether I would rather take a certain gift of costume jewelry or wait for a better but possibly unachievable gift of gold.

San Francisco

You're a paradox to me
You're living proof that urban nature is not an oxymoron
Where the sea kisses the feet of the city
and vice versa
they are not in animosity

Vibrations in my flesh
because of cars speeding by on Golden Gate Bridge
I stand watching the birds flock below me
I learn the breath of the wind

I walk, further, further still
I sing to the gallows
they won't bind me

I brisk walk to Safeway
Also down the steps of Civic Center Station
First time riding the subway

I take the wrong bus again and again
I leave earlier next time

I hike through Golden Gate Park
To Ocean Beach
It's a cold day
windy
misty
chills hug me

On to La Taqueria
I eat a burrito that tastes like home
even though I never ate burritos at home

I link arms with a friend
And get smitten with Smitten's ice cream

I never expected this fear to rise
This fear that I'm leaving home
But slowly and silently
undetected
I've left pieces of me in this sacred city.

Sad humor in third person narrative.

I keep a pen in my pocket whenever I need to do something scary because I can remind myself that the horrible, horrible emotions that flood through me will be useful for a poem someday. I must write for it is the only way for me to meta-analyse my life. It is the only way for me to DEMAND something. Being Nicole in real life means trying your best not to offend anyone-- being a blunt little screw that tries to drive itself into whatever hole is built for her. But being Nicole on a page is quite a different thing. Nicole on a page is demanding. Nicole on a page knows her worth. Nicole on a page is vain, is cutting, is sarcastic. But more importantly, Nicole on a page is brave. Nicole on a page says she is not happy. Whilst Nicole in real life sings songs softly, not wanting to offend anyone, Nicole on a page belts it out.

But Nicole on a page needs to be careful because Nicole on a page has the potential to hurt Nicole in real life's friends. Nicole's friends think she is rarely angry, ever willing to agree; but they don't know Nicole on a page-- they don't know how deeply she feels.

Nicole is tired today-- hence the third person narrative. Nicole wishes someone would come and hug her and tell her it's going to be okay. Nicole feels like crying. Nicole wishes people wouldn't avoid eye contact with her either in fear of rejection or simply fatigue because Nicole feels like she is a burden. Nicole wants  someone to hold her, to be unselfish for her-- Nicole realizes this is selfish but Nicole wants this, Nicole wants someone to talk to her without demanding help.

Nicole is tired of trying to be whatever "they" need. Nicole wants to be demanding in real life for once. But alas, Nicole in real life is quite different from Nicole on a page.