sloom – ʚ sloom ɞ

the first time: a spoken word poem

a spoken word poem I wrote about a year ago. I also recorded myself performing it, which you can check out below. ｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

Read along with the audio recording! (click here for SoundCloud link if button isn’t working)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* :･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the first time
I notice the rhythm in my chest
once the calm of a river
become the crash of a waterfall

sinking deep into my stomach
grabbing for my gut
like a diver finding a treasure chest of gold
but ignoring it
only expecting to end up with dirt

and it’s not that you’re the dirt
in fact you’re anything but
but i’m afraid of searching
only for nothing to be found
I’m afraid I’ll have to come up to the surface
with what could be diamonds
maybe?
I am afraid of spending so much time
under the water that I forget to breathe

but what I could never forget
are the sparkles in your eyes
when you speak of what you love
your essence inside
a burning inferno
drawing me toward you like a moth
and as I get warmer
and embrace your flames
will you give me the chance
or return me with scars?

as I get warmer
you might burn me out
but without you
it only gets colder out
you comfort me

even as your cool winds send shivers down my spine
your chills colour my cheeks a shade of pink
i find my palms a nervous cold sweat
my mind a whirlwind of thoughts
calling out your name
every time

time
and time again
I find myself experiencing you
as if it was the first time.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* :･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

flower girl

a poem I wrote last summer, inspired by a photo I took of a patch of flowers being shadowed by my silhouette. I eventually turned this poem into a short song. maybe I’ll post it one day.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* :･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

flower girl
she’s made up of flowers
a flesh caressing her blooming soul
whispering wisps of the most delicate touch

wherever her shadow goes
she’s there with her
like a friend
who’s never left her side

calm as silent skies
she waits behind
rowing ships,
she couldn’t wait any longer

oh, she traces stars
sky freckles
oh, a garden float
of twinkling petals

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* :･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

a.m.

a memoir about finding inspiration in late, sleepless nights

Late nights I often find myself awake to dark painted skies, the tall tree in view of my bedroom window buried within the evening’s silhouette. As I venture into the a.m. I would always notice how particularly still the air during these particular hours, with everyone in the house already sound asleep. Except for me, left with the dim lamp light and my thoughts.

I cuddle up against my thick blanket sheets, letting the fabric embrace me in it’s warmth. I want to sleep, but I keep awake. It doesn’t feel as though I’m forcing myself, no, but I don’t particularly want to be here, either. I rest against my sea of pillows, tossed around in an irregular pattern from nights of an unmade bed. I lay on a vessel, ship-like, where with every sleep it sails me to my dreams.

Maybe if I turned the lamp off would I fall asleep. No, not yet. For my spirit has an empty, unfulfilled feeling. Contemplation churns my gears. It bothers me, as the more I ponder, the more I let them consume me. Some days I allow for the taps beneath my eyes to open, salted waters flow and clog my nose; other times, I stare into nothingness, still here but also elsewhere. I yearn for distraction yet something more meaningful, a place to pour these emotions like secrets in a bottle.

My favourite part of the night is the way it seems to sing songs. From my window the moon watches over me, and the glowing beams of planes often pass through. The quiet atmosphere colours my spirit with creative energy, an urge to bring life to my ideas before they’re forgotten.

Depending on my energy, different songs sing; some nights the speakers of my music player tell tales, popping in a CD to match my mood. I keep the volume to a low, though I recite the words as though I am my own neighbour.

Other nights, I carefully pull out my little ukulele, being my own storyteller as I come up with the melody on my own. If my feelings desire, I also bring with me my sketchbook, sketching ideas for my next dream.

It comforts me as much as my blankets until I become tired and doze off, my heart whispering melodies as I dream into the rising morning sky. In my sleep, I thank the darkness for its songs.