Author: A. Long

High School

Posted on by A. Long

These hallways resound

the sound of our breath even when we are not around

to gasp at its fluidly tight air

Our buzzing energy absorbs into every

cinder block

giving spirit to the walls even when they are empty

We give life to the building

of dancing dreams

Circling our fated decisions like Cassius Clay

we enter a vertical, hollow ring

 

I dodge shoulders on the way to class

Remember to get a pass to see Ms.… Thing

Combinations or Permutations           13 42 13

Certain I can’t finish 2nd’s homework in 1st

First begins with a teacher who didn’t respect me previously

Now works frivolously to see my good nature. What…

 

We and these hallways are backbiting, jealously warm family

bound together by laws, plaster, and bricks

The longing anticipation to bust free of it

is only so strong when your kin is close

This building builds us up like Big Mama’s hugs

simultaneously

changing us like father’s hate/love

And sibling rivalry seeps into our souls when we past each other in these halls

playing in unrecognizable blood

 

Friends and hugs        Smiles and PDA

I need to get to class    Get out of my way!

Oh wait it’s you           slow down       we still cool

We have time before it rings                to talk over some things

Ringalingaling… Guess not

 

We are jungle

Wild and unkempt

These corridors are society’s attempt

To refine and reprint copies of itself

The walls

Enclose us       and      hold us

Cradle             and      mold us

We willfully unwillingly are apart of this building

This cold concrete Mother

 

I am always surrounded by people and still am alone

I want to go home

No more tests or teacher’s hissy fits

Girls screaming from how hard rumors hit

Am I the only one who’s sick of it?

The mouths move that sit behind the desks

I’m hungry…When’s lunch

 

These halls will shove us into the Un-

Known

Foreseen

future

nipping at our memories like starved fledglings

heartbroken that we have flown

 

Bottomline

I can’t wait

to graduate

But I will miss

this

place

Ring…             Ring…                   Ring…

Bordering On 5 AM

Posted on by A. Long

It is bordering on 5am

here I sit

fully awake

listening to the mundane hum of a ceiling fan

filter into the sounds

a house makes

when no ones moving

A white spider crawled from the depths of the couch

cross my sheet

& still I didn’t flinch

I simply sat

I sit here

memorizing every piece of furniture

staring at the ripped out stitches of an old couch

until the unexpected gut urge

to seek pen & paper

begin to twitch my fingertips

its an idea

premature obscure and cloudy

but as my search narrows

the

fog becomes elaborate clods packed with words

my eyes would not shut

my mind would not stop placing the words

seeing them in my head as if I had already written it

They floated there for hours

through the background of

headphones TV and conversation

until even now as day breaks into night

with nothing but my heart beat

to remind me that I am still alive

even that seems to thump words

as I conclude my search

when my eyes finally rest on my notebook

Divinely inspired is what he calls it

The peak hours allow sufficient silence

as I think at times my thoughts run so deep

that consumption ensues

I begin to feel every story I breathe

life to

from the time it enters my mind

to the moment its on the page

it is me

invented or not

the characters have faces that I can see

& I must write their story

There is a reason

for sleeping late with scribbles still swirling in my head

for sitting here

to know that now bordering on 6am

sitting here blankly staring at the floral patterns on the couch

isn’t crazy

I write to fill a void

I write because

it is the only remedy

for a long sleepless night

of ignoring a force

that commands me to write

even now

my eyelids sink & I feel sleep

meaning my thoughts may rest

knowing they are held safely within black binding

later to be shared

with those who are willing to listenimages

 

Song

Posted on by A. Long

I placed my dream in a boat

and the boat into the sea;

then I ripped the sea with my hands

so that my dream would sink.

My hands are still wet

with the blue of the slashed waves,

and the color that runs from my fingers

colors the deserted sands.

The wind arrives from far away,

night bends itself with the cold;

under the water in a boat

my dream is dying away.

I’ll cry as much as necessary

to make the sea grow 

so that my boat will sink to the bottom

and my dream disappear.

Then everything will be perfect:

the beach smooth, the waters orderly,

my eyes dry like stones

and my two hands–broken. 

–Cecilia Meireles, Brazil