“Painting Over Memories”

If I had a canvas to illustrate,
It would be one of those expensive paintings,
With random splotches of dye thrown on it.
In real life, things don’t make sense either.

All those memories,
About summers and views and hiding from your parents,
Breathing the sweet awkward fire of first love
And Boom! Another coat of paint.

Prague, quiet nights, the Dutch country side,
And era of intoxicating stability that could not last.
More paint.

Gray skies, shocking phone calls,
Snow everywhere, death in the air.
I throw another bucket at it.

Today I’m still painting.
I don’t know if the colors are even bright or dark.
I can see bits and pieces of the old ones,
And the layering makes an ugly shade of brown,
The kind that wants to make me want to run away.

Why can’t I keep all the colors?
Why this constant creative destruction?
In one second everything I hold so dear,
The next, I’m busy painting it away.

It’s haunting how the paint will always be there,
Even when you can’t see it.
Maybe that awfully simple Rothko painting
Is also a painful disguise of all the things that have once been.

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“In Seeking Color”

I’m sick of writing poetry
About my existential dread, 
For people who no longer matter,
Or to appease the messiness in my head.
I want something colorful
The bright crimson of the fruity tea I’m drinking,
The reflection of the sun from the building across right into my window.
The fire in conversation I have with my best friends.
 
They might say, the word you’re looking for is ‘love’ Kristina,
But I say, there is something better still.
Shakespeare’s sappy sonnets do not explain
Why the perfectly misarranged fairy lights on the tree outside make me so happy.
Why when I walk through the crowds at the shopping street on Saturday
I feel as a part of a movement,
Or the satisfaction I get pouring homemade sauce over my rice.
I think if you have to call it one word, I would call it ‘life.’
 
We’re all so afraid of what it all means and what’s going to happen,
Through writings, and movies, and sobs we dramatize it all.
But life is hardly a drama,
When the main thing it consists of is small things, ordinary things,
That is the real story to be told.
 
And yes, sometimes my heart leaps,
And I get lost inside a story,
A future fairytale where everything tastes sweet in decidedly my way.
But while I dream, a visitor is standing at my front door,
Saying, let me take you to the real world ,
You won’t want for nothing more .

Non-Poetic Rant from the Armchair: “Not Saving the World”

It’s hard for me to figure out what I want to do with my life because
I want to participate in normality
And that tends to encompass the majority of things
I don’t want to fight for:
Grades and jobs that entail
Bending over backwards to show people my worth.
I don’t want to be under-worked and underpaid and underestimated because of my age.
I want to be respected as a human, with ideas.
That seems like decades from now, possibly.
But what ridiculous thing can I do if I choose to run against the system?
It all amounts to shame.

What if I don’t want to solve the world’s problems?
What if I just want to be, because everything is essentially meaningless anyway,
Except for the joy of people, and even that’s temporary to their existence.
Saving the world is such a reckless idea.
Who said the world needs to be saved?
What said it can be?  Continue reading Non-Poetic Rant from the Armchair: “Not Saving the World”

Poetic Rant from the Train: “Fast Life”

Why do I always leave in a hurry?
Why can I never slow down?
Why do I go places to say I’ve been there?
Why don’t I look around?
Sometimes I think it’s about personality,
It would be a shame to change.
But if I’m different and I’ll be happy,
What makes me stay the same?
“Relax” says the graffiti outside the train,
“Relax” says the constant rain.
But how can I listen when life seems to go so fast?
One moment I’m here,
Next on another continent,
And I hardly felt the change.
One moment certain people matter,
Next I forgot their name.

I guess once again I’m in this ridiculous dilemma,
Trying to avoid the changing tides of life,
Looking for a constant,
Deluded into its existence,
Never stopping to see the real light.

“Everything has changed”

Everything has changed.
I avoid stopping so I don’t have to understand it.
A year of hills and touchy pain,
Spiraling up and down
Through heartbreak, freedom and depression,
To life, and suddenly requiring my heart again,
After it’s tumbled in the washing machine for a short time,
Might be the right expression.

I can’t stop, nor want I to go back or forward.
All intimidate me.
The present innocent and content,
The future that I must define,
The past I never want again.

I need time to think,
Room to breathe,
To figure out what’s really been going on.
This new life, of constant learning, of always being,
Contrasts brightly to the hours spent
Hating having to stay at home.
And who have I become with these new people?
I feel softer, but more equal.
And where has my electronic music gone?
Like my poems, out the big wall-window,
In the rain, trampled by the bicycles.
Just like my liking for being alone.

And yet with all that,
Of being completely lost or completely new,
Although both might be the same,
For once in my life I can say one thing,
I feel no more need for change.

“Someone once told me, to make sure I feel my pain…”

Someone once told me
To make sure I feel my pain,
Emotions are a spectrum,
Not a fire to be tamed.
And now here I was again,
Playing it safe.
Mediocre love for mediocre pain.
But the truth cannot hide
Behind the practicality of my brain.
The hopeless romantic, the girl on fire,
The poet smiling at the rain,
They cannot be contained.
Even if in light of pain,
And seemingly hopeless wandering and days so same,
A bolder life, a wilder love,
None can deny,
The vision’s a gift from above.

“Definitions of Home: Part 2, Decorations”

I am finally home.
So what if words can’t capture
My candle dancing,
The flutter of eyelids,
The bear paw of perfectly warm tea.
Even in the moment of fading friendships,
Of shattered world views,
Of being lost and often insecure,
This room feels like hope.
More than four walls of white paint,
It is the mere possession of it
That indicates a life so far well spent.
The little touches of art,
The colors, the plants,
The notes that I have saved,
They are the makers of a “me.”
And although I deny
The existence of a static personality,
Or well defined traits,
There is something extremely comforting
In looking at something
And being able to point to it and say –
That’s me!

And perhaps even if this is not all of me,
It is alright because
just like words are not full feelings,
So are these objects and this room,
Puzzle pieces of a life in progress
Of a creature whose uniqueness is written in these fine details.
Home is the place where you can read about yourself.
I’m made these walls mine,
Now they’re here to remind me of who I am,
And when in doubt, to find myself again.