Ahura Mazda

Ahura Mazda
I was just too caught up trying to be happy, even if it was selfish and synthetic forms of it. Selfish because my physical body did not know how to handle this virus overload of happiness, and synthetic because although my computer was crashing, my monitor shined all the same. But now I can honestly say that my tear drop is the realest thing I have seen my body produce; there is no copy & paste for it and I am finally okay with that.
But things happened so suddenly, and when the continuous flow of memories of you and me were cut off and I found myself forcing to spit you out, I could no longer differentiate between tastes. Those were the scary moments. My senses left me with a parched mouth and bleached world. I was scared that the salt in my tears would only dry up my blank pallet, rather than nourish it. When I meet my former self through dreams or pictures it makes me realize how ugly a numbed mind can be; I found the beauty in crying and hopefully I can come close to doing it as gracefully as you did.
I can now see a writer, philosopher, and comedian, and I will willingly cry for brittle bones, empty pages, and silent rooms.
I currently cry for happiness, blonde hair and jazz hands.
I see music and movement and I will weep for her too. And I will sob with a sour lemon in my mouth for the joy of taste it brings me.
I smile because we smiled and I cry because we cried. I now know that I need both sides to pay respectable homage to you. My tears alone will not give your memory justice, but rather the smile I show when your name is mentioned. And now that I am able to embrace both sides I have the feeling that I found you again inside of me.
I live the dual life of Ying and Yang. Angra Mainyu and Spenta Mainyu collided together inside of my body and I have never felt so alive. I have entered an endless circle of where gray is the dominant color, but all are present if we wish to see them. I contently accept that I will forever spin on this axis knowing that my tears are wound around the happiest moments of my life.

2-4-08

2-4-08
By Hope VandenAkker

The beats of our hearts were once the same.

Our palms carried thin silence.
We held our hands up together,
And our heart beats were the same.

Sound absorbed us and cradled us,
We nestled within the comforting womb;
Measures and music and melody,
And our heart beats were the same.

The waves crashed;
Although sandy beaches recorded our footsteps.
We felt invisible to everything,
Except a midnight sky and ocean air.
And on the verge of disappearing through a veil of reality,
Our heart beats were still the same.

Our hearts would beat faster as we would climb
The climatic height of metal tracks
Coming down we swore our hearts would leave us
And fly as high as our arms were stretched up
And as wide as our smiles lengthened,
Falling below pavement and people,
But still beating all the same.

And our hearts would slow,
With the discussion that 3 A.M. brought to us,
Easing down our bodies from the excitement of the day,
But never,
Coming
To a
Stop.

Women's Liberation: Movement

Women’s Liberation: Movement
By Hope VandenAkker

My feet are Barbie feet,
And although they do wander through a magical garden at times,
They do so without the aide of a tiara and stilettos.
Maybe they do slip into short dresses for bedtime,
And even shorter ones for the morning,
But they will not be found waltzing in a synthetic dream,
Through rooms of molded plastic.
Unlike Barbie, my feet can hold me up;
They can move without someone else’s permission.

FireFlie

By Hope VandenAkker


She is part of my open arms,
The circle of non-genetic faces
With different roots from a different tree.
We are not bound by DNA,
But rather by our spiritual composition
Consisting of the twisted strands of soul.

The soil we are planted in does not
Define the term “family,”
But rather how close our branches blossom
Through the nourishing of
Sun, stars, and rain.

Her name cups the blue of her eyes,
And the gold of her hair.
A lucid dream is not even as free
As her thoughts,Floating in breathing oxygen,
Waiting for you to inhale.

She is a holder of my memories;
Present in a scattered red graveyard
To give respect to those who fall underneath
Our feet’s’ current.

She captures exploding campfires in her jar,
And shelves them next to
The dangerous floorboards of an abanded house,
And the muddy adventures of a neighborhood trail.

Happiness is taped on her walls,
Held together with recycled stickies
And a snow day.

And if one day,
You find yourself ever looking up,
You just might be able
To see her face in the sky.

I have nothing to blog about. Which is kinda weird because I have not been able to find my journal for the past 3 months. I have been using scrap pieces of printer paper, which definitly does not have the same effect and are easily lost (more easily lost than my already lost journal.) I have been getting frantic bouts of panic when I have something in my head I need to write down and then realize that I don't know were my journal is. I never really thought I could write it on the computer until about now.


So I am kinda excited about this midterm stuff. I have a few good ideas, but I am not sure which one I will physically maniefest yet.

P.S (Way re-edited!!)

I am not afraid,
Of the slipping memories.
They seem to have fallen out of my brain,
And weigh me down on my back
Until they find some white current
To take them away.

But I am not afraid,
because I know it is not in memories
Where you are found.

I love where you seed planted itself:
In the bottom of my spine,
In the crevice of my tailbone.
There you are a suprise
In wrikinled wrapping,
Waiting for morning.

You are found in me.

I love how your ribbons are
Anchored
In the marrow of my bones,
Passing me the words you cannot say,
Or the love you cannot give.
I unconsciously carry you-

Or do you carry me?

I love it when I don't think about you,
Because you still grow.
When I neglect you, you still love.
When I lose you,
You always find me:
In the fallen leaf of your hair,
Or the mental imaage of an ocean
That I still find ourselves walking on,
In a perfect world.

This world is not
near
perfect.

At least we can dance now,
though,
I carry you in heavy arms and
Deep pilies,
My leg is yours,
My hips,
And my lungs-

But I wish you took my heart.
Take my heart,
Because, please, you have it now.

Youa re my wallpaper:
All those slipping memories
That I cannot remember.
Every night,
I fall asleep with you next to me,
and dream inside our photos,
Still flying through a pefect world.

Like OMG!

I have realized how much more dumb people sound when they say "like." I am sure it must lower your I.Q a few points.