'‘Cause I Don’t Feel Like A Fighter Lately' by Ravyn LaRue

I read many old poems I wrote before I realized here wasn't paradise
But the irony of it is-
My re-reading was for the sake of contributing to where I am
Because creatures adapt and change to their environment
And I need to thrive
I need to thrive because of the souls I so long for back home
I need to thrive because people triumphed over far more vicious circumstances
I need to thrive because I have faced awful pasts and made them step aside to let me pass
I need to thrive because I have no other choice
I want to spread myself out, though, thinly so I can make good art
Since that's what I think I've been placed on this dirt to do
So as long as I can do that, I'm succeeding
Happiness has become an afterthought by now-
Since happiness cannot exist in my environment, unless it's fleeting
And even then it is often only residual rekindled for what I feel for home
I never thought I cared about the idealistic prospect of home
But I care greatly for my loved ones, and that's what home is for me
They are my tribe
And it shakes my selfish spirit to have us all spread out throughout the world
I really don't know what I can do-
If you're asking if I'm happy- Are you asking me if I'm happy?
I had such high hopes, though I knew this would be growing foil
And now the growing pains only tear my vertebrae apart in a slow torturous way
I need to learn, though, and in spite of everything I think this is the best place for it
I love him, but my brother has become a cautionary tale by now
And we're all angry, though it is his choice
I just know that's a fate I fear myself
And I'm made of the same pedagogical book-dust as my ancestors
And I'm made of the same artistic stardust as my loved ones
And I need this
Because sometimes being broken is much more wondrous for the audience than comfy little creatures
I know I'm melodramatic
Things probably aren't as bad as I perceive them
I've learned lots already
But I've cried lots enough already
My heart has been broken lots, not for the better, already
I wanted to be Hunter, not Cliff
I wanted to write adventures, not tragedies
Though my pen is leaning towards the latter
Because art imitates life
And I liked this summer when I thought the people like the ones I'm now faced with only existed as straw antagonists and sparse evils.
I want to open my chest and let all the glitter glue bodily fluids fall out
I get it now, why those I love who are like me in this way flaunt this one attribute
When faced with misery like this, it's a defense mechanism
"Oh so you hate that quality that makes up my identity? Here it is uncompromised, choke on that, Babe!"
And I do that
I bare my diaphragmatic fat, for a costume but also for a point
I want to flaunt everything I'm hated for here
Now I'll be the one being thrown out of places, like I was with the dear friends I miss so
I want to stay home in January
I'm bad at math but the cost will be about the same
And I could get a job, or at least try to
But I think I need to refuel
I promise I'm not giving up
And I may be seen as a failure for it
But if I manage to pull these next eight weeks off-
I think I'll need rejuvenation
And I love my loved ones so
I just feel like I need this
My neutral is teary-eyed now a days
I just need a good cry
And I want to send them letters
But it would mean admitting defeat, in a way, if I am to be honest-
Which, of course, I must be
But some people read these brain-blossoms anyways
So I know they know
I'm listening to a song simply called, "new sad song"
And it has my heart because that's all I do now a days it seems
Write new sad poems
I'm not even back on the pills, but my mind is back to that state
Perhaps it's the thespian tyrant
Since she breaks me like an egg-shell
I'm less sure that I can defeat her
I have vitriol but it doesn't flow as fast
It manages to seep into and poison the glitter glue bodily fluids that I usually don't even care to show
Since before now it didn't matter
Not much since I attach myself to people anyways
I'm a parasitic pansexual
So no one ever needed to know
Unless it comes up in conversation
It's one of those things, you know?
But I'm just a mess of identity now a days and I vent through this
Since I have no other way
I talk to friends
But I cannot see their eyes meet mine
They cannot see their tears
I cannot feel their chest or feet lift off the floor when I hug them with gusto
My entire way of communication is compromised
And I know this is a useless thing
I'll look back at it like the old poetry of mine I read today
And think-
Ah, why was I ever that sad over something so small
But it isn't small
Dear future self, this isn't small
You may have figured out means to cope that I haven't yet
But it isn't small
At this point and time you've uprooted yourself for God's sake
Your blood is boiling
Your eyeballs drown in tears
Your abdomen wretches and shakes
And your brain doesn't know how to keep your soul from shattering
And your head darts around to make sure the roommates don't pop in to see you in this state
Though your hands that type know they wouldn't stop even if they did
"We are artists for God's sake" your conscience screams at the hypothetical intruders
"This is what we're supposed to do, and if you wish to look down on me for it-
Well-
You certainly wouldn't be the first one here..."
It's nearly one in the morning
And something that's not this is due tomorrow
But this is more important since I cannot cope unless I catharsis
Tears make my face itch
That's why I don't like makeup for myself
I've been doing a lot to myself that I don't really like
Like nodding along with vicious lies
Since "It isn't worth spoiling your grade for"
But I'm getting better
I'm setting out to do something stupid
Write a story that wallows in my deepest fears, regrets and sorrows
But it must be told, that's what I've learned in my short time here
Ribs must be ripped, but first hands must be held
And now as I hold my hands out
No one takes them
So I long to reach them further to where my beloveds reside
But my short fat arms barely reach a few feet
I'm becoming a corpse here
Tearing my chest open
Painting my face
Trudging along
And falling apart
I need to sew myself together
And tell myself one of the things I always do
"No such details will spoil my plan; that is the kind of girl I am"
But when all your body wants to let you do is sob, it gets hard to believe that mantra
And I've written eternities of nearly nothing right now
But I'm reaching out for the temporary closure catharsis usually grants me
Yet no beautiful bandage has fallen from the sky yet
Nothing to wrap my re-sewn cadaver with
While my soul bounces off the wall of my body cavity
A restless thing that knows not everything will be alright
Though the far away beauty that I speak with nightly claims it will be
And I know she's right since I have to prevail
Her and I faced the grey wind and flourished
But this is much harder
Because it was still home
And I was still knit tightly into the life and times of my loved ones
And here I'm just becoming a bitter old thing
I look for little sparkles that dart from certain dates
I want it to be Halloween, then my Birthday
I don't even care about Thanksgiving since I'll be entirely alone
And Christmas break, most of all.
All I can do with myself is compare what I am to gruesome things
It isn't self deprecation
It's just truth
With out my beloveds I am nothing
I am the soulless self portrait we admired in class
I have a glimmer of white light in my chest
But, like the one that baptized me, all it is is sadness shrouded in a layer of "everything's alright since it's supposed to be"
Literally all I've been able to do for the last hour is convulse
I nearly choked on my tears the other day
My appendages are cold
My blood has refused to flow
I think it demands happiness which, at this moment, I can't afford to muster
I suppose blood comes from the heart, which longs so deeply, that the blood won't leave it's beloved-
Since it knows how badly that affected my soul
And when the wizard gets to me, I'm asking for a smaller heart-
I emailed him about the situation, but I know he has more important children to care for
Since I know I am no longer a child
And my new year impending only cements that gruesome fact
I suppose I just don't know anymore
But trying is the point of life
So I must keep on trying

'You Say, "HOW IS CHICAGO" ' by Ravyn LaRue

I said I'd go to bed in the last poem I wrote you, but nope, my heart won't let me
I thought of something else that I've had yet to put into words
People said before I came here that it'd be too big for me
An expansive place of decadence that a small-town rodent like myself would shrivel up in
But I find it comfortable in a disconcerting way
I wanted change from what I perceived as the monotony of a little city
But this is too fathomable
I know it's unsafe, and I'm not as naive as some take me for
But despite my exploring I'm left shrugging it off
Yes it's big and pretty but it lacks the depth I'm accustom to
I hate emptiness more than a heart or city full of sorrows
And that's not to say I hate it
I just hoped to fall in love
But when the spirit that resonates tends to be full of vitriol for people like me
It's impossible to fall in love
And that's the thing
It took leaving to realize
I am utterly, irrevocably and completely in love
With the city
With the state
With the old school
With you
With everything
People chuckle, "Oh you're so overwhelmed with such the big world you've found yourself in!"
But it's not a big world
It's long but contentless
And I'd prefer a sentence with depth than a novel with nothing
And that's what it feels like at the moment
Perhaps I just need more exploring
But I want days of plenty
And this is a whole lot of apathy and homophobia and monotone and all the things I don't want myself to be
But I pride myself in being able to cope with things I'm not used to
And I stay and love the art in spite of it all
Because I think of you
And my other beloved muses and think
They think I can make something of myself here, and if they think that, it'd be cruel to prove them wrong
And I seem to be riding some wave of something, though the city may be trying to get me to return to shore
It's 4:14 in the morning and I'm probably just complaining
But I long for the city to be what it once was
I want the grit and grime and blood
The pavements may be pretty but they lack the intrigue they're praised for
I suppose that's all I have to say right now
One last thing-
I always thought of Minnesota as the sort of mother one must escape from
But now my other mother Chicago smiles her sickly sweet smile with no warmth behind her gleaming teeth
And all I want is Minnesota with all her frosty faults and cozy spaces
Well, at least I'm honest, as embarrassing as it might be

'Hometown Glory' by Ravyn LaRue

On that night when we cried together
On that night when you showed me that song
On that night when we hugged forever
I had no inkling I would miss it all so much
I had no inkling I would miss the environment so much
I had no inkling I would miss you so much
Which, as you should know, says a lot
Since I knew from the start that I'd miss you so
Since I love you dearly
Which should be obvious by now
The other day when I got your message that you liked the postcard I sent
The other day when I tried to write you that letter
The other day when my teacher said to write a character in your life who's worth living on the page
I'm not one for talking on the phone, but I tried it for you
I'm not one for some words, but I use them for you
I'm not one for patterns, but I'm doing it for you
So anyways, I'll type up that letter eventually
So anyways, I'll send you these silly poems, as well, even though my ribs are opened wider than is comfortable (because if you didn't take my heart, my entire self would shatter)
So anyways, songs I hear and stories I read undoubtably remind me of you
I miss everyone so much I feel I cannot function
I miss everyone so much it makes me wonder if I should've stayed home
I miss everyone so much it makes me realize the cruelty people other than you possess
But I continue here because you believe in me (which is such an honor I can't even begin to say)
But I continue here because you are my muse
But I continue here because the bitterness I may face will make our reunion twice as sweet
Joe, I should be asleep
Joe, It's 3:49 in the morning
Joe, I look as horrendous as we did when we camped out in the exercise room (although I surely look worse due to halloween makeup I practiced on myself)
Affectionate is what you are
Affectionate is what I wish to be
Affectionate is what you make me be
Thank you for being my friend
Thank you for supporting me through everything (I don't think you could ever even fathom how much your kindness means to me)
Thank you for everything
At Christmas I'll see you
At Christmas I'll be unconditionally happy again
At Christmas I'll be with my beloveds (meaning you)
Minnesota means I don't have to fear rampant homophobia
Minnesota means I'll feel at home without fearing the underlying vitriol that lingers where I am now
Minnesota means I'll return to the arms I hugged for hours
I should really end this poem
I should really attempt to get some sleep
I should really stop pining over seeing you again, but you're one of my muses, so, of course that cannot happen
Regardless, you know I love you
Regardless, you know I miss you
Regardless, you are one of the best friends I've ever had (I knew that before, but absence makes the heart grow fonder, and this really proves it, love)

‘Twitterfeather’ as a Folk-Tale by Ravyn LaRue

A few years back there was a young girl named Sierra. She, like many children, liked to pretend there was nothing in this whole wide world that could possibly scare her. Of course, that was just pretend. She couldn’t keep that game of pretend going, especially after what she came across one summer when she was six years old.

Sierra always listened to Grandfather’s ghost stories, and unlike her cousins, she believed them all. She knew better than to think Grandfather would lie to them. One night, as she by Grandfather’s rocking chair by the fireplace, Grandfather told the most terrifying story Sierra had ever heard.

“Sierra, are you sure you want to hear this story- I told it to your cousins when they were eight and ten and they were frightened even then!” Grandfather questioned in his low voice that rolled like thunder.

“Ha! Grandfather, I’m not scared of anything! You know that!” Sierra pontificated.

“Alright.” Grandfather took a breath, readying himself. He knew this tale, unlike many he had told in the past was, for a fact, true.

“There are spirits in this world that mean nothing but harm to all those who may cross their path. One such spirit is that of the Wendigo- It’s a voracious demon of emptiness that takes hold of creatures when they are at their weakest and makes them do unspeakable things. It feeds off of rage and distorts the longing for self-preservation into something evil, demonic. It makes those it possesses devour their own kind and leaves them hungry, until their insatiable appetite eats away at any soul that may have remained. Wendigos are manipulative- they claim to hold salvation but cause you to consume yourself until none of you is left and only the Wendigo remains. The spirit remains dormant in the winds, but rises every seven years, stronger and stronger each time. They move swiftly and silently through time and space to whatever feeble, foolish victim that appeals to their taste. Its voice is a sharp desperate howl that has the power to permeate into people’s souls, especially that of children’s. “

At that moment Grandfather’s sunken brown eyes darted to meet Sierra’s widened amber ones.

He continued, “They feed on any anger that is felt, even that of little girls who get mad with their grandparents for making them play inside on stormy days and go to bed at eight thirty in the evening. Wendigo is the devil himself and mustn’t be trifled with under any circumstance.”

Sierra feared, but of course didn’t want to show it.

She needed to assure her safety, though, so she asked, “Grandfather, how would one defeat a Wendigo if faced with one?”

Grandfather didn’t know how to answer, so he said the first thing that came to mind, which seemed like a good enough answer anyways, “Well, Sierra, you pray. Then God’s grace and tranquility with thrive in you and drive the Wendigo spirit out. That’s what you do, Sierra.”

This new knowledge made Sierra feel empowered. She went to bed at eight thirty, and when Grandmother prayed with her, she felt triumphant.

“Ha!” she thought, “The Wendigo can’t get me now!”

The next morning, Sierra woke up, ate breakfast with her grandparents and got herself ready to play outside.

“Where do you think you’re going, dear?” Grandmother cooed.

“I’m going out to play with the bird I befriended.” Sierra chirped.

“Not in this weather, dear.” Grandmother sighed, wishing it were bright and sunny so her granddaughter could frolic outside, as she so wanted.

Sierra broke down and sobbed.

“Oh dear me,” Grandmother began, “Grandfather come into the kitchen, Sierra needs you.”

Grandfather did just that.

“You told her she couldn’t go out due to the wind, didn’t you?”

Grandmother nodded.

Grandfather echoed the rumblings that came from outside, “Sierra I know you’ve made friends with that bird, and want to visit him again, but this weather is not one bit conducive. If you would like, we can check on the Raspberry bushes together after breakfast, but that will be it.”

Sierra was a trickster and agreed, knowing she could bamboozle him into getting her way. She needed to see her bird come hell or high water. He was the only creature in all the world that didn’t seem to mind her bright, nasal singing voice when they sang together.

Sierra donned her turquoise rain-jacket and took Grandfather’s old wrinkled hand. They stepped out the back door and followed the slope of the earth towards the raspberry patch. She held his hand until the moment was hers; she plucked just a few more raspberries from the thorny bush, let go of grandfather’s hand and then ran towards the wilderness beyond the sparse trees of the backyard.

Sierra ran into the wilderness. The frosty fog kissed her rounded face.

“Sierra, you mustn’t be foolish like this!” Grandfather cried as he hobbled after her.

Sierra felt liberated as the moisture from the cold dewy grass seeped into her sneakers. She kicked off her shoes, but she didn’t slow down. Sierra came to the clearing where the bird always resided. She looked around for her friend, but he was nowhere to be found.

She thought, “Maybe he’s staying inside, too… Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

Then she saw him. His little frail body was contorted and lying upon a tree-stump. He sang in a voice, beautiful as always, but deteriorating.

“My death is a finale: a calm, yet tragic end. Don’t cry for me, my darling. Don’t weep for me, my friend. Life is but a dream, wherein you simply stay, though I cannot continue- this is my dying day. Leave or I’ll be doomed forever, as these mortal ties I must now sever.”

Sierra understood but didn’t listen. She grabbed some raspberries from her pocket.

“Here.” She said simply, “These will give you life.”

Sierra attempted to mush up the over-ripe berries and run their juices into the bird’s beak. He convulsed and coughed, and said in a whimpered voice, so different from his singing, “Please child. Leave me to die in peace.”

“No!” Sierra yelled with authority, lifting the bird’s skeletal frame. “I can’t let you die! You are my friend!”

“No, child.” The bird whispered. “No.”

Sierra heard the wind whisper through the trees. There was a sharpness to its tone that made her uneasy. The sound was a voice she could not understand.

Suddenly the bird began to move from its lethargic perch. He jolted to his feet in a cracked, angular way, and began to sing again, this time in an unnerving, drawn-out whisper.

“For the sun dies down each and every night, And in the morn it brings new light, As long as it’s kept far away from the crow, who cries out, “I am Wihtikow ””

Sierra heard the wind soar through the trees more violently. It became a deafening cry. The noise made her feel hollow inside and entirely alone. She looked up to see a blackbird swooping down towards her; it’s black talons stretching out at her eyes as it descended. Sierra cowered. The crow landed beside her, only to rush over and wrap its expansive wings around the trembling songbird. She saw the crow take hold of her friend’s chest and rip it directly off.

“Sierra-“ The birds whispered in an anguished unison, “You- did- thisss-“

“No!” she cried, pulling her hands towards her own chest.

Sierra heaved, unable to cope with seeing her beloved bird destroyed. She gasped, barely catching her breath and decided to try to be as brave as she pretended to be.

“Who are you to think you have the right to break him like that?” her voice was weaker than it had ever been, and tears welled up in her clenched eyelids.

The crow smiled, revealing blazing white teeth, and, for the first time, opened its fiery blue eyes.

“I- am- Wihtikow-“ it whispered deafeningly.

The sky grew darker, just as the songbird had foretold.

The voice slithered through Sierra’s ears and rang against the walls of her skull. She felt the voice driving her mad. She felt desperate and furious. She pounced at the crow without thinking.

Sierra could hear a depraved winded laugh surround her as she felt herself consumed. Her convulsing ribs felt heavy, and her heart, stifled and cold. Her fingers itched and burned and scratched away at the icy whisper that burrowed into her brain and in her chest. Sierra felt worse than she had ever ever felt before. She felt sick and hungry, weak and cold. A sharp desperate howl cried plaintively from the depths of her. It was then when she realized she knew how to stop it.

She began singing in the off-key voice of her soul, as loudly as she could muster, “When through the woods, and forest glades I wander, and hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees. When I look down, from lofty mountain grandeur and see the brook, and feel the gentle breeze, then sings my soul, My Savior God, to Thee, How great Thou art, how great Thou art.”

It was the only prayer she could think of at the time. Her eyes burned. Her heart beat like a frightened animal.

The moment she felt the spirit free her, she ran faster than she had ever run before. Her bare feet burned against the frosty ground. She snuck swiftly and silently in through the back door, and slipped under the cozy covers of her bed. Nothing before had ever been able to get at her through Grandmother’s homemade quilt, and most likely, nothing ever could. She closed her painful eyes only to see the image of her friend’s limp body mangled more and more by the wrath of the hellish demon. She saw the songbird’s disintegrating body hover over her, innards falling from his chest.

Sierra screamed louder than ever before. Grandmother came running in.

“Sierra, what’s wrong?” Grandmother asked, stifling her urge to scold Sierra for running off.

Sierra couldn’t speak. Despite her blindness, Grandmother could see a small brown smudge at the foot of the bed. She lifted up the carcass of the songbird and brought it close to her eyes to inspect.

“Oh, dear me!” she cried, upon realization of what the smudge was. She ran to the sink to clean her hands.

“Oh, Sierra, I’m sorry. It’s just that old tabby cat of ours. He tends to leave us “presents” and as gruesome as it may be, he means no harm by it. I’m sorry it disturbed your nap, dear.”

Sierra peaked from beneath the covers, and opened her eyes.

“Dear me!” said Grandmother, “Sierra, let me look at you!”

Grandmother approached Sierra’s face to inspect her.

“Oh, dear me!” Grandmother gasped, shocked by what her dim eyes had seen. “Sierra, look!” Grandmother scooped Sierra from her bed and brought her to the bathroom mirror.

Sierra screamed upon seeing her own reflection. Her chest and face were all scratched up, and her once amber eyes now burned as blue as Wihtikow’s.

“Grandfather!” cried Grandmother. “You must come see what happened to Sierra.”

Grandfather hobbled to meet them. He looked up and saw Sierra’s eyes.

He took a solemn deep breath, and said all-knowingly, “You are a very foolish child.”

His deep voice resonated in Sierra’s chest. It made her heart feel warm again, though the guilt she felt from disappointing grandfather was nearly unbearable.

“You must never disobey me again.” Grandfather said authoritatively.

“I know,” wept Sierra.

After a somber pause, Sierra brought her Grandparents back to her room.

“This bird was the one you befriended, wasn’t it?” Grandfather questioned grimly.

Sierra nodded.

Grandmother took her handkerchief and carefully picked the bird up.

“We can bury it in the back yard”, said Grandfather, offering out his hand.

Sierra took it and felt her hand clutched tighter than Grandfather’s arthritic hands had ever clutched before. They buried him beneath the raspberry bushes and prayed over the grave. They returned to the cabin.

Sierra, still uneasy, asked Grandfather to tell her another story. He responded with a stern look.

“Not a scary story!” She added, “A sweet one about a little brown bird with the voice of an angel.”

Grandfather told her that story.

'Scratch-Offs' by Ravyn LaRue

I'm turning into a scratch-off
Daddy's girl and all that.
I see blemishes and tear them off
I peel at rips
I bite my lips
And it's causing me to be just as unlucky as him

'Complete Closeness' by Ravyn LaRue

Ribs intwined through skin
Two hearts in one
May as well have been making love
That's what it seemed like anyways
Though much more beautiful than even that
In that moment there was one blended soul
It was love's physicality
Miraculous

'Can I Show Dad Your Story?' by Ravyn LaRue

He recognizes bad, not sad.
He sees the movie villains, politicians and nazis and thinks-
"Oh no!" and "Good riddance!"
He sees dying creatures and broken families and loved ones leaving-
He knows not what to feel
Since he is immune to sadness, being a man after all
Though his father and blood brothers were capable of crying.
He cannot read fiction.
Because fiction relies on emotional investment.
And he is just as frugal with feelings as he is with pennies.
"I just need to cry, that's all."
I say as I sit beside him.
He is stone faced.
That same white light was shown to him, but he rejected it.
"C'est la guerre." He sighs.
I cried the car-ride home that night, and he just sneered-
"What did you expect to happen?"
Sure, you can show him my story-
But judging from the past, I doubt he'll care.