a changer

She knelt down in prayer,

awe-struck with all God

has helped her through - she cried.

People said she couldn't - she agreed.

But time & time, Blessings & more blessings

changed her mind

proving herself & others wrong,

others continued to watch

as she continued rising to the occasion -

as she did so

she changed herself

growing from a little girl,

to a woman with a voice.

Stuck in the Dark

The power went off

in the middle of a storm,

my sticker stars didn't glow,

they were nowhere to be seen -

I realized 

then I was lost without them.

A secret that's no secret

 You know I still have feelings for you -

feelings are just a crater

that I'll have to fill in later;

it's no big deal, it's normal

like breathing & I've gotten used to breathing with you,

gotten used to the idea of possibly using that crater

that you've created in me 

as the foundation for the home

I wanted to start my future in. 

The Little Human

 She turns into a siren on the page,

the lines are her ocean,

the words left behind each pen stroke

are the voice you dare being beckoned by.

Look into her eyes

you'll see every shipwreck

that's happened before you,

but in the sky

of every shipwreck

the sky's gray -

the sky is blue right now,

but you smell the sky's disposition.

You can transform too,

you can siren too,

but right now,

you're only human

Right now - 

you're not even sure

you're able to swim.

Fighting Against it

The fresh air hits her face,

all the feelings she has had to conceal

now rapidly bubbling to the surface like a blech. 

She screamed

she's one step closer to being free.

But she's one step closer

to falling into a trap of what's next.

The unknown calls out,

she doesn't want to respond yet,

but it's too late,

the unknown given her time

to come on her own free will, but now

she has no choice, but

to come forward & be in it.

Pen & Paper serves as no Savior

I write -

Sometimes I wish

that I could relinquish everything

all at once. My thought process,

maybe then when the words

are on the page

will they reappear, showing themselves

as the demons they are, but

it's never that simple -

First showing themselves

anything, but still hiding

their true colors till I conceive myself

that I am my own demons.

I write -

sometimes I wish

I could write all the negative down

for every pen stroke

it gets erased from my mind.

It doesn't work that way,

you didn't say it so she did

She waited for you to say it back,

you never did, but she remerged 

unbothered by it

because she learned 

how to say it back to

herself.

When the Night Whispered My Name

When the night whispered 

my name,

at first, it sounded 

a lot like me,

a lot like reminders

that triggers/alarms

that I can't turn off

lingering & holding tomorrow

for ransom;

Sounds a lot like my parents --

my mom

who never quite sounds

satisfied, never quite

proud enough,

never seems to bite her tongue enough

to permit letting it slip out that 

I'm 'the reason,'

later correcting herself

like a buffering grammer

check 'one' of the reasons.

When the night whispered my name,

it sounded a lot like

my urges to call you,

to make amends

for something I haven't even done,

sounded like the first time

you called my name &

how it sounded like baptismal music

But then I listened again

the voice swiftly changed

into reality, into you, into

your lingering torment

how it sets traps,

I know once I fell into

I wouldn't be able to crawl 

out of still fully inside myself.

When the night whispered 

my name,

even now, I lay there

scared, unsure how

to answer

Is it God?

Why would you be

visiting me at this hour?

Why is his voice full of 

confusing fluctuation?

God is not the author of confusion.

Is this modern spiritual warfare?

Am I under attack?

When night whispers my name,

every now & then

deep inside a dream

I finally sit up to see

a small girl sitting on

the edge of my twin sized bed.

She's crying.

I don't know why.

Me after writing my Thesis

 I marveled in having been a draft

for the past year.

Looking at myself at different angles,

laughing as things that seemed 

to be at the tip of my tongue

played hide & seek

using the ripples & different

chambers of my mind

that I haven't even explored yet

to hide from me, but

when I found them

they were never alone, often being that they've found

something hidden,

an artifact, an aha moment

I was oblivious to its existence.

When you find me for the first time

you'll recognize the puffy red contorted eyes behind my glasses.

You'll see the tissues.

You'll see that I've turned into tears.

You'll wonder if I've gone crazy,

but I'll savior to you that myself

was left on the page.   

... I don't know about this drifting...

It feels more like sinking

if I'm being honest, but

one thing I knew for sure --

you're only left to drift,

if there's nothing there to hang onto.

You're only option is to sink

if you can't swim or can't be pulled up.

You only forced to move on

 when you got to go

forward & the only one you loved 

the most is willingly waiting 

for you to move on while staying there.

""

 thinking about

a big heart

a ridiculously

stuffed envelope

maintaining the

balance,

                    an embrace

                    the shimmering peace

            the impact  

                            "Now who's

                                                hoping"

I want to drown in your voice

 I want to drown in your voice.

I want this voice

of yours to be the last that I hear.

I want your voice to be

the reason that the child

comes into the world

breathing unlike it's mother

when she arrived --

I wanted that voice 

to be able to cradle them,

to sound unshackled, something

to feel safe in,

I want that voice to be something

that they never want to see angered.

I want that voice of yours

to hear it even you're not there.

I want you to send me voice memos,

I want to drown in your voice.

Tossing & Turning

 

Can't help but be awake—tonight my thoughts,

my thoughts are too loud,

so are my urges to call him;

I know he is up,

that he'd probably answer,

but if I'm being frank

if any calls were made

I know it would not be me calling

nor would it be him answering &

the two who'd be in conversation,

I've sworn them to be star crossed lovers

till I deemed it time for them to meet.

I can't help but stay awake—

my thoughts,

my Thoughts are too loud,

the scribbles on paper of all of the To Do List for tomorrow…

one side of my conscience is already on the next day & the day after that,

while the other side is already blueprinting what the end of next week is supposed to look like;

what we are supposed to wear,

prayers we are to say,

songs we need to listen to,

songs that we must avoid listening to.

I can't help staying awake, I can't sleep

because the night is too loud with all of its silence.

Like where is all the crickets, the owls,

where are all the conversations that I am not a part of yet eavesdrop on?

Are they all hiding from me in hopes I can actually get some rest tonight?

I still can't sleep—

In 4 ½ Force the sun will be up scolding me for my mother who is either uh smoking a cigarette at the moment or is fast asleep right now,

either way not worried about me.

I can't sleep.

I don't work tomorrow.

I need rest.

—      Rest & sleep, I have found are not the same thing

Angels

 

If angels cry who's the name do they call out?

Does angels even cry?

Did they say prayers?

If angels cry what would the reason behind it be?

Sometimes I wonder if angels are allowed to be in the room where God looks down on us from.

I wonder if they linger in the room just a little while longer when he leaves & just watches us.

Sometimes I wonder how angels are assigned to us,

or is it by choice of spiritual guidance.

Are we picked by our guardian angels?

If angels cry what would be the reason behind it?

When my Angel picked me did her eyes grow puffy & red,

did she know or was she told that I would need a shoulder—

even if it's one that I cannot see to cry on & she just knew that I had to be hers.

I feel beautiful in the dark

I am tangled, intertwined with my comforter; 

as a flower of sorts blooming 

in between the cracks of concrete if my bed was a sidewalk.

I feel beautiful in the dark.

My head is propped up on several pillows, a chest for me to rest on. I close my eyes and picture a face I wouldn't mind kissing, I intertwine myself with my covers more, blooming while being untouched, safe I don't have to say no, or worry bout the pillows being butt hurt, this is my domain.

I feel beautiful in the dark.

It’s in the Metaphor—It’s the Blooming.

 

It’s in the metaphor

of my pen name – Chrissy Bloom.

It’s in the blooming

from a flower bud of a person

to whom I am now.

 

It’s in the blooming from – Christyn

the name people can’t pronounce without

hesitation of the tongue.

I guess it’s because their tongues

can feel the question that those eight letters create

the eight letters of my name, a question

that can’t be answered untruthfully, a question

that the pronunciation of acts as the answer,

a visible discernment of weather or not our interactions

shall be continued, a question

passed down to my parents

“Christ –yes/or/no?

which is ultimately passed down from my ancestors

And into the blooming into Chrissy –

the poet, the person carving & gardening

her rightful plot of land of this world,

a person who’s so scared of being misheard

Her comfort is to write it all down & to read

it all to you so that you can understand, a person

who’ll spread herself so thin

to be there for any 7 everyone, but will sit

across from nobody when she needs it most,

it’s the blooming,

it’s the blessing,

it’s the fact that the stage

is her hiding,

the pages are her home & her words

are her family.  

 

It’s in the metaphor of my pen name.

That’s where the journey of how far I’ve come

is hidden in plain sight.

It’s also in the metaphor or my pen name

where you can transcribe & translate

hints that God left behind that says

Where I’ll be going.

 

It’s the blooming,

the trusting,

the praying & childish wishing,

the doing & the actually pursuing.

Memory KeepSake

 

She smiled, hard

her cheeks big pillows

resting underneath her eyes,

reminiscent of cherry pink joy.

Her eyes

containers filled with hope & wonder.

When she talks to you listen,

keep her word secret

keep them in the place

that you keep memories

so did they last forever—

in the place that you have for keeping

Nothing

 

Why be whittled down

to nothing?

Cause even something

has to come from

& be made by nothingness.

We the Blessing

 

Milestones or destinations that are arrived at.

My milestones has a name—

so do I.

Each milestone reached the newest version of itself when it arrived—

that name was a gift, granted as a trophy

We share the same name—

The same Blessing matured over time

Thoughts

 

There’s a concept the brides are supposed to wear white on their wedding day, that white is pure.

There's a concept that one shouldn't wear whites after Labor Day , that the world is too dirty from all the struggles, all the obstacles that were jumped over to risk dirtying something that can't be so easily cleaned.

There's a concept in popular belief that my skin is a night sky enough to be bad, therefore I'm closer to the complexion that gives respect as a gift rather than being earned or bought. There's a misconception within my community that whites on pale skin doesn't look right that it doesn't work with color theory. I'm wearing whites for graduation. This is a new start, one that was not given to me with the pass of my complexion. It was one that God wrote in the book for me, this book sits on the shelf in the library of my life a collection of beginnings & endings

 

It'll Never be the Same

 

She sat straight up & rubbed her eyes, yawning. The wind sounded like you, waking her up from her sleep, but she didn't let the dream linger, not without company. She pulled out her phone & replayed the last voicemail you left her, a voice reality can never grasp again. Listening to that voice allowed her to get held by you again; and embrace that she could never capture an elaborate scribbles on the page, with smell & touch being the only sensations described, all of it is you, but not you at all, it'll never be the same.

Morning Thoughts

 

It's a morning thought here, to wake up & say good morning.

It's a different kind of alarm for my body one that it would still have abided by just a week ago I know it's not natural, but neither is the fact that these fillings that would have otherwise gone into hibernation & would have not woken up, staying in his sweet sleep waiting for a 10/30 that never came is now awake & well, wondering why it took so long for this spring to get here. It's just an afterthought now;

wake up,

decide whether or not to jump straight out of bed,

check messages on all platforms,

text good morning & see if there's a response that will arise right away,

see that it does not,

put phone down & try to get back to sleep, But don't,

try to say good morning to yourself, but don't.

A Love Letter

 

Brooke, you really were the first to ever see me as a writer, you, calming water, something like arms that wouldn't wipe my feet from underneath me, if I ever felt enticed to get closer to you, to stand in your autumn shiver coldness, underneath a bridge hidden away from normal hindsight.

I remember when you first spoke to me, I didn't listen, at first it sounded like blabbers, but then I heard the words, rustled in the wind, the glub from the fish The sound of them being gay & present, I heard the words that you gave me permission to use in the first poem I wrote outside of the safety of home. You told me I belong here, I took it as you saying I belonged to you. I visited once after, but I've never forgotten about you since.

A Speaking into Existence that She did not Need to See to Have Seen

The sitting area, massive—

A remodeled ballroom

Type of arrangement

, draped in golds & velvet Reds

like a rich person

king and queen wannabe

cosplay kind of scene.

Seated in the middle of this room

a water fountain stood

in the center left of it.

Cupid or an Angel

on a pedestal in the middle of flowing water.

In this silence, the water fountain

drowned out the silence &

replacing it with a vigorous rain-like sound.

Potted plants scattered about the room

reminiscent of an outside garden,

My own plot of Eden

between these four walls;

somewhat protective

like trying to contain this beauty

so, it doesn't escape—

So, it can be preserved.

These walls that often held

a woman, her peace, the Holy Spirit

altogether & intact

by themselves;

a family outside of the one

others can see,

but in this instance

held that woman—

a great grandmother

of family & wisdom

something she holds plenty of

with no bounds

seated alongside

one of her oldest

great granddaughters &

Every ounce of her weighted spirit,

a young woman whose voice at the time

sounded more like a chirp

subtle almost as if it mustn't

be heard or chirped at all.

This room,

a massive ballroom used to be,

now a journal in time

something that can't be revisited

physically, not only in the realm of thought

salt stains that the naked eye wouldn't have thought to spot

still rest there almost 15 years later.

I grew up there, just in the span of a 500 word message

From The one & The only

to me — through this woman,

a great grandmother

Being a Draft

 

It's not my conception

that I want to dwell on.

It's not even the becoming therefore being an idea born in my mother's mind before becoming welcomed into her womb.

It's the—I used to be a draft,

Something that's not even fully fledged raw & uncut, imperfect, A poem without line breaks& a jumble of grammar mistakes; a something that didn't know I was a someone—a someone who couldn't have pick two have come after a long line of greatness; greatness that after being revised grew to find their form & and how to fit into it:

Martin, a ballad;

George Carver, a free verse;

little Emmett, an elegy,

Maya Angelo, a guzzle—

then there's me they twinkle in my mother's eye born to be revised, chiseled down & to emerge as an ode, a remembrance of where I came from, a song of praise to those who were right there with me.

Knowing this,

I still—marvel in being a draft

None of Them were Written

 

How many poems have

you read on rainy days

telling you to see the

beauty and the Seasons changing?

How many of those poems new line tell you about falling in love,

Finding the one person & walking into a new relationship new line is like stepping into an entirely new being?

How many poems

I have to write, baby,

for you to understand

that loving you is like shedding my skin

calling a demolition cream to help me

get rid of all my shaky bones,

starting again from scratch with a whole new foundation &

telling the old characters that this land is no longer yours.

How many poems have you read through that?

How many poems will I have to write for you to understand

that we will wear our future like clothing from a new wardrobe?

How many poems have you read where the happy ending actually allowed the writer to leave her pain behind?

None of them do. Cause none of them are written about you &

none of them were written by me.

Garden in the Past

I've never been a fan

of being given flowers

on Valentine's day, but

then again, I still wish

I'd been given the opportunity 

I've never been a fan 

of flowers being a metaphor

for love, meanwhile flowers due &

love isn't supposed to.

Even the most beautiful

pinks & whites, blue's & red's

purples & yellows

all turn black & lifeless.

If this image alone

is supposed to be carried over

a word association 

with romance

I'd hopelessly unbecome

a romantic,

I'd hear I love you &

think your crazy

who could ever love me?

Lost year Iwent through

three heartbreaks & two men,

neither of them gave me

flower, but I'd later

book pressed a little purple flower

I gifted myself.

Abstraction: My Body

My body

isn't a body; it's a jornal

that's never been used,

that's never been flattered 

by the presence of ink

or of any presence.

My body

is a molded sculpture of two--

my mother's contribution to me

was clay & water,

my father's contribution 

was wood & iron nails,

the result was a body 

outside of a body -

a master piece 

that God must take credit for 

even with all my sin.

As imperfections arise

I've learned how to

autocorrect them like grammar,

learned to laugh at them

like an amateur clown,

learned to paint over & amplifi

like a child

with her first makeup palette. 

This body stands outside of itself

like someone locked outside

of their house on a 

Friday morning & the household is asleep.

This body

stands outside of its body,

it is an author

trying to ask its own characters

that it's created for some form

or guidance.

My body

isn't a body; it's a journal that's

only ever been created, hand

stitched & professional book covered,

but still sits on a shelf, collecting dust.

Becoming Something

 It's not abnormal, 

this love that entered 

like light when one man entered the room. 

But what's abnormal is the sensation 

that came with him. This wondering 

driven by what entered the light the wondering 

of how one man could save me one day.

How for him to have entered my life another 

had to leave the bliss that stumbled across me, 

across my mind like a time capsule of memories of everyone, 

everything that used to mean something.

One day I will become a part of this rubble 

& will become nothingness, to become somethingness again

The Writing

 I never know what to write when I force it. 

I try to force it 

For the words to get along, 

to come together, to form something readable, 

but it's always comes out unruly: 

a laughing stock amongst my peers.

That's why I usually don't allow visitors, 

Hello people to peep into my journals, 

To read things I haven't chiseled. 

I am like a mother before guests or due to arrive, 

Trying to make sure every word, that all the words are on their best behavior or left tumbling on a sheet of paper together to never see the day of lights as punishment. 

I never know what to write when I try to force it 

It usually happens much later in the day when my guard is down, 

When my thoughts become unwieldy in my emotions are barbaric that's when the timer fully chimes and I can write, but only then can I truly write. 

Sometimes I could barely make it through the climb up the stairs, or get home 

Never when I want to but only when I need to.

Tell Me Something

Can you throw me a bone, some kind of single of how you feel?

- I playfully said I wanted attention, and I was in his arms faster than I could brace for impact. Tell myself not to get too attached again, but I can't make any promises. I don't want to break them again. I bite my tongue and want to say that I love him. At least it wouldn't be a lie if I let it slip off of my tongue. I never stopped loving him. He had never stopped loving me but the clarity of how much we love each other just became that much clearer.-

Can you send me a sign that this will not change? That feelings will not change? Tell me something. 

-Be the first one to say it this time 

Dear

 Dear,

am I still your joy?

I have not seen you since I was 16 years old,

August 27th we've reached the 10 year mark, but

This marks just been something holding our page,

The one we left off on

So we can pick up right where we left off.

I am here come still your joy

My voice is louder now,

The reverb lingers &

What I had to say

Lingers longer. I'm still your joy

But I've become more experienced, not in the way

Society is counting down the days till,

but next line in the way I'm no longer a child,

I've put that behind me,

Have learned how to turn every poem

I read & in every new form I come across & learn and to meet—I love meet.

I crave the potatoes & and gravy using this new form to my advantage

Making it my own

I'm still your joy

My complexion it's still as bright

As my future is blessed

You missed my biggest performance, one I didn't bother to inviting you to cause I knew you weren't be available

But I'm still your joy

If Those Bars are Your Arms

Falling back into 

the rhythm of it all

seems clumsy,

seems effortless &

inevitable-- I love you,

but in the way

the ocean & its waves

welcomes a ship

while it is wreacks,

petting it,

hand over hand

as if trying to ease it,

calming its worries,

the ocean sees it

throws it a welcoming party

my body sees your arms &

feels the welcoming

much like the ship

being beckoned by

the waves & ahppliey accepts it's fate,

I welcome being held in contempt

--If Those Bars are Your Arms

I Appreciate Holding that Space

Aprecio guardar ese espacio en tu corazón, en tu mente. En aquel entonces no sabía cómo aceptarlo, cómo ser especial para alguien; así que cuando llegaste y de verdad te importé, pensé que solo sería cuestión de tiempo hasta que alguien te importara más. Tenía miedo de que eso continuara, de que cayeras por el mismo camino que otros antes, y de que me encontrara solo de nuevo. Aprecio guardar ese espacio en tu corazón, en tu mente, tu tiempo, incluso ahora; sigo sin estar solo.

I appreciate holding that space in your heart, in your mind. Back then, I didn't know how to take that, how to be special for someone - so when you came around and I actually mattered to you, I thought it would only be a matter of time till someone mattered to you more. I was fearful of that continuation, with you falling the same path others had done before and that I'd find myself alone again. I appreciate holding that space in your heart, in your mind, and in your time. Even now, I'm still not alone.

I'd Have My Heart Repeatedly Broken by You

Our conversations 

are repetitive;

a circle I'm no longer

put in distress by

looping,

I don't intend on stopping;

this looping

doesn't mean 

I'll ever get to dizzing.

Why? It's because I love you.

I love the stink of it all,

our conversations,

our miscommunications,

our back-to-square-one moments

& all the feelings,--

Love it all--Love you--

Love that we haven't 

traditionally given up.

--I'd Have My Heart Repeatedly Broken by You

The Mirror Lacking Attributes

The stranger,

the young woman’s reflection,

looking at her,

a Cheshire cat smile on her laughing face.



She’d whisper: tell me I’m beautiful.

The member is gone. My good mood gone.

 Two plus two is four.

That's general math.

No one questions that.

But customers plus associates 

often equals the customers

always right...

No one thinks to question that.

I had told a member

she hit me with her cart,

side swiping me,

She looked at me,

shook her head

No, now I did,

she said after back handing 

my upper arm--

a little too close 

to my face, her boney, brittle hand

actually stung for a minute.

I called a manager over

where they then began to ask me questions.

What did you do?

my manager asked 

are you ok?

my coworker asked 

The member is gone. My good mood gone.

Trying to do My Job

 I'm just trying to do my job.

Help people to the best of my ability, but how much

helping can I do when people don't genuinely want

help-- "This machine isn't 

accepting my card" they're 

usually not swiping it correctly. "I didn't get a receipt."

they haven't picked how they wanted it.

"This is supposed to be on sell," if you can read the 

signs, you can read how the 

sell price will or will not 

appear at once.

I'm just trying to do my job, but

the babbering & the egos

get in the way. A member 

once said I made them feel like

an idiot cause I showed 

them the correct way to use

the chip on their debit card.

I called my manager over for

assistance, the member 

scofted & said everyone here

is an idiot. I turned to

my manager for some kind of say,

some kind of reassurance, something to say

that member is just a one off &

I really didn't do 

anything wrong. She shrugged 

her shoulders--

even nothing wrong

to these mebers

is still something wrong.