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Marika Sayers Poem
I watched her as she danced
her entire body
ached with artistic beliefs
and organised thoughts
fractals of light
shone
through the bottom seam of the tutu
as she looked down at her pointe-shoed
feet
she adjusted the edge of her tutu,
the part attached to the leotard
pulling it tighter before the next act
a black choker ribbon tied around her neck
kept her grounded
and the long ribbon stayed to her back
like a waterfall.
Her muscled calves quivered with excitement
of opening night
a blue bow sat gently on her waist
as she prepared for the first dance.
-‘The Girl With The Blue Bow’ was inspired by Edgar Degas’ painting ‘The Dance Studio’
Copyright © Marika Sayers | Year Posted 2016
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Marika Sayers Poem
if you don’t call me when I’m sick,
Why do i spend my nights
pretending that you’re holding me and keeping me safe from my own brain?
I don’t do resolutions.
I burn things in my mind like a pyromaniac
broken relationships turn to dust as I try to validify my once active words.
My eyelashes are stiff and stuck together with tears
as I can try to apologize for your actions
and I can’t fall apart
because of old memories and past deceptions
I can’t call you up on the phone and say
‘damn I wish you were here’
because it honestly doesn’t matter what I want
and what I think
because you may be my Romeo
but I know i’m not your Juliet
and he wants me to help him to write a duet
when I can’t even get my own words in order
just to say enough to speak
my own mind and maybe I can apologize
but hearing and listening have two different definitions
and I think that you can’t do both.
Copyright © Marika Sayers | Year Posted 2016
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Marika Sayers Poem
Long ago, before my earth was round, the light of my room made me feel even more depressed than I already was, a low flickering of the lamp unbetraying me, my mother's bed reminding me of my shortened childhood, having to grow old at the age of eight.
The crunch of the sour apples from the apple tree in my backyard and the stench of my angry ideas about making the world fair while my hope slowly shone, deadly in the broken bottom of my kiddie pool. I loved being different.
I don’t really want to be different anymore.
I would stay silent to protect myself instead of speaking up, speaking out in order to...In order to do nothing.
I cried over the little things but stayed silent over the big ones.
In the broken bottom of my kiddie pool, I pretended to be sick in order to go home because I was scared of what people would think, and hating myself for such a long time and what can I say? Old habits die hard.
I don’t really want to be different anymore.
Because cancer can be lethal but the doctors don't tell you that words can be lethal too, and they don't tell you that broken people break other people so they don't feel lonely.
They don't tell you that even though your friends pity you, they won't do anything when the panic attacks get so bad that you can't control your screaming mind anymore and it isn't even mind over matter anymore, its blood over water. They don't tell you that when your mom is sick and dying of this lethal mix of radiation, cancer and pneumonia, you can't do anything except feed her chicken noodle soup and pray to a god that you don't even believe in. They don't tell you that when you're adopted and your second mother is dying that you feel even more worthless than before and all you can do is scream and hate the people around you even though they had done nothing.
Why did you love me even after I told you I hated you and why did my eyes burn with unforgiven possibilities and why did my chest feel as if it were empty when you were not there and why did I deserve this?
I don’t really want to be different anymore.
Because in the broken bottom of my kiddie pool, sometimes I loved you, but mostly I loved the idea of you.
And why did you leave one of your daughters' to her own thoughts?
I am your consequence.
Copyright © Marika Sayers | Year Posted 2016
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Marika Sayers Poem
You could tell me you wished I didn’t exist but in between silences, I would hold my own hand and wipe my own tears.
You could tell me that you give up on me but in between silences, I wouldn’t give up on myself. You could tell me you hate me and all my life choice but in between silences I would hold my head high and continue my life without you.
Because in between silences, I stay in my bed and listen to the sound of my heart beating and in between silences, I cover the fragile skin on my body with literal and metaphorical band-aids and pretend they don’t exist.
And in between silences, I think about you and listen to the sounds of my fingertips and in between silences, I give up on this and I give up on you.
Because in between silences, my mind drives forward with the chaos ingrained in every step I take.
And in between silences, the sound deafens me.
In between silences… In between these uncertain silences, I’m okay again.
When the silence starts, I know that I am not okay.
In between silences, I let this angsty poetry flow out through the palms of my hands through the pen and into the paper.
In between silences, I listen to the sounds of uncertifiable laughter.
Copyright © Marika Sayers | Year Posted 2016
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Marika Sayers Poem
Her red tipped fingernails grazed the paper as she wrote about life, unbelievable beliefs and other nonessential things.
You're supposed to forgive and forget, but she could only re-live and to regress deeper into her own mind as she searched for answers she could answer herself.
Her black boots and feet barely touch the ground as she reached higher to achieve her dreams, only for her parents to hot glue gun the worn boots to the floor, effectively stifling her creative freedom and locking her up in her own head.
She wanted to chop off all of her hair to start a new but her friends liked her hair long so they had all the scissors.
She wanted to wear black clothes and no makeup but her school all wanted to be the same so they gave her the school logo in a tattoo that burned her skin.
And in order to protect herself, she tried to fall but she flew instead, a rope around her neck as she failed to apologize for a social ideal she couldn't fill.
And they cried for her, alligator tears paving down their faces, cracked with happiness at their handiwork.
Copyright © Marika Sayers | Year Posted 2016
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