annapaulinasuszynski

I have an uncanny nostalgia for fleeting feelings.

Do You Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.

Eyelashes like bars locking the doleful 

Dew of the night’s tears behind her eyelids,

Longing for something more. 

Locked away like rose petals pressed to the

Floor, falling no more; remaining separate 

Stagnant water ugly as frozen bugs in amber 

With their antennas like follicles fingering 

For the open air.

Shoulder blades bulge outward awkwardly 

Encaging her delicate rib frame, fumbling

For something better;

Scratching with minuscule cheap chisels

Like miners in a deliriously dark tunnel  

Shoved away in the depths of the metal core

Of the unforgiving earth. 

Mouth sown shut, shuttering away strangers

Who could mean something to her.

Fingers like autumn twigs crackling underfoot

Without feeling, forward to the human flesh

Breathing and moving and shriveling away 

At barred eyes and shoulder blades like wings

Piercing through cotton shirts like metal feathers

In a small bed pillow. 

Ugly and writhing in rotten leaves below roots

Like toes and feet and ankles anchored to the same

Roots and snake dens diving down to the metal core

Of the earth.

A metallic taste after something good, after something 

Really good churning your stomach at the blink

Of a metal laden eye. 

At violently angular shoulder blades.

At anchored feet.

Longing for something more.

 

 

 

Dear My Darling Girl,

Look at me and take a deep breathe

Close your eyes for a second and rest.

Wipe away the salty tears

And shuck off your corn husk fears 

I know it might not be enough

When everything seems too tough

But darling this is not about him 

So let the damn phone ring 

Your life went somewhere great

When you left home without the weight

You’re meant to be here

You’re meant to look in the mirror

And tell yourself that you have done nothing wrong

That you will stand strong

Not for anybody else

But for yourself. 

I am not saying drop it and leave

But sweet pea do not freeze

The life you’re constructing 

This beautiful thing you’re building 

Be selfish, be free

And when you can’t hold it in, come to me.

Sometimes when you love someone, you have to let them go

And if you don’t, you both can’t grow 

And sometimes when things happen we can’t control

Take them day by day, be slow.

I want you to cry until morning 

Until the clouds gather storming

From the tears soaking your pillow

Are home to thousands of minnows 

Swimming around your room

Until it turns to night and the dear mother moon

Illuminates the beautiful world you made

With even the saddest tears you let stay.

And when you step outside again

Your beautiful heart will mend 

Because sometimes life is hard

But you can’t let it starve

The incredible world you’ve made

Darling, do not be afraid.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let’s Say You’re a Star

You look down on the earth 

As it spins everyday like a top on a 

Slick table.

In your smooth coffee black darkness

Like silk wrapping around your sharp

Illuminated edges and beautiful glowing

Skin, as you look down on earth 

As you look down on my skin covered

With curious expanses of wet blue and mountains

And hills and green, you wonder about me.

Suddenly I am a curious creature wild with

Ideas and thoughts and long eyelashes.

I am as beautiful as the most beautiful star

Close to you: shining and shimmering and smiling. 

As the black silk, almost blue to the touch shifts

Around your weightless brightness you want to be closer 

To earth, to my skin.

Even though the beautiful stars that share

The same silk as the silk you sit in,

Tell you not to draw closer, you can’t help

But feel a distanced awe of my shores and beaches

Mountains, and summer air. 

And suddenly as you tear away from your silky nest,

Hurtling toward earth with a speed too fast to control,

Upon realizing that I am not just made of rolling green hills

Spring flowers, frosty sea glass, fresh dirt, rainy days, and 

Pebbles.

Upon realizing that I have rotten buildings, harbors of muck,

Waste, stench, the homeless, and the penniless, oil, coal,

And smog, you’re beautiful face contorts in the 

Realization with pain staking proximity, that I am ugly

I am the worst kind of ugly, hidden beneath the clouds

As fire consumes your glowing skin, reaching up your 

Fingertips like snakes 

Betrayed, you let it consume you until an ugly

Plot of dirt scrapes the remain of the black silk

From your hair, and you hit me so hard that my orbit

Catches its breathe for a second and the sun shudders 

At the pain. 

As you close your eyes for the last time you look around,

See a distant tree, a collapsed house and wonder why

You left 

Not even noticing the small pink flower pushing

Through the sand. 

Dance

I had the privilege to photograph some of the very talented dancers at my school the other day. I recently got around to editing the photos and I was struck by the dancer’s incredible capability to morph their bodies into something inhuman. It was rather beautiful in that way, as if they were escaping from their bodies for a moment.

Morph

Out my window there is 

A rather frail tree with a heavy

Nest that rests on the very top branches,

It has small branch fingers that elegantly 

Emerge from a muddle of frosty white cotton

And feathers and natural soft things 

Sometimes there are dried leaves entangled 

In the mess like a caught bug. 

Once I made the mistake of looking out

The window and down into the nest.

And there were three blue robin eggs

The color of water in the early morning

With a white or black speckle here and there. 

I thought to myself how lovely.

So the next morning I woke at the same time

To see the three blue eggs but one had cracked

And instead of a small, young bird emerging

From the delicately cracked shell 

A rosy pink crystal cut into the sky,

The color of the inside of your cheek.

The next day I wondered to the window 

With a cup of hot coffee in my hand 

And the last two eggs had cracked too.

A sticking black spider crawled up the

Crystal, leaving green smudges across

Its glass surface.

There was nothing in the last egg. 

On the third day I woke to a beam of 

Sun hitting my brow,

It was reflecting off the inside of the last egg,

I stuck my hand out the window and looked inside

It was completely made of ivory,

Polished like earrings sitting on my desk.

As I went to class I couldn’t help but notice

The sharp edges of the crystalline forms 

Growing on the shirts of my classmates

Spiders slid down the walls into the desk chairs

And eyes made of ivory stared at blank chalkboards. 

We are all made of crystals, spiders, and ivory things

In a world of silently squawking birds. 

On Suicide

I’m sad because you let the 

Flames singe your beautiful wings 

Until they curled in dark blackness 

Like ash in the fire. 

I’m sad but the tears that wash my face

Only crumble burnt wings 

Until they’re dirty piles on the cruel floor 

That housed delicate feet that couldn’t 

Handle the glass on the road. 

I’m sad because you used to tell 

Me things about how the wind 

Feels in your blue wings and you would

Smile at the intricate patterns 

In your skin and tell me how beautiful

We all are and you fooled me into 

Thinking that you liked the shapes of your fingernails. 

I’m sad when I saw all the people

Crying the kind of tears that don’t happen

That often and I’m sad when somebody 

Hugs me because I can feel their 

Sadness through the cotton of their shirts. 

But most of all I’m angry:

Because you told lies like snake 

Tongues between your teeth singed

With poison like all the people before

You that thought leaving was better

Than staying, that thinking you could

Stay in the bell jar below the desk 

Until someday you turned the 

Engine on all night and the fumes

Tasted sweeter than air. 

I’m furious because you were the last

Straw this year, you broke me, you 

Broke my skin, there are tears in my wings

And I don’t understand why every time 

You saw tears in mine and fixed them

You never thought of the tears in yours. 

I’m confused because these emotions 

Are running into each other and bleeding 

Out of my fingertips and down my pant leg

I feel anger, resentment, deep deep sadness,

And profound love for a race of people

With beautiful skin who sometimes refuse to 

See it, that tell lies that they’re okay 

Who think that bell jars are safe havens 

When singed wings will only suffocate. 

Your sadness is not beautiful,

It is utterly devastating

And my anger will not subside until

I see your life not as a plea for help

But as a glimmering pattern in the

Wings of the many people you left behind.  

Canada

I just got back from a great ski trip/vacation/spring break in Canada. I truly do love it there and I was so inspired to write. The drastically different beauty was breathe taking and I can’t stop thinking about their gorgeously tall and elegant trees. So I should write a poem about that. Yes, it has been decided. My dear followers, please expect one in the near future.

Don’t Ask me to Explain

There it is

My heart pinned down,

Shifting shoulders shoved back

On the dissecting tray like

A dead animal so its beats

Slow down until they’re faint

Whimpers coming from a sad mouth.

So you can see where the mad

Parts are in the corner;

Hunched like famished wolves

And where

The happy parts reside, you can

See the lonely clouds come in and

Out over the peaks of memories

That are dripped in snow.

You can see it all, sterile on the tray

But you could have seen it

In my face too, written in the

Circles in my eyes, like tree trunks.

You didn’t have to shove me on the ground

Under a magnifying glass.

You can poke the sharp tools at the

Pink organic skin and feel

The heart breathing, lungs pulsing.

There are balloons attached

To the love, to the sad

That float above the tray.

You can’t point your sharp tools at

Them because of their rubbery skin,

Falling like garbage to the ground.

The balloons frame faces like

Pictures of landscapes and sometimes

They’re tied so close to my

Heart that the rubber seems to graze the

Snow capped mountains and

Other times, the balloons are so far away.

Those with the distance have scissors in their

Pockets and those close are so fragile

In their proximity.

So every effort I’ve made to float above

The dissecting tray becomes nothing.

So there we lay,

My heart and her balloons

Like a rare spectacle in the lab

Because it grew mountains and

Valleys and rivers in the veins of my

Bloodstream- because the balloons

Are the closest scientists have come

To studying my love, my sadness, to

The humanness of humanity;

Because maybe the heart can’t be

Scientifically dissected without cutting

Loose the strings.

Poking at the anger will only make it worse,

And the mountains of memories will never stop

Growing, my veins carrying the remnants of a

Good life, my sadness, my anger, my love are

A thriving natural world not ready for the

Sterility of explanation.

A Treehouse

There is a treehouse in my backyard,

And I built it with my grandfather’s hard

Work and skills enough so it stood,

Nails and planks of wood

From the fallen bushes and trees

Near the old fence weeds,

Close to the little dry creek

And the cave dwellings of those crayfish

Who built their homes on ancient cups and dishes.

There is a treehouse on the cottonwood bark

Where the free birds sit and pick the bark stark

And a green slide to the bottom

Where the snakes hang, but I don’t bother ‘em

I put a rug on the wood ground up there

With a circle of discarded chairs

Rests on the fringes so I don’t get splinters

But the snow covers them in the cold winters.

I nailed some shelves into the walls too

So I could put the mason jars that catch the dew

And the cracked china with the creek shells

A tiny little necklace of bells

I found old whiskey bottles

Some rusted car throttles.

I was a collector, an entrepreneur of old things

I even have a glass box for butterfly wings

I would grab a book from the library

Sitting in the treehouse until the sky turned starry

Until my mom brought me hot chocolate

A blanket, and put my hand in her pocket.

But, the nails are coming out

And I doubt

The rug is there anymore

Or how I could restore

The broken chairs

Or climb up the rotting stairs,

But I can’t help but feel like a child

When I see the vines climbing the tree wild,

I bring a book up there and sit in the leaves

Not caring if the snow freezes

My cheek because I refuse to let it decay

Without just one last day

That I can sit there for a long time

Ignoring the daily grind

Listening to the wind in the trees

Knowing truly what everything means.

Little Red Riding Hood

Simple beauty never ceases to amaze me

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