Emily

Young girls in patriarchy:

She didn't quite understand the word.

We were never that smart in the beginning, but it's like getting a drift of

fascism, or rape.

Stealing and verbal abuse,

gaslighting, and manipulation

dismissive conversation

subversive alienation

favoritism folly

segregation

denile and lies

social media spies

war loving gun toters

and racist homophobic hate mongers...

You can ask mother for a definition, but she won't know either.

Maybe around 30 years of age or so she'll decide her own fate,

and what it means to have been indefinitely erased. ..

Have your clothes taken off after a thunder storm.

After you are cold, and drenched to the bone,

and the term "Monetary value" is shrugged.

There's no riches in my blood.

She is of the same.

You too are just as worthless;

young child of the same womb.

Fine wines age.

That's when they hold a value.

But I

was a bad year.

Every one after that was fruitful.

The suiters praise, and fathers should mourn,

because by thy fruit has verily been spoiled.

She's useless brat

that I had many hopes for.

When she cries out about death,

when kings and masters dispute our final match,

I will no longer hold a fight.

She's an adult now, with her own thoughts an ideas.

I must have tried a hundred times to cease before the next hour

while she extends throughout a million lifetimes...

as a girl who I will remember

without any name.

Reasons for writing----and the backstories that have been hidden in creativity.

Hello Readers,
I have maintained this blog for years, and had received questions every so often about where it comes from.  Sometimes people know exactly who I am referring to.  Other times, people are waaaaay off.  Sometimes it's about something I've been going through, and sometimes it's something that happened a very long time ago.
Poetry, in my opinion, is a creative outlet for feelings we are having a hard time expressing.  That being said, I will be writing explanations (to whom which I owe no one, just to clarify) in my Medium account.  You can also search my written pieces that are on this blog through 40 Story Radio tower on Medium too. 
I will link each piece I choose to have a dialog about on Medium.  So follow, if you dare!  You might learn something about yourself that you never even knew!

And as a writer, one of the things that I've always been interested in doing is actually invading your comfort space. Because that's what we're supposed to do. Get under your skin, and make you react.
-Stephen King


https://medium.com/@annekrajnak/courage-is-a-hell-of-a-thing-7321183079f4

Love to Hate me

It's easy to blame.
Talk out of both sides of your mouth.
Forgetting some inconvenience
from a tattle tell
jealous heart.

Paranoia hangs a trust
that is one lie too many.
If you can remember
what you said to me,
or the touch I had to see
broadcasting what I should
ignore in vain.

I can't feel sorry for intuition
because the ones who love to hate me
clarified it to be so.
Call it tough love.
Explain to me that no one will care
as time goes by.
Their happiness is my lonesome agreeable pessimism,
and my aches stem
from a deformation of character
I unknowingly placed
into condescending hands.

I review stupidity in bed.
Rise like I ran a marathon
shaking nuances of visions
into my head.

Tell me I am ridiculous.

Nervously laugh at my shame.
The love should be freedom
not chains,
or fused lips to dread.
To share with ignorance
criticizing much past
cursed lethargy in topics
that should be dead.

Love to hate me.
It requires energy,
and a time worth spent.
So you can sleep tonight
never worrying.
Everything is alright
while heavy sighs explain
tyranny without slumber
in a flaming bed.

The sneaking balance holds true.
I am off kilter of anything I do.
You can love to hate me.
To walk I need to first
learn how to stand up
for what is right,
and you are not.

It takes confidence in my truth.
Aren't you proud to say I doubt myself once again?
May all of your profits be sold.
The costs are an empty soul.
I nod, and smile
like I always do.
It seems easier to admit
when you aren't bothered by my bill
as long as I don't make you pay for anything.

Staying remorseful
to make sure everyone else
can receive the gain.
Because they love to hate me,
and at least I cause an emotion,
or a feeling
by words that could be better off unsaid.
I'm going to write it anyway.
Even if it means I am a stubborn, misguided brat...
like you say.
I chose to exist like this
another day.

The proof is in discouragement.
I invite you to love
even when it was decided to hate,
and for this desperation
we'll call it fate.
To karmic flows of profanity
spoken with my name.
This is the character of grudges
receiving all your blame.

They unknowingly celebrate
my wretched existence everyday.
By judging and smirking
sarcastically at my pride.
Posing great self esteem
suggested that you've never lied.

Simply, love to hate me
especially when you see me cry.
Insulting my intellegence
because I decided to live
and not die.
For courtship of worth,
and fair weathered friends...
dumbfounded mistakes to which
doesn't break,
but contorts and bends.
You know what has persistently been true.
You love to hate me,
and it will always be the same
until I comply and do exactly
what you tell me I should do.

This life isn't my own.
I bet on low priority
a remorseful thoughtless
temperamental minority
that never brings joy to mind.

Let's just see how much the unfaithful
enjoy being called out.
It's easy to blame.
Have a discussion that goes in one ear
and out the other.
Absence of precision
tells a lot about a person
who has a broken heart.

Whenever I should feel happy again
I am quickly reminded how
they love to hate me.

Ladders of Vainglory

At the ground level
debris builds around a ladder
with unsated rungs
of vainglory.
These are the bars that lead to proprium.
Ostentation supposedly misguided
as friendly conversation.

I lay back and look to the sky
numbering the bars of this estimation.
How far will I go to win your friendship?
My dignity was a cheap thrill to gasconade. 
A slight brush of hand directing movement
that I regrettably followed forward,
but only as a means to please you, vainglory. 

Your ladder is much like a see-saw
creaking and swaying
from the applause
to your disdain.  
Take my words
and use them to your liking.
Cut and sand
splintered steps
because it's only an illusion. 
A way conciet offers a favor
then becomes a victim
because I took advantage of
irresolute kindness. 

My mistakes take note of your ego. 
I can't really rise above
on this broken ladder that you provided. 
Vainglory loves to see me fail. 
When I do
expect to know
through my exploitation. 
She is only happy
if she can look down on me.

Aesthetic

Aesthetically,
warm my heart
as if you are my cup
in the morning,
pressed against my chest
as I stare at shimmering, damp leaves.
They lay on the ground,
not urbane
or with your type of certain appeal.
Listless, and unappreciated for the season of death.

I marvel at such beauty;
Rays of sun between branches of trees....
It has since been raining,
and the aesthetic influence
of afflicted eyes and a drawn, aging face
said there was nothing warm
or comforting
about Autumn...
or how I choose to state an
out of context arrangement of words
piled on each other
as the leaves compacted under my heavy, awkward rain boots every day.

Under is all,
I know there's something inspiring.
An aesthetically proven chance
to mention a refrain.
The calmer, clearer meaning
to my heartfelt behavior.
Something lovely, without annoyance.

He asked if there was something I was sad about this October.
I can finally give an absolutely breath taking answer:
You my dear.  Only you.

Silver Hair

The singular silver hair

on his head

was what I counted

instead of sheep 

every night

 just around 2 a.m.

But it's only one,

and I lay awake

 with these lists of my personal

insolence and temperamental 

self-control.

I can only estimate how many times he 

had to smooth

and comb over 

from the ruffling breezes of

exhaled sunshine

now saturated with rain,

or maybe tears...

I can't tell. 

I am focusing on making lists.

Many lists. 

Lists to keep myself distracted.

Like the full head of hair he has

tucked under a hat. 

These are just lucid accounts where 

 I should beg to brush my fingers across his head

as mine

 has not been comfortable for hours.

Actually, days.

 Some of which he knew I hadn't slept.

I try to close my eyes.

I will keep quiet.

Whatever makes you happy.

The lists stay awake

breathing heavily at dawn.

His hair, the clock.

My hands.

The pain in my feet.

Cobwebs in the corners

where the ceiling meets the wall...

The wall.  

The one I put back up.

I see that it's raining again.

How many other worries can I jot

down tonight?

I stopped counting after one.

Sister's wedding.

Train whistles that sound

 just like everywhere else. 

 I used to think that it was romantic.

I'm not feeling well.

 My torn clothes.

 Inadequate heat.

Spider bites.

Broken down cars.

Him....Him...her...

Too much coffee.

 An entire 6 pack of beer....

The concerns about lies.

Who is lying to me? 

Someone... I just know it.

All of the groceries are laying out on the counter.

 Rotten, because no one put anything away.

There was a woman on the bus that told 

everyone to read the Bible.

 I don't think there's ever going to be

an end in sight for me.

No rest for the wicked.

That's what they say about me you know,

and Jesus Christ, I sure am an asshole.

Father, or that other one.

Absentee Mothers.

Alcoholic stepfather.

 Award winning, timely exits.

He said I didn't leave a moment too soon.

I usually know when I should,

except that one time...

What about...

 half lit cigarettes

 strewn across a porch.

 Homeless men throwing 

 beer cans at you as you try

to cross the street.

What's my problem anyway?

She said I was fucking stupid.

He was livid when I wondered why 

 there wasn't a trace of a smile on his face.

I don't have the right to ask questions anymore.

Don't care. 

 Just don't give a shit.

Let go!

I dressed up very pretty 

 last week to find a little confidence,

but the man laying on the sidewalk 

 said my true colors weren't shining that day.

He was right.

I am not going to ask why.

Back to counting.

1....2....3

It's getting very late.

Breath.

Don't rip your clothes.

You don't need another cigarette.

Calmly now,

try to get some rest.

Think happy thoughts....

There's only one silver hair on his head.

It's my favorite.

 

Weatherman

If the sun in the sky
should set the past in
clouds that brim the morning;
Turbulent in the middle of yesterday
and usually gone by afternoon.....
Then the sky was blue
as the color of your eyes
tangible in my refinement.
Stay strick.
It's always as unpredictable as the weather.

Come day, go day
as there seems to be nothing new,
but it's a whistle in the air that blew
quite loudly enough
to draw all the foggy dew;
trembling in steamy tea leaves
and those who
evidently
know you.
Can you predict the future?
No.
But trust as those bright horizons will ensue
as a bolt of lightning
or hurried engagements brought forth who
will celebrate your new day
and said they will see you through.
Trust is a prediction.
I spend much time betting it all
on everything uncertain.

My dear weatherman,
I said it's been storming
and you replied with half of a forecast.
I am clearly waiting to step outside
to hear engaging silence,
and a warm breeze to wrap my head around.
I'd settle just for an overcast
 so I can be the one
who
dared to stand against
 a force of nature...
 Be sure to tell me if there seems to be a storm up ahead.
Take cover and shield me when I can't get out of my head,
and we will be fine.
Just never,
and I mean ever
lie about weather.