Internal Scream

Someone once said that silence is the most powerful scream. The trick is knowing when someone really is just silent.

A scream has many faces, many ways of interpretation. A scream has the habit of disguising itself as a greeting face. Big parenthesis from ear to ear may as well be deep marionette lines, but are invisible to the gullible eye. Do you ever notice when someone’s screaming inside? Or why?

If you were more caring, more intuitive, you would. Sometimes I wish someone would notice. But they never do.

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Mister Cool Guy: A Poem

Cool guy

Can’t you see, girl?
I’m trying to get to you,
Doing crazy things
that only artists do.

A shadow of your posts
appears on my feed,
my keyboard gets all eager, girl,
A tweet I must set free.

I try to play it cool,
pretend your face don’t matter,
Date one here and there,
But low-key it’s you I’d rather.

My style, very different for
An erudite like you.
Don’t deny yourself the pleasure
Of calling me your beau.

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I Think I’m Ready

I think I’m ready to live my life the way I wanted.

I think I’m ready to live my life and not look back.
I think I’m ready to see more than white and black;
to fly a little, to wake up late
no voices saying to face the day.

Sit in complete silence from dawn to dawn,
stay up ’til inspiration is gone.
In search of independence I’ve run away,
but the road is long, I’m halfway.

I miss sometimes the days I could write,
when I borrowed verses from the night;
the same old nights that made me ill,
but things seemed always a bit more chill.

Tranquil hibernation is what I long
in a chaotic world that’s gone so wrong.

I think I’m ready to let go of the past.
I think I’m ready to make my way out of the glass;
to mix the air with different waters, shake well,
barefoot walk on grass, break the spell.

I think I ought to live my life, I must.
Letting go would hurt less, at long last.

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Misunderstood Sonnet

“Are you grieving?”

“No,” I quizzically said.

“You only talk about sad things.”

How to tell her that I’m a requiem; an airless breath, a heartless ribcage, a misunderstood sonnet. I want to tell her about the times I’ve stared blank at the silver clouds up in the sky, never hearing a reply. So unable to express the feeling of not feeling. I felt so much that now I grew immune. Just emotionless.

Am I grieving? Maybe I am. Hands forced up in the air by circumstances, while life points a riffle to my back. I’m detained. Can’t escape. Change your ways, they say, for a tree you ain’t. At least a tree can be uprooted and that’s the end. I’d much prefer a painless death.

Sad things because, it’s all my now heartless ribcage knows since long ago. I know of instances and mental getaways, and thoughts of a time when I’m less insane. We sometimes lack the things we need the most. Like Cowardly Lion’s, my courage is a ghost.

She knew nothing about me, yet she noticed all that there was.

©Marcia Capellán

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Pretty Even

She remembers the times
he rubbed it all in her face.
Car payment, shopping sprees,
fancy meals, his fancy place.

Every argument led to one direction,
“I’ve done so much for you;
I’m the answer to your equation.”

Repetitive words
he said so often times,
made her question decisions
she made in her prime times.

Guilt, insecurity, loneliness, and misery,
She raced against life,
trying to change destiny.

Maybe he was right;
maybe she owed him a hundred.
He picked her up, after all,
when her days were thundered.

Pounding her head
with the hammer’s claws
until the impact
cut loose the gauze.

Countless years with no elation
were indeed grounds for cancellation.

Pretty even, she thought,
it had been paid off.

 

©Marcia Capellán

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Still, I Can’t Breathe

My feet up on a table, hands writing my life. Papers, sticky notes, cheap street art. All overlapping each other, hanging from a wall so plain and white. Receipts everywhere; months old, years old. What’s the point of holding on? Organizing them is futile, I long gave up. Paper towel wasted, not my doing. ‘Til Monday I’ll be buried in them, when the trash truck comes.the climb

Outdated tapes hiding years of better days, and people by whom I was betrayed. Standing there begging to be watched, yet another pile of shit I don’t give. A dried bamboo plant wonders why I let it died. But we’re all dying over here, maybe not as visibly as its leaves.

There’s no more room on the coffee table; my bags and other random objects have taken over. I used to be better at putting these away. It’s the end. Can’t find room, can’t find time, can’t find motivation, can’t find…life. It’s as simple as living, if only I remembered what it meant.

Computers with connection. Not one, not two, not three; they’re about six. The great escape is as easy as 1, 2, 3. Walls, they’re more than four. The ceilings are high. Functioning doors from July to July. Big windows welcoming the air. Not too far from the ground if running I should need. Still, I can’t breathe.

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I Want a House Full of Nothing

I want a house full of nothing;
just a clean wooden bare floor,
scented candles and a tall door.

I want a house full of nothing;
a mirror and music to dance to,
red lipstick and perfume for days of blues.

I want a house full of nothing;
counter lights, clean toilet seat,
hot water in tub to soak my feet.

I want a house full of nothing;
just a blackboard on the wall,
chalk, words, and no phone calls.

I want a house full of nothing;
just one fork and one knife,
red wine in barrels for the real life.

I want a house full of nothing;
a winter coat and a few shoes,
passport ready for a world cruise.

I want a house full of nothing;
just pen and paper on my desk,
and big windows by my queen bed.

I want a house full of nothing;
spiced chestnut scented sheets,
peppermint toothpaste and lots of beets.

I want a house full of nothing;
a skyline and double doors,
‘cause rainy days I do adore.

I want a house full of nothing;
a high rooftop and no TV,
bare boobs in the warm breeze.

This house I want that is full of nothing
I’ll fill with all of the little things,
they may seem small to the avaricious,
but pure joy to me they bring.

© Marcia Capellán

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