Michele Mene

My mind becomes lost in branches.

The ever changing dynasty

of years that pass so easily.

For underneath these barren trees

laid men who died

to claim the leaves.

My heart sings with the leaves

that float at the will

of a spring breeze.

They shadowed the lovers

whose kisses meant

everything for in that moment

their story ended

to Hollywood’s theme.

My fingers break the leaves

which fall in Autumn’s keep.

A simple reminder

life is fixed upon

the core of molted lava

and not this ancient tree.

Lets be something antiquated.

I’ll take the role of a damsel.

You can be the hero 

with a tortured soul.

I can heal wounds

and you can free

my spirit’s woes.

We will ignore the sins

which pass underneath

veils of lace and ties.

As there are only a few years

before our lives

become romanticized

in little white lies.

Moving me,

every movement

paired to beat,

as the emotion

becomes too much

to meet.

Some call it art,

I call it a feat.

When tears prick

my eyes

because your soul

became exposed

to me.

So, I’ve been badgering friends for feedback on my book…because that is what they are there for right?  Well anyway, I got some.  And, one of the things said was that they really liked it, but there wasn’t enough sex in the book.  

Now when my friend told me this she kinda sat there for a moment watching me warily, because apparently when asking someone for feedback there should be no expectation of criticism (SARCASM for those who can’t catch it).  And, I just couldn’t help but smirk because that is why I expected.  At some point I expected someone to tell me to write sex into my book.  But honestly, I don’t feel a need to.  Why should I write about something which 1. never took place in a story which is about me and 2. would simply make my book basically like any other thing which can be plucked off a shelf.  

If someone wants to read literary porno they can go find it in plenty of places (I hear Shades of Grey is really good).  Shoot, one of my favourite games to play with a friend, we’ll call her Twinie, is to go into the “Romance” isle and pick up a book randomly before opening the book to a random page and reading from it.  Whoever reads the raciest sentence wins.  After awhile I learned the best books at with half naked men on steroids and women who can’t seem to keep the top half of their dress on while the man holds on to them.  We’d literally fall apart in laughter while reading how the lady was shocked to find the man’s springy hair translated below, or how the lady felt her dress was just too confining.  I mean seriously, can’t people just watch Game of Thrones if they want sex in their entertainment?

I don’t know, I guess maybe I’m aggravated that after “the sexual revolution” the only place a woman who wishes to stay a virgin until marriage can find any sort of solace is in teen literature or the classics.  Or, maybe I’m confused by a culture which sells teenage pregnancy and promiscuity through reality TV in an effort to mock it, while in reality all it does is fuel people to become more like them.  I’m not saying I’m a saint or am going to judge anyone for living their life.  

Maybe I just don’t understand why my voice has to conform into the cliche “sex sells” when I want to be more Amy Adams than Kim Kardashian…

When I was younger whenever I asked my mom if my skirt was too short she’d tell me to bend over.  So, there I’d stand in the doorway between the living room to the breakfast room looking at her from around my leg as she tilted her head to the side for a moment before deeming it to be okay.

In high school whenever they thought we rolled our skirts once too many, mine was usually around 2 to be safe, we’d have to get on our knees to be tested by a notecard.  Well, that and we were reminded that our backpacks caused our skirts to rise up.  But, no one really cared because most of us worse shorts underneath.  Plus, we only saw guys at lunch or randomly in the hallway.  Guys in an all girl’s school are like mirages of water in the dessert.  They send all in little panting moments of fantasy while mindlessly walking towards them to see if they are real.

Now, well, I don’t mindlessly pant after guys.  But, more importantly whenever I ask if my skirt is too short my friends go, “Well it isn’t like we haven’t seen your underwear before.  Most of your dresses are just t-shirts anyway”.  It seems I’ve fallen prey to the modern vajayjay dress.  Basically, it isn’t too short until your vajayjay shows, and then just pray you’ve got on cute underwear.  

So much for notecards and bending over.

Maybe if the recorder played

you’d hear the words

with the emotion laced

that catches my ears

almost every day.

Maybe if the video rolled

you could see my face

your eyes ignored

and the pain

which remains 

in every retort.

Maybe if you took the time

you would know the tears

which I cry

because this life

does not feel right.

Maybe if the moments

were captured

you would understand

mine.

It ain’t a matter of feeling or none.

It ain’t a matter of attraction.

It just is that moment

when confrontation comes.

When the adrenaline begins to pump.

Will you fight or run?

Take away all the exacerbating factors.

Take away all histories.

When everything fades into a background

of white noise.

When it is just us.

I could just stand and look at the ground.

I could be emotionally undone.

So when the moment comes

and the adrenaline begins to pump.

You decide to stay and not run.

But, who am I to judge?

Who am I to point and say

how you should act,

when I’ve got that same plank

and predisposition to flee.

So as the buzz fades back in.

We remember all that has been.

Taking destiny’s subtle lesson

that when both take flight

only regrets remain 

over a fight

we’re too human to make.

Hey!  So, I forgot to post that I finally finished “London I Confess…I’m THAT Girl”!!!  Yes, I’m really happy about it, but unfortunately when I read earlier chapters I realised I changed my writing style partly through…so now back to working on the first couple of chapters.  Oh well, the hazardous life of being a writer who likes their writings to be good…or something like that.  

http://www.wattpad.com/story/985488-london-i-confess-i%27m-that-girl

Don’t worry 

this time passes too.

Every moment 

brought by tears

was just strength

diving deeper.

So let the water 

soften the ground 

for the life and love 

to imprint

upon the soul.