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Cym's GD Asylum

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About this blog

Random musings, rants, poems, etc. as I so choose to post from the non-workings of my mind.

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I wrote this one a while back for my little brothers. I was pissed off because I had the original saved on my ipod, before it went crazy and deleted some of my notes. I was only able to remember most of what I had written, but I finally found my first draft last night, so I just added the missing lines. I'm pretty sure it's finished now.


Little boys,

I left whispers on your pillow

Did you feel them?

I came and left in the smoke of the night

A flurry from the valley winds

A flutter from your eyes

I was beside you once more

And then,

Before the dust had settled,

Before my imprint stayed on the blankets,

I ran back to the west

But never forgetting

To leave kisses on your cheeks

To mumble farewell into your hair

To hum you for you a soft prayer

In your minds I was probably just a dream

So let those dreams be of love

And warm you long before the sun rises

Sleep well,


BJ (Porcelain Eyes)

A poem I wrote about...someone. It's still pretty raw, but I would appreciate any feedback.


I’d like to think of him as the unsung hero

Though he has hundreds to steal your heart

He looks best when peering out the window

Through the filters set up for his art

The edges, the gray, and the ageless lines

How many would he adore?

This love he writes so wistfully

Bought on clearance at the record store

“Be silently drawn” over his heart

And you’ll wish it was only skin deep

This masochistic love affair with his memory in song

Can always leave plenty of time to weep

I’d search a hundred pages

For one word to describe his soul

My debt and gratitude are only enough to last this lifetime

That it took one hour to behold

He looked at me once, and I don’t remember

He smiled at her twice, and I will never forget

There is envy in rage, solitude in love

Such a connection I have never met

What stage does he live for, I wonder?

How deep do his canvas lights go?

I’m equal parts terrified and saddened,

If maybe he has been painted by his own show

Thousands want him for that night, that touch, that kiss

Their only key to peer into his world

And I cannot be satisfied with a simple window, a key

I yearn to hear and feel the room unfurl

To know the eyes and to know the room

To know exactly what chord he plays my heartstrings in

And to remember each repression he can pull from me

How much more desperation he can leave wanting in

Night's Fury

I wrote this poem randomly after watching the Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides, and remembering how much I used to love mermaids as a kid. Just something that popped into my head.


You killed my mermaid dream

The siren song

With the harpy’s wail

Your branch of mythology

Those tales I imagined in reverse

Shedding my legs

Sliding back into the water

Forever is where I wanted to be

I longed to become

The fantasy

Of chivalry

The destiny

Of fortitude

The lighthouse

For the lost

Beckoning hope

In the swirling fog

But you brought your voice

And drew out the swell

The maelstrom screamed louder

The riptides crashed and fell

There were no melodies then

The coastal drift

Wandered into the sea

And the enchantress’ song,

Only a fleeting memory


I'm reposting this here, since the WIMHA forum is closed (again)...


And where are you calling me from, little one?

You think it’s

This fire creeping from my gut

This tumultuous gut

Where I’ve kept everything I’ve ever regretted

Everything I’ve never wanted to know

It’s now eating at my brain

It starts with them

It always started with them

I needed them to know what I’m really like

I needed them to see what cavernous love

What greedy love I can lavish on them

I feel it coming now

The slow fire that only destroys, never warms, never warns

Until it’s just too late

And I can’t see, I barely remember how to breathe

And I call out for you

I somehow find you

Where am I?

When did I say I wanted this?

I never liked playing with fire.

Can I push it away this time?

Can I remember how to pray it away?

I really do hope so.

Where did my time go?

How did I get here?

What did I say?

Hands Create, Mouths Destroy

All I hear is popping,

Scraping, Ringing, Slapping

Sensuous, Slivery, Slimy

It all sounds the same to me

Ripples down my back

Find the barest,

Most merciless part of me

Housing my deepest regrets

Embarrassments, afflictions,

Perhaps conflicting personalities

Slide and settle

Glitter and rustle

Phantom tongues insinuate and violate

In the worst possible ways

They leak, they drip, I sweat

Cold and shut down

I was lucky to hear the hum

The rumble, vibrato touched my feet

Warm light met my hands

I could finally cover my ears

To shut out the sloshing

Till there was only bumping,

Beat, Hum, Beat

A nimble, deft motion

Thoughtful, caress…


No S!

No Soft, No Strum!

No, no, no…

Okay, only calm

I can handle calm, the warm remained

“Take your time,” you told me

“Minutely or monumentally,

It won’t matter, it’ll all be up to you.”

It took forever to think, until finally,

A glimmer.

“Resolute.” Determination,” echoed out of the corner

And I realized.

The heat bloomed inward,

Unfurled every artery, every numb vein

Tapped my frame to life again

I formed new thought

And I crackled, I shuddered, I shook

I stretched and jumped and looked

Towards the sun and morning light

With tears brimming,

I appreciated your strength.

It’s very rare I find a voice

So gentle as yours

Master the Fox-Hole

Not too crazy about the title, but it's the best I can think of for now. As always, comments are appreciated! xoxo


You have the magic touch,

The silver tongue,

The gangrene thumb

For sowing the seed

Of discord and doubt

You know too well.

Once it’s planted,

It smolders and spreads

Tearing through the plains

Ripping past and chasing fast at the heart, the undergrowth

Or else rising in pretentious waves

The signal smoke decree,

“It’s over now,

All your air are belong to me.”

You assume I know nothing

Of this self-seeking aggression

The desire for control

And sympathetic repression

You think I don’t know

What foundation means

Holding life in your hands

Swirling hope and watch it drain

Through your fingertips

It means power, pride, and freedom

All in one shaky,

Ever so shaky,

Pillar of Dreams

I could never thrive in a world

That thrives on me

What good would it do me

To be the mover, the shaker

To wreak havoc and enmity

To lay waste to civilizations

To completely destroy foundations

And declare myself king

Of ground zero?

I would still be feeding on the rubble

Which brought me there

You call it weakness

I say it’s courage

Courage to know what battles

Are meant to fight

Courage to know that through silence

Is where I find my truth

Courage to stop

And let everyone else find their own

My strength invests in observation

I observe and I know

Yours will all be over soon

I'm Always

I feel like this one's finished, but you never know. I would appreciate any comments. Thanks!


I’ve always dreamed

Of living inside the stars

Existing as a part of a muse,

A movement

Towards that inevitable something,

Everything, to happen

A small token of reception,

This inception of belonging

To a much more monumental, me

But every time my voice joins the crowd,

I know I’m closer

These words that were not

Ever written for me

The melodies that were not created

To orchestrate my soul

But, like so many selfish nights,

I look up and claim them as my own

I scream like I’ve sung

I dance like I’ve lived

I cry like I’ve laughed

I love

Like I’ve deserved

My chest burning, arms raised

My throat raw, voice lost

Fingers inching and itching

Towards that edge

Of oblivion

I can’t hear through the scream

I can’t see through the sweat

I can’t feel through the press of the crowd

But I know exactly where I am

I am free

The words soothe my core

The wet grotto of echoing cries

I thought I’d forgotten about

The bass beats reset my heart

I remember how it was supposed to sound

As all other noises fade into each other,

Through the feedback I can hear

That whisper, a promise

Of now

Of forever

Then and later evaporate

I evaporate

Spread me among the sky

I can reach now

Waiting Out the Storm

This is a poem I've been slowly adding to for a while, just a musing about my perception of the rain depending on where I'm at.


More than enough rain

To drown out the rage

Too humid to want


But that electric scream

The scream that soothes the swell,

That embolic tidal wave

Threatening to become the tsunami

The only chaos that calms

Blood-blinded confusion

I am become your hurricane

Free my heart and make it sing

Drain my blood and make it dance

Grab hold of my soul

And take it down, down, down

When it rains,

I remember where I am

The heavy drizzle

Beats down the city

Rattles the glass panes

And brings the wind to shake

This concrete paradise

Your power is out

The gentle shower

Moves and flows through the dirt

Nurturing the life within

Only on the reservation

Have you experienced

Rain like this

We are born from water

We know it well

And so,

Through thick and thunder

We wait

Our hands are still

Our souls are calm

And our eyes glistening

Our minds listening

We wait for the flash

The signal

The earth is alive once more


I wrote this poem for my dad's sister, whom I haven't heard from in 7 years. I never thought too much of it, but then my dad told us he heard from our grandparents that the reason she doesn't talk to me, my brother, and my sister is because we're "not Christian enough." Being Native American, that struck a chord with me.

Please, no atheist comments, that's not what this is really about. xoxo.


I’ll never be your baptized baby

That mewling catastrophe of Original Sin,

Nestled by the swaddle of thorns,

And drowning in the sap of your olive tree

I’m just too innocent

I was born in that in-between,

Where the lines of faith and fear

Are blurred from that first breath.

I forgot to hit my head

And then it was up to me.

I was raised in that double-wide, double standard reservation

You never bothered to visit me at.

You became the nomad,

While I became the settler.

Where do YOU call home?

I lived in her world long before

I ever knew to struggle in yours.

I’ll never be “Christian enough”

Because “blasphemy”

Was the first word I learned.

The first smell I knew was cedar,

The first taste I knew was corn,

The first love I had was the light.

My blood ran through this nation of sinners,

The only place where my heart beats right

You found your faith through fear

I kept mine with love.

Though I prayed and sang in your language,

I heard the answers and music in hers.

What damnation am I fearful of?

Whatsername, the Rebel

This is the updated version of the poem I wrote. I'm pretty proud of it :)


My routine changed

When I put my hands on the wheel

And I was in charge again

They should have never let me drive

They should know I’m bad with maps

They should know how easy it is to remember

What “impulsive” means

Programmed into this gas pedal,

It can mean danger

Or fun

I wandered, I browsed

Craving no thing, craving no one in particular

Blank without peace

Aimless became need for the monotone

As the train dulled to the slow roar

Of my frustration,

My “it” became the “COFFEE” sign

And I shifted

I turned my right to my left

I put my drive into park

And she changed my mind

I could tell you about her face

I could tell you about her hair

I could tell you about the dress

I could even mention her voice

But not one thing caught my attention

Her presence hit me in waves

Not to mention,

Smitten is a dirty word these days

Caffeine-lust adrenaline

Burned through my attraction

Sweet energy soothed my veins

And sped up my reaction

Pupils dilated in shock, no fear

For this instant mocha addiction

It was only a moment

But it took forever for me to catch up

She smiled, I stammered

She laughed and I remembered

What my name was

She leaned out the window

The warmth of her hand in my rear-view mirror

As I thought:

She smells like coffee

Sounds like a friend

She looks like trouble

How could I resist?

Whatsername, the Rebel

This is a poem I wrote recently about a chance encounter with the girl at the coffee shop. Let me know what you think; I'm kind of iffy on the ending.


My routine changed

When I put my hands on the wheel

And I was in charge again

They should have never let me drive

They know I’m bad with maps

They didn’t know I remembered

What “impulsive” meant

It meant danger

Or fun

I wandered, I browsed

Craving no thing, craving no one in particular

Blank without peace

I heard the train dull to a roar

I turned my right to my left

For a moment

I put my drive into park

For a moment

As she changed my mind

I could tell you about her face

I could tell you about her hair

I could tell you about the dress

I could even mention her voice

But not one thing caught my attention

Her presence hit me in waves

Not to mention,

Smitten is a dirty word these days

It was only a moment

But it took forever for me to catch up

She smiled, I stammered

She laughed and I remembered

What my name was

She leaned out the window

The warmth of her hand in my rear-view mirror

As I thought:

She smells like coffee

Sounds like a friend

She looks like trouble

This tastes like something different

How could I resist?


This is a short story I just wrote. I might need to tinker with it a bit more, but on the whole it feels finished. Let me know what you think. xoxo.


She wandered through the streets with no particular destination in mind, a notebook in her back pocket, just in case. She had long ago learned not to walk around “unarmed,” for when the opportunity struck, she could get a phenomenal idea to help her get out of this godforsaken jungle. If she didn’t write it down, she would be kicking herself later when she tried to remember and the thought had already drifted away into nothing.

She was only here for inspiration, or at least boredom. “It’s a start,” she thought to herself, since her free days would find her hunched in front of her computer or in bed, subsiding on apples and popsicles. Being out in the hubbub of the world was strange, but nothing completely new. If she was of the right mind, she could even be sociable and proactive.

Not today though. Something was different about today. Something crackled the air around her and made her feel the need to venture out of the cave she had created for herself, just to take a look around at the “normal world.” Today she was an investigator rather than a spectator. She browsed aisle after aisle of books with clone covers, only one or two occasionally catching her eye. She would stoop to her knee; check the titles for something she recognized, or could pretend to; give a small sigh and move on. This went on for about three years.

The air was ripe with a hustle that normally wouldn’t accompany a bookstore, but completely appropriate for a chain. The pretentiousness sent a ripple down her back and made the hair on her neck stand up the minute she walked in the door, all the while greeted by the smell of coffee and the accompanying tinkle of the hanging door bell. The salesperson looked at her expectantly and she tried her hardest to look like she belonged here. Her paranoia kept her hoping the salespeople couldn’t sense the echo at the bottom of her empty wallet. Suddenly realizing she was being slightly foolish, she shrugged and let her goose bumps follow her all the way to the journals and writing section.

Handsome, leather-bound covers gleamed up at her, and she felt a twinge of nostalgia and longing. Memories of past journals and abandoned plans for future ones, made her mind wander everywhere from the bookshelf back in her bedroom, to her packed-away box of keepsakes, to somewhere in New Mexico. There, was surely a parchment-bound book half filled with scribbles, pipe dreams, and the kind of naiveté that can only be exchanged between teenage girls; most likely buried in someone’s junk storage or else long since trashed or burned. Her heart suddenly ached for it.

That seemingly plain book was the embodiment of wasted potential. She had always been a collector of journals, and when she had won that particular journal in a campfire game during her freshman year, she was beside herself with giddiness and anticipation. Her friends never understood her compulsion, but how could she explain to them the symbolic significance she always associated with her journals? To her, it was a clean slate and a chance for self-improvement, for her frequency with writing in them always reflected the status of her life and feelings ever since she could remember. She wanted to save this endeavor for something special.

In the end, it became a life-raft, and a poorly constructed one at that. To save her friendship and avoid the growing animosity among their group, she desperately suggested a trade: her sanity for their loyalty. They merely saw it as exchanging a book back and forth over the summer to write in and keep each other company. She was always way more invested in everything for their sake, and they pretended to be for her sake. On graduation day, they said nothing to her.

It never bothered her much, but it always nagged at the smallest corners of her mind, to be aware of that unfinished piece left so haphazardly in the unknown. When she was caught unawares, she occasionally let the paranoia and loneliness slip into apathy and ignorance, maybe even more paranoia combined with a meticulous nature. It then started to drive away all her hopes for “recovery” and control of her future, and she developed a habit of leaving unfinished pieces everywhere for someone to find. She waited.

Two years later she got a call, “We’ll all meet again and catch up,” and in spite of herself she allowed herself a semblance of hope, though she had gained much reserve in the past few years. During the trip, she almost asked about the book, but she had the audacity to think she even had a right to it anymore, so she said nothing. She wanted to demand they return it so she could rip out the used pages. She wanted to burn the testaments and half-winded promises and blow the ashes in their faces so they could allow her to start from scratch. Instead, she sat there and let the time pass when they would all go back into nonexistence again.

Three years later, she pulled herself out of her wandering and resolutely walked away from the journals stand, out of the store, and back to her home. Her cave reached for her from the whispers of incoherence at the back of her mind and the throb on the side of her head, but she ignored it and proceeded to write in her new journal. Her new journal.

Adult Life

I feel like, as mature and headstrong as my brother has gotten in recent years, he still knows so little about real life. All the decisions I have to make, whether they be financial or personal, he always has a comment on it, and it makes me feel unsure about what I'm doing, even if what I'm trying to do will help all of us in the long run. I don't know if he knows the meaning of the word "sacrifice" yet, and just how much I've sacrificed for him and our sister. He thinks I'm just a big worrywart and overly senstive neurotic, but it seems that he doesn't know the true nature of it all. Yes I have dropped a lot of my fears and insecurities over the past couple weeks and I do feel a lot better about it, but that doesn't mean I'm still not consciously concerned for our well-being. He calls it worrying, but I call it being aware and prepared. I just wish he would exercise a little empathy every now and then, instead of judging my preparedness with an apathetic scoff.


This is another one of my more recent poems. It's a complicated love poem about habits and falling back into them. xoxo.

You reached across

Dinner tables

Movie theaters

Back seats

Phone lines


To give me this message

Message of what?

You always hung up

Before I could ask

You reached across

My faraway look in your eyes

All your insecurities on my fingertips

My love in your chest

Your loneliness in my heart

With the whole world watching our every move

And you held me there

You told me you’d be back

And then silence

How do I respond to that?

You reached across

Your arm on my shoulders

Your hand on my chest

Stroking my fingers

Brushing the hair from my eyes

Your whisper throbs in my ear

Telling me you need me, want me

You knew then I was forever yours

That you were capable of destroying me

I waited for you to respond to that

Then I sat up

Straightened up

Woke up to this empty bed

This empty room

The wind beat against the window

Shadows moved along the curtains

Like you were in a hurry to get out

My skin prickled with cold

And I called out

No response

Now only I’m reaching across

Your lines

Your walls

Your haze

Desperate to gather what I thought was all mine

Or at least ours

You step away

You turn away

Too fast for me to catch up

Maybe too long to remember what I was chasing

Days Slip Away

Feeling a bit standoff-ish, but rather than bore you with the details, I figured I should make my first entry one of my most recent poems. I've been sporadically working on this poem for a few years, and I feel like I finally finished it. It's supposed to be read as an end-rhyme, even if the "format" isn't typical of one. xoxo

Days slip away

And so do my dreams of you

Ever coming back for me

You’re not, are you?

The flame has long since blown out

My midnight vigil has gone in vain

Signs that I should give up hope

But my eyes are still tricked by the rain

I figured this was our final car crash

The road blurred and the engine died

Screams right next to my ear

“Not again. This has to be it.”

Please let those screams be mine

No more, never again, I say

Rage moves my feet, regret fills my lungs

Press on, hope is long gone

Oblivion still isn’t far away enough to run

This torch I carried for who?

I don’t remember

Was the heat all because of you?

I wouldn’t remember

No one wants to live a nightmare forever

I give up, I crawl out

Can I spare one last look?

Or will that be the end of me too?

After all, you started out the same way

Just a shiver that the shadows took.

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