Category Archives: Poetry

Violet

Violet Sinclair stares at the ceiling in her room. Her parents, when they’re around, barely acknowledge her existence. She rarely leaves her room, only to go downstairs to make instant oatmeal with the sugar dinosaurs in it.

One day, no different than any other, Violet began to feel faint.
She sits on her bed, trying to read her book, while the silk curtains drift slowly in the wind. She’s fatigued, but she’s not sure if she’s catching a cold or if it’s because she’s hungry. In the corner of her room, her Himalayan salt lamp quietly sits.

The words begin to rearrange themselves. Violet rubs her eyes. What? The words begin to say something.

“Hello.”

She blinks. “Uhm, hi.”

The words move again.

“I’m Mahogany, but you can call me Mahog. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too…” Violet says with trepidation.
“What’s going on here exactly?” she says.

“Well, I’m here because you called me.” Mahog replies. “You need to be reminded.”

“Reminded of what?”

“Of the truth, of course! You can’t go around not knowing forever!”

Violet stares at the book, her right eye squinting with confusion.

“When was the last time you saw the sun?” Mahog asked Violet.

“This morning, when I opened my window.” she replied.

“No, I’m not asking about the last time you saw the sun with your eyes. I’m asking when the last time was when you embraced its warmth, and understood its significance.”

“Oh.” Violet says. “Well…a while I suppose.”

The book sits for a minute, with no motion. Then, the text begins moving again.

“Do you have magic in your world?” Mahog asks.

“Well no, I don’t suppose so. To me this world is a rather dreary place.” Violet responds.

“Of course it seems dreary! Your entire world is within these four dark walls. If you step outside, I promise you’ll find something that inspires you. Go to the place where the sun touches and try and find the edge. Then I want you to tell me if magic exists in your world.” Mahog replies.

“But how do I get there?” Violet asks.

“Turn the page!” Mahog replies.

As she turns the page, a metal locket falls on her lap. She notices a switch on the right, and opens it. On the inside is a compass. And on the door of the locket, there is an inscription. True North it says.

Violet flips back to the page where Mahog lives. “What do I do with this?” she asks.

There is no reply. The words have rearranged themselves into their normal position. After waiting few more minutes to be sure, Violet dog ears the page.

Violet stands, puts the book and compass in her backpack, walks down to the kitchen, and puts 4 instant oatmeal packs in the front pocket. She walks through the living room to get to the front door. Her mother sits on the couch, her eyes glued on the TV.

“Bye, mum.” Violet mutters, as she steps onto the front door and closes the door behind her.

After Violet left for her adventure, the quietness of her room was only slightly more noticeable than usual. The curtains continue to drift slowly in the wind, the bed neatly made.

And in the corner of her room, her Himalayan salt lamp quietly sits.

Analysis of Panic Room by Silent Planet

I’ve been listening to this song for a few days now, and I love it. I love the lyricism. There are a ton of clever metaphors. I wanted to take a deeper look into some of my favorite lines.

Selected lyric analysis below:

Lustrous lines obscured by opaque blinds
Frozen metacarpals tap tap tap the window glass

A person afraid of going to sleep, because they are afraid of what they’ll find when they close their eyes. The person in the song is suffering from PTSD from their time serving in the military.

The tap tap tap on the window glass is a vivid descriptor. You can imagine lying in bed, hiding under the covers, while your demons are right outside.

Syncopated staccatos with the broken clock
Synchronized with my post-traumatic ticks ticks

Phenomenal use of alliteration. I’m no English major, but damn, I appreciate this lyric. With every clock tick the person shudders, reminded of a time where every second could have been their last.

We’ve all lay in bed late at night, our eyes glued open at the ceiling. Each second feeling longer than eternity itself.

In my endless dance with entropy
I must rescind my sentience

We all have coping mechanisms. Defense responses to our internal struggles. Some drink, others watch too much TV, others eat. They all serve the same deeper end goal. To silence the voices that are telling us things we don’t want to hear, or remind us of things we do not want to see.

In the endless dance with the internal chaos, we cede our control.

Machines of air looking down on us
The beasts of dust as we grapple heel and hand,
Mud and sand, (blood red oil)
The chaff of the harvest
Converted to currencies of wealthy means
Stepping stones cut from our perforated bones
Riches are reaped beside our bodies sown just to be thrown back again
And forgotten if we stumble in
Laid inside a homeless nest,
Stuck with eager dirty needles,
Shipped to an early steeple
where boxes close
Descend with grace as you defend yourself
Both charitable and chaste
Praise me for my valor, lay me on a crimson tower
Justify my endless terror as my finest hour

Treat me as a token to deceive the child
Whom we fatten for this scapegoat slaughter

emphasis mine

Wow, just wow. This bit is quite political (which I don’t like to get into), but it made me so unbelievably sad. It gets the listener to question who is profiting from war, why we idolize the system that encourages young people to go and die for valor, to come back home and be mistreated and forgotten.

The homeless nest refers to the many veterans who turn to drugs to deal with PTSD, and then get shamed by their communities for trying to deal with their demons in the only way that they could find.

I learned to fight I learned to kill
I learned to steal I learned that none of this is real
None of this is real
None of this is real
None of this is real
But there’s a war inside my head

Another extremely heavy lyric. What is real? Does war end when you return to your family and friends? How do veterans use the skills they’ve learned? What about the millions of people who never fully come home?

to each their own

to each their own
or so I’ve been told

some will stand
others will fold

the apple; doesn’t fall far from the tree
golden or rotten, it’s all the same to me

a person manifests their destiny by taking action
the universe responds with an equal and opposite reaction

Flat Pat

Pat is flat.
And that’s that.
All of Pats friends are fat.
Pat was born to a couple of famished expats.
The fat pack won’t let Pat into their frat.
He tried to show them that he could scat; but on his face they spat.
Pat grows up resentful and becomes an autocrat.
Drat.
He implements new laws stat. Now everyone has to be flat.
And that’s that.

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