How far could this go?
Illusionist pacify your need for
Substance,
Morality conquests.
You need a steady hand,
So you grasp for God but clutch
Straws instead.

The veil on your eyes show
White on your side but
Shade black for the rest of us.
Failure to adjust
To the misconceptions.
Failure to conceptualize
Scriptures misguided.
We taste the bullshit but
You still believe.

How far could this go?
Illusionist give you a chance to
Rectify magic-
Redirect madness-
Based on fiction, a fashioned
Story book.
But you still take their words
In a literal context
And build your life upon
Imaginary content.

That book is of liars; fiction writers.

That book is of liars; fiction writers.

Grand Rapids has my body;
the road has my heart.

Spread my wings just to see what becomes of me.
How is it that my hands can feel the clouds
When my feet still drag on the ground?
Kicking up soil of sweet nostalgia,
Reaching to my lips, a confectionery’s bitterness.
The truth is, I’m not sure how I’ve come to this.
When your head can feel the breeze that
The soles of your feet cannot,
The mid-space; the commonplace
Becomes shallow and vast. Too difficult to get past.
It’s where our bodies get stuck when our
Souls refuse to meet our hearts-
Or the other way around-
We cannot commit to the skies or
The sturdiness of solid ground.
So we float in this
Mid-space; commonplace.
For eternity, we may never leave
When our dreams are misplaced
in a world too colossal for our eyes to seek.

The truth is…
The truth is…

Some do exist who fly beyond this midway abyss.
And if you can catch them in flight
And pay attention to the astonishing sight,
You’ll see their struggle to lift above is not
Robust enough to crush their undying love for
The skies,
And their wings only pulse harder with
Fervent drive
In attempts to see their dreams materialize.

The truth is
(And I’ll whisper softly, this)
If you learn of these rarities,
You must latch tight and listen closely.
For these song birds sing to share melodies
Of hope and major chords so bright
To strengthen your own wings and
Prepare to lift you in your own flight.

Grand Rapids has my body;
The road has my heart.
Grand Rapids has my body;
The road has my heart.
The mid-space has my body;
The clouds have my heart.
Spread my wings and watch
As my world falls apart.

All that glitters is gold.
At least that’s what they tell us
and so by default, it’s what we know.
When the clouds hang low
and grace our presence with the threat of snow,
we close our eyes to spite the sun -
now hiding behind storms misunderstood.
We wait for winter to pass
and hope it doesn’t last past March.
Because we know that there is greener scenery
in the next season’s grass.
Grab tightly. Think lightly.
Imagine that we’ve jumped ahead to
the dusk of June;
and even warmer still: July’s moon.
Michigan lakes
glisten in August.
Michigan hearts
swell in harvest.
Michigan hands turn black and
freeze in refrigeration
in the first month’s
wintry blast.

Michigan hearts…

beat slower…

with frigid lovers.

All that glitters is gold
unless those sparkling hearts turn cold,
then we’re just…

I am immovable.
I am immortal.
I am elevated by love
and destroyed by silence.
I am focused.
I am in flight
but I am sorrowed by the sight
of our hearts crumbling.
I question everything
but I am certain of my purpose.
We breathe for a reason and I will not
accept that my breathing is fruitless.
I have found weightlessness
in the demolition of resistance.
My soul is a vessel to carry my voice.
My body, a creation to make that possible.
The only choice I have ever had
was to enlist my talents and
give my destiny a heartbeat,
or to sell out to a disillusioned mass
and join a fear-stricken middle class
and let my soul die of irony.
But I choose to be free
and that choice is mine to keep.
With my pen and paper,
microphone and speaker,
I am a vehicle
for this visionary.
I am everything that they feared in me.

In the last six years,
what started as an expression of art
has become much more like a body part.

I remember dreaming about you,
imagining how it would feel as I walked down my hischool halls
thinking of how stunning it looked attached to Brody Dalle’s.
Everyone else told me not to do it,
arguing that it didn’t fit my personality
but instead of heeding their wise words,
I took action to turn my reveries into reality.

In august of two thousand five,
I left the nest for the very first time.
Packed my things, flew out from under my parent’s wings
and I was finally free at the age of nineteen.
It took me not more than twelve hours and thirty minutes
to find a willing participant
to apply a little pressure and a quick pinch,
slide the metal through and cinch.
In moments, what I had envisioned throughout my teenage years
was now a tangibility to set me apart from the bulk of my peers.
I may have been nervous to reveal my new self to my parents,
but fear, I did not
because I knew that soon they would reach acceptance
and in no time at all, their anger had been forgotten.
Years passed by and not many could understand
my reasons as to why I stood my ground
when I refused conservative jobs and their dresscodes
just to keep you around.
I wouldn’t conform to anything for anyone;
you were my direct out.
When others shook their head in shame,
I held up mine, high and proud.

You were not just an accessory,
you were a declaration of independence.
A chance to prove myself fearless
to an undaring existance.
You helped me to weed out disapproving lives
as we stared down harsh judgmental eyes.
The statement that adorned my delicate face
helped to unveil those who hid behind deceptive grace.
But more so, you had a hand in developing
the strength in my voice; the power in my stance
and though paying off student loans faster
may have seemed compelling,
I knew that your removal would only lead me
to jobs that would not last.
Because you were more than just an adolescent fling
and you reach far beyond just another piercing.
You were a main component in my maturation
and a prominent fixture of my early twenties.
As I turn twenty six this month, it’s time to say
goodbye to my sixteen year old dream
because ten years later, I have become what I
have always wanted to be.

So thankyou for representing my reservation-free identity
and R.I.P to my faithful scenester lipring.

2005, the day I got it pierced:

2011, the day we parted:

©Jennifer Bartlett 2011