How I hold my hands

My hand
Clutching,
Grasping for dear life
Tensing and clenching, as perspiration percolates at its palm.
Jerking back and forth to weave wonder onto the page, to destroy its own image, to draft a new narrative.
Intertwined in a pair to comfort, to soothe, to cry out for compassion, bound together like a promise,
An oath broken as they open and whip across my skin, an effort to convince me of my errors.
Caressing the surface,
Flailing in exclamation,
Smushed and balled to cap off the pain,
Stroking the air of impossibility
Reaching out for the unknown
Wrapped around one another, again bound, promised
Protected

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Dream Story

I followed the impulse up the stairs to stand in my bedroom, to fade into its familiarity. The same bed, the same tousled covers flung haphazardly the past morning. If we each owned a lifelong landscape, in this moment my bedroom would be mine. The same mess...the same solace. Sometimes being in my room feels like an escape. It feels like I could detach from the world and drift into the clouds on my worn rug island. I proceed to bury my face in the blankets, pick up a pillow and press it to my skin, plummet into a sweatshirt. My sanctuary. In here, even if it's temporary, I'm safe from everything else. Free from everyone else. I'm distracted from the inevitable. You're supposed to be looking for something... Ah! Thank you brain for the reminder. I'm here because I'm looking for something! Something I need... I feel my eyes snap into their searching regimen. Scan the room, glance left then right, identify the difference. Find what's out of place.....remove it...

(Sonnet) "Finding the Secret Symphony," & Response to Harry Baker's Ted Talk

Finding the Secret Symphony, Written by Alana W. Watch as the rhythms rise off of the page Words twinkling like starlight, the melody Weaving the wisdom, the song of our age A paper, a piece of our remedy Pencil is poised our sword or salvation Thoughts brimming off of the top of my brain Tempo, allegro, pace of creation Releasing laughter, adventure , and pain Cry for compassion, myriad mistakes Crescendoing chords resounding in me Bawling my narrative, tears could flood lakes A sweet serenade to who I can be The absence of sound, the pencil is still A swift glance around, a sacred thrill Written Response Harry Baker's poems Paper People and The Sunshine Kid inspired me to write this sonnet. Baker's poetry was unique in that it displays the capability of writing. The endless possibilities and the means to move people, the ability to change. Baker's poems reflected the state of our world, and acknowledge experiences I've known too well in "The Sunshine Kid."...

First Day of My New Blog!

Hello! I found a printed letter with unfamiliar, yet recognizable handwriting on it. I read the written message at the bottom of the document, but it didn't make sense. HICU? Barclays? Mom? This message was not written in my mom's handwriting, who is this note from? I looked to the top of the document, I looked to the printed text to discover this letter was from my grandmother. The letter was concerning hospital payments for my grandfather's treatment. He died of cancer among other things a few months ago. I knew I had other notes from classes or rambling, but I had to keep looking. I kept telling myself to find something new, find writing that's not mine. I found it. Writing that's not mine, words I wasn't meant to see.

Watch What Happens, Alana Williamson

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