Out of the Black

So my dearest friend and soul sister, Kitty, decided to turn her playlist into a poem today. I have to admit, it’s pretty stunning. Thusly, I have been challenged, along with the tagged group of fine writerly types. So here goes.

Note: it’s a little creepy, yet frighteningly accurate. Song titles in boldface.


Out of the Black

Out of the black, I fell
Into the becoming, born anew
But it’s not the Same damn life.
Save today before it ends, before it’s gone.

Have you Missed me?
But What difference does it make?
In the House of the rising sun, you Let it die.
You can’t be my Savior; I can’t be yours,
Though I Want you bad.

Drop me in a Lake of fire,
Clean my wounds,
Instead of The bog I fell in.

Fuck you.
I still Hurt at times,
But I became Orestes,
My life a Vicarious atonement
For Thinking of you.

If I didn’t love you, I’d hate you.

They say “Follow me down the path.”
Then they Take me to church
Where they use Words as weapons.
You know I’m no good,
Yet they Wait and bleed.

When I’m Killing strangers,
I’m a Little monster.
You have yet to Figure it out.

Hear my Footsteps
In the Pure morning,
Before I set Sail
To a Bitter sweet symphony.

Casting my Voodoo on you,
I Go! in search of a new life.
Become The Mephistopheles of Los Angeles,
And come Out of the Black.





The me that you know
smiles and laughs
when deep inside
she feels nothing

tick tick tick

The me that you know
functions through life
when deep within
she’s falling apart


The me that you know
fights every day
through a pain
most cannot fathom


The me that you know
has become a machine
because it’s the only way
she can survive

thump-thump thump-thump thump—


© 2015 Jinxie G



I’ve forgotten how to live
Life kicks my ass
The world spins by
so quickly
I hardly notice
anything that’s happened

And then five years goes by
and I look up

What? When did that…?

I have a broken heart
I hide from
the world
I like to pretend
it’s mended
But the truth is
it still has shattered

I’ve tried to find them all
but there’s a vital piece
The one that makes you
feel whole
feel alive


I don’t think I’ll
ever feel
the same


that’s the point



If my choice
is to stand
or fall
I choose to stand

Against your “rules”
and beliefs
of how I should
live my life

If my choice
is to bend
or break
I choose to bend

Against your corruption
and power
because breaking
is never a choice

If my choice
is to fight
or flee
I choose to fight

Against all the crimes
and injustices
so that others
may live free

to the end

© 2015 Jinxie G

Anne Bradstreet–The Author to Her Book

Good morning, class. Here’s an interesting poem by Anne Bradstreet, which I had to write a paper on for my American Literature class a while back, and I’d posted this on the old Blogger site, so you’ll see comments from that.


The Author to Her Book

Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did’st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad expos’d to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th’ press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I wash’d thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run’st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i’ th’ house I find.
In this array, ‘mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.
In Critics’ hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus’d her thus to send thee out of door.

And here is what I wrote. Not my best, but it explains the poem:

By using the terms, “ill-form’d” and “feeble brain,” Bradstreet suggests that she was not capable at the time of producing something better, perhaps because it was in the early stage of her writing, and so the book was laden with errors. It is the reason she kept the book at her side. She felt it unworthy of “public view.” I can understand how she felt, as my own “rambling brat” is available for public consumption, but not my very first one.

Bradstreet’s book was published without her knowledge by friends who took it abroad—which I determine to be overseas—“less wise than true”, meaning they were not knowledgeable in the art of writing and would not understand or see the glaring errors, but their heart was true in attempting to possibly do her a favor by having it published. The book’s imperfections are what the poem is about, essentially. Bradstreet views the book as a literary child—“offspring”—as most writers view their work, and refers to it this way throughout the poem.

She feels the book inadequate for public eyes and prays that the book does not make it into the hands of critics because the errors within “were not lessened” before publication. When she discovered it had been published, she was quite embarrassed by stating in the poem, “At thy return my blushing was not small,” and she refers to the book as a “rambling brat” like a child without proper manners. She refers that she could not stand to even look at the book when stating, “Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight,” but since the book was hers, she held “affection” for it and would attempt to “amend” its “blemishes.”

Upon making the attempt to fix the errors, she would only find more—“I wash’d thy face, but more defects I saw, And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.” Bradstreet mended and worked the book’s errors, but could not straighten them out. She had in mind to dress it better, perhaps by choosing different words or passages that would gleam of higher intelligence, but could not find the correct ones to choose, or they just simply did not work.

With what she had, she states “‘mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam,” which means that it would be read by common folk, a clear indication that her attempts to make it better were attempts at making it more scholarly, perhaps. Then she states that she prays it does not fall into critic’s hands and that the book travels to places where it would not be known, such as staying within the common realm.

The “Father” usage could indicate an editor, in which the book had none, and she is its “Mother,” and claims that she is poor, “Which caus’d her thus to send thee out of door.” This is a statement in which, while she does not approve of the book being available to the public, perhaps it was selling and she could make money from it.

I would actually like to read this book to see what she is talking about in the poem, just out of curiosity, now that I have read this and analyzed it.

This, of course, is just my perception of the poem. You may hold a different view.


I stand
Before two doors
Looking back
Upon the path I’ve tread

I see it’s worn through the years
Full of potholes and cracks
Heartache and pain
But where the road shines
It’s filled with happy times

Looking forward
These two paths before me
A decision to be made
One leads to Dreams
The other leads to Reality

The Devil whispers
In my ear
Making promises
He’ll never keep
For things I want

But there’s a price

Reality tugs at my sleeve
As I reach for my Dreams
Holding me at a stalemate
At the Crossroads
Of Time

I shrug off
And step through that other door
Where fantasy becomes Reality
As my Dreams come to life

I look back
And tell the Devil:
“You were wrong”


© 2012 NL “Jinxie” Gervasio



Within words

Within gestures

Within expressions

It says nothing

Without words

Without gestures

Without expressions

It says everything

Between the lines

All silence portrays

Words left unsaid

A picture

An action

A reaction

Hidden beneath

Unruly waters

Into the deep abyss




Silence is a beacon

Shedding its light

Onto the path of truth

But you mistake silence

For weakness

For falsehoods

For untrustworthiness

And with your mistake

You sink

Into oblivion

© 2011 NL Gervasio