Welcome to Brigham Young University

Well I just started college at Brigham Young University in Provo, UT. It's a great school with a beautiful campus. However, I just haven't quite felt like I fit in anywhere just yet. No one really understands my odd sense of humor and immense amounts of sarcasm. No one dances like I do, or acts mildly insane like I do. I also found out someone I love very much would no longer be a part of my life by choice. So needless to say, it's been a hard beginning of college. But all college beginnings are hard, I must figure it out in my own way I suppose. So I decided to start writing again. Feel free to read my old stuff, mind the language, I censored nothing. Those were all written out of emotion or lack thereof and are therefore exactly how I was feeling at the time. I hope to continue this tradition in future posts. Honesty more eloquently, j.e.hinds

The Artists Hands

Fists cracking,
the first time their hideous faces noticed,
Canyons and crevices
stretch their ways
across massive knuckles,
Wide palms thick with gritty callouses,
Lines of leathered abuse
climb from wrist to tip,
those tips yellowed and beaten by steel strings.
Bulging edges,
ligaments spilling over hulking bones.
Oven hot scratches
just beginning to heal,
Her grace tore those feminine hands to pieces.
On the back of a steed she powers through,
beauty in it's purest form.
Yet when the gloves come off,
there is nothing left
but ugly, tortured,
cracked, dry, raw,
bony hands.

Rust and Relaxation

Maine roads salt her yellowing paint,

black blades try to scrub the windows 

with rhythmic, lullaby mouse squeaks.

The scent of gasoline buries itself in the exposed stuffing,

and the old radio tells stories about fishing in kneeless jeans.

Rust peels off onto calloused fingers.

The door cranks shut,

and she rumbles her way down dirt roads.

Disclaimer: Whoa mama language

A poem written for that girl, the one everybody talks about, but no one understands, or takes the time to listen to. *Disclaimer - does contain some language*

I am the girl
who can dip my face low,
and yet somehow silence an
entire hall way.

I am the girl
people snicker at,
the girl people
talk about,
the girl you all dream about,
but wouldn't admit
because it'd give you STD's of the mind.
because I'm promiscuous.
Dangerous.
"Rebellious"

But the truth is,
I'm no different than any other girl,
I'm no better or worse.
People call me
Slut
Whore
Bitch
Cheater
Liar
Why can't I be a person?

People do everything I do,
I just got snatched.
Suddenly,
it's me they're talking about
it's me,
they think is keeping every mans bed
sweet
and warm.

Rumors, they turn a girl into that girl.
They turned me into
Slut
Whore
Bitch
Cheater
Liar.

They're just lying to themselves.
And after I'm done,
I just won't give a shit anymore.

They crack down on my honor,
on my ability to control myself.
Tell me,
look me straight in the eye,
and call me those names you wouldn't dare speak,
call me
Slut
Whore
Bitch
Cheater
Liar.

They bounce off me like pebbles on a mountain.
I'll only prove you wrong.
And there's nothing you can do about it.

Narration and Waiting

I sat with perfect posture,

pinching my spine,

cracking nervous knuckles

under a sticky table.

He sauntered in and smiled

with perfectly crooked teeth.

Apathy never looked so good.

Slouching like a coat thrown over a sofa,

sipping milky coffee from a ceramic mug.

"Let’s go for a walk."

A simple request,

an invitation.

Nerves bit themselves under my skin.

I tried to be pretty,

like the other girls,

who slept around his feet

like loyal wolves,

curling,

clawing at his legs.

They waited patiently,

eyeing me every so often.

Each glare was followed by a coy grin,

I was no threat to them.

I was plump.
Awkward.
Homely.

We walked.

To a mossy, rocky river bed.

The stunning, 

radiant,

sultry

wolf mistresses disappeared

as my feet hit the sand.

I felt my body stumble

into a cumbersome, now wet lump.

My pale cheeks 

became crimson cakes on my face.

He laughed with dulcet melodies.

Hidden in the woods, 

his persuasion ensued.

Teeth dipped into my skin.

Shooting a burning star

through every vein, artery and bone.

My blood spun wildly out of control,

leaving the flawless smirk 

pasted on my frozen arms.

Rolling wildly down a muddy hill.

a slip and slide, 

made just for us two

Sprinting,

laughing,

rain drenching straight through

thin spring jackets.

Mud in my hair,

grass on his face.

Water soaking every inch of our skins.

When no one was watching,

he, that one beautiful boy, 

loved me, that one hideously sweet girl.

Now, all I have

is a plum colored bruise,

waiting on my arm

to remember.

Home: Where anger can't find me

Water pushes slowly through the sleepy stones.

Trees hang their leaves so I can touch their skins

while I’m wading through peaceful rivulets.

The anger that once ate away at my stomach

swims away through the broken culverts.

The sirens in the branches call me away,

away from the broken fate I left waiting.

List Poetry

Poems made of list, most commonly put into slam poetry, always fascinated me. I was also very angry the day this poem was assigned, so I decided it should be my inspiration and therapy.


Well, Did You Grow Up, Every man?

Did you grow up in the slums?

Have you ever had to work for anything in your life?

No.

Everything you have,

was given to you,

 for free,

without consequence.

Without callouses,

without scars, burns,

or blood.

Did you grow up, learning that every man would lie to you?

Hold you close just long enough to use you?

Men have left me in a small pit,

 just big enough to cover myself

with a turtle shell, 

so I can look out, 

but never really be out.

Every man left his violet and indigo marks on 

the women who raised me.

Every man pushed me until I cracked.

Every man I’ve gotten to know has done nothing

but stalk through the weed-smothered

gardens of my insecurities,

waiting,

to check my King.

Did you grow up, cooking for nine with money for two?

Did you hear your name while you hid in the closet,

waiting for someone to rescue you?

No. You didn’t. You played silly games, 

ran outside and played those damn games.

The games I never learned.

You toyed with math and learnings,

 in a little mansion by the sea.

You pranced around with your nose

touching the tops of trees, 

so you wouldn’t have to see me under your feet.

Did you grow up, knowing that one day, I’d say this?

How dare you tell me to grow up?

I grew up all right.

I grew up before I could speak like a woman.

I grew up in a world where I was nothing to you,

any of you. 

Did you grow up in a dreadful place,

where you were ignored,

where people only showed up

when you really only fucked up?

Did you grow up where no one saw you,

until your hips busted into curvature,

and you had to save up

so Victoria could share her secrets with you?

No. You grew up listening,

to the sounds of 

dead men playing music

to quotations embracing your private lessons of life,

the keys to being perfectly satisfied.

You grew up thinking you could stand on me.

You grew up like Every Man.

Well did you?

Did you grow up?

Yeah. I didn’t think so.