Bricks: inspired by CJ

Look at this collection I've got:

A brick from the wrinkled picture in my wallet

and another for the song he's singing right now.

I got this brick from the words I was unprepared to say,

and two bricks for the time I said way too much.

A brick from our trip to cobblestone streets and pubs

and a brick for the strings on my guitar.

This one is from my mum's wide grin

and thoughts of Prom floating around in our heads.

Lies floating around our hearts.

I've gathered bricks from lonely limbs

and peanut butter honey toast.

This brick is from surfing with my dad

and standing up to him too.

I've got a nice collection, you see.

But the bulldozers headed over.

So stay out of the bricks, 

you belong somewhere else,

somewhere special.

Don't just be another brick.

xx

Sonny Jean

he and her. look at that.

I see the way he looks at her.

And if his sight could stretch 700 miles,

I know he'd still have that derpy look on his face.

But when he closes his eyes, he can see her.

He sees her laying on her back, 

strumming chords,

singing hallelujah.

He sees her.

She sees him walking foreign hallways,

with perfect strangers,

head down,

thinking of her. 

She sees him.

And boy, when he talks about her

it's like she hand-stitched the galaxy,

or at least illustrated theirs.

He marvels at her eyes when she's upset

and drowns in them when she sings,

because paying attention to anything but her

when they're side-by-side

would be nothing short of a miracle.

He's got a past and she's out of his league,

but they've been friends since 4th grade.

Best friends since 6th.

And said goodbye in 9th.

But they knew it was more of a see-you-soon,

call-me-when-you-land-in-Utah, type of deal.

They're not even together, but he'll

buy the first ticket to wherever she is--

All she has to do is say the words.

She's the first 12 lines in 

every journal entry and 

he's her back scratch in church

and chicken noodle soup on a sick day.

I don't know if they've ever kissed,

but their words have touched enough to

mean something,

and their hands have held 

long enough to feel it too.

And who said love means kissing?

And to think this could be me and you.

xx

Sonny Jean

Please don't play it safe

Love was a starlit spark on the last day of our summer.

The morning school drifted in, Love had morphed into a
stoic, foggy glance that I didn't recognize.

For quite some time, Love took a selfish vacation.
Dad told Mom to sign the papers,
and my birthday present was moving
half of my crap to the other house
and buying another set of everything
to try and make it feel sort of like home.

I didn't think Love was a cheater,
but I felt cheated.

But hey, Love rolled back in,
Like a drop of red food coloring
in a vase of pure water.
With sweeter talk and darker eyes.
Love was my first New Years Kiss
and Love snuck through my window
when no one was looking,
but climbed back out when I wasn't.
He never really came back.

But then I put love in the mirror.
Gosh, it took so much more of me than I could give,
but I fought hard to love that girl I saw.

A little bit of that love is still around somewhere.

I chased Love up the hills in the summer,
and Love played the acoustic guitar.
He walked me home while crickets sang.
Love was not who I expected,
yet so familiar.
I promised myself to steer clear, because he would be
just like the last one-- remember how
sometimes Love is ugly and knotted and accidentally unrequited?
But Love was a pair of iceberg eyes that hit me so hard,
and I was the ship
       that could never sink?
       My heart was the intoxicated captain
       that drove me straight into something I'm still trying to recover from.

But I don't mind that.
At least I am feeling.
Wrong timing,
poor placement, as long as I'm not numb,
I don't expect Love to be safe
or perfect.
I'll just keep exploring it,
running circles around it,
laughing at breakfast with it,
and kissing it hard,
because Love needs Love too.
Please don't play it safe.

xx

Sonny Jean

A few thoughts. Two actually.

.. And I like that about you.

xx

Sonny Jean

breathe me

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Am I not a robot?

It's not that simple.

It's more like b-b-breeea-thhe in.
And a sharp, short HUH out.

You gave me butterflies--
Knocked the wind out of me--

And my heart went ba-ba-boom
                                                     ba-boom
                                                                       ba-ba-ba-boom.
Ticking off rhythm.

A robot's heart wouldn't create that speed-to-stop-to-slow-melody with an anatomical beater.
It can't create something that soulful-- that incredible.

But-but-but-then again, butterflies are a fight-or-flight response.

I think a robot would be programmed to fight or flight.

Am I not a robot? Hm.

I bleed, but I can fix it myself.

Show me robot who can heal on its own.

I can heal on my own.

Like, leave me alone; I'll deal.

A robot wouldn't say that either.

Someone else would decide their fate for them.

I'm not a robot.

xx

Sonny Jean

Like a Polaroid

Like a Polaroid picture,

Parts of your heart appear gradually 

as time goes on.

Each line crisper,

emotion clearer.

A beautiful clarity comes

when I discover the unknown parts 

that I've been holding 

in the palm of my hand 

this entire time.

And as more is revealed,

it continues to shine.

Forever remaining

in the palm of my hand.

xx

Sonny Jean 

A Snowman in June

My therapist gave me a black paper, white crayon.

I was 7.

I had a therapist. 

I drew a snowman in June.

SHE TOLD ME TO DRAW WHATEVER I FELT.

But when I drew a snowman, she looked at me funny and said,

"The season's a little off, don't ya think?"

It was blazing hot and snowmen don't belong in June.

Just like a 7-year-old doesn't belong in a shrink's office.

I mean, Claudia was nice.

Anyway-- I furrowed my brow,

threw the snowman away,

threw my hands in my pocket

and kept em there.

Now I follow trends. 

I had a Tomagatchi.

I wore silly bands.

I uSeD tO uPdaTe mY StaTus liKe tHis.

I have an iPhone.

I use Instagram.

I peg my jeans.

I wear Alex and Ani.

I'm a product of my environment.

That snowman in June was no product of his environment.

But he ended up in the trash,

so kiss it goodbye

and conform.

xx

Sonny Jean