MRS. ONE-TWO-THREE PUNCH[drunk] (firesizzle) wrote in aroomofonesown,

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Name: Madison
Age: 15
Location: New Jersey

You Are a Fucking Piece of Work. That You Are.
I am an endless sculpture. My clay mastermind works and reworks my pliable flesh with new lines and curves that roll gracefully under his hands. He leaves his fingerprints on my skin as he kneads and folds me into new designs; I have the brand of human manipulation on every inch of my form.

I am never perfect. I will not sit long enough upon a shelf to dry. From volatile whims and fancies, he mists me down and chisels out a new countenance; I have a new emotion every other day, caused from the artful hand of others.

Today my face remains blank while he works my hands into fists and carves a heart out of stone. My lips are dry and cracked, parched with the words I cannot say, as he works over and over me again. My base becomes increasingly smaller and unstable with the days as he steals from it a wrinkle here or lock of hair there.

People stare and gaze at his dilligent work, each new body a masterpiece. They gaze in awe at eyes that are old and tired as the clay from which I was bourne. Then, they witness his frustration, his unhappiness with my myriad of characters, all of which are wrong in his mind. And again, I am born anew as he folds my eyes away, unhappy with my face.

I have no choice in my place. These skin-deep feelings, that transform day by day, fold oxygen and grime into my flesh; they make it tired and stiff. My history is meticulous and drawn out, foiled and tarnished with the pain of starving artists and unhappy patrons. I am never under my own construction. I need life and assurance, but get none.

I am a never-ending sculpture. I am never perfect, nor finished, nor any word to describe a sense of security and finality in longevity and duration of time. My clay mastermind works and reworks my stiffened, dead flesh, into something more painful everyday

Standing Minute
I took light steps out onto the concrete sidewalk blocks that were laid out before me like an endless life-size checkerboard in front of the department store entrance. It was just about dark, though the atmosphere was still playing with the last renegade rays of sunlight, fumbling them in and out of heavy-hung clouds that looked like milk swirls on black coffee. It was this kind of night in summer that the air was so stagnant and thick that you could stand up straight without much effort, the air was a gelatinous form-fitted mold for your body. And there was only enough of a breeze to keep my taffy-pulled, tired legs moving to the lamppost where the cement riverbank dropped off, and the asphalt parking lot panned out like an oil slick ocean in it’s calm, so dark and even.

I leaned up against the rigid, metal foundation of the lamppost underneath a stream of soft yellow light. It felt like I was being rained upon by photons, every gentle color of a spectrum tantalizing my skin and it’s need for light at a time when there would only be its absence for 7 more hours. I stood by quietly and watched as a diehard shopper loaded her trunk and back seat with parcels and pakages, and then watched her feisty, red Jetta slink away out of the exit and onto a highway, where she no longer had a name, and she was just another two red taillights in a vast Lite-Brite world , another Pointilist stroke in the picture of traffic and commute. Another car whizzed past me, blasting music so loud the bass made my ribcage shake and my heart jump restlessly to keep it’s own rhythym. And the car left this swirling wake of music in color, like a dazzling rainbow light show of sound waves and notes swirling like the smoke from the tip of my cigarette, to it's own beat. And as its sound stretched and dissipated into soft, still air, everything went quiet again, and I felt restless.

I turned my back to the pole, pressed my bare neck up against its cold, and closed my eyes to breathe. In and out, I sipped this honey-thick, pollen air, and drank it like liqueur to calm my lungs and still my organs. I felt like a five-year-old child chugging cherry flavored syrup when pained with the ailments of a common cold. I let the air ooze down my throat and fill up each and every pocket of my lungs, coating my core with a sick, summer warm. I thought only of breathing until all the smoke, dust, and empty space I had acquired from living in coffeeshops and dusty lofts was drowning in a nauseating fluid of a perfect evening.

And suddenly everything began to melt. I kept breathing just to feel my lungs finally burst with this potent, creamy goodness that I had forgotten for so long. It the summer air one forgets about when they can no longer run and hop to catch summertime fireflies, or lay with friends to pick out nighttime stars; these are childhood pastimes, these are not meant to be forgotten, but always are. The niceties of summer that had been so lost to a hardened carcass like me flooded my insides, tossing and turning in the turbulence of my stress and worriment. A living breathing ocean, each crash of a wave jostled my organs loose and fought the acid of my insides with this marmalade of thick atmosphere. Each different piece of me began to fade into the other, slowly melting like ice in my childhood lemonade stand pitchers, blurring it’s edges and fading into a warm, gooey liquid. Soon, even my hard-as-a-rock shell was succumbing to this gleeful breath of nostalgia, this joyous wave of passion I so desperately loved to drown in. My fingertips congealed and dripped onto the gravel-ridden patio, as my knees sunk into my feet, and rib by rib, my body mushroomed out, in a mess of melted ice creams cones, suntan lotion, and sea water. My eyes captured the glow of the stars on the velvet blue sky before they too liquefied into a messy, neon swirl of squashed lightening bug. A big puddle of heartfelt remembrance, I felt myself trickle down, off the ledge of my concrete checkerboard and into my asphalt abyss. I was a dying dream of a childhood summer, and I hadn’t felt that exhilarated in years.

TAKE NOTE: Rhyming isn't usually how I roll, however... this was assigned for class and I was proud of this particular piece. Furthermore, the above pieces are some of the only lengthy pieces I have written usually I write poems, but I decided to take a different route for this audition.

The Indecisive Heart
Through the steel framed hospital doors,
Silhouetted by sheets of glass,
The Indecisive Heart makes his entrance,
To learn of what has come to pass.

“Patricia, where is she;
What am I to find?”
“To tell you is much more
Than I am so inclined.”

“Have they made a diagnosis?”
The volatile Heart did ask.
“Her state is ever-so grim…
Dressed in Egyptian burial mask”

And his flesh began to break;
A confused heart turned around,
As his flimsy, supple flesh
Crumbled to clean, linoleum ground.

“What kept you so long?”
Asked the shattered organ’s company.
“I was with one that I love.”
“The one you favor, as you do many.”

“I will not tarry to explain
My chaotic, love-thrift whims.”
“But you delay in your will,
To behold your beloved’s mangled limbs?”

The Heart cast an eye away
To view a morose metal door.
He was not sure that his regret
Was the forgotten love She did implore.

“I do not know what to expect,
You imply my visit will change my sentiment?”
“It is a touch-and-go event,
Yet, the only cause for her eyes’ hopeful glint.”

“You are sure she asks for me?”
The doubtful Heart so quietly sighed.
“She will not let another pass,
Until you’ve laid in her room’s confines.”

And the Woman shed the first of tears
For his lust so inadequately feigned
It impaired deciphering his eye from his heart
Or his heart from his wretched brain

“I am incredulous to think
She can forgive against the wrong I did commit”
“She only disclosed something of love,”
The Woman’s eyebrows furrowed and tightly knit.

“Has that love brought her to this emergency?”
The Heart queried, wiping away a tear.
“It seems this emergency brought you to love,
With your quick entrance seen here.”

With that The Heart did soften,
As his insides slowly unwound,
And he began his soft and careful approach
To the metal door, shut sound

“It seems that love has brought me here,
Into this utter state of emergency;
I quite fear the image stationed behind
The demeaning, metal door before me.”

He creaked the door open slightly
And peered a cautious head inside.
Then wept profusely as he sobbed,
“Oh Jesus… Madeline!”

TAKE NOTE: I have tons more if you are undecided, just comment and ask. Best wishes.

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