Slam Poetry

Margaret Ruth Olson will woe words where thoughts refuse to go. Play pieces where people left long ago. Your misery falls like hot rain, and yet i watch it freeze like snow. Freeze me. Fight me. Play me. Write me. Poetry. Tonight. 7:00pm. 501 studios.

For

I am flighting
But you're flighty
Forever flittering at my fingers
Forcing forever back to for-never
For failure
For futures free of fun proof living
For flapping
Until i forget how to
Fly
You say I want to hold your breath
Breathe your steps
Soak up your sand
Count your grains of nonsense
You are full of it
Full of forgetting
Full of how to
Full of fights lost
For flights cost
More than I was ever willing to pay
Break me
Cash me in
Tell me my worth
I am worthless
I am worth this
Thought of thinking
This thought of throwing
Thimbles of protection
Thanks of never-lasting
Towards your thought bubble
I am bursting
I am cursing
I am wishing
For failure
For futures free of fun proof living
For flapping
For forever flittering at my fingers
Forcing forever back to my for-never
Until i forget how to
Fly

Not Cool.

So incase you didn't know, my name is Margaret Olson, and i write the stuff on this website. I know cool concept. So here's the deal. Don't jack it. Don't claim it as your own. Don't pretend like you wrote it. It's called poetry, it's really easy to do. I can teach you. Just leave my stuff alone.

Feel Me

I see him standing there and my fingers shake to reach out and brush his soft skin. I feel the goose bumps chill up his arms and i wonder if i did this.
i can feel her looking at me by a sense not easily defined. static between us chooses me as the victim when it's broken by a touch that hits more than just skin
he's breathing as if i pegged not only his heart but his lungs too with one sharp jab. "Can you hear me?" Speaking to myself, convinced the halo of the situation surrounds only me. He answers.
“Yes,” and as a glass sheet has been put on my mouth, i try to scream out for a savior. in vain. my mind inhibits me. her feelings aren't just hers when she asks to talk
I lean in. Hoping a simplistic kiss would close an awkward situation but he wont allow it. He's forcing me to respond. To feed the desire that i cannot even touch, nonetheless eat with the devouring bites he's used so many other times. i will not fall into this trap, “Please."
I look in his eyes.
No, knowing these simple pair of lips would do little more than nothing, i deny the attempt to pull my wicker-weaved fabric of being from my mouth. how can something so grand be derived from nothing? it defies nature, it defines my entirety.
He doesn't even know what the simple out reach meant to me, as he denies me even the smallest favor. "If you can't, then who else will be willing?"
with just two simple flicks of my eyelids i retort, "and that, you must learn on your own, for who else possesses your heart?"

You Propel Me

Sweetheart
Can we sit down for a moment
Forget the pettish colors of our socks
The flow of our blood
And just be real
For one moment.
You ask me
“Gather my words
Make my meaning
Mean something to someone more than me.”
I respond.
“I wish I could write your tale
Finish the story book you haven’t even cracked open,
But I can’t.
I can’t wish for you to find the wisps of light that will propel you
Construct the wings of a kite so fragile
You only want to fly.
I wish I could whisper the secret.
But I can’t.”
Your disappoint fills me.
“But I can hand you my pencil.
Guide your weary fingers,
Where words will not wobble.
Watch my mind leak to ink.
I am yours to play with.”

What's to come!

Remember forever go when i asked you guys to answer some questions? I actually got some great responses (feel free to send more!) and so I constructed a pretty cool piece, if i do say so myself. However, it's still in the edit, reword, think through process, and hopefully it will be up soon!
Also! I would love to add some more artwork to the blog. If you have any cool pictures you'd like me to post (especially with a fun story to go along) just send them this way!

Just Dance

The strength I needed to lift my whole body off of the ground again felt unreachable, but I was doing it for her. Hair hung past her angel-wing shoulder blades, her eyes were so propelling I saw answers to their questions. I couldn’t believe she was my friend. She was beautiful. And she was killing herself. The simple lines she drew down her wrists with a razor refused to do the job, so the end of her life scooted closer with the drugs she consumed and the tally of calories she etched on her hands. Anorexic. Bulimic. Addicted. I was going to save her life the only way I knew how. We would chase my passion in search of hers. We would dance.
It wasn’t difficult convincing her to pull out her slippers and become the ballerina she’d dreamed of as a child. I simply told her I wanted company in the gym for rehearsal, and she never knew that as I pushed her body to form my similar diamond of plié, I pushed a search for a passion into her mind. I made the girl who hated Twinkies, twinkle with the thought of a new day. Dancing meant something new for her to do.
We started simple. I taught her to point her toes through the pain she was convinced her boyfriend was putting her through. We stepped up to a passé, which not only found the center of her body, but also centered the irregularity that her past eating patterns had instilled on her cycle. We walked on the balls of out feet and learned the beauty of grace. We forced the heals of our tap shoes into the ground and reveled in the release of controlled aggression. And when her suicidal thoughts slowly eased out and thoughts of doing something productive with her life slid in, I was excited to help her focus on a new goal. She wanted to be on the dance team. We would do it, one muscle at a time.
Simple times in the gym turned into intense workout sessions, searching to solve her internal dilemma. We worked her axels, Russians, calypsos, leaps. What she wanted, I also had to push for, racking my mind for moves time had lost. The girl who didn’t even want life before now wanted a leap that was higher and straighter then even my legs knew. I now had to find my own time to perfect the moves she craved.
Leap after leap, the strength I needed to get my whole body off the ground again felt unreachable, but I was doing it for her. My legs straightened, and in the frozen instant I defied gravity, I realized how much the dance sessions had defied for her. She no longer strained to be a pound lighter, but an inch closer to the ground in her splits. She no longer wanted to get high in her backyard, but wanted to get high enough to soar across the dance floor. She had not only gotten her life but had discovered a new way to live it.
The day of auditions her hands shook like before, but for once I knew they weren’t itching to mutilate. They were itching to gyrate. She entered the room and that was the last I saw of the girl I knew. When she walked out her external beauty was finally met with the internal beauty of confidence.

Congratulations!
We are proud to announce that you have been accepted as a new member to our team.

She was no longer struggling with herself, because she had been given what she needed. She was given a chance. I was lucky all she needed was someone who knew how to dance.

Stealing The Shoes of Spontaneity

I am not sure if it was the miles of biking I had done all day or the fact that I finally got up and got my blood moving that made me pick up the phone on Tuesday and call my sister. I asked her if she want to go downtown and bowl like old times, when she still lived at home and we weren’t so busy. She was shocked that her newly dubbed lazy sister wanted to do something and she agreed right away. I called an old friend and asked if she wanted to tag along.
It was eight when we crawled in the Lexus and drove downtown. We stopped at Starbucks for a jolt of caffeine and way too much sugar, and by the time we hit the Union we were already too crazy for our own good.
I must admit, I was the best bowler. I could, and hold me to this, bowl 8 gutter balls in a row, while trying. I mean I would line the ball up with the little arrows and somehow, about halfway down the lane, my ball would get scared, slow and curve away from the lane, hop into the gutter, hitting not one pin. I had a crazy speed of 5.6 miles per hour with my orange ball, a close third to my sister’s 19.22 and friend’s 17.6 bmph. A night, obviously dull, picked up fast with the help of 3 nerd ropes and enough sour patch kids to send me spinning. Slippery shoes hit the lanes, and I was moon walking over the do not cross line. Three games, three girls, three pairs of shoes, walked up to pay. We set the shoes on the counter, got back our ids, paid the bill, and the lady turned away. The shoes were just sitting there, asking to slip into my friends over sized bag. We all locked eyes. We wanted those shoes, neon, tacky glory and all. Guilty conscience took over as we walked out, regret filling our soles, (of our shoes of course), and at that moment we needed enough spontaneity to make up for it. We ran down the long, dark sidewalks of campus, screaming songs too loud, swirling around lamp poles, attempting to moon strangers, sneak into the boys dorms, and steal bikes. We crawled into the car, cranked up the tunes, and drove, belting “All My Single Ladies” way too loud. Each stop light meant a crazy Chinese fire drill. Throwing our shoes off and running as many times around the car as possible, screaming and laughing until we hurt, we would throw ourselves back in the car and keep driving. As we twisted up the long hill of 2222, I told my sister to pull over, and swerve into a parking space at mount benelle. The curfew said 10, but at 11:30, we were prepared to face darkness. We crawled the hundreds of steps, in pitch black, past couples wrapped in blankets, who were silently macking, and stood at the top of Austin. It was gorgeous, lights acting as the towns little stars, and above us, a sky so clear, held the big dipper and a half moon. After several pictures, we ran back down the stairs, tripping and laughing each time we missed a step. High on spontaneous, we made the music louder as we made our way up to the condos at Jester. We swerved around poles and snuck in to the apartments.
The night was everything we would never do. Loud songs, roof down, cold wind in our face. We laughed and sang and gyrated to the music and had the time of our lives. When I finally got home, I realized how long it had been since I just had fun and didn’t care. How long it had been since I didn’t worry about homework or money or what I looked like and threw my shoes off and ran through the streets, laughing until I coughed myself into the grass and rolled down hills. It had been a long time. I missed the feeling of just being stupid crazy fun. I didn’t want that. Having to slow my life to make fun fit in. I wanted to live a life that was fun and never held me back.
I didn’t steal those bowling shoes, and I am glad I didn’t, because I wouldn’t’ve searched for the spontaneity somewhere else. But that high from fun, that, I always know I can get. One night can change your life, and I plan on letting it do just that. I will have more fun and be more fun, because you only live once, and because I can’t promise I wont steal the shoes the next time I go bowling.

Elisa and Margaret Have Fun

Albert- A loveable creation from the next Martha Stewarts' kitchen, and the hands of Martha herself and her little helper. Albert is a apple struesel muffin/cupcake... thing.

Trust me i am astonished with myself that I am writing more than once in a 24 hour span of time (it's the Gilmores, i swear). However, with this stream of consciousness as my best friend i thought i would hook my readers with some questions. If you read this often (and don't lie i know there is a handful of you out there), do me a huge favor and answer these questions. I am in need of some inspiration (the whole dark and sad thing is over rated).

First, i am a huge fan of parenthesis (you hadn't notice :). You have one pair, what goes in them?

Second, you have a chocolate cake and a pot of coffee, it is for whom?

You sit counting stars, how many are there?

You have a camera with an awesome lens but the memory card only holds ten pictures, what do you take them of?

No limits guys. I like inspiration :) Keep it coming.

My Gilmore Girl Life

It's six o'clock at night and i still can't believe i am sitting at my computer. It's practically been 24 hours, with the occasional break for Christmas cookies and laundry that i was bribed into doing, of staring at a screen. I have sat down to complete the ultimate task--watch every episode of Gilmore Girls. Though very 17-year-old girl of me, the show has pulled me in and forced me to think about the realities of life. Does true love find you? Or it is hidden in small towns like Stars Hollow where the produce guy and mayor both know your name? Are perfect mom and daughter relationships out there with the perfect balance of door-slamming fights and goofy movie nights full of $40 worth of candy? Or does the mistake of a 16-year-old pregnancy have a twist a normal family doesn't? And though my questions are silly, mostly consisting of the likelihood of Chad Michael Murray and I bumping in the hallway at school, i have also begun to notice the "perfect slices of life" in my own world.
I love walking down stairs and seeing coffee (even if Lorelei propelled the thought in my head) and knowing there's company there to sweeten the black in my cup. I love surrounding myself with fresh clothes and silly dvds and just enjoy being a girl while still getting something done. I love that when things go crazy silly mad in my life, home is not only at this keyboard, but in the millions of people around me, certainly worthy of a movie box cover. Life will never be a hamburger at Luke's, but it will always be full of people crazy about me and those i am so excited to be crazy for.
Thanks for joining my life, may it be through this silly blog or 8 hour Gilmore Girl marathons (Sabrina I love you). Thanks for loaning me your movies that give me a passion to write (Natasha) or giving me moments so perfect for pictures displayed on my wall (Michelle). Thanks for kicking me in the behind and reminding me i had a blog to update (Baby De) and for constantly checking on it even though we really don't 'know' each other (Brian). Thanks for listening to the shit i need to write about (Katie J.) and letting me talk about things you are sick of hearing (Natalie). Thanks for letting me be stubborn (George) and answering every gosh darn question a girl could think of (Nathan). Thanks for forgiving me if i didn't mention your name, but still understanding how crazy i am for you. Thanks for making my life as awesome as Dean's and Rory's but so much more fun to live. Here things are tangible and real and don't make your eyes see spots when you look up (trust me i have been watching forever!). Have a wonderful Gilmore Girl day. I sure know i will. :)

The last thing i needed was for his name to vibrate across my phone's screen again, and thus it did. His news was bitter-sweet; his parents are moving, austin will no longer be his home. He's coming Thursday to wave his goodbyes, and my arm is hesitant to lift in return. After all i have felt and cried for, what is the right thing to do? Morn the closing of a friendship or celebrate the loss of a heavy burden in my life? I need some help with this decision. Do i see him and say goodbye or keep on pretending like it never happened?

Hold my Weight

It’s 4 am and I can’t believe we still have things to talk about
I mean in two years you’d think we would cover it all
Sometimes the real us never comes out
Until we are dragged through the dirt
Hung low
Depressed
The tears, salty only a minute ago,
Run like sweet relief to my heart
I want it out.
I told you what it felt like the night I knew she betrayed me
The night I knew I would never trust again
I told you about the night I was willing to give him everything
What it felt like to be exposed in front of the world
I told you what it felt like to need to feel the pain so much
You would do it yourself
I told you about meeting him
Him number one
Every other him up until number four
I told you about number four
Number four was my best friend
I liked him best by my side
I liked him plus girlfriend
Plus mom without job
I liked him with two cups of sarcasm
A bowl for my tears
Plus one full ride to college
And an “I love you” to another girl
I liked him best by my side
Because he was my best friend
I told you what that felt like
I told you what it felt like the night I knew someone had done it again
Taken everything I worked for
Sold it for a cheap email address and some pictures
How much I cried and screamed and hated the world, then
I told you how number four was ten numbers away
The distance was over 3000 miles
I told you about losing my only friend
How she left only because I wanted to make her better
I told you what it felt like the night four called me
Sunken with drunken explanation
Low and behold,
He hated me too
I told you what it felt like
When what’s in your head becomes physical
About the first blackout
The first trip to the hospital
I told you about drugs so much cheaper than therapy
I told you my mom thought it was all my head
I told you what that felt like
For something in your head to
Make your legs numb
Your body shake
Keep you up all night
Insomnia screeching in your ear
Make your head spin
Your stomach churn
Your eyes leak
I told you what that felt like
I told you what it felt to get a hard dose of reality
What it felt like
The first day I knew I was depressed
I told you what it felt like to be me
See the world with eye spots
Nausea
Still love that girl who’s convinced the third abortion
Will never bring baby back
Love that girl so beautiful
Still fighting the scale
Still love that boy plus new girl
That mom
Confused with motherhood
I told you what it felt like to love
Only because you needed love that much
I told you about refusing to touch people
Knowing that one touch
I would give away all I had left
I told you about my strengths and my weaknesses
What it felt like to be weak
I told you and yet there’s so much I still want out
An infant trapped in my mind
Water broke
Contracting
Screaming for help
I want it out.
I want it out that
I don’t believe in
Anyone
Anymore
I want it out that I want to cry for no reason
For the world to quit wiping my tears
Let me run
I want it out that I need purpose
Give me one
I want it out
That love is so powerful
So girl with baby
Boy with lover
Quit wasting love on sex
I want it out that this world is so full of opportunity
Quit screwing it up for me
Quit closing my book
I have not finished
My body is strong enough to be thrust on the pages
Write my own story
I want it out
That I am sick of feeling it
This vomit has dried
You clean it up
You love me when I am sick
Sweaty
And a mess to be around
Love me because I am me plus four thousand problems
And a heart so ready to give back
I want it out because it’s ripping me
Raping me
Destroying all the hope I have left in this world
It’s 4 am, and I want out
Let my voice leak to ink
Let it dye your pages and run onto your heart
Let it out
So I can change the world
Before it changes me anymore
I am black
Cold
Shaken
I want it out
Will you take it
Hold my weight
I will breath again

Eye Sores

It’s one am, and when I thought the floor had just stopped spinning , I feel another wave of nausea swoon over me. It sucked, slowly paddling my fork through rivers of gravy on thanksgiving, not really up for eating. A day I usually loved, was getting blotchier by the moment. The eye spots were getting more and more difficult to avoid. I couldn’t make it through the 15 minute car ride, eyes so tired I fell asleep against the window.

I awoke, a headache was my morning coffee; right on time, but much too bitter. I wanted it to go away, but slowly popping pain killers that didn’t even damper the pain wasn’t the best option. It past, but slowly returned while my cousin pulled a straightener through my hair. I couldn’t hold myself up, too nauseous, and losing sight by the minute. I dropped to the floor as the color left. It faded back in slowly, but the nausea or head pains never left.

It happened 2 more times. Once later that day and of course once in the middle of the movie theatre. I got up, excusing myself, and dashed out, ready to escape the beaming lights of the movie screen.

It never left, the nausea or the pain, and the loss of color has become too common. My eyes are sore, straining too see clearly. Perhaps the solution is not black and white, but in the color that’s so often escaped me. I will feel better.

Thanksgiving Food For Your Thoughts

This is one of my favorite pieces of slam poetry. (Meaning i wrote and performed this piece.) It got me to the last round of state and brought me in at fifth in the state at the U21 Slam Off my freshman year. I hope you find as much humor in it as i do. Happy thanksgiving everyone :)

(And P.S. Don't think you can steal it. It's in the slam records as mine!)

FEAR

Fear has come on little cat feet

Wondering through allies licked with darkness

Slowly crawling through your window

Pushing back the curtains

And clawing at dainty queen Mab

And you only wish you were fearless

Becasue the feet of fear are dripping with blood

And its mouth is waiting for more

Fear Strikes Again

Aunty Ree is forcing me

To taste this years Thanksgiving surprise

And it's all a bad dream

Flashes of casserole dishes

Crusty brown ham soaked in syrup

Baked at 450 served with Mayo

A pie

Circular, yes, edible, no

It resembled the back of the head of the kid

Who sits in front of me in math and refuses to wear deoderant

She's made the puddings

For years she insisted eggs were the substitue for milk

And that sugar wasn't ever substitued

So i get this thing that looks like two-day-old eggs

Sweetened

And told to eat every last bite until my mouth quivers

Yes, fear has come on little cat feet

But with the tackiest apron in the world

And sometimes the fear is so deep pushing away my own flesh with its truth that i cry when she pushes a spoon full of banana soup into my mouth

And i let it ooze out the corners

Because it's that scary

Sometimes i feel bad

Refusing her tofu turkey

And her jellied ham

But i did not feel bad the year she tried to serve me fried frog legs with cranberry tartar

Looking her in the eyes and saying,

"Ree you're looking quite thin these days, have you been working out?"

And then allowing her to go off on a rampage about her new grapefruit diet

While i go out the door

But this year

Oh this year was bad

The wallpaper in her bathroom had started to peel with anticipation of what it would experience after this meal

Oh fear was striking hard

Because this year

She pulled out the big guns

Slicing Chopping

Baking Broiling

This year she served on paper plates

Because her substance might break her new china

This year she had made us

Chicken

Which she processed with

Mixed with green beans and beats

Pineapple and pumpkin puree

Formed into the head of Columbus himself

Baked it

Let it cool to room temperature

And then topped it with olive topinade

Made with pickles

Oh this year

My tummy wasn't strong enough to growl in the face of fear

It just ran

My legs buckled beneath me

I couldn't pay Columbus his respect today

But she insisted

Because the feet of fear are dripping with bacon grease

And reeking of old lady perfume

And my eyes begin to tear up

And i tried to eat fast enough so my taste buds wouldn't taste it

But against will

The flavors of her dish overflowed my mouth

And something began to come out of it that was so unexpected, unexplained

"Hey Ree, can i have some more?"