• Poetry

    Goodbye

    We’re no good at hiding secrets

    This is one thing

    I can say for sure

    Is not worth keeping

     

    My mom’s already calling my bluff

    She can tell what’s up

    That’s just how it goes

    A mother always knows

    Right? 

     

    My friends tried to tell me

    That you would fail me

    And that you most certainly did

    But you also helped me

     

    I needed to grow up 

    Because I never showed up

    In the way I should have 

    In the ways I knew

    That what we were up to

    Was just no good

     

    Now your wife’s calling me 

    I think she suspects everything

    She knows I’m more than a peer

    What we feared

    It’s all finally here 

     

    I feel guilty

    Simply empty

    Your so-called love, our treachery

    Wasn’t enough to fulfill me

     

    I’ve got to let this go 

    Be on my own for a little while

    You know

    It’s been so long since I’ve seen myself smile

  • Poetry

    Rebekah

    You know my mother?

    She would tell me this story

    Of this woman in all of her glory

    Going ‘round town

    And wrecking havoc

    In every naysayer’s path

     

    She never cared

    Didn’t matter when or where

    She was gonna let you know

    She was a ballerina

    As a way of saying

    She knew how to put on a show

     

    They say extravagance 

    Is of the enemy 

    But that doesn’t matter, you see

    Because the real villain here

     

    Always was, always has been

    And always will be

    Those on the outside 

    Thinking they know what’s within 

     

    She’s standing on her tippy toes

    And watching as the world goes

    Because time stops for no one

    Neither does she

     

    She went by the rules of live and let die

    But not before you send your neighbor the best goodbye

    In the form of a cat dyed the color key lime

     

    They say extravagance 

    Is of the enemy 

    But that doesn’t matter, you see

    Because the real burden here

     

    Were those who chose to pretend

    They’ve never lived a day in sin 

    Thinking they know what’s within

  • Poetry

    seven times five

    As I approach the years
    We tend to hide from
    I commit to the honesty
    Of my wild beauty
    For how I am
    And not how they made it out to be

    For I degraded this temple
    Ostracized on a strange planet
    I forgot Her wealth of appreciation
    Naturally that all things
    As they are beautiful
    .HAMMER

    please find me on ig: @tiffanychammer or fb.com/groups/rockonwithtiffany

  • Poetry

    the house of whirlwinds and rainstorms

    here lies the house you dreamt up as you were reading folklore

    just like the girls growing up here, collecting daisies and trying to catch the sunlight

    as they competed for the dirtiest dress and the best kind of princesses

    that much preferred history pages and embers over glass slippers or true love’s kisses

    they were here first, before the rainstorms and the whirlwinds happened

    they were here first, wandering the halls pretending the glitter on their face was pixie dust

    and the freckles on their wrists were constellations

    they were here first, but they left the fairy lights for you

    they left the daisies carved in the front porch railings for you

    and the hollow tree behind the swing still cherishes their drawings

    just like the rose bushes still hold onto their lost hair ribbons and long forgotten tears

    the luscious garden a gorgeous kingdom just large enough for their secrets

    and for the stories they wish were in their books

    the story goes that the butterflies atop the driveway gate were the girls’ idea

    the story goes that the house wasn’t theirs, that they were travelers desperate for a home

    the story goes that they were sisters, not by blood but by stars

    the story goes that the ivy climbing the walls and windows of the mansion

    could no longer be tamed once their epilogue came to an end

    people say that once the girls learned there was no Neverland

    that the midnight hour was an actual monster, that losing your voice was not just fantasy,

    that poison did in fact come in sweet, that beauty could be cruel,

    that happily ever after was a fight rather than a given victory,

    it was as if a rainstorm broke loose and never stopped

    but maybe that wasn’t the girls’ fault

    maybe they were just the ghosts that predicted what was to come

    come inside the gate, walk the driveway

    the neighbors live a million little worlds away, telling their own stories of this place

    as they sip tea so sweet it makes you wonder what all the sugar in the world is meant to hide

    stories that are a thousand dimensions away from the actual truth, if such a thing even exists

    come now, ring the bell of the olive door as you are bewildered by primroses

    listen carefully to the sound of cats meowing and wings rustling

    that almost overshadows the soft tingling like wind bells that make your heart tingle

    come inside, enter the hallway with constellations decorating the mauve wallpapers

    rumor has it the female assassin woman who lived here painted them herself

    she turned the library into an armory and the parlor into a room filled with gowns and frocks

    after buying the house from the notorious roaring twenties socialite for whom it was a palace

    but oh well, that’s just the rumors

    let those mauve constellations catch your every heartstring

    as you stand on your tiptoes on the scarlet carpet studying the paintings of wonderland

    that are said to be drawn by the apocalyptionist couple living here after the murderess’ downfall

    come, proceed, the tour only lasts an hour

    take a look at the stunning vinyl player in rouge and lavender that will make you feel

    as if you are in a butterfly kaleidoscope

    some say it belonged to the notorious socialite

    some say it was stolen by the villainous woman who supposedly ate hearts she cut out of bodies

    others say it was the last gift the woman who always wore cardigans got from her boyfriend

    that night he admitted to cheating on her all summer long at her graduation party

    he stood on the front porch of this very house, naïve enough to still believe in a true love’s kiss

    that would patch it all up

    but word is she just took the vinyl player and shut the door in his face

    come, this house has a magnificent thirteen rooms

    in the color palette of a storybook

    close your eyes, don’t be shy

    inhale the scent of rosé-perfumed memories and freshly baked cinnamon rolls

    sweet tea greeted by epiphany sunlight and garden beets cooking

    Sunday afternoon candles and Monday evening cocktails

    take a close look at all the spice racks and recipe books in the kitchen

    you can see the sepia photos and love letters sticking out, half lost, half never meant to be found

    listen to the soft indie music playing on the rouge vinyl, take a look around

    at the tea leaves drying and the apple sauce stewing

    as you catch glimpses of a telescope and a typewriter on the back porch

    and remember the front porch with the fairy lights and jars filled with ocean rubble

    remember the rocking bench and the painting supplies

    the back porch was for the happy memories, but the front porch holds the scars of broken hearts

    the promise of a happy ending crumbling as the boy who risked it all left empty-handed

    the loneliness after a day full of people, as the notorious socialite was left alone

    the darkness of a woman so scorned she ferociously screamed into the void for an apocalypse

    the woman standing on the doorstep of her most infamous murder

    that same woman curling up on the porch steps clutching a blooded knife,

    hands shaking for the first time in her life

    oh well, that is just how the stories go, there’s no telling the truth really

    moving on, make your way to the drawing room

    where two cats sleep in blush armchairs, one tabby named Ella, one grey called Cinder

    from here, feel free to enter the breathtaking observatory

    where young papillons prepare to take flight as doves and bluebirds sing you a song

    and don’t forget the library, which holds every fairytale ever written, both cruel and pretty

    these too were left here for you by the two girls who started it all, savoring every single story

    run your finger along every history page ever forgotten, every dream ever conquered

    and realize that it was the woman called wicked by many collected them with her bare hands

    priding herself in bottling the starlight of a life envied by many, spinning twisted tales of her own

    remember to visit the attic, where you will find crescent moons and faded canvasses

    as the remains of a world ending while the earth kept on travelling around the sun just the same

    take a peek into every bedroom: they all have their own lipstick secrets and vintage myths

    just like the theatre where, as whispers say, the notorious socialite spent her final hours

    desperately trying to get lost in a world of sunken secrets much like her own

    do make sure to skip the gallery of ghost stories, though,

    for it will haunt you all the way to the manor’s other wing

    the tales of names buried, faces covered and blood shed for absolutely no reason at all

    will draw tears from your deepest cores

    and please, fiercely walk past the museum of open books in the south wing

    perhaps it was the cardigan girl, or the notorious socialite, or the vile assassin,

    but one of those women, you know, had a strange relationship with endings

    for she never could let go of what was long gone

    take your time walking the corridors

    and imagine, just imagine, the voices, the footsteps echoing, the rustling of dresses

    the silhouettes, the brushes of rosé-perfumed memories

    imagine the kingdom of ‘’what if’’ and ‘’if only’’ and ‘’could have been’’ inside these walls

    imagine the stories of moments, seconds behind the portraits gracing the staircase

    imagine that you can hear a rainstorm tearing this house apart

    imagine the windows shattering, the door break, imagine the roof collapse

    imagine the ivy, the willow trees, the rose branches desperately growing into all the rooms

    trying to protect the stories of their kingdom

    imagine the thunder in the attic, of all the times the world ended without ending

    imagine the lightning striking on the front porch

    every time the assassin woman’s knife ignited a fire in her own eyes

    imagine the kitchen, the parlor, the library and the observatory flooding

    taking away everything like all the women of this house once lost everything

    imagine an earthquake running through all the fairytale books and secret garden spots

    terrifying the fireflies and chasing away the young butterflies not yet ready to grow up

    just like those two girls with whom it all started, who had to grow up before their time

    imagine the whirlwind that tore illusions to pieces so many times

    imagine the hurricane picking up the pieces that could never make something whole again

    imagine the eclipse darkening everything like all the times the sun went down on the daylight

    imagine a sky full of stars coming down on the house to take back their constellations

    imagine a cyclone ripping the house apart,

    like all the words, minds, hearts and souls that were ripped apart here

    imagine secrets floating out onto the driveway and out the gate

    imagine truths flying out of burst windows into the garden and beyond

    imagine the dimension between true and false finding a way into the universe

    imagine the flood waves bringing along every brittle bit, every piece of paper

    and leaving it on the streets, like ashes ready for erosion

    imagine all the whirlwinds, tornadoes, thunders, rainstorms, earthquakes and hurricanes

    imagine all the floods, fires, lightnings and apocalypses breaking down this house’s every inch

    like the stories of those who lived here were broken down by each and every inch

    until every shout, every scream, every whisper, every word was silenced, hushed, muffled

    and left to folklore’s mercy

    they still haunt this house today

    the age of their era is never-ending

    so, as you take one last look over your shoulder before stepping out on that front porch again

    remember; this is the house you dreamt up

    while reading folklore

    but it could only ever be a home

    to ghosts and their stories

  • Poetry

    The woman who lives in the house on the hill

    The woman who lives in the house on the hill creeps down to the shoreline. Her neighbors have switched off their reading lights. She climbs atop the tallest rock and stares out into the mystery. It’s an endless sea.

    Her home is the backdrop to her wayward thoughts. Only she can hear the blue hills crashing, her mind rolling with white-capped waves. She fills her days without caution, but what of the lonely nights?

    In the daylight it’s as if she can see their thoughts. They know things about her that she is not. It gets too bright, their harsh false insight. So, it is in the quiet night that she takes flight.

    To take her mind off their cruel delight, she fills her time with engagements of frill. She gets a thrill out of giving them something to fret about. But when the day slips into darkness, they escape to peace in their dreams. The woman who lives in the house on the hill gets no such luxury.

    She swims in champagne and lives off her last name. She drowns in the rumors and dies a little every day. Smiling, smiling, laughing, crying. Her friends and her foes are the same. None understand how she could be suffering, but she lives in a mansion of pain.

    Sometimes they all go home. The beach is once again calm. She can’t relate. In the quiet she must face the only partner life won’t let her escape. She wrestles herself on those boulders. They tumble around in the darkness, one guarded and one that keeps swinging regardless.

    That quiet beach becomes a boxing ring when the lady of luxe loses her audience. The sand is bloody from her self-inflicted blows, but no one would know. Her body stands still, challenging the ocean that heaves and breathes below.

    She stares out at an unknown object. She admires that ultimate pool. They say she shouldn’t be out at that hour, but they’re not who she answers to. Maybe there’s a ship on the horizon, a great vessel to take her away. I hope she finds what she’s looking for. I wish her well, no matter what the people might say.

     

    http://twitter.com/ofcourseimhuman

  • Non-Fiction,  Poetry

    Age Seven

    Seven years old.

    Naivety knew me well and insecurity held me tight.

    I was happy, I was innocent.

    I loved to play pretend in the trees

    And chase snakes in the grass.

    I had a mother and a father, 

    I had God and I had imagination.

    I had music in my ears.

    One by one those things, they left me.

    Goodbye daddy, goodbye Jesus.

    Goodbye childhood, goodbye love songs.

    All that was left was a fearful child,

    Alone.

    It happened in just one day.

    A sunny afternoon.

    Innocence taken. Age seven.

    There in the closet, no one to catch my streaming tears.

    No one to come and save me.

    No screams came from my mouth.

    My voice was gone.

    All the playing had come to an end.

    No more make-believe, no more barbies.

    No more pirates.

    Civility and anxiety were all that hugged me.

    No one else offered comfort or safety.

    So I clung to them with all my strength.

    The fields behind that house

    Grew tall with wheat and weeds.

    They soon became home,

    Where I could run to to be alone.

    I saved myself.

    I hit my peak.

  • Poetry

    Here I Am

    The light shines

    And I don’t know why

    It’s been a miserable night

    Yet here I am

     

    Wandering into your arms again

    Because for as much insecurity as I have

    You seem to want to be here

    You seem to want to hang near

    You seem to never have any fear

     

    I don’t get you, but I do

    Because I know me

    The imposter syndrome speaks

    But I make a breakthrough

    Because for as much insecurity as I have

    You feel right

    You feel real 

    You watch me as I heal

    Never going in for the unnecessary kill

     

    As I pick myself up

    The light shines

    And now I know why

    Yeah, It’s been a miserable night

    But here I am

    Standing one in one

    With you again

    twitter// countmytime

  • Poetry

    Back to Bite

    The wake of my words no longer concerns me,

    Nor do the ones who have it out for me.

     

    I once bobbed along in docility,

    Stifling my anger with fear of the gallows.

    Now my rage seethes relentlessly.

    It was in my meekness that they found power.

     

    But if for my madness,

    I’m not ashamed,

    What do they have to hold over me?

     

    Away and away,

    For so long they brushed me.

    I was crumbs in the corner

    But the rats just ignored me.

     

    Day after day,

    The dust pile grew bigger,

    And as it collected

    I found new vigor.

     

    When it seemed the calm,

    For long enough had remained,

    The wind started blowing,

    And I cast away my tame.

     

    As they looked up

    To see the storm that was brewing,

    I leapt from my corner

    And let loose my ruin.

     

    All at once,

    The desert that sat quietly

    Rose up and filled their lungs.

    When the sand takes flight

    And blocks out the light,

    There is nowhere for bandits to hide.

     

    Their day at the beach

    May have been sweet,

    But when they leave

    They are destined to carry me.

     

    I fill every nook and cranny,

    Every crevice that they’ve yet to find.

    They’ll be haunted by grains of my sea shore,

    And taunted ‘til the sun won’t rise.

     

    http://twitter.com/ofcourseimhuman