Being the one who’s too much for this world and Other Poems

By Karlie Shay Daly

Being the one who’s too much for this world

Growing up, everybody used to tell me
to be the opposite of me – to

not cry when the wind blows through 
my brunette curls, to

not feel sense-bearing products from the
colors of the voices whispering around, to

not make something complex, because it
brings a gauntlet of arguments to those who
are simple-minded; those not able to
comprehend the intricacy – the knottiness
in [ill]sophisticated emotions. I

wanted to drown myself, metaphorically
underneath a curtain of cotton water, maybe
then family or friends would realize how transparently
intense my mind made me. I

wanted to design pictures only found in
Heaven, so my peers could paint a rendering
of what I may be experiencing. It

all ends in broken glass, though. The

tide still sloshes away, even after dipping my
fingertips, sinking my toes, submerging my
manipulated body within it. I

pray for understanding of being human when
chasing the sky, even as I’m stuck in the water,
overturning to every indifferent or 
turbulent trident. Still

I pray for better days, for better non-resentments,
to heal my salted wounds when the water
gives me a chance to feel something
again, even if pain so severely follows. 

Breaking a normal habit

“You both need a break” is
taken with a grain of salt – I
pinch my skin, let it blister over, then
release the tension coloring – through
my bruised eyes, they see the duplicate 
wounds: how

my vision is blurry
how it enhances emotion on a
rolling pin – dough needing to be kneaded
from a tabby’s point of view. I’m sure

they mean well, when they tell us to
“have a break” – as if I could ever
leave my child in the hands of someone
so naïve to this ongoing trace: a marathon
of manipulative insults, meant for well-being
when it causes nausea in my abdomen.

They act pundit with their frivolous verses –
they know which way our universe turns, 
which way is wrongly done enough to
vomit up the pollution on earth’s orbit, they

must know that sleep is always the answer

and if they believe this statement, then
they shouldn’t be forgiven – sleep is a debrief
of life when time keeps spinning, it
reprieves only a couple hours but
fails to boil the passion in my veins. I need

time, perhaps you’re right, but time away
is both a blessing and vice. My head
hazards for both, worries more so than the
other: a
catapult with a broken lever
you keep jolting across paved acid. I
[New Stanza]
want a break, but I can’t let myself be 
graced with one, because I don’t 

want a break, because I can’t let myself be
okay with the thought of one. 

Canary

I scrub the oak of this memory —
condensing the char once present of cigarette smoke 
the woodlands harmonizing just outside our little cottage of blue:
she’s the sapphire kind, convulsed of
cerulean compositions 
paramount enough to ignite the daybreak
and seldom its driving sunset;
hotspots flicker like the gleam of her dress,
ready to lay still, yet continuously impress
even beneath the surface of this shiny press 
there remains true remnants of stress

maybe that’s why the canary came:
with her image reflecting a golden hour
she considered the wilted flowers —
as the thrush of twined wind 
held a garden of song with annealed allegiance;
it was profound to brew balance
even when the home of melancholy 
sunk below the ocean’s tide,
being drained and deprived
/like a wasteland/
as it solemnly invited the breath of life
as its only cure to fight off the smog
stagnating inside 

canary, of burning yellow, 
oh, how you must be drawn to the darkness 
where your zephyr of light 
can conform these lost bodies 
/outcast their ice/
as their lips stay as singing spirits; 
silhouettes like drugged ghosts —

clear the endless gaze of pollution
with your heaven’s kiss, fruitful bird 
/pray the essence on a sea’s eternal drip/
bring the pain and bathe it in kerosene
so once again, this cottage of blue
can shine so steadily on a midsummer’s eve 

as topaz iridescently transposes 
the oxygen from murk to pollination, 
the honeybees flee scrumptiously
to welcome its new guests
feathered deep in that old, creaky house
as they bravely march through
those busted up doors
to proclaim their new faith in the nature’s bounty
flown south by the purpose of reviving 
their once, sorrowful selves;
now, only enlightened memories. 

Karlie Shay Daly is published in Brushfire Literature and Arts, Cosmic Daffodil, and Remington Review. Additionally, she has self-published five poetry collections via Amazon Kindle Publishing and holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in Elementary Studies from Western Governor’s University. Daly is active in posting her poetry on Instagram @karlie.shay consistently.