Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Zola Jesus - Skin

This is going to be quite possibly the hardest assignment I have ever had to accomplish. I know that I will relive all the tears I had shed in order to write these poems in the first place, and I know that I will shed many more in order to immortalize my past within my thesis. I pray that afterwards, I will find myself in the most calming of places. I will walk away a learned poet, with skin tougher than it has ever been, hopelessly devoted to my adolescence; having found it a home within bound pages in which it will always stay loud, carefree and young.

Friday, January 13, 2012

The Truth Hurts

I wonder if it'll ever stop; this decade-old blue funk I've been in crisscrossed by the most minute inklings of my own, personal pacificity. I am hopeful and more productive than I have been in a long time and still my subconscious willingly opens its arms, welcoming the tricks that this world plays upon the strings of my heart without any remorse.
I've been told to keep my true life quiet, but I can't; this is me. I speak about it all, everything that you find negative within me in hopes that someday, someone can find the courage to do it too. I have been told to make change happen instead of sulking. I want the life I know I deserve, and I'm here to tell you that I will never stray away from exposing what I deem necessary. I am not a victim but I am very sad and I refuse to be ashamed because I am. This is me and it always has been. I am no longer the one who waits for change to happen, and I will never again let you tell me that the reason things remain the same is because of any wrongdoing on my part. I am deeply trying, here, and at this very moment, there is nothing, nothing, NOTHING left for you to say.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Can I Ever Get It Back?

I used to write short stories while everything exciting was happening to those around me. If I cared to join them then the excitement in my life would have never seen a chance. I believe that I had something that couldn't be touched. Something that kept me speaking; tangled in cherished discourse with characters I had never met in real life, even though if this took the shape of my real life, I would never have one qualm with it. Birthing the climatic situations of their lives came easy; it's fortifying any present execution of them that has become trying.
Writing began when I was a happy sixth grader; when the excitement of being in junior high and then high school prompted daydreaming in class about the crush I had that present hour, which then allowed my characters to share a kiss or act out that teenage relationship that I wouldn’t see until the tenth grade and then mourn its loss for what seemed like forever after. Writing began when I was impressionable, morphed into something necessary to survive when I no longer was and died when I realized there was nothing left to fight for.
Every year when I clean out my past stored in plastic bins upon plastic bins, I come across that black pee chee folder torn at its fold, filled with 150 stories I spent writing either in Mr. Kidder's American Government or at home on Wednesday nights watching Party of Five, while my parents hollered in excitement at the NBA playoffs emanating through that little Toshiba television set that will live long with an unsavory reputation, yet with a twinge of something that will always make me smile in service of it.
All I heard then was the sound of happiness. I only wish pleasant stimulation could hit me the way it did then, now.

Monday, January 9, 2012

It's Been 365 Days

You have brought me the most insatiable appetite for love. You are the man I've always dreamt of and written about. You make me want nothing more than to write the best fairytale ending that any story has ever seen. It’s been 365 Days. No other man has ever crossed this threshold and I thank you for loving me longer than they ever thought possible. Thank you for believing in my worthiness. Thank you for allowing me to be myself, and thank you for being the man that I miss even when you're sitting right beside me. You fuel the fire that resides deep within my longing to taste childhood again. You calm me down, gently, each time I realize I can’t. You make me want to pursue my pipe dreams and to be better at everything and to everyone that I have ever let down. You build me up with the cognizance that my writing is of respectable substance all the while trusting that I am incapable of ever having let anyone down. I am at fault more than I led on. I admit this here, without retraction. I am one stubborn woman. I have major anxiety and dislike when you try to fix it. I react in ways a reserved lady never should. I am an angry little bitch. I have a major crush on you. I am thankful for all that had happened before I came around, even though I know it hurt. I fear things like the future, but I embrace all the uncertainty that comes with this strange love. This is one rollercoaster I’d wait hours to ride without a Fastpass. Here’s to waiting as many years possible together. Happy anniversary to you, my 6ft-something pollywog. ♥