Look, now.

I rid myself of the last amount of angst, the last remnant of my highschool crushes. Adeiu, bitches. :):


I thought about telling you
just sitting down and telling you everything I have felt in the past
But then I thought of our friendship, and the inevitable awkard glances,
and suddenly¬†the strategy of telling you just doesn’t sound satisfying anymore.

My heart tells me that I should tell you
THIS is how I’ve felt, and because you did
nothing to reciprocate,
THIS is how I am moving on.

Yes, he has your name, but he is nothing like you.
He does not have your charm, does not have your quirk,
or your laugh.
But he does not make me hurt, and he will not put me through the things that,
unconciously ( ! ),
you have.

Whether or not you realized that your love for her
would kill me,
it still tore me apart.
And yes I’m pissed off.
Yes I look to a future without any nostalgia about what I could have been with you.

I lie well, don’t I?
You didn’t see through an inch of my facade, did you?
I’ve had a lifetime to practice it, my dear friend,
and you
above anyone else
should know how easy acting can become reality.

I’ve moved on,
and I’m not going to let you pull me back into the trap of
lusting you without an ounce of payment in kind.


Sunday, Burning.

This is just something I wrote yesterday after he left my house:


I have a red warmth
burned onto my skin,
and a boiling blaze jumping from my heart
to my thighs.
My God, he’s beautiful.
He has strong, comforting arms,
flat sides, and wow aren’t those eyes soulful!

My feelings for him haven’t dissipated
— they’ve hidden
under a dusty rock, in a dark room,
behind the lockers, under the floorboard
of my mind.
Yes it was physical
but he has a heart and a mouth that I both adore.
Badass he might be,
but romantic and tight he is too.

My little rebel
why not come back to me?
I may not always have it together,
but you are my ethical hero;
I want us to have something.
Love, come back to me.

I thought I was over this.
Apparently not.

Edit: I’d like to point out that this is not about the same guy as my last poem was.

“Irrevocable”. Final!

I made a final decision, reworded some things. You guys, here’s the final product (the /s are ‘Enter’ spaces):

Tension by thy breath,/ tight skin over high bones/ I lay there holding,/ frantic wet, all bundles/ gathering the lies and concealing/ one of my many love notes./
That boy will be my death,/ when he won’t/ ever, reveal heart/ because it does not exist./ Our moist kisses are long,/ and invisible./
Chip on his shoulder’s facet/ big as The cross,/ And he is handsome still./ I watch him from my bay window,/ the bastard,/ fire from my heart to below./ I seem to overthink/ even the most obvious of tension./ He loves me./
He has long since,/ since the war,/ been the adoration of my affect;/ but he remains blind,/ and I remain a blade kept within its sheath./
Silent he slipped away/ to rid his guilt?/ to loosen my shame./ It seems to have done neither,/ the supple skin of his cheeks sunken,/ my eyes glossed red./ You beautiful boy, you idiotic/ masocist,/ all of our shame is to blame on you./
And he is beautiful still.

# 2 – Friday 2009

There was a little mini-poem I wrote last night, after I had posted “Irrevocable” — though I am not sure whether it is going to become a section IN Irrevocable, or if it is going to be a poem all its own. But either way (and I will update yes or no later), here it is:


He has long since,
since the war,
been the adoration of my affect;
but he remains blind,
and I remain a blade kept within its sheath.

Silent he slipped away
to rid his guilt?
to loosen my shame.
It seems to have done neither,
the supple skin of his cheeks sunken,
my eyes glossed red.
You beautiful boy, you idiotic
all of our shame is to blame on you.

And he is beautiful still.

I think I will probably work it in somehow into my other “poem”;
I forgot how soothing poetry is — how much I liked it. And it comes so easily, too.

Thursday, 11:30

You know, I picture myself in situations sometimes that I know won’t ever happen. That being said, let me explain:

I will be sitting in class, having a conversation, or watching some scene of my life unfold, and then a few minutes after (or later on at home, when I have time to think about it), I will picture that scene playing out differently. The “characters” will sometimes change what they say, usually “romanticizing” the whole conversation, making it sweeter, or kinder; more impressive, intelligent, witty, dramatic, etc — depending on the sort of mood I might be in. It is my own version of daydreaming, but instead of seeing it like a movie playing through my head, when I stare off into space, I see it as a written script.
Maybe that is because I’m more attracted to writing than I am to movies/directing?

Hm, I should look that up later in Psychology. ūüôā

This might sound strange as well: I talk to myself. Eh, frequently. My computer is the best outlet for it — I will be sitting at my computer, (& it is always while playing a game online or Spider Solitaire), and I will start talking in the dialogue of several different characters in my head. 50% of the time they are ACTUAL characters from literature I’ve read, 20% of the time they might be friends, (rarely family), or co-student associates that I meet every day. The rest of the time they are movie actors, myself and one idealistic, romanticized, “perfect” person (a.k.a. Mr. Right) having a good ole’ chat. The scene and settings are described in my head, not out loud, but all of the dialogue usually goes on out loud.

Strange for someone to talk to herself…and answer herself? Naw. Not when she’s a writer; because those little “mini-stories” or whatever they are have spanned some pretty brilliant ideas. It is my mind’s way of brainstorming through the¬†hundres of story and poem¬†variables (ideas) that stream through my life every morning.

And on (another) side note!
Presleyjoe made a poem. It is 98% sure to suck, but I kind of like it anyway, and if someone’s doesn’t like it that can just be their opinion. It’s a mixture of the mood I’ve been feeling lately (though my moods have not been a bit as dramatic and angsty) and the feelings of a character of mine I write with. It is roughly, uncertaintly titled Irrevocable“, but I’m never sure about’em. Both of us have pretty good lives, but there’s a few things we’d like to get off our chests, if you don’t mind:


Tension by thy breath,
tight skin over high bones
I lay there holding,
frantic wet, all bundles
gathering the lies and concealing
one of my many love notes.

That boy will be my death,
when he won’t
ever, reveal heart
because it does not exist.
Our moist kisses are long,
and invisible.

Chip on his shoulder’s facet
big as The cross,
And he is handsome still
I watch him from my bay window,
the bastard,
fire from my heart to below.
I seem to overthink
even the most obvious of tension.
He loves me.
This lonely ole’ town is nothing but a medium,
I am Minnesota Bound;
Britain bound.
Bound for home and him.

Yes? No? Eh?
Obviously I am “Minnesota Bound” — my character I told you about is “Britain bound”. We are sort of both “Bound for home and him.”

I wrote this today in class with a mix of feelings and a desire to do something authentic that made me feel good — and poetry has always done that. I read back over it, and all over again I relish over the feelings; both good and bad. Nothing too dramatic has happened in my life, recently, so you guys (any of my blog or twitter readers) get a break from the angst! Whoo. ūüôā

I know it has been forever and a hopscotch since I last posted here (yeah, I just said that), and it is all my fault, inexcusable, blah blah blah. Sorry — oops, covers it.

I want to go see a band live! A good band! Not some five dollar-at-the-door band. More importantly: I want someone to take me to GO see a good band, and not go by myself or with, shudders, family.

Have a lovely evening, my loves.

Wednesday Night!

And they wonder where my anger comes from.

Hot, boiling, seething anger rolling up my stairs, and into my parents’ bedroom. My stepfather is the epitome, the d e f i n i t i o n of an ASSHOLE.

I have to listen to him now, cussing and screaming at my mother, calling her every name under the sun, just like my father did when I was a kid. Abuse comes verbally too, fucker, and if he keeps “expressing” his damn emotions like this we are going to have a war. All night (!) I have been dealing with this crap! He’s the one that’s cheated, who lied to her about being at a bar with her this afternoon getting drunk, and then continuing to be at that bar with his messed up alcoholic, idiotic buddies — but suddenly it is all my “whoring, bitch of a mother” ‘s fault.

She is sleeping on the couch right now. The fucking COUCH! Because she definitely isn’t going to sleep next to that asswipe, and she just told me she won’t sleep in the queen bed of mine with me because it’s too far away from the door. Think about THAT for a minute. My mother is…afraid of what he’ll do; she’s afraid she’ll need to get-out sometime in the middle of the night? Because that’s sure as hell what it sounds like, and that pisses me off higher than you could imagine.

I am a sweet-natured person. I don’t cuss at or around anyone over the age of 17 (my friends), I make an attempt at schoolwork, I do my chores at home, and¬†I try to treat people with the respect they deserve.
But this asshole brings out a side of me that no one else sees. Yes, my mother is manipulative, and okay, she can be a royal pain in the arse sometimes. However, that man has more problems than a fish has scales, and he has no right to convince my mother she’s done something wrong, when it is his drinking problem that got them into the argument in the first place.

If there is a beer IN THIS HOUSE, Eddie will drink it within two days, and if it’s a Friday that beer is lucky to last the afternoon. His best friend (and I wonder sometimes, if the title is closer to boyfriend) is an alcoholic we call “Goose”, who I once saw with a beer in his hand on¬†a Friday at EIGHT O’CLOCK in the morning. He was drinking before work, during work, and after work; and it seems that whenever Eddie gets anywhere near him it sets off a trigger that propels him to drink every alcoholic beverage he lays his hand on. I don’t understand the addiction. Forgetting your problems? Chasing your troubles away? His problems and his troubles start at about Beer #4….so…eliminate the addiction, eliminate your fucking problems, buddy!

I’ve already said how much of an idiot he is, though I fear I might do it again before this post is finished.
Why? Why do I, and my mother, have to lose sleep because this idiotic (woops) jackass wants to rant-and-rave, throw things and scream accusations at the top of his lungs when we all know he’s guilty of his crime. Cheating. Drinking. Deceiving my mother into thinking he’s stopping both.

My mom did not drink but a little bit on social occasions when I was growing up. When she left my dad, yes, things got excessive for about a year, and I went through hell being with a single mom drunk living in a tiny duplex (more like a shoebox). But she managed to straighten herself out for a few years (my early teens, thank God), until she met HIM Рthe alcoholic Рand started right back up again. 

If you don’t already¬†know: My mother has a lung disease.¬†The closest thing¬†her doctors can diagnose it as is Wagner’s Disease, a¬†problem with your immune system where it attacks your lungs instead of supporting them.¬†She¬†builds up scar after scar on her lungs the more she stresses herself our, or exerts herself, drinking-smoking-and drugs only adding to this scarring. When your¬†lungs are scarred they cannot be repaired. Once your lungs are gone, that’s all folks.¬†
And it scares the hell out of me. So Mr. Alchie here isn’t¬†helping matters.

As I type to you, I can¬†hear her sobs and whimpers¬†echoing through the living room, coming in through my open basement door. And I can’t do a¬†damn thing about it. I guess that’s what bothers me¬†most. No matter how¬†much¬†I comfort her, she will forgive him and convince herself SHE was the big-bad-bitch, and that it was all her fault.

I will not be able to sleep until I’m sure he’s not going to¬†come storming out of the room and hurt her or the house. Yeah, fucking dysfunctional, right? Afraid to sleep in your own house 50% of the time.¬†But I’ve told him, and her,¬†and everyone else that there will be no “calling the cops”¬†if or when he lays a finger on her.¬†I¬†would kill him. I am both saying this out of spite and in truth: if he touches her or me, he better make sure he kills me.

However, I think he’s too much of a coward¬†to try out physical abuse. I am venting here. Venting – definition: – a form of complaining for which no one can criticize. Awesome!

The Female Persuasion

I am giving this to the readers of this blog in extreme confidance. Meaning you’re my confidants. Meaning anything written on this blog (tis a “secret blog”, of sorts. “Anonymous”) cannot be used against me, or against anyone mentioned.

But other than that, feel free to check it out and maybe even comment? ūüėÄ

Much obliged!:

It is so, so corny, but it’s something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time.

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