Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Idk. I don't even feel like working on it anymore. I think I'm going to take a break from it today and then stay up all night to finish it.
I had to write some poetry for my creative writing course. I'm not very sure what I think of them.
The Bacardi is doing well tonight.
It warms her veins.
The gushing sound it makes when being poured sparks her meager interest.
Tonight will be another night like the rest of her previously lived life.
It will consist of her favorite men and women.
Plath. Bukowski. Vonnegut. And Millay.
And all to the sweet sounds of Mozart.
The stars will twinkle and know
Just how fond her heart grows for the letters they write.
And the ones she has yet to inscribe.
But then comes life, raping her from behind and up her most private of parts.
And there she is
Left again in the dark.
Here I am cussing filth, like Bukowski drinks beer.
Here I am smoking cigarettes that make me smell bad.
Here I am not caring about how I smell.
Here I am, not liking boys.
Here I am, not liking girls much either.
Here I am, but there I go.
There I go, wearing my best friends dress, trying desperately to be what I’m not.
Off to a place, that’s socially acceptable.
Off to a place, where girls brush their hair and where make up.
Still, my soul stays back in the midst of cigarette smoke and filthy language.
It stays in a place where being a girl means nothing except having a vagina.
It stays in a place where cool means indulging myself in cheap liquor, smoke breaks, and notebooks.
It stays in me, despite what I put on me.
I saw a beggar lady in the street today.
She was reading a map upside down and scratching her head with dirty hands.
I looked at her and said, you remind me of me.
As she looked back, she shouted, “What the fuck do you know?”
Sometimes the hurt is so deep it hits the marrow of my bones.
Sometimes all I can do is cry.
I’ll lie down on my naked back,
Stretch my body out,
And attempt in the freezing air,
With my weak arms,
To reach out for some ghostly state of being that only exists in a small valley of my hopes.
Strange how hard it rains now.
It hits with the sting of a needle prick,
In the mean color of red.
Sometimes I feel like the hurt creates these big walls that I can’t climb.
It makes me feel like I’m going to drown.
They wonder if the rain is contagious.
And it is contagious, that’s all I can say.
All it takes is a second lingering on why bad things are,
And it will come.
It won’t patter with friendliness on your rooftop
It will pour.
And you will grab on with all your strength to anything that will hold you up.
Your wet hands will grow tired and they’ll hurt.
You will grow cold as the wind swirls around you and the rains pushes hard against your naked shoulders.
But you know if you let go,
So will your last breath.
Oh, how it rains.