Yeah, you should write something here.
Monthly Archives: February 2016
Poems from My Day (2/25)
it’s been a long week
I’m not sleeping.
This is bad.
I hate routine, but it appears I need one to function.
Without it, the days start blurring together,
I have trouble remembering which memories come from dreams,
And which thoughts come from the day.
I miss him.
I’m awake at 3:30 a.m.
And I miss him.
Because I would talk to him when I was awake at 3:30 a.m.
I miss him in all the ways I don’t during the day.
He let me tell him what I was scared about,
And told me I’d be ok.
Then he’d tell me about his latest kayaking trip with the Unitarians,
My red-headed Paul Bunyan,
And his nose would scrunch up when he’d tell me to shut up,
After teasing him over a plate of cold fries and cheese in a little plastic cup,
At Steak n’ Shake,
At 3:30 in the morning.
I’m nervous all the time,
It’s what keeps me going,
The fear, I’m doing it wrong,
I should be doing more,
I’m not doing it fast enough, good enough,
Because I’m not strong enough.
My Mom used to call it the Puritan work ethic,
Why haven’t you gotten this done yet?
You’re such a disappointment.
You’ve got me all figured out,
Wolf-brow told me once when I saw him in a different class.
He was sitting with a girlfriend who looked like she’d never
Thunk a thought in her life.
But I shouldn’t judge.
That’s why he found me interesting, I think,
Until he figured me out.
I just like to laugh at people. He said.
I’m looking down deep in my heart, soul, whatever
To find something to share with you guys.
It will tell you who I am.
But I can’t find anything.
I can’t do anything right.
How many people have thought that thought?
I want to be good at just one thing.
But I should have started practicing already,
And I’d be good by now,
It’s all my fault.
Poems from My Day (2/22)
it’s one of the days i wish i was another person
I’m staying at my parent’s house,
Until I leave to go across the width of the country.
I keep grabbing for the dishwasher in the wrong place.
I keep opening the wrong cabinet, because they moved the bread.
I keep behaving the same way I have in the past.
I almost slammed my door yesterday.
It still smells the same in there. I still hate that garage door.
I didn’t know other people would respect your boundaries if you set them.
That wasn’t something I knew.
If I said no, they’d listen?
I should have had more friends so I knew more of what was un-normal.
Dad thinks I can do it.
I can work two jobs,
So I have enough money for food.
I’m not so sure.
I can’t get my mind made up, which is more nerve-wracking.
I don’t know, I don’t know.
The desks are a little off-green squares.
The wood looks like it would have been fancy when new.
The guy’s baritone whispers in the cubby across from me are distracting.
My ears are sore and red from wearing headphones.
The outlets are brown.
I can see down a whole row of books to the other-side of the second floor.
I worked at the library today.
I ate a donut I bought on recommendation from a woman with a lazy eye.
I’m relearning about cosigns from the tutoring going down three tables away.
I can’t see the church next door anymore,
It’s gone black.
It took me years to realize it wasn’t my fault my mom was bad with money.
It wasn’t my fault she got upset after we went shopping.
I broke down once in Target at the checkout aisle.
She said she was nervous about going shopping with me again.
I was never sure when she was going to be stressed after paying.
I was never sure if I was paying or she was.
She always got tight after we walked out.
And had to justify it out loud while we walked to the car.
I wear new boots to break them in,
Even when I’m sitting in bed,
I punch my legs off to the side.
So they look worn in,
So I won’t look like I’ve bought them new,
Like I had to buy them new.
So I won’t look like I’ve had to spend money,
Like I have money to spend.
I have nothing to say.
I don’t mind.
Welcome back, uncaring.
I forgot how comfortable you are.
It’s so flat and clear here.
We’re good to sit for a while.
I’m ashamed I’m competitive for time with my brother against my sister.
I’m happy they’re spending time together, and she gets to feel important again,
Strong, the one you come to for advice.
I’m worried she’ll do to him what she did to me.
There are parts of her I don’t want him to catch.
I’m glad to feel useless again.
I’m sure they’ll talk about me, which will be good for him to hear.
But I’m still a little hurt, for some reason.
I’m glad they’re bonding over something.
I’m glad I’m going.
More love is always better.
I’m sad that’s I know she’s feeling triumphant for winning his attention,
When I’m the one who’s there.
Poems from My Day (2-17)
how’s your day going?
*edit: i re-read these today, and they’re not very good. i’m sorry guys, i’ll do better tomorrow*
I found myself walking down a set of familiar paces,
The bad kind.
The kind that means I’m heading down into a strand of depression.
Please, no. I was doing so well.
I think my mother might be right.
When I have a deadline, something that has to be done,
Right then, and no later.
I do fifty other things first, because they’re important.
I’m being passive aggressive toward my schedule.
I don’t have to take this from a list.
So I don’t, then freak, then cram.
My roommate had the guy over again.
Her perfect guy,
The one she told me, is perfect.
Except that there’s nothing physical.
But I’ve seen his slick black shoes by the front door twice.
Sounds like sex isn’t that important anymore.
I carried a shoebox full of tax paperwork.
To sort it all out.
I want adult award points.
I felt like a little girl, I felt like I was forgetting something.
I had little sticky notes I wrote to myself from October about payments.
And I lead a dull life.
A well calculated, paperclipped, boring life.
That fits in neat stacks in green folders with black marker on the outside.
I told a story to my mom.
After I had told it to my dad.
I had gotten it out of system,
I did not want to tell it again,
Even if she egged me on, telling me it was funny,
It would make them laugh.
I went back to see how they were doing without me.
Just fine. Like I knew they would be.
They’re having the problems I knew they would have.
And the new people they add, won’t know who I am.
Or what I did.
Which, in the end, was type and stamp and smile.
She said call if you have time.
I didn’t, so I won’t.
When I could talk,
She was short with me,
It was all up front.
And I tripped over a switch, and got the annoyed noise
Then the silence,
Preceding a blowup,
And I didn’t care,
Because she asked to talk to me.
I still want a slushie
Her boss at work told her she needs to work on not visibly reacting.
And I laughed and laughed.
If she could learn that lesson.
She’d certainly be harder to read,
But still the angry, young, girl who puked her guts out after dinner,
And poured as much hate on the world as she did on herself.
Over a Frozen Lake
Poems from My Day (2-10)
i’m in a slightly bad mood today.
It’s so funny, you know, we’re both trying to be so proper,
And once we let our guards down,
We finally speak the same language,
But it’s not the words or the intonation,
It’s the feeling behind it,
That finally made it through the muck.
Why is it only the people who get support are the ones who ask for it?
Why don’t we support the quiet people.
They need it just as much, they’re just quieter.
Somehow it doesn’t seem fair.
My mom told me once, when she bought me dinner,
Fairness is really important to you isn’t it?
I didn’t know how to respond.
The Starbucks tax.
I should be able to deduct this.
It’s line item – the I need a place to work that isn’t here-
So I buy a coffee I don’t really want.
Sit in uncomfortable chairs, freeze any time the door opens and quietly sob.
My mom calls it the worker ant.
She can only work when she’s around other people who are getting stuff done.
When she was in law school she’d drive an extra hour to go work in the library because she’d be productive.
Huh. Why is it so frustrating that I’m the same why?
It shouldn’t be, but it is.
A short note to Miss Pasta
It’s been a year, I thought I’d check in.
I got myself a job with hard-won skills after working for free for a few months.
Thanks for believing in me, but more importantly, telling me you believed in me,
That was nice.
I think it helped a bit.
I know I did it myself. But still, I’d like to give credit where credit is due.
I like to think I succeeded in part because you were nice to me.
Even if your job said you had to.
Also I probably should have told you about my panic attacks.
About the boy I knew in high school who died of cancer.
You were a basketball star. You were tall, and handsome, and from a good family.
You were our first player drafted by a div 1 school.
From our tiny high school. You would dunk for fun.
You married a friend of mine, she wasn’t a good friend, but we got along.
She is best friends with your sister.
I didn’t really know you.
You would probably recognize me as a girl you went to high school with, but beyond that, nothing.
But you were an asshole to my friends, even if you weren’t 18 yet.
And you only got press because you were on the dream-run-team that made it to the march-madness finals one year. Golden.
And your wife was pretty, and you were pretty. Hometown goodness.
She started documenting when you got sick. It was terrible.
You died last week.
And all these people were up in arms.
I couldn’t find it to care.
Why are we supposed to care more about this guy? Because he could play sports.
Because he was big, and cool, and something of a lost star.
Why are you any different from all those other people’s family members who die of cancer?
Why are you asking me to care for you?
Because I went to high school with you?
Because you made noise in the news, because they said you were somebody?
But, wait, you say, it’s not my fault I got this press. Fine.
I still don’t think it’s right.
I’ve gotten yelled at for this.
with nasty looks.
Call me jealous, I very well might be.
But it doesn’t change the fact that the only reason you’re on the tv is because you could shoot ball. What about all those other families with babies in Riley? Why don’t they get money and coverage? Flat face. Flat reaction.
Sure I knew you guys in high school, sure it’s a shame, sure this city is really, in fact, incredibly small. And we like to come together to rally around something.
But couldn’t it have been something besides a sick basketball star?
This is a basketball state, no matter what the big football team tells you.
It doesn’t seem fair.
But I guess getting cancer and dying isn’t fair either.
You only get so much luck.
Put a human face on PR disasters that helps.
Even if it’s snitching.
Post it on Twitter.
This is the intern who didn’t relay the correct node and took down the telephone lines for three hours on a Monday morning.
He didn’t mean to.
I’m freezing cold in effing Starbucks.
Oh my god, my legs are so cold.
This conference call is going to suck. Why did ever leave my apartment?
It’s snowing. Quit opening the damn door.
Oh Jesus Christ, someone close the godforsaken portal to hell.
How is everyone else not shaking? It’s so damn cold.
That’s it. I’m putting my coat back on.
This has all been pointless.
Never before have I wanted a restaurant to be less busy. Stop coming in. Abandon your coffee. it’s two in the afternoon, you don’t really need it. Go away. Let me write in peace. Warm.
I’ve started irrationally hating every over-combed prick who comes in here.
And also insulting them for no good reason.
Someone stop me please.
I love watching impatient older ladies get stuck walking behind two young women.
The old lady isn’t sure what to do or how to pass them.
They’re talking right next to the door.
It’s hilarious. She’s stuck with her blonde poof hair and serious business, non-fleece or knitted scarf.
Waddling around, racecar hovering side-to-side, trying to find a way past.
Do people just randomly talk to cops?
This is so weird.
Oh my god this cop has the goofiest laugh.
And his laptop looks like it holds the business secrets of the world.
Or at least wouldn’t crack when he drops it chasing very serious suspects in suburbia.
I need to stop people watching.
p.s. i want an award for actually following my schedule for one week. see? new content monday – wednesday.
Poems from My Day (2-9)
Gravitas he lacks it.
I hate that I smile when I’m uncomfortable
I hate that I’ll think I’m stupid and know nothing in 5 years.
Please don’t ever talk to someone, pat them on the head, and think their problems are cute.
I kept telling myself if I get everything done I need to today,
Then I can do nothing and sleep.
Except I got almost everything done,
Felt guilty about not doing more,
And never got the break I was promised.
I hate being dependent on someone.
I feel obliged.
And I’m never sure what they’ll do with that obligation.
Like ask to let something slide,
Or tell me “it’s nothing,”
So we have something to hide together.
I feel like I worked all weekend.
And I didn’t get that day to do nothing.
Maybe I won’t ever get those days anymore.
But knowing that the last time I would have a free day, would be the last day,
Probably would have just added more pressure to have a good time,
Instead of increasing my bliss.
It’s like, the m&m can only be so good,
Even if you save the last one till twenty minutes after you finished the bag.
I have a new worst thing in the world.
It’s when someone does something wrong that effects you,
And gets mad at you for asking them to fix it.
Also known as payroll.
It’s the first time I’m being asked to sign a non-compete clause.
I’m vaguely offended.
But this company has always put business practices before doing the right thing,
Mind you, they tend to screw those up too.
Even if the founder would tell you different.
I’m going to get in trouble for writing that.
I deleted all my books
The ones you made fun of me for,
And now there’s no record I’d read them, or where I stopped reading them, or gave up.
I still want credit for them.
Because I so desperately don’t want everything to be for nothing.
But my handwriting is perfect.
That’s what my Mom told me she thought as soon as she checked into the hospital for stress exhaustion.
She told me this after I told her all my clothes are folded and put away.
And everything is perfect.
But the me is lacking in me.
Cattail in Snow
Poems from My Week (2/5)
One of these is for you. Yes you, goofball.
There are those moments when people are in perfect sync.
It happens sometimes on the internet, when people presented with similar information react in similar ways.
My favorite appearance of it is in Mrs. Dalloway when both she and her husband understand each other for a moment.
I love that perfect comprehension without saying a word, even if it makes me lonely.
This one’s for you. Don’t read it if you can’t take it.
I’m not sure why I’m so upset.
But, damn, am I upset.
So upset I started looking at wedding dresses to try and find some peace in picking apart the minor details in something someone else worked so hard to make.
You told me, wait, what did you tell me, because I can probably quote it verbatim.
I need to learn to control my emotions.
I think that’s what it was.
Well let’s over-analyze that, because really, what else am I good at, hmm?
Maybe you meant you didn’t want to hear me whine. But.
You made me cry, did you know that?
And then I got mad at myself for giving you that much.
I can’t decide if I should tell you why that hurts.
Or just cut and run and call it a sunk cost.
Did you know I was emotionally abused?
I don’t think you do. I don’t think you know how many years it took me, to be able to say my feelings are valid as they are. I am fine the way I am. They’re not wrong. Feelings can’t be wrong.
I can’t even type that without crying.
To tell me to control what I feel is to take me back there, when I was nothing but sand.
Did you know that?
Because you wouldn’t have said that.
You wouldn’t have hurt me on purpose.
I’ve still never forgiven you
For the time when we were driving home from our every-other weekend with Dad,
and you made me feel guilty for not spending time with him,
and I cried, and you knew I was crying,
and Mom said nothing.
We were right outside town.
I’ll never forgive you for that.
I don’t care if it ruins me for the gold in heaven.
I’ll never forgive you for that.
For making me feel guilty for doing the same thing you’d done.
I always put up these filters.
and when I take them down,
I think, I should leave these down all the time,
Then something I say beautifully gets used against me,
and they go back up with a few extra support bars,
And more space to cover.
I’m the kind of person who says they don’t like to talk about themselves
But is still so insecure,
That if someone is interested, I’d love to be thought of as interesting.
I’m sorry Mom.
I’m sorry your friend is dying.
I know you become closer to her because she’s dying of breast cancer.
And you’re worried you’ll die of breast cancer, because Grandma had breast cancer.
I’m sorry your fussing over this woman,
Didn’t take away your fear that this could have been you.