Tag Archives: thoughts

Thoughts & Poems Recently

what? i’m writing again? yeah the internet has been down for a while. also i went home for christmas.

I kind of want to be a kind with cancer so I can make a wish and have Robin Mckinley write a sequel to “Sunshine.”

I hate you a little, because I’ve let you in.

I am not Heathcliff.
I am guilt.

For me,
So much of my religion has become singing hymns when the melody line finds me and won’t leave.
Googling the verses,
And singing to myself, in my own way.
On my bed, cross-legged, scrunched to the screen.

Let me tell you who I am,
So that someone knows.

I feel like I’m living a life like a streaming online video,
That’s too dark and too quiet,
But the volume is already all the way up
And the brightness at its most blue.
I press the keys to make it clearer, louder,
But the pictures keep moving just the same.

When I get too stressed and my eggs stop falling,
They will be sad.
I’ll get prosecuted for failure to protect life.
One will never grow into a sea monkey.
My insides will get more gnawed from guilt.
And I’ll feel bad for letting them down,
Or not letting them fall down.

I keep asking him one more time,
For the stores I’ve already heard,
Because I know he won’t be able to tell them soon,
Tell them the way I remember.
Because I want to remember,
Before he can’t tell me anymore.
It’s the same reason I don’t mind when my mom tells me what I’ve already heard on my birthday,
The story of how I was born.
I know the words by heart, rhythm, and cadence, but
It’s not the same, like the new toy to replace the lost one isn’t the same,
I want to hear my parents tell it.

I will never be a women who belongs to someone else.
I won’t ever sing about only dreaming of one person
And running to someone else.
The self-sufficient baron in me,
Laughs, like Ursula, at those pitiful feelings slugs.

And I can’t decide what I want.
Do I want someone strong and unmovable, but ultimately boring and predictable,
Do I want someone stronger than me,
Or do I want an equal?
Or do I want someone I can push around,
And how much of this is left up to me?

We were talking about Byron
About how, you can’t live your life at that speed for long,
But god, is it interesting.
And everything in me, wants to be that dramatic,
Leans toward being loud, and over the top, like I was raised.
Maybe I want to be fantastic, taking up space.
My favorite parts of the Sharon Olds’ “Stag Leap” will be forever the angry bits,
The bits with so much flavor,
Instead of the settled down, crock pot ending.
I want that drama, it’s so much more interesting.
I read this book that was taking on all the great rock n’ roll music debates
E.g. Hendricks vs. Clapton or Prince vs. MJ
And he went with Clapton over Hendricks mostly because Clapton is still alive and going, even at a partial rate, whereas Hendricks flamed and died.
His basic argument was that he was old and respected the cost of living,
That’s shit.
Be beautiful and rich and full and honest once.
Then leave the rest of us alone.

Observations from My Week

I can’t do anything else with these thoughts today. I’m sorry.

Somedays I just really love my mother,
Who tells me I’m normal,
And it’s okay to not like most people.

Don’t fall in love with a writer,
We suck your soul dry and pretend it was sand to begin with.

You know how they talk about girl next door?
He’s like boy down the logging road.
He’s beautiful in such a wonderfully normal way.

I had a glass of wine, she had the rest of the two bottles.

I have the signs of the untried.
And I’m scared to know how far I’ll go to please you.

I don’t want to be trapped with children,
I don’t want to have to deal with humans
I don’t want to be stuck at home, because I know I’ll feel responsible.

Today, it’s me.
I’m sick and homesick,
And I can’t stop talking about where I’m from.
I don’t belong. I don’t belong and I’m weird.

I feel bad for being myself, that’s a new one.
I want to tell her, she’s beautiful.
She’s strong,
But that will be condescending.

I long to be the drunk angry Bette Davis in the movie where she wears a green dress with pockets.
God what’s it called?
She was so full of,
Not caring-ness, beauty, and passion.
I love the few times I can be in that mood.
It is so much fun.
It’s Emily Gilmore when she’s running around without a skirt.
It was me last week,
When that woman I always know is there,
Came shining out for a minute,
She doesn’t really care,
And doesn’t really love,
And it doesn’t really matter,
It’s beautiful.
We’re better than you.
And we know it.
God it’s wonderful.
I don’t really mope over men,
I’ll be fine.

I tried explaining this to my roommate,
We don’t really love people, they can be nice distractions,
But really,
We’ll be fine.
Hilariously, beautifully fine.
I’m going to put my hands in my pockets now.
And turn my head to the side and smile.
You can’t touch me.
Maya, I’m feeling like a phenomenal woman.

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.
I’m sorry.

Poems from My Day (11-24)

i should be packing for thanksgiving instead of writing.

It must be the busiest day of my life.
I drove to the doctor, weight, flu shot, blood drawn, stern warnings.
I drove to work. Late, meetings, inadequacies.
I had to get the oil changed before I left.
The first place was full, second I had to wait with a dead cell phone battery.
My car warned me the battery in my key was low.
Dealt with more people.
Made pumpkin cookies.
Cleaned up from the cookies.
Made pudding. Mashed persimmons.
Ate a salad. See above, doctor.
Edited. Communicated. Felt used.
Still more to do.
Still running late, behind, slow.

I’ll forget something when I’m packing.
Socks, I think it will be you this year.
I’m visiting my dad with his brown basement carpet,
I don’t think I’ve ever been warm on a Thanksgiving.
I always want a sweater, but am scared for my sleeves.
And something always tastes like it’s come cold from a can.
If I add more things to my list, maybe I don’t have to go.

I clean the apartment,
So when I get back, I won’t be as depressed.
That’s going to work.

There’s a woman who wears my cowboy boots,
And doesn’t shift her feet when she wears them,
Her socks match,
Her hair curls in curly fry ringlets,
And she doesn’t suck in her breath remembering
The terrible things she’s done.
And she doesn’t have that ring of pudge under her bra strap either.

My Week (7/6)

A few paragraphs on what I can’t get out of my mind in early July.

You don’t want me. You want a woman who’ll tell you you’re the greatest. I won’t lie to you. You want a flouncy, thin beauty with a button nose and that kind of history. You can’t handle my mess. And I can tell you what you can handle, because I’m stronger than you are, and you don’t argue with me. Find someone with lovely eye sparkles who knows how to put on subtle. Talk to her about her blushing secrets and tampons. You can’t brush with complexity. And you still suck at grammar.

We treat these people who care like wild flowers we want to press inside novels with hardback covers we’ll pretend to our friends we’ve read. That’s how rare these strange creatures are in our lives of you can’t shock me anymore. We’ve seen it all. You cannot offend us. We have no scruples. Until you hit a nerve, because they’re so well hidden. You show us a gif of a woman’s legs breaking backwards and that’s it. We lose it. But we’re invisible so it doesn’t matter that we don’t care.

Folk music is about people. There’s isn’t a pop fault veneer. It says this is the way it is. This is the way these people lived. And you’ll love them for it. It says I know the person you’re singing about, I’ve met her, she is me. There’s no glancing over pain. The pain is there with the beauty and the winter and the gloom. They’re always simple songs, it’s like I don’t need mixing to show you how I feel. The songs are clear. They open themselves up with a guitar and a story, and say sit down for a minute, and I’ll tell you about me. These are the people who are barely getting by saying, I’m gonna live with music. And I won’t die with nothing. And that’ll be just the way it is. These are the songs you need not to get through the bad times, but to get through the good.

The switch in my brain just swotched and now I know I’m talking too much.

There’s nothing left of me now. All gone and empty. They took it all. I can feel where the thoughts used to be.

My Week (6/16)

I sat back driving my mother’s car and tried to memorize Willie Nelson lyrics by playing them on repeat.

I wanted my heart to break so I can feel something other than what I’m feeling now.

I returned a book to the library wearing work clothes. I wanted to have read the book I put in the slot. I’m returning a bit of my soul with this. I should’ve said that.

I told myself I wasn’t going to open my mouth today. I was going to speak in short and complete sentences. I wasn’t going to make mistakes and sound like an idiot.

I waved my hand in front of my laptop screen in the dark to watch the silhouette blur, to find something to watch.

Mom told me I have steel underneath they haven’t found yet. She told me if they can’t see my value that’s their problem. I’m not sure, no I’m not, not ever. I guess, I’m sure about being not sure though.

Is that what it’s going to be like? In the middle of whatever I’m doing, I’ll think I could have been doing this with you? I’ll think, I could have gone with you. I’ll think, why didn’t you ask?

She said she could tell from my writing I was confused, I think she may have used the word discombobulated. She’s right, though I’ve never thought of it in those terms.

I can know it’s there, I can watch her say it, I can know the words coming out of her mouth are false. They are hurting me. and I can’t stop it. Then she hugged me, and I couldn’t tell her not to touch me. I am not to blame for this. I am not to blame. She can’t put this one me. It’s not mine.

I’m crashing again, aren’t it?

I have to keep telling myself, this is not me, I am not here. So I can keep going. I am not here.

I had a conversation with the parts of my brain that give me opinions. I am crazy. This is not me. I can do this and it will not affect me, because I am not here. I feel like I need the magic key, the if I could just key. But he’s not here, and I can’t find him. He wouldn’t understand anyway. I’ll sit here and cry with the rain, like I always do.

Thoughts of Mine Today (Part 2)

I thought I’d share more of what I can’t get out of my head.

I dropped a hair tie on my sleeping dog.

I won’t ever be good enough for myself. And that will forever be my fault. Fault fault fault.

I read a story of someone who’s had a worse life. I want to say his pain ached just as much as mine, but I feel like his was worse, and mine nothing. But I don’t want to discount another’s pain in any way, even if it’s my own.

My raised, watered and planted religion only grows to make me feel guilty for what I have.

We lived off their charity. Once a week, I met them. There are very clear should and shouldn’ts I came to understand quickly. I get angry at people who do what I couldn’t and feel no remorse. They should have to feel what I felt. They paid for our house and our food. But they saw it as duty, those generous farmers. The generous farmers who listened to sermons. I find, I cannot explain this to my half-brother who’s never had to fall asleep cold – what it is to be dependent and indebted and guilty somehow too, for thinking what you shouldn’t.

She told me she couldn’t ask for help from Mom because she was the successful one. You leave me in the hall, sister, when you mistake me for someone else. That one hurt me so much, I wanted to cut her right back. Tell me how stable you were when you couldn’t function without a man who thought you the best he’d ever know. Ask me how many calls me and Mom traded about getting you help.

I ripped a hole in my favorite pair of jeans. I buy men’s jeans, more room in the thighs less room in the back, and my hips never fit in anywhere.

We measured ourselves for statistics class. I fell in the middle of the ringing bell. I was so scared I’d be there forever. Brown hair, brown car, brown walls, uneducated woman who had children and become more census data influx.

My body mourns my passing age with new sad surprises everyday.

I remember the way I felt, more than what happened. I remember the story you told me. The mcrib event sequence about shamrock shakes and cheap local pork. I remember I hated sitting alone, but I wasn’t in the right head space to sit next to a stranger.

I get asked for directions. But not really ever bothered. I’m pretty enough to look cared for, but not beautiful enough to be noticed. I’m ok with this.

I made up an excuse to talk to you.

I’m terrified, petrified, you only like me because you have to. I asked someone to walk me home, and no one would look up from their computer. I asked where they all went, and they said, “oh weren’t you there?” They all leave me. Or is that the child of divorced parents aged 1-3 during the split, talking?

Thoughts of Mine Today

I’m blowing on my arm to look at the goose bumps, so I have a texture to look at and distract me. Come back to me.

It’s such a comfort to complain.

There’s a mole on the inside of my left boob. I think you could use it to identify my body if someone cut off my head.

I had a plan for the afternoon. I was going to want to read, then read.

I started working. I don’t write anymore; I have to work. I had to write before.

I want to find the perfect thing on accident.

The car needs gas. He berates. I can’t believe the car needs more gas. You’d almost think it’s burning it.

I just want to hold you. Hold me. I want to be a person who wants to be held.

A train drives by the house a couple blocks away. Thunder coming, or wheel turning, could go either way. I miss living where the bugs sounded louder than the cars.

She sleeps in my presence. She trusts me then.

Tacky decorations pretend to be found by farmhouse garage sales.

My dementia-brain grandmother helps me understand people with thick accents. It takes patience to think you understand someone else.

He asks me, when he calls, about exact topics of worry and concern. They live on a checklist on the back of a Denny’s receipt. Is she healthy? Is she working? Does she need money? Then that’s it.

I hate to laugh at young people’s mistakes of inexperience. I did not want to be made fun of. I wanted the information to do it right, the way everyone else does, the first time.

You don’t need more food.