Thanks! I worked really hard to accomplish that ‘dead inside’ glance.
Super rare bimonthly event: all the tests are aligned this week in the night sky; stay tuned and learn how and when you can hear the soft weeping phenomenon from the comfort of your own backyard!!
Tumblr poet jerk-off: FUCK! I NEVER GET FEATURED! I’M SO FUCKING MAD RIGHT NOW, I COULD SHIT EVERYWHERE! OOOOOOH! FUCKING EDITORS DON’T EVEN SEE MY FUCKING GENIUS EVEN THOUGH I HAVEN’T MADE THEM AWARE OF MY EXISTENCE! OOOOOOOOOH FUCKING FUCK! I’M SUCH A DICK! I HATE EVERYONE! I’M SO DAMN TALENTED OOOOOOOOOOOOH!
On the days of really big exams, I make it a point to come to class looking like shit so that the professor can know that they’re the ones who did this to me.
Sorry, sorry for being gone guys; all your sweet messages of worry have been much appreciated. I’ve just been out due to school going fast and furious, and I really don’t want to do anything except eat pasta and chicken until the sun implodes. Until this period of exams and lab practicals and papers pass by though, I’ll just be reblogging the occasional thing and complaining about how I get urges to drop out of school every 3 seconds.
Smooches and good luck for all those going through midterms right now
In Ohio, I was picking raspberries off the vine,
saying amen over dinner four times.
In Ohio, I was seven years old, 2,555 days crammed
into 4’2” of God’s living, breathing creation.
In Ohio, Papa read me Poe every night, saying
nightmares can’t haunt me
if I fall in love with them.
He took it back six years later, still in Ohio, saying
Baby, if a man ever lays a hand on you again,
I swear to God I’ll kill them.
He told me never to fall in love with batter-faced boys
with blue eyes and Budweiser voices.
Don’t fall in love with nightmares, baby, don’t you ever fall in love.
Don’t fall in love in Ohio.
In Ohio, I took three hits from my best friend’s joint
and we fucked on the riverbank. Their breath was all
“always been in love with you” after,
half confessions, half insubstantial smoke.
Always been in love, so happy when you finally left that jackass, he never treated you right. I can treat you right, you know I can,
always been in love, always been in love.
My only response was to hold their hand and whisper
Baby, don’t fall in love in Ohio, baby, don’t you ever.
In Ohio, it struck me the first time
when Papa said “Baby, I’m gonna die,”
how strange it was that those weren’t his first words to me,
that I didn’t come kicking and screaming into this world
to hear Papa say “Baby, I’m gonna die. And baby, baby, so are you.”
Like we hadn’t all been born dying.
He shouted, “I love you,” from the window of my car, a symphony.
And on the nights I huddled into the darkest corners of myself shamefully
he covered my ears and whispered his love instead, a litany.
So when the time came and he asked hesitatingly,
"Would you walk to the ends of the earth with me?"
I said yes impatiently,
Guys, it’s been 4 years since I’ve gotten a new pair of glasses. My eyesight has been deteriorating, my ability to see distance is abysmal. It’s been a struggle in the classroom, even with sitting in the front row.
I just got the call saying my new glasses are ready.
I feel like I’m about to bring home a baby.
The simmering rage when you open up a new pack of flashcards and they are blank and unlined. This has happened to me way too many times; way too many times. It’s happened so many times that I could probably write a poem on it. No wonder it was only .57 per pack.
When will I ever learn?
Prayer circle for the cold weather to bring mild coughing and congestion to all college professors so that classes may be cancelled, amen.
Aw I haven't given up on my dreams. I'm actually working on a project with a friend (just a scene), but we're turning it into a performance as well (we're acting). The reason I was wondering was because you write snippets of your life, but characters in plays/films could just be more developed parts of you that aren't always seen. It's a way to show YOURSELF interacting with other parts of yourself. I'm not sure how to explain this. Either way, I'm glad you use your words at all :D I love them.
Oh that’s great! If you film it, definitely send it my way. I’d love to see the fruits of your labor!
AND HEY that idea is really awesome. I’ve never thought of characterization that way and it’d certainly challenge me. I might just do something with that idea; not a full fledged play mind you. But I really want to play around with it more. Thank you again!
This is definitely random, but I was just wondering if you've ever considered becoming something along the lines of a playwright. I think the way you express yourself is brilliant, and you'd be so good! At seven, I wanted to become a playwright or a screenwriter and that eventually just faded into the general category of wanting to be a writer. I know you have mentioned that you would not write for a living, but has writing plays/films ever crossed your mind? Also, I really enjoy your existence
I really enjoy your existence, even if I don’t know your identity (tragic, by the way, I’d like to know who is being so nice to me). You are so sweet and thank you thank you for your kindness. Hmm, I’ve never really thought of being a playwright before actually. I wouldn’t know where to even start; I wasn’t lying when I said it’s hard for me to write fiction. My claim to not-fame has always been writing about snippets of my life and my own experiences, and I have no idea how to turn that into play-format without making it a play on my life, hahah. But I have to admit, the idea of writing a play is definitely interesting to me.
What stopped you from pursuing your playwright dreams, anon? Don’t give up on your dream!
During my first heartbreak, I lied and said I didn’t feel love any longer. My fingers were crossed behind my back, my legs crossed when I sat, my mood cross when I wept during movies, insisting that, “This movie is just fucking sad.”
Even now, I’m not a very good liar, which probably makes me not a very good writer either. The stories I tell are the ones that are mine, earmarked and highlighted, catalogued in my brain under, “things worth telling people.” I have many stories of firsts; stories of first love and first loss, first family death and first newborn child, first time I felt uncomfortable in a dark parking lot, first time a boy called me ugly, first time I ever picked up a pencil and wrote a poem. I have a lot of stories on firsts but they are in suspension; unfinished until they can be coupled with their lasts like bookends to my life. And if I live my life right, I won’t be around to write those lasts down onto paper.
Last dinner I ever ate, last kiss I ever received, last hug wrapped around me, last thought, last word, last breath. These lasts will be the china plates I leave behind for my children and theirs. These lasts will smooth into their firsts, like the quilt I’ll never bother to learn how to quilt for them. But a figurative quilt nonetheless, a quilt of firsts and lasts and second firsts and in-betweens and sometimes and maybes and little bits.
So maybe I’m a great writer after all. Maybe we all are.
She’s got sickening eyes, soul stiffening sighs, a threatening stride, she’s the reason I rise. A hundred percent, she’s a five out of five; she’s a ten, she’s a dime. Shit, I’m hardly a nine, but that’s hardly a crime. And I hate running the figures. But she got the kind of figure I can’t keep my fingers off of, and then the problem gets bigger. She’s got a grip on my trigger; I mean- she’s tripping my slippers flipping flapping sizzle and simmer trapping my senses and zipping my zippers quicker. Get your head out of the gutter man, my grammar just flickered, like a glitch in the matrix quick as a ticker. I’m on point like a prick — shit, I swear that wasn’t on purpose. But whatever the purpose, it’s always deeper than the surface. You can call me an arrogant, a hooligan, a heretic, but her body is holy like scriptures written in Arabic, and I just want to stare at it. She’s got the kind of smile to soothe an ailing child. A pair of hips that got me flailing wild, and my voice is faltering and failing while I’m hailing her a goddess. I’m going to be a hundred percent honest as I tell it; she’s the kind of beauty that would make Helen jealous.