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Text, An Inappropriate Poem

I usually write term-based pieces for Inspired Mag, but I’ll admit: I was too embarrassed to submit this one for their readership. However, I think this poem exemplifies taking an

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On Love and Lunchmeat

I do not love the way you lie.—Me, on not wanting to burn like Rihanna In four days (and some minutes here or there) it will be February—a month of

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My Write to Speak

I’ve presented several songs both with and without a video accompaniment. I’ve decided to try it out with poetry. I hope you enjoy it. If lying lies within omission, then

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Thinking of You…or Why I Hate the Itsy Bitsy Spider

We wouldn’t be talking like this, you and I, if it wasn’t for her. You know her. We all have a version of her. And when she’s gone, we can’t

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Atlas Loved

I’ve been working on the below poem for a few days now. I know it’ll never be finished, not really. Feelings change, I’ll change. But for now, this represents how

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No Time

He had no intention
to leave her
or her
or…her?

because he had no time
to say anything, to do anything,
to decide who wasn’t worth
the little time he had
to keep the little company
he’d keep.

He wasn’t all bad:
sometimes he said he loved her
and her
and…her,
sometimes they felt so special,
so appreciated
that he’d make time for me,
or me,
or me,
that they would waste time in thought,
while he slept soundly
in one bed or another;

a life so scheduled and secure,
so formatted and fondled,
that time made him its lover—
a caress of ticks and tocks,
a quiet murmur in the ear of minutes passed.

He could have told the truth,
if he’d had time.
He could have let them each down gently,
easily,
patiently…

but for him, it felt like time instead wasted,
a practice in which he did not participate,

until fate,
intervening as it does,
would stop the clock:

a tick, one gone
a tick, the next,
a tock, the last,

finding they had the time
he didn’t,

and him,
forced to make time to see them go.

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Work the Space

World, I finally have a workspace again; mind you, its first role is that of a vanity, but I think it is just as important to apply metaphorical make-up to the soul, just as it is important for a girl who loves to play with lipsticks and the like to apply non-metaphorical make-up to her face and neck.

The point is, the appearance of the mind and heart matter. Inside is important. Thoughts hold weight. And my insides have been without foundation or mascara or eyeshadow primer for months. I’ve been bare and boring. Doing the work of my job, but not my other passions. I mean, sure, I write all day. I apply creativity to projects all day. I work my mind out all day. But there lacks a certain style that is only inherent in the writer’s own laptop, in the comfort of the writer’s own thoughts. Where she manages one project of which she deems truly important when it so moves her.

I felt like I was constantly making excuses for why I wasn’t writing. Too busy, too afraid, too tired, too anything. Making promises to my readers that I would write every week or every month at the very least. But to have a vanity or desk of one’s own. It’s a freedom I haven’t felt in years. I’ve been desk-less for too long.

The Aging

It feels like forever when you’re young,
the kind of forever I wish I had now
that I know what forever means to an adult.

It’s when you lose them you notice. The lack of presence. The inability to reverse forever
so that you may be young and foolish and happy,
so that you may experience love without loss,
family without complication,
relationships without lies.

For me, it was a time when technology represented itself in floppy disks and beepers,
music videos on the television,
classical music playing in my grandpa’s car,
because Tchaikovsky was more appropriate and profound than The Thong Song to the old man
who would never have taken a selfie,
except by accident trying to figure out how this gosh darn phone works.

To be able to reverse the evolution of the chip, the screens,
the flip phones, then memes. To be able to go back to faceless books. Phone calls that were surprises.

Because one day, I will not understand it. The world, that is.
Because technology never represents the aging,
it scares them, taunts them, lays bare their inability to stay updated.
Our human software stuck in version limbo, with not enough space to make the update possible,
and too old of an appearance to stay current.

My grandpa was a typewriter; I, a desktop. The aging daily losing wireless connection to the world.

We wish the people and things that existed, that now confuse those kids
who are the same age now
that you were then,
we wish they never changed.

But progress does not stop;
and aging does not falter.

But yet there is hope:

that we may become so retro,
so hip in our aging
that they willingly bring us back into the world,
because we made a difference,
and can do so again.

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Curls

A special thank you to Dave. Always appreciate the push to write.

Curls was written at lunchtime, the only time I’m not as busy as I usually am…sorry for the wait.

Lately, I’m confused
like curls when they flutter back to wavy
lost in twists,
lacking bounce and cling
they once held against the strongest
light breezes—
because, let’s be real—
the curls could never survive confusion
so enigmatic,
so sphinxlike
that you could consider me hair-straight
and constant anxious.

Sometimes, I wrap the curl confusions ’round my finger,
circling them into pretend curls too tight
for realistic integrity.

Upon release,
the curls fall back into their original position,
wisps of hair unclung,
uncurled,
unmanageable,
until they drop heavy and tangle.

The hair,
the confusion—
full of knots too difficult
to brush away.

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On a Scale of 1 to Even, I Just Can’t

It’s been too long, for the millionth time, since my last post. And the thing I hate more than anything, is that my friends, former bosses, etc., etc., keep asking me if I still write. I’m a writer, yo, is that even a valid question? Yes. Because it’s better to finger point at laziness than to call yourself a writer when you don’t write.
It’s not logic or science or exaggeration; it’s the gosh darn truth.

I can admit, I have gotten back into reading pretty frequently. Damned by Chuck Palahniuk, The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern and now The Thinking Woman’s Guide to Real Magic by Emily Croy Barker. I’m a readin’ machine when I’m not at my desk.

And about that little detail. My current job status: still employed. Current happiness level with type of work: Ultra High. Current Creative Level: +1. And what do I do for a living? Create names. Like a boss. For companies. All types of companies. For products. Corporate IDs. Clinical trials. Things. More things.

Yeah, buddy.

So a poem, for my tiny, itsy bitsy audience that reads my web of work:

The Lessening

It hurt a little less each day
once I figured out
that really
no matter what I did,
no matter how hard I pushed
or pleaded,
it would not change
or replace
the heartbang
that went
with lack of love.

Maybe she didn’t know
right from
wrongish,
the pieces of feels and fonds
all jumbled with white pills
and liquorish drinks
she thought more appealing
than dinner dates
with peeps who missed her.

Really though,
more personal than peeps,
more familial in their cut
like unclear diamonds from an old ring,
they wanted someone
to pick at the past,
a little kid
shoveling and separating sand with a giant plastic fork,
piling shell and salt and people dust into castles
that looked much more obelisk
than fortification.

The digging, after too long, sored the muscles,
ached the fingers,
until the digger felt no need for castles
or diamonds
or dinner dates.

They stopped missing her.

They stopped hurting.

And eventually:
they just stopped.

A pause. A memory.

Then hurt again.
Glimmers of hope
as fine as sand.

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How to Deal with Everything

6/23/14

Some things haven’t changed. I haven’t posted since March, for starters. So here I go, already weeks then months, but the need to write down something is immense and necessary. I can’t contain syllables, letters, uttered grunts and sighs and inner need to yell and bang some table. It’s all downhill from here, I swear it. The uphill climb of stress and events has brought me to the peak, the apex, the precipice, and I can feel it, deep within the crevices of the joints between my bones, the need to write, write, to keep writing or unenthusiastically implode. The need to express, impress, digress, until I’m -ess’d out and relieved — like a star that’s just about to supernova, all excess and hyperbole and exaggeration that needs to be released in a cloud of light and shiny things.

How to deal with everything? Write about it. The keys listen to you like square-shaped ears, no judgment here but in the little clicks that break the silence. They tell you to go on, urging you like the pop of packing bubbles: the need to pop, then pop again, more instinct than necessity.

When it all feels like too much? Write again. There are poems for this. Lyrics for that. I don’t know how many times you can hear a song that feels custom made for your situation. You’ve been cheated on? There’s a song for that. You’ve left your heart on the doorstep of another lover? There’s a song that specific, I swear it.

And in these last few sentences I can already start to feel better. Dealing becomes a little easier.

6/24/14

ABOVE was written yesterday. And today…well…today I feel light.

How to Deal with Everything

Take risks, take risks,
that’s all it is:

If you love someone, tell them.
If you hate your job, quit.
If you want to be a pirate, raise your sword, your flag, and ARRRGH,

because, Matey,
you get one shot to say how you feel
infinite days to deal
and a heart so strong, it’ll take ten swords
to do it in,

and when you feel down,
there are people there
to lift you,

not like clouds,
but cranes, metallic and loud and…

all you need to know is that they’re there:

morning, after work, the occasional lunchtime call,
and to be fair, you’re there for them, too
despite the days it’s all about you,
because drama, dear,
follows you,
a Facebook stalker, when Pokes were a thing,
not murderous, but creepy as all hell.

But you know what you do well?

Those infinite days are smalling (new word, just deal with it),
your vents becoming summaries,
your feelings on your sleeve and not your Wall.

And you, my dear, you’re writing again. Feeling love between your fingers, like a violinist plucking strings. Because I love you. I love my job. I want to be a pirate:

my pencil, a sword
my feelings, the flag.

End.

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Sing The Body A-lectric

I have a type A personality. Take it or leave it, hate it for all I care, but it’s mine, and I love it, for each and every over-thought quirk, for every bit of its passion and hatred for selfish perfection, but a justified perfection, because type A-ness, this is its curse: To feel justification in decision so deeply it is made fact. To be uncompromising, relentless, and intense. To be the too much incarnate; to be hated and to hate, to be loved, and to love, but A-typically. Enter the cracks. The cracks in the glass, sand-fine and small, these cracks eat away at us, nibble and gnash till they’re either 1) Replaced or 2) Fixed with super glue (though we sure as hell know that‘ll never be the same again. Just look at it). And to be OK with these thoughts. To embrace them and dress them up real nice to disguise ourselves as put together and responsible. But the crack. We see it. We think about it. We fixate. And it may have never broken without our attention (and we realize this, but we just can’t help ourselves), but it’s because of us we crack…nay, demolish the glass with a hammer filled with every little nag, every little finger wag, every little everything. And we’re left with ourselves, the result of just too much. Type A without the WE. Until we find someone who can love us more than we love fixation.

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Goodbye Modesty

Look, I’m not going to go into some long diatribe about how tech has altered the literal face of human interaction (I mean, I’m on the Internet to write this post, so who am I to talk?)…but I figured I’d write a little somethin’ somethin’ about my perception of the way things have become. I’m a member of the transitional generation: I remember electric typewriters and beepers, VHS players and Facebook when it was only open to college students at a select few colleges. I remember little notes in my lunch, and post cards sent from Vermont or the postal museum in DC. I remember cursive written poorly on a lined paper, reading stories alongside my grandmother at night while she turned a literal page. I remember the darkness of the room, with the only glow the small green light from our new computer. And funny to think, I’m only 26 through all this. So much has changed so fast, I’m worried I might be losing that happy darkness for the sacrifice of something so much more…meaningless. Active wastes of time. Addictions. Habits. Selfies. It’s hard to believe a sense of modesty was more present in our lives only ten or so years ago. Now we ask the world to judge us. Now we ask the world to see how happy or sad we are. Leggo’ my Ego. It’s become so big it might burst. Like, like, like. Like, like.

So here’s a poem, you know, to further the cause.

Remembering Modesty

I knew you once when I was small,
a little girl of six or so
watching grandma in the kitchen make baked apples,
the smell of cinnamon so easy on a little nose.

I knew you once when I was bigger,
school a scary place then, but full of opportunities,
boys scared to call the house because my grandpa might answer,
his voice gruff with protectiveness.

I knew you, in the messages and wait times of dial up Internet,
listening to the music of connectivity
and the hope of four-hour conversations about nothing and everything,
a teenager who thought she knew the world.

I knew you when I told him no, I’m not ready for this,
and pushed his hand away like I’d swat a spider, even now.
You stood by me always, and I felt proud and shy and confident
that I was going to be someone worth something.

But like most friends, we started to grow apart.
With the social, came the need to be accepted;
with the need to be accepted came the photos of nearly everything,
the updates of nearly everywhere I went.

My Privacy, another friend, decided he couldn’t stay,
unable to adjust to change in necessity to keep private life,
well,
private.

And Modesty, you tried. You called me every chance you got, until one night,
I texted you,
fingers full of need to tell, tell, tell,
and you couldn’t stay.
You told me I’d changed.
You told me it wasn’t the same.

And years later, when I found how much liking had superseded love,
I called you,
begged for you to come back…

we chatted like old friends do,
as if it had only been minutes instead of days,
and laughed at the ways the world was mocking Privacy,
pretending to be friends with him,
the way friends do when they need something.

Anything.

To feel like they hadn’t lost themselves
in public.

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New Year Nomenclature

I am very much aware
that there
there in between year 1 and year 2
there was a time when I
was sad or crying,
lying
about my intentions or how I was really feeling
when you said that,
did that,
or just didn’t.

There was a time,
I laughed so hard the car shook
with joke-heavy drops
of happiness slowly soaking into the seats
like cigarette smoke
into even the most resistant hair.

There,
between year 1 and 2
was you,
waiting, floating,
flying without reason,
through similar seasons,
where every day is spring or summer

Bummer

to have missed the first flecks of snow,
but you cannot miss what you didn’t know,

that I could be so different,
better,
like machinists installed me with
robotic contentedness,

so automatic I forgot
to be sad or to cry
my heart pumped so high
I ignored the fact that I should pop.

And when the moments stopped—

When I breathed again.
I could feel you,
there between year 1 and year 2,
nestled down in runner’s gait,
ready for year 3 through 98,
for the auto-happy,
of which I am very much aware.

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Claw Machine

I want to take my week
throw it in a ball
and rocket it, expert aim
into the trash, lined with a bag
from CVS
because buying the bags that fit
tiny trash cans
is
ridiculous,

like death too young
19, 26, 60
(60 is the new 35)
or forgetting moments
that should have mattered,
goldfish memory peeking
through a fish tank brain,
moments popping in rapid-fire bubbles,
dances, crushes, firsts,
pop pop goose
a broken sphere and the memories float
unmemorized
into the air.

And I,
still living the past in photographs,
old letters,
long due conversations,
watch this week in awe:

life, a claw machine
so weak, its grasp,
that you can never quite catch
that stuffed T. Rex,

you’re stuck with second best:
nada,

the rainbow unicorn giggling
in spectrum glow
knowing what you don’t know…

how to beat it — this arcade game called life,
the tears, a token,

and I,
more interested in ski ball
than claw machine,

know real survival
is in the center cup,

because even if you don’t hit it,
you’ll still win tickets,

the currency of gods

and your tear tokens
your memory bubbles
your life lived
a gift to the odds,
the claw machine
a false practice in disappointment,
the life,
not fully lived.

I much prefer ski ball.

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Young Love, a Poem

I was told very recently that I should not stop writing poetry, despite life’s tendency to make me procrastinate. But I haven’t procrastinated, not really. I started working at a job I really enjoy. Still doing Zumba (getting certified on Sunday!). And still making changes to myself I didn’t think were possible. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been, and I have my friends, my boyfriend, my employers (both current and previous not counting my internship), and my family to thank for it. So here’s a poem about young love, because love should always remain youthful—butterflies and all.

Young Love, A Poem

I fell in love for the first time,
when I was seven
because at seven
Disney princes
were easier to come by
than Followers and #hashtags,
walls you couldn’t climb
and photos unfiltered.

I used a typewriter then,
to finish science projects and school essays
taking paper to the back of paper,
to get rid of a mistake;
and
if all else failed
used White Out
before White Out
was cool.

I fell in love again
at ten
when young love kissed me on the forehead
without me knowing,
one year older
but not wiser
that one day
he would break my little heart
like cracking open a piñata
with a bat.

BAM!

And from there the candy flowed,
pieces of piñata heart fluttering—
playing with the air like twirling curls
around fingers

(much like I did at sixteen,
because I’d seen it in a movie once).

And if he saw me now,
another piñata heart later,
he’d see me whole again,
plastered together with little bits
of super glue
and glitter,

sun glinting differently with every
life turn or “I love you”
whispered in older ears,

against the faint jingle of mnemonic bells:
a dream a heart had wished it made,
a kiss to wake from sleeping,

the dragons finally slain.

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