UNFINISHED

Potential lyrics. Unsure where to go from here.

Oh, someday, somebody's gunna say
'I love the taste of your chapstick,
the smell of your hair,
the sounds you make when you're sleeping,
those jeans that you wear.
Baby, don't you know that you're the answer to my prayer?
And, oh, how it rains, when you're not there.'

Head First

I want you to fight for me, baby.
Throw me, head first, into love.
Take my hand, and lead me.
Make this something I'm sure of.

Too many have left me wounded.
Too many have let me down.
I can't walk down that road again,
so, forgive me, if I don't stick around.

If I leave, you'll have dodged a bullet.
If I leave, you will be free-
free of pain, free of fear, free or everything-
everything that comes with me.

But, I want you to fight for me, baby.
Throw me, head first, into love.
Take my hand, and lead me.
Make this something I'm sure of.

Say you'll catch me, when I'm falling.
You'll find me, when I lose my way.
You'll wake me from the nightmares,
and you'll chase the ghosts away.

I want you to fight for me, baby.
Throw me, head first, into love.
Take my hand, and lead me.
Make this something I'm sure of.

Fading Memory

 At a standstill, with this one. Not getting what I wanted, out of it. Aesthetically pleasing, but not in the way I wanted. Meaning is weaker than intended.

breathe in
feel me all around you
ache for me. hurt for the warmth
of my breath in your ear, the thrill of my hair
tickling your neck, the pounding
of my heart against
your chest
breathe

hold me there
hold me as long as you can
keep me when the worn and weathered
hands of time have woven their weary fingers into
the stitchings sewn between us and unraveled
the threads that have held us
together for so long
breathe

remember me
when i no longer
see the gentle curves of your
menacingly sweet smile, reaching up
to your cheeks and ears, coloring them with glowing warmth
and deepening the lines of regret that have settled
into your brow. remember me, even after
we have become nothing but
familiar strangers
breathe me in.

Long Distance

We are tied together by the modern teenage phenomenon of texting. Hide your head, cover your face, deny it all you want, but we are undeniably and inexcusably
dependent upon it.

We smile at each other through emoticons and laugh together with LOLs. We give up romantic weekends out for late night video chats. You can't kiss me goodnight at my doorstep, so you call me, instead. For what we believed to be the most integral parts of a relationship,we have managed to find substitutes.

I hesitate to tell you, but I do wonder. I wonder what it would be like to not feel this way. To not wonder how much longer I can hold my heart together as it s t r e t c h e s the hundred miles to you.To go on double dates and show you off with more than just a picture. To know you're here when I need you. To see you without busses and trains and planning. To have you.

I am afraid, because I forget. I forget the way your neck smells when I burry my head into you. I forget the scratchy, tickley feeling of your beard when you rub your chin on my cheek. I forget the roughness of your palms when you take my hand. I forget the softness of your lips and how they fit over mineand the slight sigh
you make when we kiss.

But as much as I wonder and as afraid as I may be there is no other way, there is no other choice, there is no other life for us, anymore. My heart has wandered blindly, somehow making its way to you, and I don't think that it can ever find it's way back, without you.

I will smile with emoticons, if you will be the one smiling back. I will lower myself to LOLs, as long as it means that you are laughing. I will skip romantic weekends out, if you will be on the other side of the video. I will give up goodnight kisses, if you will be the one to call, because I know that at some point, no matter how long it may be, these things will come, and I will have you for more than a weekend, for more than a phone call, for more than a text. I will have you.

This Is Me.

          I get it, okay? I’m not meant to be in photographs or on TV, and, honestly, the idea of it freaks me out so I have no problem with this. I get it. I do. I’m tall and freckly and have thick, dark, tangled, curly hair. I’m big boned with big muscles, a narrow waist but flaring hips, thick stubby fingers and inflexible joints that crack when I move. I’m no delicate beauty. I’m no model or prom queen. I’m the too-tall 5^th grade girl in the back row forced to stand with all the boys in the class picture. I’m the only white third grader with an afro, because Mom didn't know what to do with the curly mess. I’m the first to start her period, and the last to start shaving her legs. I’m the nonathletic, uncoordinated, nerd. And I love it.

I love my wild mane of hair. I love that I freckle in the sun. I love that while other girls whine about getting boob jobs, I struggle to find a bikini top that covers. I love that I look like a woman. I’m curvy and sexy, and I’m not ashamed to say that, but having some hips mean having stretch marks from the growth spurt that caused them. Full, thick legs come with dimply, ripples of cellulite. Delicate looking porcelain skin means a sickly complexion, when summer starts, and does about as much good as plastic wrap when it comes to hiding spider veins.

I know that I’m healthy. I know that I push my body. I know that I’m strong. I know that being curvy doesn't mean being fat. I know what I can do. I know, that to have this beautiful shape that I love, I have to be willing to take the whole package, but you don’t. You assume I just don’t run quite fast enough, that I put the weights down too early, that I’m too stubborn to take your advice and change my ways, that one indulgence means I’m a quitter, and that the reason I'm not an Olympian, is because I'm lazy… like it’s actually possible for one person to be flawless, to be idolized in every way, by everyone. I could work myself to death to lose every inch of fat and have smooth, straight legs and an impossibly thin belly, which would more than likely also entitle me to a flat chest, no ass, and the overall shape of a twelve-year-old boy. No thanks.

Everything I do, the decisions I make, how I chose to look, I do it for me. I don’t do it to look like you or your idea of who I’m supposed to be. I don’t do it to win anything or anyone. I do it because I want to. So continue to tell me what I should be doing differently to look more like you, and I’ll tell you that I’m not you, I never will be you, and I have no interest in being you. For every flaw you see in me, I can show you five more things that you wish you had. Criticize all you want, but this is me... every crease, dimple, and bump, and I’d rather be stuck with those last five pounds forever, than to look like anyone but me.

collection of thoughts

Absolutely no rhyme or reason to this. Just a jumbling of lines that came, while I was listening to the radio. Make of it what you will-- this is not supposed to be a finished, coherent, piece.

I hope, tonight, that you will reach
to touch my hand
and forget, forget, forget.

I pray that you are well, that someone
will touch your heart again
Not to be the one you never speak about
Not to be forgotten
since true love wasn't enough
But you couldn't even save yourself
You couldn't even-
Hush now, don't cry.

Only in our memories, now, and in the empty spaces
but we can forget, forget.
When love isn't enough.

When happiness risks more pain than you can bear.
Forget.

He Loves Me

I snuggle my head into his shoulder,

Feeling his muscles flex

As he pulls me closer to him.

He smells of aftershave and cooking grease

Familiarity

I breathe it in deeply

Memorizing.

I’m warm and sleepy

With him wrapped around me

And the rhythm of his breathing

Next to my ear begins to sound

Like a lullaby, soothing me to sleep,

But I know that I can only fight sleep for so long.

The bed creaks, as the pressure

Of my weight is released,

But he begs me

Not to leave tonight.

I stand, but feel his arms

Around my waist,

Pulling me back down to him.

He presses his palms into my thighs,

Pushing them up into my hips

Digging them into my waist

Cupping them around my breasts,

Pressing his weight

Onto my chest, and

I gasp for air, but try

To camouflage my innocence

Because he knows

Where to go 
And how to get there,

And naivety will get me left behind

So I follow.

He loosens his grip and moves delicately

To the back of my neck,

Lifting my face towards his.

Eyes closed

Lips open

Distracting me, while he inches

His way back down

To my hips, maneuvering through

The obstacle course of

Belt, button, and zipper

Like the expert that he is.

His fingers snake their way

Into the waist of my jeans.

I think that I’m supposed to say something

Alluring or do something

Sexy but I don’t know

And I’m afraid

I grab his wrist to stop him

To tell him ‘no’ but

 I need time to think and

I don’t know

I don’t know

I don’t know

He doesn’t give 
me time to think before

I feel him in me

And I close my eyes

And I turn my head

And I wait

And listen as he says

That it’s okay

Because he loves me.

Unfinished story

 Beginning of a story that I never finished. Kind of interested in going back and seeing what can be done with this. First draft. Ignore the bland descriptions.      

 The original plan was that he would go off to war to label himself a hero, and come back stepping through the gates of airport security, returning to his beautiful, young wife waiting impatiently to run into his arms. He would lift her up, breathing in the scent of her perfume, kiss her soft, rosy lips and hear her tell him how much she had missed him, just before they ran off together. He had it all planned out.

What he got instead was an impatient greasy cab driver waiting outside for him, smelling of cigarette smoke and old leather, and who drove five under the speed limit, watching the little red numbers rise on the meter on the dashboard with satisfaction.

          Nothing looked any different, when the cab pulled up into the driveway. The house looked the same, small and quaint, but suitable for a newly married couple. There was the white, wooden swing on the front porch still creaking every time the wind blew. From the window, he could see his wife, the eye-catcher, her stunning frame, tall and thin, wavy golden locks framing her face. He noticed, upon first glance, that his stunning prize of a wife had changed. Her hair laid a little flatter, the curves of her thighs appeared to be a little rounder, and her distinctly tiny waist wasn’t quite so noticeable. Perhaps the biggest difference was the babbling, bubbling, baby attached to her hip. This is where I come in.
   Sometimes, I wondered what it would be like if he never came back at all. If it was just me and my mom, perfectly fine on our own. I wondered if my life would have been better if I had never known him... if it had stayed just the two of us.

Entertainer

College assignment.... Writing about a character who loves a job that you would hate to have.
Something I might want to revisit.

Most people don’t know what it’s like to feel wanted.

Really wanted.

To have every crease and dimple highlighted by blinding fluorescent lights

and gleaming beads of sweat, with almost nothing to hide yourself behind.

To be exposed for everything that you are and still be craved.

There is nothing to help you pretend- no forced conversations

no scripted pleasantries.

Just you.

They watch your every movement like hungry dogs, salivating,

but all you see is, how much they love you
no matter what you may have done
or who you are.

They need you

There’s something exhilarating about them
wanting to touch you and have you
but knowing that they cant.

You lean so close to let them, teasing
Giving them a taste of the unattainable
You are the one who gets away, every time.

They will come back for you,

And you will be remembered.

Response to a college literary magazine meeting

            It was clear, from day one, that we wouldn’t get along. They go for subject matter- the abstract, the sexual, the mysterious. To them, topics are key and can overshadow poor writing, as long as the subject is strong. I go for expression. I think that any subject can be made into brilliance, with the right style. I think dark poetry and such is often forced. It’s a pose. People want to stand out and be artistic and deep and they create feelings that they don’t have. I want to read something real.

           Once they realized that I was not afraid to disagree with them, they quickly learned to interrupt and cut me off. It’s kind of a cult-mentality. The group of staff members is a very close community, and as soon as one person’s opinion is stated, it is the duty of the other members to agree. Personally, I think this is a cop-out. A literary magazine should be representative of every type of writing about every kind of subject matter, which can only be done if the editors have different perspectives, to bring out the value and weaknesses in different pieces. I am really the only variety in this group.

            I know that I am not the world’s greatest writer, and it is unlikely that I will ever be. Actually, it is unlikely that I will ever be recognized for my writing, at all, at least in the way that I want to be. This being said, I think I’m good. I know how conceited that sounds, but I do think that I can write. I have to be able to write, and I have to keep getting better, because this is the one thing that I love to do. I have to do it justice.

            I had assumed that they would not enjoy what I submitted. As editors, though, I was sure that they could separate their own taste from their acknowledgment of the value of the writing. My two submissions were at the bottom of the pile, anonymously. When we got to them, everyone fell silent, as they do when we move on to any new piece. Finally, someone spoke up, “Wow. Where do I even begin with this?” Okay… Is this good or bad? Impressed? Disgusted? “I mean, honestly, I am genuinely concerned for the mental-state of this author.”

            It went something like this:

            “Yeah, I don’t think this person knows that we are supposed to be in college.”

            “I know, right? Missing your mom? Okay, how old are we? You don’t write about that.”

            “Exactly! And this other one about the love letter to nobody? God, someone please find this girl someone to go out with. This is just pathetic. If you’re going to write to nobody, at least find someone. Honestly, pathetic. Who is that lonely?”

            “But the one about her mom? That’s messed up. They have medication for that kind of thing, and, I am not even kidding, I really think they need some. It’s psychotic. I truly am worried about this person.”

            “I feel like if I met her in person, I would have to go up to her and be like ‘what the hell is going on in your head?’ Like, what is wrong with you? Please, let me help you.”

            And it continued like that for the next ten minutes. I sat there, dumbstruck and insulted. This is not how it’s done. This is not professional. Where is the grading scale? Where is the mention of my line-breaks and metaphors and symbolism? Did you notice the repetition and the alliteration? I’m sorry you can’t relate to having a relationship with your mom, but does that really mean that my writing is less valuable?

            I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. The editor kept her head down, knowing that those pieces were mine, but she didn’t stop them. It was almost eleven thirty that night when we finished up, and I said my polite goodbyes, picked up my folder, and walked out. I wasn’t more than a block away from our building when it hit me. I sat down, against one of the buildings on Broad Street, and sobbed. I called my mom (exactly what I was criticized so harshly for in one of my poems) and cried.

            There was no piece of me left. The one thing that I prided myself on, the only thing that I truly enjoyed doing, had been stripped from me, completely. On top of this, every aspect of my sense of self-worth, what I loved and what I had experienced had been thrown on the ground and spat on. I was ashamed for, essentially, everything that made me who I was- my family, my relationships, my pride and my weaknesses.

            There is a false notion that, to be recognized, you have to be different. You have to feel differently and see differently and believe differently than everyone else. There is no beauty in the commonplace, because everyone has experienced it. What really makes art is what is not understood- something that leaves you wondering and maybe even a little shaken up. This is not true. To anyone who reads this, please do not fall victim to this misconception.

            Notice that nothing was said to criticize the way I write, only what I wrote about. They chose to create an idea of the me, as the author, to criticize, instead of criticizing the work I had done. I take no offense to someone telling me that my writing is bad. I encourage this, actually, because it gives me something to work with. No one in this group could tell me that my writing was bad, just that the anonymous author was.

I don’t write so that people will be shocked. I write, because I have something to say. I don’t read to be disturbed or confused. I read because I want to feel something, something that I can understand. I don’t admire art because it’s abstract. I admire it, because it says something to me. Anyone can be shocking. Anyone can talk about something taboo. To write about something that everyone knows, that everyone can relate to, and bring out the life and beauty in it... that is good writing, at least to me.

            If you have ever been told that you can’t do something, or that you are wrong for doing it… keep doing it and do it better and harder than you ever have. Don’t let people, who want to be something they are not, try to mold you into the same, confining shell that they have created for themselves. Write what you know is true and real for you, not for anyone else. Never write, because someone wants to hear it. Write because you need to say it. Write something that means something to you, and I promise, that it will mean something to someone else, as well.