R: “It’s gonna be ok.”

I don’t usually click the “create new post” button on here and write what’s on my mind, I have done so occasionally, but it is much more common for me to flip thru the pages of one of my journals and pick a poem or other short written piece that I know I haven’t published yet and throw it up on here. But once in a while I need the feeling of my thumb flying across the screen of my smart phone, trying to tell as much as I can of whatever story literally just happened to me. Tonight there is one of those stories, but the words are getting stuck somewhere, maybe in my biceps, and aren’t making it to my thumbs. In the past 3 hours I’ve cried 4 times. I felt like a burden on the people who were being so generous and giving me a ride, I felt like a nuisance as I stated my opinion and my experience while surrounded by a group of women who are more mature than me both in physical years and in faith, I had an outburst when the topic of discussion hit close to home, I wanted to tell a story but there wasn’t time, and by defending my crazy I only made myself appear more crazy. I’m sure whatever I said tonight was incoherent and I can’t explain it away. And yesterday in an effort to just enjoy a conversation with a friend, I gave her all sorts of details that it seems she is collecting in order to pass judgement on my life choices and recommend all sorts of ways to fix my life. Well, the truth is lady, i just wanted to have another adult to talk to, I didn’t need for you to tell me that I need to be on meds for my mental illness and for you to claim youve seen my behavioral extremes, when really you’ve only ever seen me depressed, some days I just don’t let the depression crush my whole day and I am able to laugh and I don’t lock myself inside my house for weeks at a time, just because I put on clean clothes and earrings does not mean my depression is gone and just because I talk about something I am excited about does not mean I am having a manic episode. But this post is just more incoherent crazy person babble, reinforcing that I am in fact having some sort of episode related to my mental illness. Eff it, Im too tired to fix me right now, tomorrow has a chance and so do i.

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voice (themes)

what is different about my story? what does my voice sound like? what are the recurring elements in my story? how are these things my own?

 

fire
butterflies
owls
tattoos
R
J and T
cars
depression
writing
poetry
God
love
moving forward
feeling alive
favorite songs
places i’ve been
books
buses and bus stops
colors
experiences
scars
intimacy
fear
anxiety
people
communication

 

they do not manifest the same in another’s life as they do in mine. no one feels the same as i do. my experiences are uniquely my own. even if you were there, it was not the same for you as it was for me. maybe your heart broke, but your heart is not mine, so how could they ever have broken in the same fashion? your eyes may have seen it all, but they are not my eyes, so they have not seen what i have seen. your fingers have traced skin, but they don’t feel the way mine do. the books i’ve read sit on your shelf, but i did not read those that your fingers thumbed thru. your lips have kissed, but we’ve never known the same kiss, the same moment. you have caused pain, but it was not mine to feel. i have written words that weren’t yours to read, but i gave them away. i no longer notice some whose voices aren’t important to me, yet others i read their every word and wish i knew what to say. so, i’ll sit here and try to find my voice.

sometimes other people’s words fit better than my own

no poem from me at the moment, but a few lines from my current favorite song:

i miss you like the summer, right now i think i need you here, but i don’t really need you, i’ll get through the winter without you

the song is called Summer and the band is called Real Friends. sitting here wishing i could see them live, hoping the stars align and a few “pretty pleases” will get me there.

untitled/072416

a few words
can make my heart flutter
and i am a fucking idiot
and i am a fucking idiot
i’d type it again,
but i don’t think i’ve ever
typed the f word three times
at once
i’m addicted
and i’ll spend a few minutes
hating myself
before i pick my heart up
off the floor
where it fell
when the fluttering
became too much to bear

words after midnight

i realized why
all of the “poems” about you
sound like they’re no good-
i’m intimidated
by the way you handle your words,
the way you seem to be a master of ELA,
a black belt.

while i struggle
to even make it
to class on time
and i start to think
things need to rhyme.

but i lost my textbook
at a library book sale,
then again
maybe i left it there
on purpose.

and real life
just doesn’t cut it
with words about you.

i guess it’s because
you’ve only ever existed
as words back-lit by white.

mostly i have no form,
but my free-form gets stuck
in a cage
when the words drift
in your direction.

someday i’ll get over it
and stop writing poor poetry
about you, to you, for you.

Quotes from Blue Like Jazz

On Saturday I started reading Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller. It is amazing. I want to read everything he has ever written. I’ve only got a few pages left and I seriously want to just start reading it again as soon as I finish, it is that great. I can’t type the whole book here because that would be plagiarism or something like it and plus it would take a really long time, but I do want to share some of my favorite parts so far.

  • “Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love can love it yourself.”
  • “I spent an entire week feeling bitter because I couldn’t breathe underwater. I told God I wanted to be a fish.”
  • “(They hang there, the stars, like notes on a page of music, free-form verse, silent mysteries swirling in the blue like jazz.)”
  • “I want to marry a girl who, when I am with her, makes me feel alone. I guess what I am saying is, I want to marry a girl whom I feel completely comfortable with, comfortable being myself.”
  • “What great gravity is this that drew my soul towards yours?”
  • “Too much of our time is spent trying to chart God on a grid, and too little is spent allowing our hearts to feel awe.”
  • “They were books themselves, all of them were books, and what was so wonderful is that to them, I was a book too.”

Struggle

I usually don’t write
when times are bad.
And if I do,
I don’t share.
I can’t see in the dark.
I forget who I am
when I’m angry.
Or at least I’m not
who I want to be.
I’d rather only share peace
and light and love.
I don’t like the poems
when my words are black;
there’s enough evil
in this world without them.
But can I appreciate my good
without an ounce of the opposite?