My life is a combination of fate and coincidence.
The blessings of Serendipity in conjunction with my own efforts.
All my life’s journey, leading me to where I am.
My actions and reactions as they define my future.
All those that I love and those who have loved me in return.
My life, in this moment, and as in an eternal self;
But nothing lasts forever.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Domestic Violence
She wipes her blood up of the floor,
Wringing out her mop,
Sopping up her dignity.
Her tears flow into the stream of cleaning solution,
Her fists clenched,
She shakes in anger.
She didn’t even do anything wrong.
He came home in a foul mood,
Longing for someone to beat down,
And he used her as his punching bag…again.
He told her not to fight back, not to scream.
“Just take it like a woman,” he says.
She hates herself for following his orders.
The blood coagulates, and the bruises form.
“It really wasn’t that bad,” she tells herself.
She walks into the next room to kiss her sleeping children.
“I love you my darlings,” she coos into innocent dreamful ears.
She vows to protect them,
Tells herself that by staying she gives them a better life;
But it’s a lie.
Staying is the dagger with which she slits their wrists.
She thinks she is keeping them safe,
But doesn’t realize the true danger they are in.
They will cry themselves to sleep, and blame themselves for the fights,
And,
Sooner or later,
They will beat or be beaten.
The will perpetuate the pattern of abuse.
The cycle continues.
Wringing out her mop,
Sopping up her dignity.
Her tears flow into the stream of cleaning solution,
Her fists clenched,
She shakes in anger.
She didn’t even do anything wrong.
He came home in a foul mood,
Longing for someone to beat down,
And he used her as his punching bag…again.
He told her not to fight back, not to scream.
“Just take it like a woman,” he says.
She hates herself for following his orders.
The blood coagulates, and the bruises form.
“It really wasn’t that bad,” she tells herself.
She walks into the next room to kiss her sleeping children.
“I love you my darlings,” she coos into innocent dreamful ears.
She vows to protect them,
Tells herself that by staying she gives them a better life;
But it’s a lie.
Staying is the dagger with which she slits their wrists.
She thinks she is keeping them safe,
But doesn’t realize the true danger they are in.
They will cry themselves to sleep, and blame themselves for the fights,
And,
Sooner or later,
They will beat or be beaten.
The will perpetuate the pattern of abuse.
The cycle continues.
Clarity
Sitting on the roadside as I often do,
The breeze creates a forced flit of my hair
As the raindrops fall.
Time passes and I remain solitary in the fog,
Waywardly waiting by the roadside,
Impatient to catch my bus to nowhere.
A gaggle of giggling girls passes;
Their beautiful leader guiding them along.
They hang on her every perfect word.
Many days later I walk past the roadside with my friends;
I see the goddess sitting beside the road, looking damp,
Waiting for her bus to nowhere.
As my friends depart and I sit next to this girl,
There is a moment of clarity within the rainy fog:
In life and in suffering, I am never alone.
The breeze creates a forced flit of my hair
As the raindrops fall.
Time passes and I remain solitary in the fog,
Waywardly waiting by the roadside,
Impatient to catch my bus to nowhere.
A gaggle of giggling girls passes;
Their beautiful leader guiding them along.
They hang on her every perfect word.
Many days later I walk past the roadside with my friends;
I see the goddess sitting beside the road, looking damp,
Waiting for her bus to nowhere.
As my friends depart and I sit next to this girl,
There is a moment of clarity within the rainy fog:
In life and in suffering, I am never alone.
Romance
Romance is a blue-eyed baby; naïve to the ways of the world. The daughter of Hope and Serendipity she is akin with Lust, Friendship, and Delight. She is foreign to Hatred and to True Love. She witnesses the world through new-born eyes, with which, everything is vividly vibrant. The ways of the world are magic in her mind and even the bitterest fruits taste sweet to her. Her smile lights up the sky, and she is almost always smiling. She is considered the most beautiful baby to all but Heartache and Resentment. Romance is idolized by many and loved by all because of her beauty and because she always follows her heart.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Memorium
Funerals are an odd thing. I'd never been to one before today; and, though this technically was not one, I will consider this my first, for the atmosphere was close enough.
That girl, the one you see there, looking so strong and beautiful. Yeah, her, on the left; she just lost her mother. But could you ever tell? No, you wouldn't know. You really wouldn't.
The room, was masked in a thick fog. A shadowy cloud of darkness was all the bound the various individuals of the room together.
The people seemed scattered in thoughts, motives, and intentions. Some where there to "make an appearance". Some were there out of obligation. Some were there to ease their conscience. A handful were there to support the grieving family. And believe it or not, a few even there, out of love and reverence to the departed.
The speeches were given. Interruptions of foolish schoolgirls, noisy airplanes, and a few inconsiderate cell phones prevailed. Many looked around the room and fiddled in boredom. Others cried and hugged. I sat and maintain reverent composure among this foreign display of the human condition, manners, and instinctive coping mechanisms.
The strangest part of the whole affair was sitting in this very solid and corporeal building, with such a very abstract problem being presented like a rising hurricane, and watching the guiding procession use religion as their shelter of choice.
I've never understood priests. Or organized religion for that matter. But that is beside the point.
The point was the Catholicism. The talking about God and his glory, about Jesus and his suffering, and even providing the Eucharist at the commencement of someone's life. Doesn't that seem a bit morbid?
A memorial is not a time for ramblings of the glory of some God, or the commentary of some mumbling priest on what he thinks we need to hear. Oh no. A memorial is a time to celebrate a life, and to commemorate and experience the sadness of that lost life in a communal setting. A one-time group therapy session for those within the sphere of influence of the dearly departed.
God has enough about him. He needs to be a little less selfish. Let things be about someone else for a change. After all, he took this persons life, the least he can do is give those she leave behind a little one-on-one time with her precious memory without butting in via some crackpot old clergyman.
That girl, the one you see there, looking so strong and beautiful. Yeah, her, on the left; she just lost her mother. But could you ever tell? No, you wouldn't know. You really wouldn't.
The room, was masked in a thick fog. A shadowy cloud of darkness was all the bound the various individuals of the room together.
The people seemed scattered in thoughts, motives, and intentions. Some where there to "make an appearance". Some were there out of obligation. Some were there to ease their conscience. A handful were there to support the grieving family. And believe it or not, a few even there, out of love and reverence to the departed.
The speeches were given. Interruptions of foolish schoolgirls, noisy airplanes, and a few inconsiderate cell phones prevailed. Many looked around the room and fiddled in boredom. Others cried and hugged. I sat and maintain reverent composure among this foreign display of the human condition, manners, and instinctive coping mechanisms.
The strangest part of the whole affair was sitting in this very solid and corporeal building, with such a very abstract problem being presented like a rising hurricane, and watching the guiding procession use religion as their shelter of choice.
I've never understood priests. Or organized religion for that matter. But that is beside the point.
The point was the Catholicism. The talking about God and his glory, about Jesus and his suffering, and even providing the Eucharist at the commencement of someone's life. Doesn't that seem a bit morbid?
A memorial is not a time for ramblings of the glory of some God, or the commentary of some mumbling priest on what he thinks we need to hear. Oh no. A memorial is a time to celebrate a life, and to commemorate and experience the sadness of that lost life in a communal setting. A one-time group therapy session for those within the sphere of influence of the dearly departed.
God has enough about him. He needs to be a little less selfish. Let things be about someone else for a change. After all, he took this persons life, the least he can do is give those she leave behind a little one-on-one time with her precious memory without butting in via some crackpot old clergyman.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Pity
I call you up, and hear your voice so sad; but I don't pity you. I feel myself drudging the grunts out of your tired body. I sense your pain. I'm sorry you're hurting, but I do not pity you.
I know you've had a hard day, and that you have it rough; but you did this. You are responsible for your life, not me. I tried to warn you. I tried to do my part and guide you to the right path. I told you this would do you no good in the end; but you didn't listen. It is not my job to hold your hand, you have to learn to take care of yourself, because someday no one will be there to do it for you.
Now you're devastated and you don't understand how you got here, so you blame and hate on everyone else.
I don't pity you.
You tell me that you suffer, that I know nothing of your pain; but I do, and don't pity you, nor do I seek anyone's pity. I have been used and abused. I have watch the degenerative nature of drugs as they crushed my dreams for what I wanted my dad to be. I have fought off my fears and my nightmares, escaped the clutches of an eating disorder, and fought against potential death at the hands of my own father, and later, at the hands of myself. In 16 short years, I have dealt with so much more than you, and while I do not believe that makes me any better, it makes me wiser. I have survived, and you will survive too.
I do not pity you.
"...You can only blame your problems on the world for so long before it all becomes the same old song..." In time you will learn that the world does not revolve around you. You will learn that only you are responsible for your happiness. You will learn that others cannot love you until you love yourself. In time, you will learn, and I wish for you that the times come quickly, and the lessons are easy; but I cannot watch the cycle of ignorance and self-desecration any longer. I refuse to be sucked down in your vicious whirlpool. I'm sorry you suffer. Play the victim card all you want, but I do not pity you.
I know you've had a hard day, and that you have it rough; but you did this. You are responsible for your life, not me. I tried to warn you. I tried to do my part and guide you to the right path. I told you this would do you no good in the end; but you didn't listen. It is not my job to hold your hand, you have to learn to take care of yourself, because someday no one will be there to do it for you.
Now you're devastated and you don't understand how you got here, so you blame and hate on everyone else.
I don't pity you.
You tell me that you suffer, that I know nothing of your pain; but I do, and don't pity you, nor do I seek anyone's pity. I have been used and abused. I have watch the degenerative nature of drugs as they crushed my dreams for what I wanted my dad to be. I have fought off my fears and my nightmares, escaped the clutches of an eating disorder, and fought against potential death at the hands of my own father, and later, at the hands of myself. In 16 short years, I have dealt with so much more than you, and while I do not believe that makes me any better, it makes me wiser. I have survived, and you will survive too.
I do not pity you.
"...You can only blame your problems on the world for so long before it all becomes the same old song..." In time you will learn that the world does not revolve around you. You will learn that only you are responsible for your happiness. You will learn that others cannot love you until you love yourself. In time, you will learn, and I wish for you that the times come quickly, and the lessons are easy; but I cannot watch the cycle of ignorance and self-desecration any longer. I refuse to be sucked down in your vicious whirlpool. I'm sorry you suffer. Play the victim card all you want, but I do not pity you.
Disillusioned
Today I've noticed that I can't stop smiling. Nothing really happened to make me particularly happy, I've just noticed that I've stopped caring.
Sure, I have my moments of insecurity-times of doubt, longings to be different, to be more-but for the most part, I am content.
To be quite honest, I really don't give a fuck what you think of me.
Granted, I am sad at the thought of people hating me. I long to be liked-to be the girl everyone genuinely wants to be friends with; but at the same time, I can't people please my way through life. I really enjoy the warmth and welcoming of ND as opposed to the hateful glances I felt at York, yet I refuse to continue to be civil to people who are genuinely mean and disrespectful to myself and the ones I care about. Not everyone is going to like you, and you are not going to like everybody. I hate that, I wish we all just got along, but we don't; it's a harsh reality of adulthood.
The fact of the matter is, I am who I am. I am a self-serving manipulative bitch. I am selfish and conceited and over-zealous. I tend to control situations and be frustrated by that which I cannot control. I am often insecure and mask it with bouts of bragging. Those are my faults (well...those and gluttony of course). I am aware of my faults and I embrace them. I know I am not cool, I do not think I am "the shit," and that is okay with me.
But at the same time, that is not all of me. I am considerate and polite and sweet. I really, truly care about my friends; I would take a bullet for most of them. I am very innocent and naive in an adorable way. I'm awkward at relationships which I find endearing. Though not the smartest, I have a brain, and I use it. I fight for what I love if the situation calls for it. I do my best to be there for others, even just helping a stranger. At the core of it all, I am a good person, I have a good heart.
Good and bad, I know who I am, and I embrace that and I try to be open to suggestions from those who don't. I know certain people think I'm a bitch right now, and I can feel a vortex coming-shit is about to be spread. I am going to stand up for my friends and what I think is right, and that might cost me in the end. But before that happens, here is this. It is not an attack on anyone, or a gossip rag. This is my perspective, this is me. You can take it or leave it, but I certainly hope you'll at least put some thought in too it first.
Sure, I have my moments of insecurity-times of doubt, longings to be different, to be more-but for the most part, I am content.
To be quite honest, I really don't give a fuck what you think of me.
Granted, I am sad at the thought of people hating me. I long to be liked-to be the girl everyone genuinely wants to be friends with; but at the same time, I can't people please my way through life. I really enjoy the warmth and welcoming of ND as opposed to the hateful glances I felt at York, yet I refuse to continue to be civil to people who are genuinely mean and disrespectful to myself and the ones I care about. Not everyone is going to like you, and you are not going to like everybody. I hate that, I wish we all just got along, but we don't; it's a harsh reality of adulthood.
The fact of the matter is, I am who I am. I am a self-serving manipulative bitch. I am selfish and conceited and over-zealous. I tend to control situations and be frustrated by that which I cannot control. I am often insecure and mask it with bouts of bragging. Those are my faults (well...those and gluttony of course). I am aware of my faults and I embrace them. I know I am not cool, I do not think I am "the shit," and that is okay with me.
But at the same time, that is not all of me. I am considerate and polite and sweet. I really, truly care about my friends; I would take a bullet for most of them. I am very innocent and naive in an adorable way. I'm awkward at relationships which I find endearing. Though not the smartest, I have a brain, and I use it. I fight for what I love if the situation calls for it. I do my best to be there for others, even just helping a stranger. At the core of it all, I am a good person, I have a good heart.
Good and bad, I know who I am, and I embrace that and I try to be open to suggestions from those who don't. I know certain people think I'm a bitch right now, and I can feel a vortex coming-shit is about to be spread. I am going to stand up for my friends and what I think is right, and that might cost me in the end. But before that happens, here is this. It is not an attack on anyone, or a gossip rag. This is my perspective, this is me. You can take it or leave it, but I certainly hope you'll at least put some thought in too it first.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Acknowledgement
I am Invisible Girl, heroine of the inconspicuous and unspoken. I walk through the world alone and unknown, like a shadow in the dark. Unseen, unheard, but not unscathed; I am burned by Possibility and her army of words unspoken. From the darkest corners, I watch others, flourishing in the light, while I remain under the cover of night.
But lately, it seems my cloak of darkness has been ripped away. Some mistress of Fate has decided it is my turn to flourish, leaving my spandex in tatters. I now feel the glances of others, percolating the force field I have carefully constructed, and I falter at the thought of their eyes on me.
I am not worthy. I am a nerd. What if they notice? What if my very person is shunned?
But do they see my dorkdom? Do they notice? Or do I appear different to them? Has my clever disguise got them fooled, the doubt merely a self-sabotage lead by Insecurity?
Under the bright sun of the known world, I feel their gazes, their judgments; like hot water on icy skin, I prepare for the stinging, the pain, the rejection.
I am not notable. I am not cool. I am not sexy. I do not matter.
My young wings are unprepared for this flight without my cape of Cimmerian shade.
Life was much easier alone in the dark when I was invisible.
But lately, it seems my cloak of darkness has been ripped away. Some mistress of Fate has decided it is my turn to flourish, leaving my spandex in tatters. I now feel the glances of others, percolating the force field I have carefully constructed, and I falter at the thought of their eyes on me.
I am not worthy. I am a nerd. What if they notice? What if my very person is shunned?
But do they see my dorkdom? Do they notice? Or do I appear different to them? Has my clever disguise got them fooled, the doubt merely a self-sabotage lead by Insecurity?
Under the bright sun of the known world, I feel their gazes, their judgments; like hot water on icy skin, I prepare for the stinging, the pain, the rejection.
I am not notable. I am not cool. I am not sexy. I do not matter.
My young wings are unprepared for this flight without my cape of Cimmerian shade.
Life was much easier alone in the dark when I was invisible.
Monday, May 11, 2009
The Big Blue Elephant in the Room
He didn't mean to.
"I love you so much...Just not like that."
"Never?" I ask in disbelief.
"Never," he replies softly,
"You know I don't want to hurt you,
I would never want to hurt you babe."
I smiled at his kind heart.
"This won't come between us," he reassured, "I won't let it."
"I know, I'm fine," I laugh to hold back the tears.
Nothing would ever be the same after this.
"I'm sorry," he said;
But he was too late,
He'd already broken my heart.
"I love you so much...Just not like that."
"Never?" I ask in disbelief.
"Never," he replies softly,
"You know I don't want to hurt you,
I would never want to hurt you babe."
I smiled at his kind heart.
"This won't come between us," he reassured, "I won't let it."
"I know, I'm fine," I laugh to hold back the tears.
Nothing would ever be the same after this.
"I'm sorry," he said;
But he was too late,
He'd already broken my heart.
Cyber
He presses his lips to my chest,
Or so he types.
His previous words still spinning in my head:
"You are so pretty...Why don't you have a boyfriend?"
I laugh at the thought.
Foolish boy, I am invisible girl.
What is he thinking?
But then again, he will say anything to get me to cooperate.
I am only desirable to nameless, faceless internet boys-
Basement dwelling perverts and nerds.
They are my rebellion,
Fuel for the fire inside me which longs to be desired,
My bittersweet escape.
Or so he types.
His previous words still spinning in my head:
"You are so pretty...Why don't you have a boyfriend?"
I laugh at the thought.
Foolish boy, I am invisible girl.
What is he thinking?
But then again, he will say anything to get me to cooperate.
I am only desirable to nameless, faceless internet boys-
Basement dwelling perverts and nerds.
They are my rebellion,
Fuel for the fire inside me which longs to be desired,
My bittersweet escape.
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