Session 1

Imaginary and Revision

When writing poetry it is easy to put pen to paper and let yourself feel. But it doesn’t do your art justice to let that be the product that you share. Take your time and revise. Read what you write out loud. Record yourself if that helps you. Soak in your own words before sharing them. For that is one way you prove your craft true.

I hate revising

Ok lie, I am to lazy to revise my own work. I think it is because I am so focused on writing and getting it out there. I love to share my pieces with others. Spending hours or possibly days going over one poem seems like a waste to me. But after taking this class I see it differently.

Poems that I had previously seen as amazing started to look amateurish. I focused more on the story that I wanted to tell that I lost the ability to actually tell it. You can see that by looking at my work that it is riddled with errors that could have been fixed had I just bothered to read through them.

The funny thing is, I took a class like this before. I never had to revise because my professor never looked for those things. We still critiqued each others work but we weren’t expected to change anything. With this class we are and I am both happy and lost.

Happy because -yay change-

Lost because…I don’t know what I am doing.

I have had this blog for while know and figured that I have grown as a writer when in fact, I have become stagnated by my own inability to accept doing better by my art. The one thing I am passionate about and I showed such disrespect for it because I couldn’t be bothered to edit.

Now I wonder if I can even consider myself a poet. I am clearly not all that talented. This class has showed me that.

I am not going to let that get me down. I am going to do better, even though I am not sure if I can. But this is only session one. We have plenty more to go to see if I can make a difference.

Session 1: I hate revising.

End session notes: But that doesn’t make it less important if a step in the writing process.

Session 0

I am taking a poetry class. One that is not even remotely similar to the one I had taken before. I think a part of me should be angry that it didn’t transfer over, but another part is pretty happy.

I get to learn poetry, again, but this time it will be different. This time I have a professor who provides feedback. I have classmates who actually read/listen to the things I am writing. People’s who’s styles differ from my own. I am happy. But I am also sad.

I know that there will be some part of me that will hate what I am doing. I can feel it, this disconnection that always starts to form when sharing my work. On here, it is easy. I can share every crappy poem I write and people may or may not read it.

I want to be a professional writer but I am scared.

So I hide behind my childish persona. I made this page when I was high school did you? Or freshly from it anyways. The name should be proof enough of that. What mature adult would even name themselves something as angsty as this?

Me adult that’s who.

That aside, I am taking a class that both fear and love and figured I would share it with you all.

That’s the goal anyways.

Who knows, maybe this is the sort of class I need to be able to kick start my goals.

My mind hurts (revision)

This is a drug. Sculpted by a set of hand cuffs made of plaster.  Not my finest creation, but this is not my finest hour. It sits and bakes in the wake of the addict. Hidden among the weeds and the trees and the flowers. Only those who suffer could understand it’s power. How it grows and holds. Expanding from the molds which housed it. A plant in the mind of those who know where to look. Where to find such meaningless things in wish filled dreams. Only they can understand. This drug. Sculpted by a set of plastered handcuffs. This isn’t my finest creation, but it only took an hour. I can choose to give it power, or I can choose to throw it away. I am the addict who hides. Among the tree and weeds and thorns. Watching as it expands from the molds I sculpted. I leave meaning in its creations. Define it by dreams that I am making.

A new feature

I do not have a best friend anymore.

That feels so strange to say.

I do NOT have a best friend anymore.

The one who held that place finally decided that they were done. Over. Enough. I wasn’t worth knowing anymore. Not by action that can be named but by those that still caused so much pain. This friend. This entity decided that I was their newest enemy.

I should have seen it coming. Actually, no, I did. Made a whole post about BPD and friends. But see it was not my personality at fault, in fact, one would say that I was downright innocent but that can be debated. See this was clearly fated when I spoke to my therapist about signs of abuse and if some could be found in the stories I shared of us since our youth.

“Well, she yelled at me, but it was totally my fault!”

“Haha yeah she made some off-handed remark about how I wasn’t enough, but where was the lie in that?”

“Ok no, she can be controlling but it’s endearing. How love is shown by manipulation. I mean, ok not always but she is happy so there was no need for my hesitation.”

My therapy sessions sounded like recorded excuses. One’s where I recalled all the times when she implied I was useless. But I stuck around cause I had no one else. Because I needed a best friend, above all else.

I no longer have a best friend.

She is gone.

Decided that I was someone who she no longer wanted to pull along.

It’s strange to say, after so many years.

Maybe one day I will get used to it and properly heal.

Depression and Parenting

I blame her

Because children are more resourceful

It’s more respectable if she is the reason

I can’t leave my home

I can’t leave my bed

People understand

In ways they can’t if it was just me

“Oh no worries, I know how it is”

“Lmao, that is just how it is with kids”

I blame her

Because it is easier to believe

Why I scream into my pillow

Why I can’t speaks days on end

They understand her

In ways I just don’t get

So I blame her

Just to fit in

I am dust, if I trust
With a dash of fire light
And a mix of broken prose
I suppose,  I am made
With bitter beat
And repetition
Standing at memories kitchen
Clutching a chest that will move
Hoving closer and closer to you
I am dust, if I trust
With a dash blue hued rust
And a mix of mistaken prose
I suppose, I am done
Because memories
Have been over come

Continue reading

Warrior duet

Blood, sweat and tears, and pride, though it lies. I still got it, a certificate too. Proof that I know a thousand and one ways to kill you. But I have pain, pills just can’t fix. A bullet wounded knee cap and previously broken ribs. But I have honor, and respect, and the ability to shop at places where they do not accept my check.

Blood, sweat and tears, and pride, though it hides. I still got it, proven by the medal clipped to my chest. Proof that I know how to hold a person down as they scream. But I have pills, that can keep the nightmares at bay. A fucked up mind a broken home, I didn’t know what to expect. But I’ve got honor, and respect, and the ability to stand at ease in the check out line with people glaring at my back.

The Queens Quest

These broken toys with a childs soul

Hidden in the painted garden

Red and white, central war.

Disguised as a game of chess.

I guess, that the future can be changed

With a hatter that is madder and slick

That a simple trick could bring about

A guillotine event worth talking about