Nana (Revised)

Happy birthday Nana, we love you so much

I melted to a tall tale
Whispered by children with the braided hair
Her skin, aged like the earth, brought forth stories on unknown worth.
I melted as far as the oak tree stands
Wine in hand with berry delight
A beautiful sight on a beautiful night
Clear cut eyes crinkle under the moonlight
“We have dreams we dare to share.”
Whispered the children with the kinked up hair
Her skin, aged like the earth,
She held her children close and told them stories she dared not show
And I melted to hear the tale
My dark brown skin and coiled hair,
Living the life, she gifted me
My children! Sweetly dancing
Beneath the growing tree
My family! Kneeling at the knee of the women
Whose eyes shine with the stories she shares
Her family! Listen in and
Whisper their prayers for God to hear
Thank you, Lord, for keeping her here.

Close, to close

How could you leave when they are standing

By the door expecting

You to return, but there is nothing

That can save them now

Why would you leave them

For a bottle of forget me pills

Now they are graduating

First grade with a finger painted certificate

Hanging on grandma fridge

You told them they would always be with you

Pinky promise in the living room

With a lady in the corner

Taking notes as ordered

You smiled at them

And held them in your arms

But it wasn’t long until you were gone

They are in 6th grade now

And can’t remember how you feel

Because you decided to take a break

With forget me not pills at the kitchen sink

But they know your face

Stiffened with grace

Though grandma does all she can

She is suffering in your place

Because it’s her baby girls body

That flashes in your place

How could you leave them?

When things just started to change

I hope it was worth it

Because they may never understand

Inspired by NF

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

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