ooh, writings. (for my own keeping)
drabble written for creative writing. basically we took ourselves and exaggerated our image. lol i think i surprised people by pretty much disregarding grammar and sentence structure
be-boppin' jive-talkin' walkin' with her wayfarers shoved carelessly on her face and she don't care what anyone thinks, not right now, not at this moment, because right now everything is perfect, honeychilde, everything is a-okay
she'd fit right in with the 50's, her tennies a cool black and white (but she's colored parts of it with red sharpie so there's that too) her hair hair is a mess of 60's and her eyes are busy wandering like the coke fiends of the 80's (except instead of looking for a fix her eyes are just looking for the next best thing). her ears are a mess of hearts and stars and studs and rings from the tops to the dangling peace signs at the bottoms and her mama doesn't mind too much but she always begs "please just no the face, anything but the face" so she's thinking maybe she'll get a tongue piercing but that would be way too distracting so maybe the eyebrow instead and she'll say so sorry mama later.
her sentences don't begin or end but it's almost like she grabs them from the air like you've been listening the whole time only now she's making you pay attention and she ramble ramble rambles on with some kind of beat but maybe it's just melodic and even though most of her sentences are just run-on creations of nonsense after a while you start to think it's okay and when she writes she doesn't use periods because she hates when they stop the flow of things just like this.
she likes to hear the laugh, she lives for the laugh. she wouldn't do stand-up comedy because she doesn't think she's funny enough for that but she loves to be outrageous and outspoken as long as she can hear the laughter all around her. sometimes she's serious but that's only for special (oh-so-special) occasions when she's got something to tell you and you can tell she means it because the words are chosen carefully and you can see her think exactly about what she wants to say and then pluck the words from the air and string them together like beautiful pearls.
grammar means nothing to her, all that matters is telling the story--it's all about the story and if you get it told who gives a flying fuck about the rest as long as people hear it--and if she has to do it without capital letters then so be it
she dreams of being like the old beat generation, when everything old was new and all the rules were not yet made and just being born in the minds of many. she feels as if she's missed it all and she can never recover from her incredible jet-lag from the decades she hadn't arrived in. when she thinks too much about this she cries and cries and these tears are never heard nor shown, she cries and it is all a show, a mute mime of her true sorrow inside because no facial emotion can show the hurt her heart holds and she keeps it all inside in a secret part of her, an outsider to an era she has never quite felt welcome in (and if she was a weaker person she would have ended it long ago but she likes living too much to let it go just yet)
she has no illusions about being special but a selfish part hopes one day she will become famous and she will take pictures of all the famous people and they will want her to take all their pictures and she will be swimming in a celluloid dream and she will be happy
she wears buttoned up white collars with obscene t-shirts underneath (and ties when she feels like it) all tucked under a black/brown blazer with a pencil in her hair and a grin on her mouth and she goes where the wind takes her because she doesn't care--she is free--she is whatever you want her to be and more--more only if you need it if you want it--and she knows they are jealous and they want to tie her down but all she needs is a good pair of sneakers a full legal pad a pen a few rolls of film her good ol' camera and a car with gallons of gas and she is gone, baby
gone like a thought like the wind like a cool breeze on a hot summer's day before you got the chance to appreciate it
gone like your father like your mother like your brother who never fully recovered from the war who weeps at night and you weep along with him in the darkness
bye bye baby she says and she means it
gone like a tear in the rain
hello adventure & goodbye normal life, i won't miss you when we say farewell
be-boppin' jive-talkin' walkin' with her wayfarers shoved carelessly on her face and she don't care what anyone thinks, not right now, not at this moment, because right now everything is perfect, honeychilde, everything is a-okay
she'd fit right in with the 50's, her tennies a cool black and white (but she's colored parts of it with red sharpie so there's that too) her hair hair is a mess of 60's and her eyes are busy wandering like the coke fiends of the 80's (except instead of looking for a fix her eyes are just looking for the next best thing). her ears are a mess of hearts and stars and studs and rings from the tops to the dangling peace signs at the bottoms and her mama doesn't mind too much but she always begs "please just no the face, anything but the face" so she's thinking maybe she'll get a tongue piercing but that would be way too distracting so maybe the eyebrow instead and she'll say so sorry mama later.
her sentences don't begin or end but it's almost like she grabs them from the air like you've been listening the whole time only now she's making you pay attention and she ramble ramble rambles on with some kind of beat but maybe it's just melodic and even though most of her sentences are just run-on creations of nonsense after a while you start to think it's okay and when she writes she doesn't use periods because she hates when they stop the flow of things just like this.
she likes to hear the laugh, she lives for the laugh. she wouldn't do stand-up comedy because she doesn't think she's funny enough for that but she loves to be outrageous and outspoken as long as she can hear the laughter all around her. sometimes she's serious but that's only for special (oh-so-special) occasions when she's got something to tell you and you can tell she means it because the words are chosen carefully and you can see her think exactly about what she wants to say and then pluck the words from the air and string them together like beautiful pearls.
grammar means nothing to her, all that matters is telling the story--it's all about the story and if you get it told who gives a flying fuck about the rest as long as people hear it--and if she has to do it without capital letters then so be it
she dreams of being like the old beat generation, when everything old was new and all the rules were not yet made and just being born in the minds of many. she feels as if she's missed it all and she can never recover from her incredible jet-lag from the decades she hadn't arrived in. when she thinks too much about this she cries and cries and these tears are never heard nor shown, she cries and it is all a show, a mute mime of her true sorrow inside because no facial emotion can show the hurt her heart holds and she keeps it all inside in a secret part of her, an outsider to an era she has never quite felt welcome in (and if she was a weaker person she would have ended it long ago but she likes living too much to let it go just yet)
she has no illusions about being special but a selfish part hopes one day she will become famous and she will take pictures of all the famous people and they will want her to take all their pictures and she will be swimming in a celluloid dream and she will be happy
she wears buttoned up white collars with obscene t-shirts underneath (and ties when she feels like it) all tucked under a black/brown blazer with a pencil in her hair and a grin on her mouth and she goes where the wind takes her because she doesn't care--she is free--she is whatever you want her to be and more--more only if you need it if you want it--and she knows they are jealous and they want to tie her down but all she needs is a good pair of sneakers a full legal pad a pen a few rolls of film her good ol' camera and a car with gallons of gas and she is gone, baby
gone like a thought like the wind like a cool breeze on a hot summer's day before you got the chance to appreciate it
gone like your father like your mother like your brother who never fully recovered from the war who weeps at night and you weep along with him in the darkness
bye bye baby she says and she means it
gone like a tear in the rain
hello adventure & goodbye normal life, i won't miss you when we say farewell