(no subject)
jesus.
my writing as become
so
fucking
odd.
(not the good kind of odd where you squeal and half hop in the air and say, look at me look at me i am strange look at the clothes im wearing they're all ripped up i am so strange!) godwouldyoushutup.
im talking about the odd.. where they just dont make sense anymore. maybe thrown off thoughts are landing back down. because my poems seem to be getting longer and better.
patience. im looking out my window. and i see these hills. the trees are growing their leaves. and grass is breaking through the gravel. watching those mountains almost at arms reach from my backyard, i can feel myself growing up.
i have realized im just a little kid. i have the hardest time letting go of my family. my papa, my papa, lift me up in your arms. that is gone now. he is married to a woman, i now understand. a woman that has lived another life, loved a different love. i often strain to understand her. but.. then comes her jelousy. jesus. just stop.
looking at those mountains, i am gaining widsom. acceptance and a different standing ground. i have made peace with so many of my shadows. god it is so liberating. but then i remember, i have all these years to come. what am i doing?
blahblahblahblah
anyway, i just wrote the most hideous poem. actually i think it started well but it just went downhill at the ending. bahhumbug. i realize there are alot of gaps in that poem. but everytime i try to fill in the gaps it just comes out more strange. hahah. jesus.
i wanted to explain a personal experience of my own. the beginning is great. hm.
____________________________________________
"the truth of lolita at age fifty"
i think, perhaps, i am like that girl.
that fondles and flickers,
and teases
their at their flames..
i think they're funny, to be quite honest.
men are a bundle.
they are also,
they are cruel and cold,
they are nasty,
and they lie.
i continue to twirl my fingers into the curls
of my hair,
and i lean back and snicker
as they roll out their pastry
(carpets),
fanfire
and i
swing
foward
my big feet
and crunch em.
............................
maybe its not like that at all,
maybe i sit by my window,
in silence;
my head wobbles and
i mumble something,
sip on my drink,
empty.
(the truth of lolita at age fifty)
my writing as become
so
fucking
odd.
(not the good kind of odd where you squeal and half hop in the air and say, look at me look at me i am strange look at the clothes im wearing they're all ripped up i am so strange!) godwouldyoushutup.
im talking about the odd.. where they just dont make sense anymore. maybe thrown off thoughts are landing back down. because my poems seem to be getting longer and better.
patience. im looking out my window. and i see these hills. the trees are growing their leaves. and grass is breaking through the gravel. watching those mountains almost at arms reach from my backyard, i can feel myself growing up.
i have realized im just a little kid. i have the hardest time letting go of my family. my papa, my papa, lift me up in your arms. that is gone now. he is married to a woman, i now understand. a woman that has lived another life, loved a different love. i often strain to understand her. but.. then comes her jelousy. jesus. just stop.
looking at those mountains, i am gaining widsom. acceptance and a different standing ground. i have made peace with so many of my shadows. god it is so liberating. but then i remember, i have all these years to come. what am i doing?
blahblahblahblah
anyway, i just wrote the most hideous poem. actually i think it started well but it just went downhill at the ending. bahhumbug. i realize there are alot of gaps in that poem. but everytime i try to fill in the gaps it just comes out more strange. hahah. jesus.
i wanted to explain a personal experience of my own. the beginning is great. hm.
____________________________________________
"the truth of lolita at age fifty"
i think, perhaps, i am like that girl.
that fondles and flickers,
and teases
their at their flames..
i think they're funny, to be quite honest.
men are a bundle.
they are also,
they are cruel and cold,
they are nasty,
and they lie.
i continue to twirl my fingers into the curls
of my hair,
and i lean back and snicker
as they roll out their pastry
(carpets),
fanfire
and i
swing
foward
my big feet
and crunch em.
............................
maybe its not like that at all,
maybe i sit by my window,
in silence;
my head wobbles and
i mumble something,
sip on my drink,
empty.
(the truth of lolita at age fifty)