A writing portfolio
Red ribbon slicing softly over a porcelain wrist.
The sun peeking shyly over the horizon, foggy.
Warm grass and a linen dress.
My friend trying on different ties: Moss, black, striped.
Steaming black tea in a glass cup.
A cousins bitten cuticles, bleeding and raw non stop.
Sleeping crows.
A tired baby girl, wrapped and tucked and contained and safe.
A new knife catching artificial light.
A lonely highway in Summer.
Train tracks in twilight.
yeah, yes, sureokaysure. whatever
drunk on your closeness i
buckle
under your will.
If you haven’t noticed, I’ve begun to write more often. I like that I’m treating this thing like something I have to do. I try and force myself to write in it as often as possible and even though some of the pieces I post are utter crap I post them anyway because it’s like practice. The more I do it, the better I get (In the long run).
I was watching a video about Karl Lagerfeld and he was saying something really insightful that went along the lines of not waiting for inspiration but instead chasing it. I can’t sit around waiting for a drawing or a painting or a poem or a bit of prose to walk into my head. I have to look to things that inspire and actively search for that “Aha!” moment. Another reason why K Lagerfeld is the bees knees.
i have always prided myself on being able to find something to like in all types of music.
but, really, i will always hate and never have an appreciation for
Rage Against The Machine and,
as cool as the name is,
Soundgarden.
Because, fuck, what were they thinking?
Yesterday my cautiousness was shoved back into my chest,
a rough push, accusing, telling me this is what it’s like for us.
I am hungry, in my mind: I pull things into my thoughts, turn them over and over,
picking off skin to get to the bare bones, to fully understand them.
Knowledge and culture and art sponge.
But to the dismay and anger of some my arms stay pinned firmly to my sides,
my hands neatly folded.
Sorry, I’m sorry, because I’ll let you close,
But I won’t reciprocate this.
I’m sorry.
Like an animal I jerk back violently when there is this danger,
this chance, of being exposed and raw and,
for a moment,
unbearably weak.
I’m sorry.
I was not a part of things, back in the day.
Didn’t want anything to do with the Spice Girls, no social skills whatsoever. Lying to my parents was a non event.
Confused, I would try in vain to befriend the loudest girls. My best friends were a praying mantis and a boy who would later become a familiar face on the prison circuit.
Then, one day, it all clicked. I think I think I think I laugh and smile and fall silent at the right times, but-
People still call me weird. But-
people like it, this time ’round.
i want to crush a star and sprinkle it in my tea,
anything to make me feel like anything is possible.
