I love talking to you, but
all your texts and Facebook messages
end in ‘haha’s and ‘lol’s.
I’m probably about 99.89824% sure that
you’re not as happy you’re making yourself out to be.
It hurts.
I miss you.
I miss you terribly.
I miss you to the point where words are not enough.
I have all these jokes saved, and so many stories to tell,
But you’re the only one I can say them to.
Come back soon.
Lady,
When will you release me from your curse?
The ground trembles with your hounds, the harbingers of disaster,
and I flee, run— silenced.
When will you set free your fears, your hates, your grudges?
If we can’t be friends, please let us be strangers.
Lady,
Let it go.
I have no feelings.
None.
That’s why it’s okay to laugh and ridicule me.
That’s why it’s okay to talk behind my back about how much of an uptight bitch I am, how much I kiss up to my parents and to my teachers.
That’s why it’s okay to call me a pussy.
That’s why it’s okay to post on Facebook that I need to lose my virginity, as though the fact has anything to do with what we were just talking about.
Everything else in my life is put together, so that’s why it’s okay.
I have good grades, a good family; I got into good colleges, and I’m probably going to be valedictorian.
That’s why it’s okay.
And yesterday, everyone already made plans for Senior Ditch Day, and I had to ruin it for everyone by saying it’s not a good idea.
So it’s okay. I’m the bad guy here. You’re not making me out to be one, I’m the one who made it that way.
I don’t cry, or wish I had the guts to kill myself, and I certainly don’t have any feelings.
It’s okay.
First draft
I already know a few parts that I’m going to change, but please feel free to check it out on Google Drive and comment, or if you like, let me know here. I’d love to hear from some fresh eyes.
What was it about the sunset that made us so reflective?
“The blaze of red and orange that gradually gives to blue and purple-
Don’t you think that’s like life?
You would think, that as Time goes on, everything is dying down— but did you know?
A blue flame is hotter than a red one.”
“Isn’t it sad? The loss of sunlight, the loss of working, playing hours.
Did I use them right? Did this day have any meaning? Or
Was this another day wasted?
In the morning, will it even matter?”
“A half-mile out, the fishermen were pulling in, their nets full with the day’s catch.
I’m at the shore, ankle-deep in dark sandy water, and I find a seashell.
I look up to show Daddy standing behind me, but he can’t hear me.
Was he watching the fisherman, wishing he could be one of them?
Or was he breathing, loving, praying to his God who gave him another sunset,
Another day to be poked by the slimy, wet fingers of his four-year-old.”
“Look at those pink, pink, pink and orange clouds.
They’re Lion King clouds. I can see them on the savanna.
All this horizon needs is one of those funky-lookin’ trees.
But seriously, this is something out of an impressionist painting.
Though technically, those paintings are just like the sunset.
Huh.
Trippy.”
All this ran through our minds,
But all I thought of as we sat there in the flowers, weeds, and grass,
Blinded as we watched the sunlight turn levee murk into a showcase of sparkling lights,
The first stars waiting as deep blue finally debuts in the sky,
Was how much this dream-like trance,
Could really be the key to happiness.
Personally, I’m not happy with the second “thought,” as I don’t feel the despair of my person really comes through. I’ve heard from a few friends that 1) The nostalgia stanza is weird and doesn’t fit in, since it’s not really relatable with a lot of other readers.
2) The Lion King stanza is unnecessary (I totes disagree. I don’t think of this as a necessary/unnecessary issue. These are just thoughts people may have while they contemplate the sunset. And I like the comic relief. Perhaps I should just move it?)
3) The last line is terribad. It’s actually a quote I took directly from the text conversation which I drew inspiration from, and it’s not even my words, so I don’t mind changing this so much. I think I’ll chew on it.
What do you guys think? Please let me know.
Translating feels into poetry. Or trying, anyway.
This is what my brainstorming/drafting process looks like, for the most part. I’m drawing from a very zen text conversation I had a few hours ago. This work won’t be that long, not even that big, but it’s nice and teenager-y, so I’m thinking about submitting it to Teen Ink magazine or something. I don’t know. I’ll post a draft on here first, and see what you guys think. Look forward to it!
Song: All At Once - Jack Johnson
Anime: Honey & Clover
![Mars is out
Mars is out.
After all, what should be done? The query brings back to a beginning a way of thought it was hard for me to follow. After all, doesn’t it matter? No, no, infinitely no.
It is best to wait, and with the first strength it is best to destroy your weakness that is quick with such a question.
To think of a predicted result is not decent. To live with the right source, only that is pure.
In order to stir up your being further, once again raise up your head high. Shining right over this dark Komagome Hill that is asleep and silent, it is good to see that really red star.
Mars is out.
A cold blast makes a rattle-rattle sound in the honey locust pods.
A rutting dog dashes around madly. If I step on fallen leaves and pass the bushes, a cliff.
Mars is out.
I do not know I what a human being must do. I do not know what a human being should try to get. I think that a human being can become part of nature. I am feeling that a human being is great because he is equal to nothingness. Oh I am shaken, how hopeful to be equal to nothingness ! Even nothingness is destroyed by natural spreading.
Mars is out.
The sky turns around behind it. Innumerable far worlds are coming up. Unlike poets of old days, I do not see a twinkling of angels in it anymore. I just listen to what is like profound waves of ether. And simply the world is wonderful.
Its weird grace filled with things unknown presses toward me tightly, tightly.
Mars is out.
— Kotaro Takamura [x]](http://24.media.tumblr.com/d579ce4fc1fae1882d71bf3c7395dc06/tumblr_meqkmeghpd1rp28i5o1_500.jpg)
Mars is out
Mars is out.
After all, what should be done? The query
brings back to a beginning a way of thought it was hard for me to follow.
After all, doesn’t it matter?
No, no, infinitely no.
It is best to wait, and with the first strength
it is best to destroy your weakness that is quick with such a question.
To think of a predicted result is not decent.
To live with the right source,
only that is pure.
In order to stir up your being further,
once again raise up your head high.
Shining right over this dark Komagome Hill that is asleep
and silent,
it is good to see that really red star.
Mars is out.
A cold blast makes a rattle-rattle sound in the honey locust pods.
A rutting dog dashes around madly.
If I step on fallen leaves
and pass the bushes,
a cliff.
Mars is out.
I do not know
I what a human being must do.
I do not know
what a human being should try to get.
I think
that a human being can become part of nature.
I am feeling
that a human being is great because he is equal to
nothingness.
Oh I am shaken,
how hopeful to be equal to nothingness !
Even nothingness is destroyed
by natural spreading.
Mars is out.
The sky turns around behind it.
Innumerable far worlds are coming up.
Unlike poets of old days, I do not
see a twinkling of angels in it anymore.
I just listen
to what is like profound waves of ether.
And simply
the world is wonderful.
Its weird grace filled with things unknown
presses toward me tightly, tightly.
Mars is out.
— Kotaro Takamura [x]
Untitled hatred of everything
1’O, thou art stuck.’
So saith She, of that one essay.
Selah.
2’O, thou hast not invested enough effort.’
So saith She, of the menial assignments she gave for kids struggling with
grammar.
So saith She, of that one essay.
Selah.
3’O, thou thinkest thou art better than I.’
So saith She, of the student she sees a grand total of twice a week, 90
minutes each.
Praise be to the English teacher who has apparently acquired a degree in
cognitive psychology, who possesses such expertise on my intents, on my
thoughts, on the inner workings of my mind.
So saith She, of that one essay.
Selah.
What’s wrong with getting a B, anyway?
Never mind, don’t answer it.
You don’t really know, and anyway, I don’t want to learn from you.
I’m sick of this fraudulent phenomenon called “learning.”
I’m sick of this whole fucking system.
Why should I invest my waking hours, sitting at a table with whiny brats,
screaming about the cockroach on the absent student’s chair, say nothing of
its million cousins just under the carpet because the district doesn’t have the
funds to send an exterminator.
Why should I be forced to smile at a coop of cackling hens, fretting about every
speck on their gold-paved road to guaranteed success, pecking at every
whisper that’s not like their own gutteral clucks, incapable of simply looking
up to bask in sunlight, of appreciating the sky in all its majesty, of realizing
and being humbled by the simply reality that even if they shut their beaks for
once, even if they ceased to exist, even if, this moment, a deranged,
apolitical protected citizen of our great, humanitarian nation bombed us all to
oblivion, the ant still crawls, the wind still blows, the rock still sits there,
atoms still bond and mystify, the universe still is, humans still talk and laugh
and write bad lyrics to bad songs, and fuck and fornicate and betray each
other and keep on living.
That self-caged coterie of self-made ‘hens,’ those same bitches who every
morning greet me with smiles of charming naivete and eyes laser-beaming
their filthy disdain for me, for what I’m not even responsible for. Who
extended to me the hand of everlasting friendship and offered to me the
embrace of full acceptance then lay in bed— sick, indeed!— blind and dumb,
crippled at the very moment of my greatest need. Who prowled in their
incensed lairs of glow-in-the-dark crucifixes, waiting with malice for a
stumble, so they could pounce on my corpse, gorging themselves on the
foundations I set, the advice I gave, the information I volunteered, like
vegetarian hyenas— ha! peaceful religion indeed.
Something that I wrote back in May. Not finished, but it probably never will be.
Thanks for reading.
-Sarah
The Electric Train, by Nakagiri Masao
A person hanging onto a strap!
A person sitting upon a seat!
A person swaying in time to the sway!
Under the gloomy electric lights,
who you are nobody knows
getting of at your station.
There are times of riding beyond the station and coming back again.
Who you are even you do not know.
Your exhausted necktie—
inside of its knot
something you do not realize is hiding.
Broken-down shoes unpolished for how-many days—
inside the worn-out leather heels
something that irritates you is hiding.
If you think it over well
you will come to realize what it is.
It is hiding inside the flame of a single match
burning your dead body.
look what i found in the dusty depths of my dad’s bookcase
Allen Ginsberg: Footnote to Howl
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!
The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand
and asshole holy!
Everything is holy! everybody's holy! everywhere is
holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman's an
angel!
The bum's as holy as the seraphim! the madman is
holy as you my soul are holy!
The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is
holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!
Holy Peter holy Allen holy Solomon holy Lucien holy
Kerouac holy Huncke holy Burroughs holy Cas-
sady holy the unknown buggered and suffering
beggars holy the hideous human angels!
Holy my mother in the insane asylum! Holy the cocks
of the grandfathers of Kansas!
Holy the groaning saxophone! Holy the bop
apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana
hipsters peace & junk & drums!
Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy
the cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the
mysterious rivers of tears under the streets!
Holy the lone juggernaut! Holy the vast lamb of the
middle class! Holy the crazy shepherds of rebell-
ion! Who digs Los Angeles IS Los Angeles!
Holy New York Holy San Francisco Holy Peoria &
Seattle Holy Paris Holy Tangiers Holy Moscow
Holy Istanbul!
Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the
clocks in space holy the fourth dimension holy
the fifth International holy the Angel in Moloch!
Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the
locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucina-
tions holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the
abyss!
Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours!
bodies! suffering! magnanimity!
Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent
kindness of the soul!
Perpetual Loneliness
Am I an absent existence?
Longing to be heard, yearning to be called for.
No, it’s not true: I am present, I am here.
I can see the mist, hear the drone,
Taste the bitter truth, feel its relentless sting.
I am as I am, striving in place for a place.
They see me
They see through me.
What do they know?
Their silent condescending glares speak volumes,
Their large, unbridled mouths even more,
But from me their ears are forever deaf.
I, myself, have yet to utter a word.
What do they know?
What could they know?
I am barricaded off from their happy, pretentious worlds.
Is it they who purposefully shun me,
Or I who repel any chances?
This scrape on the wall knows more than most,
The projection of herself is loathed, despised,
But even if she disappeared, ceased to be present,
They wouldn’t be better off; they’d have never noticed.
Sunshine peeks through murky sky,
But a gray, rotten quagmire overtakes this absent existence,
And slowly,
Slowly
Suffocates me.
Beat-gen inspiration.
I’m in the middle of writing a really long poem. It’s inspired by Allen Ginsberg (and, admittedly, styled after his poems). I keep changing it, and it’s not finished yet, but here it is so far:
It’s similar to a wistful loneliness, but closer to a jealous insecurity.
Truthfully, I am never alone; I’m just a bitch and nobody wants to hang out with me.
We resent ourselves, and we resent the bimbos who can’t seem to understand we’re only pretending to like them.
Well, I say ‘we’ but I really mean myself.
I know better, but I keep repeating, “It’s only me. It’s only me.”
That’s my mantra, O beautiful, wretched mantra! to convince and dissuade myself, to lie and to dupe myself, to shield myself from the reality: there exists only the overall human consciousness; there is no Individual, there is no Creativity, no Original.. (God has long since drowned it off the face of the earth, into the dark abyss of sin and mockery, engulfing the pagan entropy, filthy in its chatter, endless in its chatter, pointing its finger as it’s dragged further down in the murky, murky waters, gone from the human mind, somewhere erased in the human DNA, somewhere lacking in the subconscious)
It’s all plagiarized and cheated-off-of and rehashed and torn-up and criticized and hidden and stolen and God knows I don’t really care because I’ll just say I believe in reincarnation anyways.
I don’t, of course.
I don’t believe in anything.
I don’t believe in feelings, in theories, or in matching colors
I don’t believe in smiles, or in pouts, or in happy birthday smileys posted on your Facebook
I don’t believe in certainties and absolute truths; I sure as hell don’t believe in ambiguities
I don’t believe in any of the seasons except Autumn
I don’t believe quotes are a good way to start your SAT essay; ‘fact, I don’t believe in the entire fucking school system
Go fuck yourself, College Board
I don’t believe in the power of Chinese jewelry and amulets, or in putting a horseshoe over the doorway, except after I watch Paranormal Activity,
I don’t believe in prayers.
I think I believe in God.
So this is where I am so far. It’s nowhere near done, I still need to somehow.. “wrap it all up,” so to speak. I’m so frustrated with myself, because this isn’t coming out the way I want it to, and I keep adding lines, deleting lines…
I think I’m going to take out the small print and save it for another poem, but I just dunnnoooo..
Well? What d’you guys think?
Yearning
Once more, before never again becomes reality,
Let us speak once more, share soft letters of comfort.
Time is ceaseless, endless, but never forgiving,
While we are young, it condemns us and presses ever on.
Looking outside my window, greeted only by dull grey clouds,
I hear the lonely ticking of the clock as fleeting seconds pass by.
Nostalgia overcomes me, and my heart is instantly pained,
Knowing that right now, I am probably not in your thoughts.
Soon, all opportunities will disappear, as though they never existed,
And with them, our voices, our laughter, our smiles, and shared moments.
Thieving Time is so clever, so sly, so thoughtful, so cruel,
I won’t even realize my memories of you are gone.
White, like snow.
A blank sheet of paper.
Not unused, but erased.
