Door Open In My Room

Joan Baez performing I Never Will Marry, c. 1958

I feel like a whore. 

Used and disgusting. 

Why did I say yes?

I thought it would make me feel better about myself. 

It didn’t.

Why didn’t it?

Why?

I've betrayed God.

And for what?

Some girl I barely know?

(I've known her my whole life.)

She doesn't love me.

I don’t love myself.

Crows

by Mary Oliver

It is January, and there are crows like black flowers on the snow. While I watch, they rise and float toward the frozen pond, they have seen some streak of death on the dark ice. They gather around it and consume everything, the strings and the red music of that nameless body. Then they shout, one hungry, blunt voice echoing another. It begins to rain. Later, it becomes February, and even later, spring returns, a chorus of thousands. They bow, and begin their important music. I recognize the oriole. I recognize the thrush, and the mockingbird. I recognize the business of summer, which is to forge ahead, delicately. So I dip my fingers among the green stems, delicately. I lounge at the edge of the leafing pond, delicately. I scarcely remember the crust of the snow. I scarcely remember the icy dawns and the sun like a lamp without a fuse. I don’t remember the fury of loneliness. I never felt the wind’s drift. I never heard of the struggle between anything and nothing. I never saw the flapping, blood-gulping crows.

Haiku #2

prince turns to pauper in the the dying sun's arms for all else is lost

Art Museum

In halls of wonder, vast and bright,

Where colors swirl and dance in light,

Where walls stretch high and ceilings soar,

And stories whisper through each door.

Each brush stroke whispers of a tale,

As if the canvas begins to exhale,

A hint of passion, a shred of pain,

The artist's soul within each frame.

From abstract splashes to portraits grand,

The beauty of the world at hand,

In every brush stroke, every hue,

A story painted just for you.

With every step, with every breath,

A masterpiece in every depth,

A world of wonder, there to see,

In each exhibited symphony.

So come and wander, lose yourself,

In halls of magic, in halls of health,

For the joy of art is always here,

In every image, every cheer.

silly goofy post

one thing about me is that I WILL be trying and failing to rhyme, just for sillies. 

the little things

Sometimes, when I feel the way I do, I like to think about the little things. 

The little things that make life worth living. 

(at least for a while)

Like the way blushes grow on human cheeks. 

Little things like the sound that can be only heard when rain and laughter marry. 

Like lighting a candle while you start a new book. 

The perfect little notification you waited all day for. 

The way making someone else laugh sits on your chest for a while. 

The way blades of grass fit neatly between your toes

The completion of a simple task. 

The sound a dog’s collar makes as it walks. 

(it's the little things)

It's the tiniest of things too. 

The three-feet-distance between the desks of two friends.

That one freckles that girl you barely speak to anymore, but still makes you laugh. 

The glitter in someone’s eye that just never leaves.

The smallest possible paper crane that you made in class last Tuesday. 

(it's the little things)

It's also the big things. 

Like the first kiss you had that really mattered. 

Like the letter you never thought you’d get.

Knowing that she’s okay, even if you aren’t. Not anymore. 

It’s the realization that you understand. Even though it's a bit too late

But most of all it's the little things.

i am she. nail biter. skin picker. pube plucker. lip biter. eye crust flicker. knuckle cracker. eyelash puller. leg bouncer.

Anastasia Trusova, “And the sunset came” Acrylic on canvas / 60 x 80 cm / 2022

If I am being truly honest with myself,

When I think realistically about my future, 

I know in my heart I will be alone. 

It’s not that love isn't something I yearn for.

I do. I really do. 

There is this fire in my heart that wants to be put out.

But I know it will always burn.

It’s not that I am incapable of loving. 

At least I hope not. 

It’s just that I can’t really see why anyone would want to deal with loing me.

From what I know, 

Which isn't much, 

Is that love is supposed to be through thick and thin. 

Love is supposed to be filled with little moments,

Like thinking of them while you fall asleep,

Like getting to know every little thing about them.

Love is supposed to be like coming home in their arms. 

And while I feel like I could feel all of those things for someone else, 

I know nobody would feel it for me. 

Who would want to?

They want to love someone interesting. 

Someone happy. 

Someone smart. 

Someone real. 

I’m none of those things. 

No matter how hard I try. 

I hope one day I will get the hang of it. 

Being lovable. 

But I suppose for now, all that is, is a silly, childish dream.