poems i wrote in 2019 and texts i recieved between their writing

i stole your dictionary
while you were unconscious
i ripped it in half
i think it’s still on my bookshelf somewhere 

you sleep more than you did before
i wonder why. did it start when i stole your car?

---

i really value our friendship and i don’t want anything to get in the way if that, and i’ve been thinking about what you said on sunday,  i just want to know how i can ebsr support you in the group. would there be anything different or helpful that i can do to to make you feel better? your friendship means a lot to me and i don’t want to do anything that could hurt it. 

---

i’ve always wanted to stick
wished i had friends since the beginning
hoped i’d be known for something specified
but advice from my mom says don’t let judgement cloud my eyes

---

 btw  guys i ave been thinking about it and i understand why
people have been kinda snappy lately it’s just a hard time but i would just try to ask if everyone could try their best to not take out thier stress on me bc it rlly makes me feel bad

---

ive stopped looking both ways when i cross the street
it used to be a habit,
left, right, then left again,
but lately ive been stepping off of the sidewalk with no regard for cars.
and when the driver get upset
 i pretend it was a mistake, i promise ill be more careful next time
i wave to them with an apologetic smile, i mouth the word « sorry » but never say it out loud,
if i said it out loud it would become true
and i’d have to start keeping good habits and breaking bad ones
if i said it oit loud id have to stop biting my nails until they bleed
maybe i’d paint them instead
id have to stop scratching my bug bites raw
if i said it out loud i’d have to look both ways again
left, right, and then left again 

---

 hey, i really dont care if you dont want to talk anymore but please let me know instead of just opening my messages and not responding. the lack of communication kinda hurts. all i need is one answer about that letter so i can get the penpal letters in line, then i’ll leave you alone if thats what you want. i need you to talk to me about this though. i cant know what you want if you dont tell me.

---

 

i was like 15 writing these and had only read like 10 poems in my life so dont take this as a reflection of my writing skills. i swear im better at it now.

party4u

i only threw this party for you.
which is why when we ran out of liquor
i volunteered to crawl to the store
even though i couldn’t stand without help.
and i know you’re leaving soon but
don’t you remember when you weren’t?
theres paint on all of our shit
because of the time we made self portraits
that made us so mad we ripped
them up before they could dry.
you read your first book at nineteen
and wrote your first at nineteen and a half
because you knew you could do it better.
and you did.
you held the admiration but you left me the love
that you refused to leave me without.
youre probably getting your period soon
because i cant stop crying at the thought
of a city without you in it.
ill get drunk with you. if you want me to.

metaphor

two poets walk into a bar,
one with a basket of flowers in her arm,
the other with a bowl of meatballs and spaghetti.
they order a whiskey rocks and a daiquiri respectively,
close the tab, and tip twenty percent with cash.
one drinks her whiskey and smells her daffodils,
the other puts a meatball in their drink and watches it float.
one writes about watering flowers with whiskey,
the other writes about leaving home.

supercut

 
None of us ever graduates from college.
None of our faces become scarred across the eye
Like Montana’s. We don’t end up feeding stale bread
To the ducks that swim in the backyard pool,
We won’t hide our jewelry in the ceilings.
None of us will travel further than Nevada
Even though we planned a trip to Berlin
Where we would try MDMA in Berghain.
None of us ever holds a junco in our hands
Even though their shape would fit into our
Cupped palms like a knife fits into its wound.
We don’t jump off of the balcony into the
Water below. We don’t take pictures holding
The Eiffel Tower or become contestants on
Jeopardy. None of us own a boat or a raft
Or anything that could keep us afloat when
We become stranded together in the ocean.

i cant comment

 blogspot wont let me comment on anybodys blogs lately): here are some of the comments i meant to write but not who i meant to write them to. try to choose which were meant for you!

 

 this is the most important post you've ever made 

i loved this book as a kid it is so home to me

 BLOG MORE BLOG MORE

goth karaoke i just got so hard i passed out also i always google translate your spanish in ur blogposts so if you made a full post in spanish i would definitely read

obsessed with this and copying you!!!!

 this picture is so awesome

omg your voice is so descriptive and vivid i love it your poetry is so wonderful loving and tender  

so in love with how much emotion you can put in such little people drawings

poem made of my own tweets

 

(not too much on this it was so hard i know it is not good but its what i was capable of right now)

me scared of a cat thats screaming (google drawings art is real art)

 

i heard a fly buzz (when i died)

 Just for a moment, the
Walls pounded with stillness.
With one arm out and the other in,
I was stitched together, hemmed tightly between the
Clavicle, stitches snaked down to the ribs. The room
Held me like one of its own. I was
In and I was out, it felt like
Surrender, submergence, stillness.
The flickering flourescents burned in
My eyes. It was like blinking without the
Relief, any wetness from my eyes evaporated into the air.
The dryness was the worst. Cracking skin between
My fingers, the only hydration the
Petroleum on my wounds. I try to heave
My leadened body off of
The slab. I am unmoving. My mind is still as storm.

this is a golden shovel isnpired poem (google terrance hayes golden shovel and we real cool by gwendolyn brooks and read both of them to see the most beautiful and creative poem in the world) so the last word of each line comes together to make the first stanza of Dickinsons I heard a fly buzz --- when i died which btw is dickinsons best poem so u dhould read that too

stop being nice to me in critique

 its so strange to hate something you wrote then receive praise from others for it.

in a moment of weakness i submitted an unfinished piece for critique in my creative nonfiction class for workshop. Workshop for the first piece was harsh, full of critique, frustration with the format of the story, dislike for the way it was written, not even just the content. The second critique was harsher: comparing the authors style to a twitter thread, calling it as informal as a text message with no spellcheck, ripping it apart. My critique felt underwhelming. I was prepared for war, prepared for twenty five people to tell me to quit writing for the rest of my life, that I was shit out of luck for a career and i should just disregard the hobby altogether. Instead what they waned was more: more dialogue, more captions on photos, expansion on the ending. A piece that i find beyond unreadable is called nostalgic, humorous, poetic, meaningful, clever, witty, journalistic. i wonder if people read what i wrote. to be fair, the ending was ripped apart (in a very gentle way). It needs to have more, it needs to be woven through the rest of the piece, it doesn't need to be wrapped in a bow. 

in all i would just like to say that you should never be overly nice in a class workshop unless you want the author to get a stress induced stomachache. 

#LETMERANT #RANTING2025 #COMPLAINATHON

some more beginnings

 a couple more poems i began but never finished and likely will never finish. sorry for so few complete pieces lately, i am evil and hate writing.

 

I shove my body beneath my bed
Stomach down, head turned to the side.
Dust bunnies make friends with my belly button lint
The slats imprint on the rolls of my back.
The hallway light seeps in under the door,
my mother’s heels sound like a horse on tile.
I lay.
She knocks on my door, bumbadadadumbum bum bum.
I hold my breath, my nose whistles. I plug my nose.
The light flows in, the heels stop clicking.
I make friends with a lone sock.
She candors to my father. She trots back.
I lay. I stifle a giggle. 

------

 The boat is silent, or nearly so,
The house is in the village though.
Against the water, the boat rocks,
But I'll continue to row and row.

I'll park the boat right on the dock,
Tighten my anchor, chain, and lock.
Ill step off the edge, onto the shore,

I'll trip over a tiny rock.

-----

i don't really care if the foam of the soda spills over the side of the glass. my hand is wet anyway. crosswalks don't matter because cars tend to stop when there are people in the road. kiss or slap is fun because you get to get slapped.