I can’t tell my level of drink
Is hat a problem
Where are you going?
Is this what being a writer is?
Rows of nothingness and existential dread.
I live from coffee cup to coffee cup
And then once in a while I eat a muffin.
It’s dead here
And I bleed tears.
Yes, all of these things
If it makes you feel better I’m a much sore(r) loser than you are
Kk back to my caffeine haze
I forgot to buy pie though
I don’t deserve pie!
But no I’m fine.
Just read a case where the defendant robbed a convenience store, held the cashier up at gun point and when they only had $50, he said “I was just kidding, never mind, forget this ever happened.”
I don’t know why I took it personally
I am so tired can we kill the written word
A poem composed entirely of texts sent to or by me!
Easily the most fun work I’ve ever written/composed.
I’m totally making this a thing.
Wear your face to work today.
In the vein of Yoko Ono, who deserves her own post.
You might not write well every day, but you can always edit a bad page.
You can’t edit a blank page.
It’s a new year.
I’ll admit that I don’t actually have any vows. I sort of made a blanket resolution: that I would find whatever the thing is that I have recently recognized I’m internally seeking. Solace in myself? Comfort in the knowledge of being fulfilled? self-sufficient? strong? independent enough to be sung about in songs? Or just knowing that I am my own person? I don’t know – I just have an overwhelming need to search for that satisfaction I’m craving so dearly.
But you know what I’ve realized? I think writing’s going to be the thing that helps me find it, that acorn heaven my squirrel self is so aching for*. It fills me in so many ways: it’s a friend, when I need to get something off my chest; it’s meditation, when I need to find something calm in the midst of the chaotic; it’s medicine, when I’m aching from loneliness or seething in anger; it’s thrilling, when I have an adventure sinking its way onto the page off the tapping of my fingertips. And at all times, every day, no matter what I write – I feel like I am participating in that moment in creation. At all times, no matter how craptastic the words on the page, I am blending life and art.
2015 was my year of deciding to fake it. I dropped the comfortable paycheck life and moved across the country to join an MFA program; I took a holy-grail sized leap of faith** in myself, and I’ve been whistling Continue reading
Candle wax skin
smile dips – in
side I am lit.
I like you: your eyes are full of language.
Awash I wish to be
mamay be if I bleed
justjujust a bit.
It doesn’t really feel like the holidays.
It’s too humid here in New York. Someone’s forgotten the seasons up there, and they’re hustling clouds and raining buckets like their sole job is to make the city feel as much like Eeyore as possible. I’m not being buffeted by raging winds through the concrete jungle. I woke up last night, bleary-eyed, to open the window so my thighs would stop sticking together. I’m not hugging a cup of hot chocolate to me, wearing mittens (that I don’t yet own) or a beanie (that I’m still looking for) and watching the smoke tendrils curl up to meet falling snow. My lips aren’t chapped, and I’m sweating in my boots as I walk down to my subway stop.
But it’s more than the fact that global warming has royally fucked up what should be a magical time here in the city. I’ll admit it: I’m spirit-less this year. I guess I shouldn’t be. Parts of my life are lining up like little ducks: I’m here to write. And I do write. I can actually say that I’m a writer without wincing*. For the first time I’m running after a goal I want – not something the world’s telling me I should. I’m chasing something important, my own Questing Beast, and sometimes it’s so close – I can feel its heart pulsing, right under my fingertips.
But most times I can barely see the dust it kicks up as it dashes away, getting farther and farther from my labored, lagging footsteps. Most times, the more I chip at it, the farther away it seems; obstacles litter the way forward – most of them things I left there myself. Most parts of my life I have let slip from my fingertips; others I have shoved away, as if I thought I could put the puzzle of my existence together if I just threw away a couple pieces.
It’s so hard being alive sometimes. Do you feel it? The way the world is pressing into you? I can feel someone’s hand inside me, crushing my Continue reading