drugs.

short and inarticulate

Here’s a real story, regardless of whether or not it’s worth your time:

I’ve been on the fence about college recently.  I went from hating academics to wondering if it might be worth my while to just dive into it and get it over with.  I hate my job; it’s physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting.  It doesn’t reflect who I am or what I’m good at, and I was recently seized my the desire to do something with my life that shows off my interests and what I feel I’m good at.  So I decided to try college, and I’ve declared myself as an English major.  I’ve applied and have been accepted into a school for the fall of 2011.  I’m 21 years old and going to college soon.  In the meantime I’ve been taking an online English class, as well as some other classes at a community college.  In English we read plays which I already read in my high school English class during junior year, and we focus on writers whom I’ve seen featured on the PBS News Hour.  It’s a little dull, but nothing I can’t manage.

And yet, I’ve been getting Cs and Ds on all my assignments, and no explanation as to why.  I follow all the instructions.  It’s embarassing and it makes me cry a little bit.  I feel like I’m back in high school with the shitty English teachers who would grade my essays without even reading them.  (To prove this I pulled that classic trick where you repeat the same sentence for 3-and-a-half pages, and I recieved a C+ on it.  True story.)  Or am I just blind?  Am I some barely literate bumblefuck?

Now I don’t remember why I bothered to try college at all.  How did I even get accepted when I’m inarticulate and barely literate?  I’ve been so exhausted these past couple months between school and work that I barely write at all.  I’ve even only filled a few pages in my paper journal since January, and prior to that I could fill a whole book in, I don’t know, a month or two…  It’s really disheartening, and I find it hard to feel creative after being so engaged with schoolwork.

This is the conclusion of my stupid, inarticulate rant about my literacy difficulties and my lack of problem-solving capabilities.

(I had also hoped college would expose me to other talented and aspiring writers, but so far I find tumblr much more useful for that.  I’ve discovered so many gifted writers and poets on here- it’s so inspiring, and even a little intimidating.) 

the holidays

the dark trees behind my parents’ house stretch on for miles

and if you walk into these woods for about 20 minutes

you’ll find a christmas ornament massacre

nailed upon a steepled tree stump.

my younger brother told me about the mess-

he described these headless reindeer and santas and snowmen

all jammed into the bark with rusty nails.

my brother is afraid now to walk alone in the woods;

he insists this can only be the work of a dangerous psychotic murderer,

but i’m a little more open-minded

about how this creation came to be.

I have to confess that my social anxieties follow me everywhere, even onto the internet.  I find it really difficult to relax and exist around other people, even in the tumblr world.  This is my honest reason for only posting a short poem once every week or two.  But excuses are lame, right?  Still, I truly admire everyone who can artistically spill the contents of their daily life out upon their blog.  For me, just telling someone where I grew up or what my favorite movie is just makes me quiver inside.  And for nearly half my life my anxiety has manifested itself in this physical form:  http://www.skinpick.com/compulsive-skin-picking

So yeah, that’s the story.  That’s my first attempt at sharing something personal.  Sometimes it’s as if I just don’t want anybody to know me at all, but I know this needs to end if I’m ever going to meet more people and be a better writer.

the mortgage (too young to die)

“we’re too young for the house,

we’re too young for a mortgage; some days i get the feeling

we’re doing it all right, but other days i feel i’m just throwing

my youth away,” she lamented at work.

and i replied, “have you ever

considered the word mortgage?  Mort-gage.  Literally: Death-gage.

Death-measure.”

she really never had considered the word at all

and so her mind was really blown.

i know if a day ever comes when i have money in the bank

there’s a lot i’ll do with the cash

before i let anyone but myself

measure out my death.

philadelphia

i don’t know why i loved this city

enough to declare it my new home…

it must have been that comfortable morning

when i swear i spotted a Ben Franklin look-a-like

browsing the aisles of the grocery store.

or maybe i like that there is a bridge

named Walt Whitman.

whatever, whatever, whatever- i was in desperate need

for a new place to call home,

but i never pictured myself

living in this city.  as a kid in New England

i saw myself moving to New York or Boston

simply because i didn’t know any better.

i don’t know what to expect from Philly

and this is all for the best;

i’ve got nothing- no money, no job, no degree

but it’s better to take a chance

than to never go at all.

finally

I am moving despite the fact that I’m going broke, I’ll be jobless once I hit this new city, and I haven’t even bothered to fathom what my monthly living expenses will total up to… I am moving- might as well take this idea and run with it before it all burns out/before I chicken out.

It’s all for the best.

found this under my bed

Dropout:

meditation is driving in a car

at night

going wherever

the car will go.

all the poetry i wrote at college

is numb and stiff as the bricks

that built the institution

so i stopped driving

like a citizen with plans.

————————————

(I’ve been preoccupied lately with the task of trying to build up a life I want to live out of the rubble of a life so uninspiring to me that it was numbing.  But it’s a process- it’s a little overwhelming, it’s time-consuming, it’s tiring, and it’s a little scary when those whom I considered close don’t seem in sync with my new ideas.  But I feel like I’ve hit the Spring of my life after 21 years of winter… I often hear people anywhere from half my age to more than twice my age say, “I’m waiting for my life to begin,” and that’s all I can compare this feeling to-  it’s as if my life has begun.)

If I was ever a writer, my head has forgotten.  I’ve been busy painting on canvas, although I have no backgroud in the visual arts. 

(Everybody goes through shit like this, right?)

NY, NY

goodpoetry:

It’s big
It’s ugly
I hate it
I love it
I’m free.

Jack Hirschman

(Source: )

journeys

what surprises me most

about all this travel

is that i’ve only filled four pages in my journal.

sure- i can now say i’ve done the whole

“hitch-hiking in europe” thing,

i’ve done the whole

“living out of hostels” thing

(with only 30 minutes of internet

and one roll to eat per day),

i’ve done the whole

“see hundreds of pieces of renaissance art and feel more cultured because of it” thing

but nothing grabs my eyes like the view of manhattan island

from hoboken, new jersey.

my next adventure will be strictly america, i want that now.

Home is a big mug of coffee while standing outside at a 6 AM sunrise with my dog and my stereo nearby.  And maybe a book in hand.

Home could happen anywhere.

(Sorry, I’ve been away.  I seem to be losing followers because of it.)

sorry for my absence

the lincoln tunnel swallowed me up

and spat me out at an airport

sangasong asked: is the job still going on? To state the obvious - it's showing in your writing.

Ahhh I don’t know how I feel about this.  Yes, I have a job and I really don’t like it but I apparently “HAVE TO PAY THE BILLS.”  And everyone tells me I’ll never find a better job in the current economy  :(

With that being said, I took a three week vacation from work and I’m secretly heading over to my place of employment on Tuesday just to clean out my locker.  You know, just in case :)