Month: September 2017

I wrote this after going to a department store with my friend.  I imagined if each finger had a personality, and then based the character off of someone that is like someone I used to know.

Multicolored fingernails.

Lori walks into a department store.

She picks the colors that fit her liking.

She leaves.

Free of charge,

Free of consequences.

Left hand.  Dominant.

The sparkly yellow thumb.

She politely asks wild lovebug if he wants a ride.

He accepts, wildly exploring,

Finding comfort in the faded cigarette burn.

Soon fades into the wind.

The orange pointer finger.

She clashes with yellow.

Lori kind of likes it that way.

Visible vein runs through,

Tromping through her wildflowers of flesh.

Vein knows it’s a dead end,

It just enjoys the journey.

The glittered pink middle finger.

Tainted with the blood of rage.

He dances in the limelight often,

Solos of passion.

He doesn’t care if no one claps.

He performs for himself.

Uncolored ring finger

Stop defining him with an accessory,

Don’t try to suffocate him with a ring.

He’s a rebel,

Wearing no color,

For Lori could not find a fitting one she liked.

He glides through the fresh spray paint on the train.

The mess is nice.

Black pinkie finger.

She’s subtly backed by ever color,

Glimmering in the light.

She’s just a tad bit crooked.

She digs into Mom’s Thanksgiving mashed potatoes,

Bold and mocking.

Taken out of the mouth with a loud pop.

Right hand.  Lesser dominant, but still.

Iridescent thumb,

Swirled with greens, blues, purples in a galaxy.

He strokes the knob of the telescope

As Lori tries to look for something bigger than this,

Trying to delve past her own layers.

But she looks at the stars

With differently colored fingernails,

So that must mean she’s deep.

Slimy green pointer finger,

What a devil she is,

For she caresses Anya,

Dragging from the blush on her cheeks

To her sensitive thigh, riddled with goosebumps.

All the while, apathetic.

She knows Lori has a date with another in an hour.

Nevertheless, she rakes and pillages Anya’s love.

Purple middle finger,

They don’t want to be gendered.

Please use the correct pronouns.

They’re quite sweet,

But quite wild,

Stroking the volume to the radio

With a startling intensity.

Sparkly orange ring finger,

She’s soft and lonely,

Tired of being forgotten,

Misnamed after her twin.

She traces the words to the bible

As Lori’s tears fall softly upon it,

Remembering the home which she rebelled from.

Pale blue pinkie.

He’s a little funny,

A little mess of polish on the top.

A scar adorns his side

From the snap of trying to tune a piano string,

The memory of eight years of le—

chop.

Lori is interrupted from admiring her fingers.

She regrets not paying the candy man on time

But the cocaine just paired so well with breakfast,

Right before a bite of toast

With a little jam.

The song goes like this:
I thought I saw the devil/This morning/Looking in the mirror, drop of rum on my tongue/With the warning/To help me see myself clearer
I never meant to start a fire/I never meant to make you bleed/I’ll be a better man today/I’ll be good, I’ll be good/And I’ll love the world, like I should/Yeah, I’ll be good, I’ll be good/For all of the time/That I never could/My past has tasted bitter/For years now/So I wield an iron fist/Grace is just weakness/Or so I’ve/been told/I’ve been cold, I’ve been merciless/But the blood on my hands/scares me to death/Maybe I’m waking up today/I’ll be good, I’ll be good
And I’ll love the world, like I should/I’ll be good, I’ll be good/I’ll be good, I’ll be good/For all of the light that I shut out/For all of the innocent things that/doubt/For all of the bruises I’ve caused and the tears/For all of the things/that I’ve done all these years/And all/Yeah, for all of the sparks that I stomped out/For all of the perfect things that I doubt/I’ll be good, I’ll be good
And I’ll love the world, like I should/Yeah, I’ll be good, I’ll be good
For all of the times/I never could, oh, oh-oh/Oh, oh
Oh, oh-oh/For all of the times I never could
All of the times I never could

Yes, these are simple lyrics, created for the purpose of being put to music and sung; however, I like the lyrics in poem format. My take on the song is simple and cuts deep into how I feel about certain ideologies and life in general. Someone sees themselves, they know themselves, and they hate what stands before them in the mirror each and every day. They want to change for the better, they want to be more for themselves and the people they love. They think to be strong you must avoid vulnerability, you have to hide your feelings and give the world a fictitious view of life. They shut out people they cared for, hurt them, hurt themselves, and they need more of the good things in life.
They need change, at least to make up for the hurt they’ve caused. This really connects with me; I would give anything to heal the people I’ve broken and reconnect with my better self, but that’s not always how things go. We just have to hope our future will be carved in light, so that we may go down a path that gives instead of receives.

 

I’ve always been a very straightforward person and sure of my actions and thoughts. There have been only a few, extremely rare occasions, where I was not sure of myself. Since 8th grade I knew that I wanted to attend Mississippi School of the Arts, and I kept this mindset up until a few months before I had to turn in my application. I was so very unsure of myself, I had this feeling that I wouldn’t succeed or meet my full potential here. The stress was eating me up, all the while I was encouraging my friends Telvin and Camden to complete their own applications. Can you believe that? I could push others to do what I couldn’t fathom myself. I’d already completed all the segments of the application process I needed done, I just couldn’t submit my work. I aim to win/succeed and I don’t handle rejection with grace. It’s either passive aggression or a new level in just how nonchalant I can be. I truly feared not being accepted to the school I was once so sure that I’d be attending. I had talks with many of my friends and they told me to follow my heart and pray over it, to look for a sign. I thought about it for several days and even considered the cons over the pros in the situation. I knew I wouldn’t be living near my greatest three friends and my boy friend anymore, but they all encouraged me to do what I felt what was best and to be great in life. I wanted someone to tell me not to pursue my dreams, to stay where I was and not go off to a new environment and challenge myself. I needed one, just one sign, to discourage me. I wanted so badly to stay in my comfort zone and not leave behind all my favorite people. In the end, I stopped my procrastinating and put my worries away, and that is the story of how I ended up at MSA, a junior literary.

I held a peanut in my hand.  I cracked it in half.  The fibers in the shell split from the checkerboard pattern leaving frayed edges.  I slid one half into two halves once again and I felt something break between my finger and thumb.  I removed the no longer held together shell from the meat that was within.  As I did so, it became clear that I had crushed that half of the peanut.  I poured it from one half shell into the palm of my hand where it sat in a little pile like a pile of gravel.  I put it in my mouth, lightly chewed, and swallowed.  I then used both hands to pry open the other half of the shell.  When I did so, the nut within was not damaged at all.  I held the perfect nut between my finger and thumb.  Not even the two halves of itself were separated.  I put it in my mouth and made it more like the first.  It tasted the same.  It was still nutty and slightly oily.  It tasted just like you’d expect a peanut to taste like, but so had the damaged peanut.  Why then, would I bother attempting to preserve shape of all things?  What effect has that on the overall experience or at least on the part that one partakes in the experience for?  Why do I bother questioning peanuts?  What do I think I’ll find?  What am I looking for?  Is there something I’m missing?  Is there something that someone isn’t telling me?  Is there something that I just don’t understand, but nobody realizes because it’s just such an obvious thing that everyone assumes that everyone else already knows it?  Do they see me and know that I don’t know?  Do they laugh at me?  Should I care?  Why?  Why not?  Why am I asking a peanut?  This is absurd.  I’d laugh at myself if I wasn’t myself.  I know I would because then I’d know that at least that person has one more person laughing at them behind their back than I do.  I’d be just a little bit more removed from the critical, burning eye of others that I never see but can feel glaring down on me like a white, spotlight.  Do I only pretend to not care so that I won’t feel, or is it because I think they won’t judge me if they think I don’t care?  All I know is that it is not because I do not truly care because I know that I do.  I care so undeniably much regardless of what I tell myself.  I can hate myself for it, but that doesn’t change just how much I care about how others see me.  I take a breath.  I eat another peanut.  Am I just a peanut?  Is life me?  Did life uncaringly rip me from my shell and into the world turning me into a pile of peanut gravel?  Did life carefully remove my shell leaving me whole to enter the world?  Both wound up the same way at the end of the day.  Would he?  Was there any meaning in the peanut at all, or was I wasting my time looking?

Excuses are often paid where expectations are due, and we all know there are always expectations.  Not have I been in a situation where there were none from either myself of another being.  However, we all should also acknowledge that we don’t always measure up to those set expectations.  So, from time to time we make up excuses hoping some weight will be lifted off of our shoulders.  Not to say this doesn’t happen, but our excuses are not always accepted.

With my luck, excuses rarely work, even if they are true.  You didn’t know for sure if you were supposed to do that?  The teacher didn’t clarify?  You should’ve asked.  You have a mouth and a mind.  You could’ve asked.  And still, sometimes you have legitimate excuses.  They don’t work, but this is just how it is sometimes.  So, try as hard as you can as much as you can to reach the expectations you wish to meet.

I remember, in 7th grade, I had a rather grouchy English teacher. When I say grouchy, I mean grouchier than the Grouch off of Sesame Street. So one day, she had assigned homework, but by the time I got home, I had forgotten which pages she’d assigned. So, I did all of them. There were six pages to do if I wanted to ensure that I did not get a zero for my homework grade. Outside, I could hear joyous screams and continuous laughter radiating from my sisters, but I knew deep down that I cared more about that grade, and so did my mom.

I ended up completing all my homework by the time my sisters came in, which I thought was great timing considering how hard the work was. When I walked in class the next day, Mrs. Grouch asked for all six papers. My jaw went slack. I had done all of them just in case, and all of them were complete.  I was proud of myself.  I had finally got that much deserved 100.

This can come as a lesson to others. If your not sure, do everything you can think of to make sure. I know you may hear this all the time, but it’s better be safe than sorry. Do not make up excuses because they will not be valid even true–especially if you are reporting to someone like Mrs. Grouch or even your own self.

I wasn’t a very typical child I strove for abnormality, I wanted to stick out and be the outlier in almost everything I did.  But, it never turned out that way, due to my extremely shy personality I followed the crowd in tidal waves, not trusting my own thoughts to keep me afloat I used others as my life rafts for the majority of my time in middle school. The one thing that I had that was my own was books, it was sort of a guilty pleasure of sorts, even though I swore through my teeth that I hated the things. Even when I would get that little spark of happiness or that spine tingling feeling when I would pick up a new story and flip through the pages in less than a day. But, from fear of being called a nerd, or a geek or be out cast I pretended they were devil spawns like everyone else. That even included my parents, but of course, it was difficult to just not read, we had reading test and quizzes it was required of us to read, so I stuck to the one thing I knew that wouldn’t turn heads, books like Goosebumps and Magic Tree house was my saviors. They were small, containing two-hundred pages at best and popular among middle schoolers at that time.

Do to me playing the part for so long of a book avoider I became accustomed to those books and anything higher in lever began to scare me. Most of my classmates complained about how difficult the books were, filled with complicated words and page after page of complete boredom. So, I believed that for a long time, until the fateful day my friend gave me the novel Maximum ride and the angel experiment by James Patterson. I was weary at first refusing her offer and trying to give the novel back, it was a good three hundred pages more than my typical story and the cover didn’t look that interesting. She was persistent though standing her ground and insisted that I at least read the first page. So, I did not want to be rude, it was safe to say it was the right choice. The very first sentence caught my attention almost immediately and a sentence turned into the page which turned into a chapter and so on. It was amazing, fantastic, beyond great. The book contained so much action, plot and an actual story that I almost felt overwhelmed. The books detail was far better than half of the books I read before and I got the familiar spine tingling exhilarating feeling that I received from the others books I read. It also was the story that made me realize that fantasy stories were worth being a nerd for.

How far, as artists, are we allowed to take topics? This is a question I’m sure anyone with a history of writing has had to ask themselves. When is a good time to stop and let the imagination take hold instead of putting it into words? I, for one, think not having a leash when it comes to controversial topics is an okay idea. Sure, there are some people who would be able to handle the fact that people have different opinions of them and that people sometimes feel the need to write about something that’s bothering them, but there are also the people that would take these occurrences personally. The big question is: are we going to have the patience to handle the latter of the choices?

People usually respond to these hurdles by saying “Well, people shouldn’t be so sensitive.” Or ” Why don’t they just not read what they don’t like?” And these are great arguments. Why should one person keep their thoughts to themselves, thoughts that could possibly be poisoning their mind, just because someone is afraid to handle difficult topics? There is always the possibility of it being just as hard for the artist to discus the topic as it is for that certain someone to hear about it but that shouldn’t stop them. When someone has a question or an opinion, they should be able to discus and entertain ideas without persecution.

Then there is the other option of why can’t they read what they want to and stay away from what upsets them? It is no secret that people tend to enjoy getting into arguments- no matter what they’re about. So, when it comes to reading what they can’t handle it should be no one’s fault but their own if the choose to get upset or offended about that certain discussion.

There are some days when I want to write about everything wrong in the world but I keep from doing so because usually the things that I think are wrong, other people would disagree with. Things such as feminism and sexism usually end up starting an argument with my brother, sometimes even my mom. How am I supposed to write about my feelings and opinions when I’m the one being attacked? There’s a difference between attacking an idea and attacking a person but on most occasions people seem to get the two mixed up and I think that should be something we, as a people, should be able to discern.

What Is Love?

My phone’s sound is always on. Always set on the loudest setting. I want to make sure I don’t miss your call. I want to respond to your text fast enough that you don’t think I’m too busy for you. I am never too busy for you.

What Is Love?

My hand never seems to be still. Always shaking. Always trying to become comfortable in my lap or on my desk. Clasped with your hand, fingers interlaced.  I have never been more comfortable.

What Is Love?

I used to stutter. Words clogged my mouth like a child’s toy in the toilet. Words never belonged to me. But never did I stutter when I said those words. They didn’t belong to me either. They belonged to you.

What Is Love?

My mind is cradled in a manger. It floats high above the clouds. Often, I am told being so far from reality- from the truth of the world- will get me killed. I now know what they meant.

What Is Love?

You were never one for flying. You loved the ground too much- loved reality too much. But you loved the way I flew. Loved the way I refused to stay grounded for long. We thought we could make it. Me, the idealist, and You, the realist.

We Were Wrong.

i don’t believe in astrology. i don’t think that planetary alignments and and constellation patterns can coincide with birthdays and completely determine who someone is. i don’t think we can read daily horoscopes that predict certain outcomes in our lives. and don’t get me started on all of that sun, moon, rising, retrograde mess; understanding that is beyond my comprehension and i willingly admit that. that’s a no from me, kids.

but i still love reading “the signs as…” posts. i still love zodiac moodboards and analyses and saying “AQUARIUS AF” when i read a description that i think is pretty accurate to my personality. even though these specific descriptions of astrological signs are general traits that nearly everyone exhibits at one point or another and recognize that, i still find myself becoming invested in “what backpack are you based on your sign.”

i don’t know what it is about astrology posts that fascinates me. maybe it’s the psychoanalytical part. maybe it’s finding validation in the way i perceive myself. maybe it’s solidifying the knowledge i’ve gathered about my friends with completely unfounded evidence to prove my assumptions.

everyone loves being right, and no one likes to believe that they are wrong. so when we read this astrology posts that peg what type of person we are while falling in love or our best traits, we want them to align with our own ideas on who we are. and when these posts fit our ideals, we rally in this reassurance that we know ourselves and have a sense of self. we find pride in being agreed with about ourselves.

but when these posts don’t fit with our assumptions about ourselves, how do we react? some of us may scoff it off, say “pssh, that’s not right” and defer the responsibility of being wrong from ourselves. we can’t be wrong because we know ourselves best, right?

then there are those of us who see these mismatched assumptions and begin to question everything they’ve ever thought about themselves. are they really as introverted as they think they are, even when this post says they’re a more extroverted sign?

as superficial and meaningless as we may tell ourselves these posts are, they can still manage to leave us questioning everything we thought we knew about ourselves. astrology is a very efficient way to shatter your sense of self, especially if it wasn’t as unwavering as you thought it was.

so let me say this: the stars do not determine your fate. mercury in retrograde means nothing, air signs mean nothing. the only thing that matters is you, which means you don’t need to be worrying about what kind of partner you are based on your sign. nothing else can determine who you are except for you alone. no suns or moons or stars can tell you what your life is, only you.