I’m so tired of writing pretty poetry, even though it flows naturally from me, words dancing from my fingertips to the page… But words don’t dance. And I’m tired of pretending that they do.
Pretty doesn’t mean anything. Pretty is the bow that you put in your hair, a small nothing of decoration. And pretty words are the things people put on Instagram pages so that others think that they’re deep. I don’t want my words to be pretty; I want them to mean something. I want them to punch you in the stomach and give you cold sweats in the morning as they haunt you. I want them to give you nightmares like they do me. I, myself, don’t want to be pretty; I want to mean something.
And when I die, I want to be remembered for something other than being pretty or having pretty words. I want to be ugly in the casket, not dressed up even a bit. I want to be decaying and rotting, and have them look upon me. They’ll call it an ugly sight. Maybe I’ll give them a smile.
Actually, I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know anything, except that I’m scared.
I can’t particularly name anything that I’m scared of. I just know that I do daring things, and it doesn’t faze me, but somehow I’m shivering in fear all of the time.
I don’t know what I want. Actually, I want to be alone for a month. I want to wander into nothing towns with a bunch of nobodies. Then I wanna go to the landmarks, and even though most call them booming cities, I’ll think of them the same as the nothing towns. I want to sleep for eight days of that, a mini-coma.
I’m tired of this place. I want to leave. And that includes Diamondhead and Brookhaven, two compound word nightmares.
I feel as if perhaps, even though I’ve spent my entire life trying to outrun it, my only home is mediocrity, for that is where I rest my head every night.
I’m tired, and I’m apathetic, and I’m tired, and I’m angry, and I’m scared, and I’m so scared. That’s it. There’s no real pretty way to put it. I’m just angry and scared. And I don’t have to explain myself to you.
zoe, i love you and your pretty words, but that isn’t all they are. words can be pretty, but they can also be powerful, and they are. your words can still pack a punch even if other people say they look like flowers; some of the prettiest plants are still full of poison. you don’t have to know anything, and you definitely don’t have to explain yourself to anyone.
I agree with Madison words can be pretty and mean something, and ugly things aren’t always deep., and i understand that fear that claustrophobic nature of being stuck, no way out no real place you could go to be free. I understand that. No one will ever judge you for your own opinion so you don’t have to explain i will accept it as it is.
I really like this, I love the part when you mention Diamondhead and Brookhaven and call them “two compound word nightmares” that is a really good line. I really enjoyed reading this.
Your poetry is pretty, but I believe is also makes people think. Pretty does not mean it is weak; it just means people admire the way that it looks or sounds in the mind’s eye. Your poetry may be pretty, but it is extremely powerful.
You are anything but mediocre. I absolutely love reading your writing because I never know where it’s going to take me. Sometimes your imagery is so detailed that I can’t help but see what you’re imagining despite that you sometimes describe things I’d rather not be seeing, but other times, you throw in a Rick and Morty reference in an otherwise dramatic piece which leaves me confused on how to feel but knowing that I really like what I just read.