Month: November 2017

rococo // arcade fire

growing up in the suburbs, you see people gain and lose their individuality. you watch sense of selves fade and meld from all these different beaming colors into one uniform shade of grey.

it’s sad, really. to see kids whose eyes used to be so wildly and unabashedly optimistic start turning to the same dull sheen that overtook their parents’ eyes all those years ago.

everyone just settles. they settle for in-state colleges and universities because of the scholarship opportunities, or at least a college that’s only a half-hour from the state line. they settle for moving two towns over rather than two states over. no one ever seems to allow themselves the privilege to explore the world outside familiar subdivisions and farmers’ markets.

but me, i’ve never been one to settle. i’ve always been one to dream outside of suburbia. i’ve always blatantly refused even contemplating attending any school anywhere near mississippi. not even ole miss, a school renowned for its writing programs.

i don’t want to be stuck like everyone else is. much like the queen song, i want to break free. i don’t want to be stuck singing the same songs and saying the same things and letting my colors meld into that same shade of grey that everyone else has let themselves be painted in.

i don’t like where i live. i never really have liked where i live. it’s why i came here. and it’s why i want to leave still. i want to see a welcome to mississippi sign for the last time and never once dream of looking back.

now, this doesn’t mean forgetting where i come from. this doesn’t mean leaving my family or my friends behind. it means allowing myself the ability to see more than what’s familiar. it means allowing myself to meet new people and make new friends and form new families. i want to give myself room to breathe, and suburbia has been choking me since the moment i set foot on its well-watered grass.

to me, staying would be conforming, and i’ve never really been much of a conformist. even when i try to fit in with everyone else, the edges just don’t fit right. all of my puzzles pieces are jagged and wrong, probably even from a completely different box.

i’m just trying to find the rest of my puzzle pieces, and they aren’t here.

My life flashes before my eyes,

except it’s not just mine,

it’s my brother’s and my mom’s,

it’s my best friends’,

and even my dog’s.

There’s nothing remotely interesting about the events that I see,

except when I see your face,

and the way the scar on your chin tilted to the left when you smiled,

how when you laughed,

the whole world stopped to marvel at the sound,

of such a happy and joyous tune,

and the rhythm of the way you breathe flies past my ears,

and I can’t help but wonder why I don’t write more sappy poetry,

about the times we spent together,

but I think that would defeat the purpose of gooey poetry,

because you’re gone,

and all of my mushy words turn to heartache,

that I’m not completely ready to accept yet.

So screw words and lines full of the almost L word,

that was on the tip of both of our tongues.

 

 

I was looking around for new inspiration to write and  I fell into the trash category of our blogs. I am using the titles from each of these “trash”/ unfinished pieces to make a poem, so you might see one of your titles being used!

(no title)

mid day thoughts

rumbling through my one track mind in

colors like the sunset

its kind of painful to bear behind eyelids

but I take the heat anyway

defending the brilliance in the way one

hides beneath orange streetlamps at midnight

in the downpour of rain

just waiting

waiting

 

something I have noticed lately

within the realm of my usual

existential crises

is the lack of the teenage cliché

people keep talking about

boy meets girl, they make out

they breakup

but people usually forget the 3 am secrets they share

before the rumor, the ruin

the running

 

carousel horses have caught hold of my head

and they spin faster than my

seven -year-old self remembers;

concrete nightmares, out of hand

and stuck tight as the noises

in the spaces between hotel walls

 

colors

colors, too many

too far an expanse to imagine

without getting too creative

floating ’round in ideas ever- changing

and losing grip of reality

 

I have been building unity in this

oppression of myself

it’s healthier this way, I suppose

when the brain loses hold

all bets are off

birthdays have the feel of business meetings

and the color blue ceases to exist

 

I go back to the orange streetlamps on the corners

looking dimmer than before, but still

reminding me of the sun

I go back to the places that have burned

me into the dark, warm

earth and smile

I close my eyes and think about it some more.

 

Somethings beeping. Its been doing that for a while now, ever since we came into the room. When I sit up it’s not as loud, but when I slouch, which I usually do, it seems to perk up. I don’t find it particularly annoying. I just realized that its there, and every once in a while, I’ll forget about it, and realize a couple minutes later that it never left. Just silently beeping, keeping time or announcing a future shut down of some electronic device. I don’t know, but I find that weird. That it just goes on and on, and that I can just forget about it. How can it leave my mind so quickly even though it never left, my mind chooses to pretend it’s not there but it is. Just as a dog can be running around at your feet. even if it’s a big dog, eventually your mind will ignore the fact that its there and so when you try to get up and step on its tail. You’ll apologize a million times but the dog probably won’t care. It’ll lick its tail and go back to bed, no sleep really lost. But you’ll think about that for the entire day, wondering, how you could forget they were there, what part of you shut it off. That perceptive part that sees things and notices them. Then you’ll run into a counter, a counter that’s been there since you were small, that same counter you see every day, but instead of avoiding it like you were subconsciously trained to, you run into it that day. Hold your stomach, curse under your breathe, but in a way, the pain will be a reminder that it is there. And in a couple of weeks or maybe a month you’ll forget about it again, and repeat the same process. We never quite learn to not forget the things we just sometimes know and sometimes we don’t. The beeping has been there longer for a week I know this, I have heard it but I couldn’t recall that until I start writing this. What else have I forgotten, what else will I do and realize maybe too late, maybe right on time that I need to be more aware. Aware of my surroundings my dogs tail, that counter tops edge, that beeping.  The beeping that never seems to have an end. Never truly had a beginning. Just there, and I guess I should just accept that and forget it was even there to begin with.

When I look into a mirror, I do not see me. I see two extreme versions of myself. One is an African American girl- her hair is a kinky curly Afro crown upon her head, her eyes a deep dark, coffee brown. The other is a Caucasian girl- her hair pin straight and a fiery red, her eyes a grassy green.

These versions of myself are forever arguing. Always fighting for control.

It is difficult being both the slave and the slave master. Hard being both the oppressor and the oppressed. How do I make the most out of being biracial when half of me is fighting the other?

And I don’t think my parents even realize that they birthed a Civil War.

My body is the war zone. You can see dead slaves in my eyes and hear their cries for freedom in my heartbeat. You can feel the beatings given by slave owners in my hands and can taste the privilege on my lips.

But you wouldn’t notice the war. Only the red curls and the patches of freckles. You dream of having mixed children of your own- not because you love someone of another race but because mixed kids look aesthetically pleasing.

You spend all your time “hearting” images of mixed babies on Instagram and mix and matching features from all the races as to create the “perfect” mixed child.

It was you who created this war. You who asked me, “What are you?” You who told me, “You should have been born white.” You who said, “You act more black than white.”

You will deny your affiliation with the war. Because of course, you “don’t see race.” And you “aren’t racist.”

I never said you were. But the fact is- you formed a box around my race. Told me I have to act a certain way. Said that if I happened to enjoy basketball that must be the black side of me. Said that if I drank Starbucks then I’m more white.

I am so tired of the war- of my identity crisis.

Because whether or not you notice it, I am human.

Guys, so like, have any of you all ever tried to make yourselves sad? Or you know, experienced an unidentifiable emotion and just categorized it as sadness? Is it just me, because I feel like it’s not!! I can’t be the only one. I like to label things and give them life so not knowing what i’m feeling automatically makes me think it’s sadness.

 

I can often find myself in a state of melancholy and I don’t know why. It’s so very infuriating and all I want to do is know why! I’m like this:

with literally no explanation. And then there I am listening to sad songs such as:

Among many other mellow or relaxed songs.

And movies!! The options are so vast. All the Victorian and Eighteenth Century Dramas and romances and the ones about trials and tribulations and people living through turmoil with no foreseeable end.

https://agoodmovietowatch.com/tallulah-2016/

https://agoodmovietowatch.com/mommy-2014/

https://agoodmovietowatch.com/detachment-2012/

There are so many ways to make yourself sad!! To get into the mood and makes these emotions real.  It’s extremely easy to let these emotions manifest as well. To let them take control and be a part of you, your reality.

But then you experience this overwhelming happiness, elation, something close to euphoria.

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.