A Letter to the Future

squishy mud
and melting mountains
wet black streets
and my own cold fingers
pressed to each other.
Please stop by for groceries while you're out.
And there's a list I have for you on the kitchen table:
1. Change light bulbs
2. Unclog the drain
3. Fix the step
I promise once
you hurry home
dinner will be ready
and your collar starched
for tomorrow.
If you could just drive a little faster.
I'm not terribly patient,
and the slow ticking of the clock,
solitary mug,
and unkissed lips,
they all sing for you.
Hurry home.


To the few readers out there:
It's been awhile. Months, now. But I am back. Full force and sharing again, I am back.

Yours truly,

Miss M

Overdue

It's been awhile. I feel the urge to share, to wear my heart on my sleeve and let the whole world see what I am going through. During times like these, I would not hesitate to cry on a bus, or sing in the grocery store, or burst into my apartment screaming but there are also those times I cling to my privacy. I enjoy the personal bubble I live in, and I let others exist in their own bubbles. Occasionally I write something worth reading, and feel prompted to share it. But to simply post it on this blog is not enough. The print is to small to contain the voice I harbor. My secret wish is for a small poetry cafe packed with people like me, who write to cope and read to feel. I have not found a place here like this. I think for now I will stick to my personal bubble.

Finish Line

The internal motivation, the driving force within all of us is the view of the finish line. Somehow, even with how sometimes I hate school, and how much I ache to run, and boys that are dumb, and the simple fact that life is hard I remember there is a goal in sight. There is this dream I have, one that has flashed across my mind as an idea, and unbreakable idea, over and over again, like lightning hitting the same place in the sand, it has now become a solid and real object, fixated in my mind as the finish line.
And from now on, whenever I feel discouraged or disheartened, whenever the testing center gets the best of me(which is bound to happen within the next week), I will reflect on this unbreakable idea and instead of weeping....I will leap!

Quote of the Day

When you're young the story is who am I? Who will I love? Or more importantly, more incessantly, who will love me? But as you grow older the story becomes witness, watching. Seeing each other for who you really are, can be, and will be.


--Brian Doyle, editor of Portland Magazine

Fear of Emptiness

Sometimes I worry that I will wake up one day, and all the inspiration I have will be dried up. That somehow, all of it will disappear into thin air. My thoughts, my dreams, my reality.
Much of my poetry is based upon experiences I have, and without those experiences the poetry never would have come to be. I am afraid that I will stop having experiences that compel me to write. Honestly, and this is more frank than I usually am on this blog, I write more during times of pain or suffering in my life. Being compelled to write because of a need for a coping mechanism is much easier than just sitting down and writing when my life is great. I am not sure that the pieces I produce are better when I am emotionally distraught, but the volume of work produced is much greater when I am having a tough time. I guess it could be that it is just easier to be reminded to write when it is an absolute need rather than a pastime. Luckily, I know by now, even though I have not lived for very long(relatively speaking) that life is always hard. Always. That doesn't mean there isn't happiness or sunshine, it just means there are constantly battles to be won and fights to be fought. Which means my silly concern that I will lack inspiration is really just that: silly.

Inspired

scour the world
for metaphor
The greatest inspiration
is a life well lived.
If your home is where your heart is, go to it.
The place you love most will surely inspire.
Perhaps, you carry it with you
the singular beating
source of your every emotion.
Cast outward to the world
She will show you the well loved
colors of painters gone before.
Whatever you are
searching for, continue:
the blank page is waiting.

Forcing Words

leaping out
of mouth
before they even form,
these words I extract
from some crevice of my brain
that creaks from misuse.
creativity manufactured
is particularly uninspired.
put away the pen,
shred the evidence
You cannot force my words.