Ramblings


do you ever feel

lost in space

you’ve misplaced

that thing

you know

that thing you forgot

maybe it was your brain

but that is insane

you can’t misplace your brain

can you?

maybe you are just tired

that’s it

you’re not going crazy

you are just a tad sleep deprived

happens to everyone

so. . .

what were you thinking about?

oh yeah

maybe you did misplace your brain

if only it was raining

you would be lulled to sleep

pulled into the land of dreams

that you will not remember the next morning

so what is the point of dreaming?

maybe your brain just gets bored

when it has but the company of your subconcious

the movie of your dream plays

and your brain has no popcorn to go along with it

the syrup in the soda fountain has gone sour

the nachos are stale

and the concession stand is all out

of sour patch kids

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Copyright Paranoia


Has anyone ever had an idea come to them – for a poem, in my case – and it’s so easy to write the thing that you worry that you are somehow unknowingly plagiarizing someone else’s work?  That you heard it before and your sub-conscious stored it away. Or that no way could it be original, and another person has already put the exact same words on paper/internet….. and that sooner or later they will come proverbially knocking down your door, righteously screaming that they wrote that poem first….. even if there’s no way you could have known that, or known they existed, or that they were writing poems, or that somehow you both wrote the exact same thing?!  Because writing has a reputation for being hard, editing and revising until you want to tear the thing up, takes days to write even a short poem, or else the writing either sucks or isn’t original………

I’m having all those doubts about the poem I wrote this evening, which will be posted tomorrow.  It was too easy.  It either sucks or  I accidentally stole it from some other author.  And then they will find out and sue or arrest me or something, even though it wasn’t my fault!

Urrgh…. paranoia……

Blank Minds


A sterile room

With white walls

A black-speckled tile floor

Like in an industrial kitchen

With rusty flaking spots all over

Door after identical door

Where to go?

No one but her knows

Yet she won’t whisper a word

Completely still in her seat

She throws a ball against the wall and then

Catches it.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Again and again.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

She doesn’t stop.

THUD.

THUD.

THUD.

Then

Nothing.

 

Fascinating Bones


What is it about dinosaurs that kids love so much, anyway?  Is it the way the colors?  The dinosaur movies and Dragon Tales?  The masculinity associated with the big dumpster trucks and strong scary t-rexs?  But then girls like dinos, too.  Is it the mystery of life long ago, and the strange creatures that just capture the imagination?

Follow your dreams is such an overused cliche.

Why do people like crime shows?  They can be so bloody and gory, like Bones.  Is it the mystery of trying to find out “whodunnit”?  Is it the nice idea that the bad guys are always caught that attracts us?

Two slices of bread lightly toasted cut across the middle so that four triangles are formed, spread with peanut butter and melted in the microwave for ten seconds, with a glass of milk and Oreos = best. invention. ever. Well, besides indoor plumbing.  And cars.  And the radio.  And…. um… I’ll just stop.  It’s still pretty awesome, though.

Otters are cute.

Rain boots are so multipurpose, you can wear them in any weather, use them as a vase for your flowers, use them as a pot for your flowers, store office supplies in them (though admittedly retrieving the office supplies that get pushed into the toes isn’t the easiest task), write phone messages on them with a sharpie (though don’t let random strangers write down long lost Aunt Susie’s phone number when you dig the stapler out of your boot, put it in your sneaker, and trudge past in the phone-book-boots through the rain),  even eat soup out of them.  (Warning: the sanitary conditions of said rain boots are questionable.  Eating soup out of them may result in the spread of viruses, or at least finding stray bits of corn in between your toes from last night’s dinner.)

What is the difference between TiVo and DVR?

At the end of YouTube videos, why do people say “I love you guys, bye!” and wave?  I don’t know you!  You can’t love me, because I DON’T KNOW YOU!

My post by e-mail worked!  Oh yeah! I don’t know why I’m so excited about that.

This was on the headboard when I stayed at a hotel.

This was in a nice, respected hotel, like a Hilton or Hampton or something.  I had clean sheets!  I felt like royalty.

Summer


Disclaimer: The following story contains references to alcohol, drugs, and other objectionable content.

The Start-of-Summer festival was held every year at the end of school, which was actually in late May, and still technically during the spring.  The five neighborhoods that hosted and attended the festival were rather large, with roughly 300 houses each.  However, only the younger families came, the ones with teenagers or couples under 50, and only then whoever wasn’t out of town on a business trip or vacation.  There would be anywhere from 800 to 1500 people there every year, though the park where the festival was held was very large.

It was basically a brag-fest for the adults, who drank expensive wine, gossiped, and consciously ignored the fact that the teenagers were getting drunk on cheap beer, stoned on illegal drugs, and dancing inappropriately on the other side of the park, music blaring, but not too loud that parents would grow irritated.  Every year, authority ignored the many breaches of law, as all the families had either connections with the police or enough money to pay for lawyers so good that the unfortunate officer to actually do their job would be, somehow, successfully sued by said family.

This year, Sara was sitting against a tree, gulping down Miller Light.  Maybe if she drank enough, she could block out the world, the confusion, the party around her, the steady ache in her chest that threatened to take over at any moment.  If she drank enough, maybe she wouldn’t be sad.  Maybe the bruises on her shoulder and face would disappear.  Maybe, when she woke up the next morning, she would have a different life, a happier life, along with the inevitable hangover.

An hour and a couple too many beers later, the small girl had thrown up once and felt too tired to move.

“Hey.  You have a safe ride home?”  Another girl, who was about Sara’s age and completely sober, crouched next to her.  Sara hadn’t seen her before – if she had, she was too drunk to remember.  Instead of replying, she leaned over and started throwing up in the grass again.  The girl held back Sara’s hair, her fingers cool and gentle.  When she started sobbing, the girl held her and gave her tissues, then wiped away tears and snot when it became apparent Sara couldn’t use them.  After a while, when she thought Sara would be calm enough to talk, she said “Did you drive here alone?”  When she nodded, the girl asked for her keys.  For some reason Sara couldn’t determine, she pointed to her bag.  The girl fished them out, slung it over her shoulder, and helped Sara to her feet.

“Come on, let’s get you home.  Don’t worry, I moved into the same neighborhood a little while ago.  I’ve seen you come and go from your house before.  You don’t need to give directions.”  She whispered, but Sara heard, and gratefully leaned on her as they walked through the parking lot, the girl pressing the button on the keys until the car beeped.  She helped Sara in and buckled her up.

Then, the stranger drove her home.

Writing Poetry, Amid Other Things


I suppose I should post when I can instead of procrastinating, since I’ll be going to work again Monday and that means I won’t post nearly as much, though I will try to post once a day (though it may have to be just my poem of the day, which I can probably write during work).  My last post was received well, which really surprised me, so I was wondering earlier if I should write more serious poetry like that all the time…

But then I realized that would be going against my values.  This blog is for me, not my friends or fellow bloggers.  I would absolutely love if I could help raise awareness for a cause or brighten someone’s day through this blog.  It definitely wouldn’t tear me up inside to find out people like my poetry.  But I can’t write for other people.  I can write what I want to, when I have inspiration.  I thought the poem-a-day posts during April, the National Poetry and Writing Month (or something like that…) would be fun, so I’m doing it.  Challenging myself.  But I am not going to write for other people.  Because if I did that, it would be a plate full of pancakes and no one would enjoy it, least of all the people I wrote it for.

So onto writing poetry.  Umm… there was something meaningful I wanted to say about this?  I like writing poetry and have been for at least 4 Earth years.  Not that all of it was good, especially the early stuff.  It’s also really bad if I don’t have inspiration.  Anyway, I’m tired of hearing myself babble.  (Er, reading myself babble?)  Do you write poetry?  What do you think about writing for other people, versus writing for yourself?