Wow.

i don't think
i ever could have expected this
or even imagined it
in my craziest thoughts.

Who knew?

I guess I'm a little surprised that I kind of like this.

Eighty

I just wish I knew
that everything
was going
to work out
okay.

Thursday

Tears come more frequently lately. I don't write enough anymore. I'm kind of stressed about life, and I don't know how to control anything, or what to do about anything at all.

I'm very tired in several ways... more emotionally than anything? I did not intend to start the semester that way. I don't know what to do.

I wanted to write a poem, but I don't think it will come tonight.

Become

maybe
i've got to become comfortable
with not knowing
what to do

Wilderness

How does one become disciplined to do something every day? I miss writing. I miss having a sense of accomplishment, instead of discouragement and frustration and the constant running and running and running from one thing to the next, living moment by moment with hardly a moment to breathe in between. And yet it seems to be the things I want to do the most that seem the farthest away. The show in the fall: in a city forty-five minutes away when I don't have a way to get there of which I know, and required presence at some other rehearsals later on that I'd have to negotiate. And being at Cedarville: I wasn't supposed to be back this year. I didn't want to be. Why am I still going back?

Maybe I'll write a poem later. But right now, it's all I can do to form words into sentences on here, let alone be creative.

I'm sunburned. It hurts.

Agh.

"there's nothing to writing
all you have to do
is sit down
and open up a vein"

so, i'm trying?
but the damn vein
doesn't seem to want to open.
come
on.
How long does it take?

Beast

I haven't written a poem in a while, and while I feel a desire to do so now, I guess that desire isn't strong enough to result in a few scattered lines of verse in this empty white box, some void I guess I'm trying to fill any way I know how.

But I've been thinking about writing. I've been working on a play. I wonder if the reason I write fiction when I'm home is because I so badly need to do so. I've always known that writing is an escape... but I've felt like it isn't lately. I mean, I don't consciously do it to escape anymore. Okay, I guess in high school it was relatively subconscious... but I suppose I always knew, somewhere inside of something, that it was an escape when I would go into the computer room, shut the tall wooden doors, and scroll up after every paragraph or page or whatever so that anyone who dared wander in wouldn't catch a single glimpse of the world I was creating on paper. That was my world. I didn't usually let people into it, and when I did let people see, they just saw pretty pictures I'd painted that showed them what they wanted to see, even if it wasn't quite the way life was. Real life is ugly sometimes, you know? It's not white and clean and pretty and pure. It's sweaty and dirty and grimy and bloody and sensual and oh-so-hot... but then you look at those faces and somehow they're beautiful even with sweat dragging lines into cheeks and foreheads, streaking the makeup, black mascara lines running like watercolors or maybe like tears into foundation and powder and blush.

Latch

Sometimes
it's so easy
to be open
to say
what's on my mind
and in my heart.
But
I need you
to want to hear.

Scream

I tried to escape you living vicariously through me
by doing the same thing you wanted me to do.
It was always such a secret escape for me,
and yet it was almost everything you ever wanted!
How does that work? How is that even fair?

And I never even realized until years after I stopped.

Clock

I still toss my glance to the bathroom wall
expecting to see the rainbow clock,
two minutes behind schedule (or something like that),
but this is a new time and place
and it isn't there.
It's funny the way my brain
flips the orientation of the room in looking.
But I wonder
how long it will be
before I stop.

Block

I wonder how you know
when you should listen to your head
and when you should pay attention
to what your heart's telling you?

Everytime, I tell myself I'll be all right.

Sometime
I'd like to take the time
to write real poetry
instead of these snippets of sentences
I pretend are some sort of art.


Tonight will be different.
How does one actually change?
Look at something
know it's wrong
and consciously work on changing?
How does one choose what to become
who to be
and turn into that?
I always wonder
about when people say
they want to change their heart
about something.
"Really?" I want to say.
"Really? How do you do that?
Because I've tried before."

Blink

I loved being six years old,
my thumb never leaving my mouth,
Felicity never leaving my arms,
and butterfly clips with sparkly wings on springs to the body
leaving my hair only when I slept,
just before which time I would place them
gently onto the bathroom counter
until I would wake around six o'clock in the morning
and could run to put them back in.

The interpreters all called me, "miss,"
and told me I had insects in my hair.

Night

Hi, God.
I don't know why I'm still here.
Yeah.
That's all.
Bye.

Movement Studio

Tears
Blood
Breaks
Sweat
Pain

Hugs
Friendship
Love
Laughter
Life.

Faith

Did I ever tell you
that I always looked
at the fourth window from the doors on the left
before I came in,
and I always loved
when yellow light glowed
from behind the shades
because then I knew that you were there?

Well
I did.

It was kind of like a funny sort of coming home.

Hands

"Good.

It's all settled,
then.

You will major in theatre
and be an amazing and talented artist

And have a blast
every
day
of
your
life.

The end!"

I think
I'm awfully glad
I have people
who tell me I'm not insane
and remind me
how much I want this.

Lessons learned, and things

The flowers divided prettily among four thin vases (really empty Jones Soda bottles) and sitting on my desk, computer cart, other desk, and dresser do a lovely job of brightening up my room.

I like performing in real roles in things, even if it's scary.

Margaritas are amazing things. They taste wonderful.

I want to learn to be more outgoing all the time... I don't like getting quiet. I don't like being insecure.

I want people to love me.

Water with lemon and lime is nice, too. I always take the lemon and lime slices off the side of the glass so they can flavor the water. It tastes good that way.

I don't like it when people talk about other people. And I wonder what people think of me... what they think of me.

I want to keep performing in musicals
and having flowers
and drinking margaritas.

Voice

I can't worry
what the world will say
I may fly or fall,
but either way
I'm free.

I need to exemplify this
in my solos Saturday
and stop worrying and worrying,
constantly worrying
about sucking or fucking them up.

DIE, VAMPIRE, DIE
DIE
DIE
DIE
DIE.

Right now, right here, making our breaks for heaven's sake!
We will be released--
Heaven helps the man,
heaven helps the man,
heaven helps the man--
I'M FREE!