Keep the Car Running

This is an appeal on arcades.
This has nothing to do with my life,
your life
or anything except arcades.

I love arcades, sincerely.
There are few places in the
world where one can gather 
in a darkened room and play
games and be called creepy.

The weird carpeting
that is always either space-themed
or confetti-party themed.
Always black background to match the
weird state of half-light you
get in these places.
Arcades.
Often really just called
"ARCADE".

They are in malls,
they in tourist places
and they stand alone as well.
They are versatile things
that allow us to have fun.

Take a pocketful of quarters
and you can have a pretty good time
playing games.
I love the old, half-broken games,
the brightly-lit neon games.
I love the ecstatic feeling
of winning things
and playing skee ball.

The cheapy weird penny prizes
are wonderful,
I love the plastic novelties
and nostalgia.

There's just something
very charming to me
about arcades
and it saddens me that there isn't
one nearby. 
Though I would always be broke
if there was.

I like the cheap feel they have,
and the crowd they attract
and the dark, cool air,
and the sounds of video games.

I really just love arcades.

It's Nice to Be Alive

It really is a constant battle.
Once false move
and you hurtle yourself
too far backwards.
It's painful to remember.
It's worse to have that
relapse- to feel it
all over again.

When you are
least expecting,
that's when things
collapse.

Information Travels Faster

Today I attended a women's rights rally.
And it was phenomenal.
Amazing.
Surrounded by beautiful
people who had great ideas
and so much love.

You could feel the power
and the joy
and the fierce determination.

It was exhilarating.
I am so excited to vote this year.
It was so great
to be surrounded by these great
women (and men!)
who trust women.
Who want our rights.
Who want equality.

I am just astounded
that things like this exist.

I saw people I am 
so proud of,
people I admire so much.

I'm just...

so excited.

Coney Island

Someday I'm going to have to tell you.
Someday next year.
And it will be the best
and worst day of my life.
I'll probably get 
sick afterwards,
as is par for the
course of my life.

I'll tell you so some
of that burden can 
rest on your soul
for a while.
It's selfish,
but I need to get rid
of some of the weight
and hurt you are putting
on my shoulders
because I love you,
and cannot manage to
figure out how to
stop.

You'll know and it will
be weird
and you'll be offended
and I will be shaking
with nerves
and we won't know what to do
about the words exchanged.

And the small
insistent, annoying
and naive part of me
will keep saying,
'he'll love you',
'he'll love you'.

But he won't.
Because we can't get everything we want in life.
Not even the most important things.

Because I just want to be
able to fall asleep next to you.
Just want to lie on the sofa
and watch It's Always Sunny.

Just want to be able to voice
the ailment,
scream at you in utter anger
that I fucking love you,
and I hate you for being 
so damn unattainable.

The Ice is Getting Thinner

I just feel very lonely.

Debate Exposes Doubt

I don't want to leave home,
because it finally,
finally feels like 
home.

I finally feel safe
and happy in this house.
I finally understand
my family
and love them more
than before.

I don't want to leave
next year,
for I've only recently
gotten comfortable here.

What will I do 
far away,
sharing tiny living spaces
with stranger?

My mounting anxiety
is the fault only of college.

I don't want to have
to make my own home
out of a shared room
so soon.

I want the comfort
of having a house,
and having a room within 
that house.
I hate dorm rooms,
they are small
and ugly.

I hate dorm bathrooms,
they are too sterile
and too shared.
No privacy of a locked door
and solitude.

I do not bode well
with such shared quarters,
I do not bode well with
people.

I want to stay home
for a long time.

A Diamond and a Tether

Hey, my lovely friend
who was just trying to
stay calm and get her life back.

People won't understand
what you've been through,
and you have to tell them
that you just aren't there
yet. Because those people
need to shut up.
Politely,
they need to let you "acclimate"
as you need to.

It's none of my business,
but I am saying,
take your time.
Don't let anyone push you around
and if you need support,
or get overwhelmed
you can leave,
you do what you need to, girl.

Tell them you need some air.
Don't tell the them to shove it,
even though they ought to very
much.

And thanks for indulging 
me with ideas on how to seduce mah manz.
You're righteously funny. (:

Talking Bird (Demo)

Today I was told two things
which intrigued me
and made me think.

One:
I was told my
poetry
was gorgeous.
That word,
gorgeous.
My wording brilliant.
Oh my, are those large words
for my humble
and not-so-great work.

I've yet to find somebody
who will rip my poems
limb from limb
and beat me with them
to make me angry.
To make me better.
I've been mildly frustrated by
comments made on my work,
but never
angry.

And when I'm angry,
I get shit done.
So I want someone to
tear it apart.
Tell me NO.
Make me pissed.
I want a challenge
to meet.

Two:
My teachery-friend,
for she is like a friend to me,
told me about book she is reading,
and the part of the premise I am drawing
on was that artists have an excess of
soul.

Were we accidentally given a little
more? Does more mean more suffering?
Extra sensitivity to humanity?

Weird to think,
are some people given too much soul?

My Mirror Speaks

I've painted my nails a rich red

and I feel dangerous in this way.

And I realized,

I've only ever flirted twice in my life

(by my standards of flirting)

and it was very poorly executed

at two different times

with two cute genius bar techs

who were trying to fix my computer.

One was called Jack,

and had very nice tattoos,

and was funny.

The other's name I forget,

but he was very cute.

And so my 18 year old love

life remains none.

And no nail polish color

will change that.

Lonely River

To convince myself I did things today:

-Went to the library, no longer have fines.

-Went to Goodwill

-And then crafted two jewelry pedestal things.

-Wrote first draft of college essay

-Read a story

-Wrote a poem

-Downloaded music


Oh boy, things I've done on a Sunday.

Come Come

Today I was pleased to
laugh a considerable
amount with the lovely
people I love, and I wish
very much to be able to have such 
slap-happy fun every day.

And you got really close
to me today,
even if just for
computering purposes
and I think I blushed hardcore
and I hope nobody noticed.

You were all sprawled on the floor
and I felt really bad because
I was all pessimist bureaucracy
blah blah blah.

But later we all laughed
it was nice,
and I don't even know
but I hope I wasn't being
flirty in any way 
(I know as much about
flirting as I know about
astrophysics.)
but I felt like maybe
it was flirting
and now I feel
dangerous and
weird.
But it probably wasn't 
but my teenage girl
mind agonizes over
every detail of everything.
But you laughed and smiled 
cute and blah blah blah.

But it was nice
and all was good.

But now I'm spending my
Friday night alone
watching tv and being
boring. 

Little Foxes

Today in third period
instead of being productive,
I wrote the Russian alphabet
and learned to say 
"Thank you",
and "sweetheart".

And I wrote in a frantic haze
an entire page
about him
because it felt sick
again and so very sad
and I had such tunnel vision
as I wrote.
It was so fervent
it was so quick.
An entire page in just a 
few minutes,
maybe three.

It was like throwing up.
And I kept catching you
out of the corner
of my eye, catching
snippets of your voice.
And it was so 
like putting lighter fluid
on a campfire.

Flares up
so fast and red,
the coals glowing.

Sick in my insides
like you wouldn't believe.
it's reaching a point
of disaster.
I walk in a haze
sometimes,
wanting to
take the lapels
of your jacket 
(if you ever wore one)
like in movies
and then kissing your
face.

My little life should not be so arduous.

Why You'd Want to Live Here

The feeling nested down
in my insides
when I saw
you in your car this morning.

And it gnawed at my stomach
and fluttered its wings
when I saw you
in that really cute shirt.

And I felt so saddened,
and thought to myself

you cause me to be
so unhappy with
myself.

And that's heavy
and it's cold
and it's not fair
to you,
for me to place
so much blame on your
existence
in my life.

I feel so disgusted
and sad.

Settle Down

Here's the thing,
I've fallen into that
tough spot when you're
supposed to follow your
own advice.
A principle
I think I live for,
but am having an unbearable time
applying to my own life.

When peopke express concern
over what they love in life
and if they should pursue it
because it makes them happy,
or if they should pursue
something more grounded,
I tell them always,
all of them
to do what they
love.

Being grounded
is not why we're alive.

Questing for happiness is.

So why am I so scared
by the proposition
of a creative writing major?

Why am I so reluctant to
admit that maybe
I'd love to go to an art school?

Why am I scared
to look into things
a little more,
dig deeper
and commit?

English is great.
But recently
I was enlightened
that yes,
I can major in creative writing.
Wow.
Heavy.

But there are such doubts
I have.

Am I good enough?
Do I have what it takes?
Am I talented enough
to handle it?
Do I have any talent at all?

The fundamental
problem of being a creative:
Self-doubt.

It's deadly and
yet it is the life-blood.

And this why I envy those who
like science and math
and tangible, literal things.

To be an artist to splay
yourself out
and invite the world
into your body to scathe
it and scold you.
and tear you apart.

Will I endeavor to be
all I wish?
Will I work to be who I am?

I am left unsure
and with many questions
that speak when
I am trying to sleep.

I am left with
the rest of my life
and the reckless freedom
it entails.

I am left
with an existential crisis,
as more and more
life is a continual
existential
question.
And nobody but me can
answer it.

But I haven't been able to,
not yet.

St. Petersburg

Someday, I want to go to Russia,
to Moscow.
And then I will ride the rails
of the Trans Siberian Railway
the 5,000 miles to China.

I will go alone,
I will share a compartment with
other travelers
from all over,
I will look out onto Siberia and
it will be beautiful
in its vastness, and starkness.

5,000 miles in six days
upon a train.
I will write letters and poetry,
make hearty friendships
and drink a little vodka
in celebratory tradition.
I will have late talks
in the dining car
with a beautiufl boy.

I will travel the longest,
saddest stretch
of Earth I can imagine
and it will be grand
and exciting
and a deep breath
of fresh air.

Hands Open

Things happen,
the winds change.
I am still learinigng
how to adjust my sails
and rigging.

But hey,
my ships is out on the open sea,
where it's supposed to be.
And it's been battered by storms.
The mast has been broken
and my crew has been washed
overboard once or twice.

But ships are meant for sailing
as life is meant for living.

And I am so
sorry I couldn't have been
there to help you.
I am sorry this has happened
again.
Life never fails
to capsize us
in our moments of triumph.

I need to help you,
every bone in my body wants to
see you survive and thrive
and smile.
People deserve that.
You don't deserve this.
And when I see you next
I will hug you and help you
and tell you how
beautiful you are
and how beautiful this life will be.

I want to help you get through
the storms.
Beccause we all need someone to do
that for us.
Climb aboard my ship
when yours is sinking
and we'll weather the storm together, dear.
I am here for you.

And last Thursday my psychologist asked
if we were done here.
What a critical impasse.
Am I better?
Is there a cure?
Oh no, no.
This I know.
Two days without my medication
and I am a mess.
But here I am,
on my feet.
With a trend in my mood which has led
him to believe we may be nearing an end.

But what about the creeping fear?
The suspicious feeling my gut holds
that whispers "this isn't over".
What about the winter
I am scared of?

Are we done here?

I won't know until I
walk off that edge.

But I won't be burning any of my past bridges
down just yet.

And again it's happened
the needing you.

The aching want
of your bones beside mine.

The dark and quiet
I wish we could have.

The burning of my lips
in their need for yours.

I'll burn up
like funeral pyre
with my love for you.