I'm Waiting For The Man

I know why.

I know exactly the reason

That I don't let that sentimental relationship last,

I know why the poem is affair-related.

I know exactly why.

But it took me up until an hour ago

Sitting in the parking lot of Krogers,

Staring at the orange streetlamp

Making the blowing snow turn orange.

And through my splitting headache,

Emerged a truth.

(There is no such thing.)

I broke up the happy, beautiful sunshine couple

Into some ugly act of affair,

For I cannot have what I want,

So nobody else can, either.

Or at least, that it what I was thinking.

The sleeping figure bathed in morning sun, that

Played on his long-ish eyelashes,

And blonde hair,

Couldn't stay with the pretty, yet somehow timid woman,

In a conventional, 'pretty' relationship.

I shattered them into an ugly affair,

Where they may only see each other in stolen time

And stolen glances,

Accented by stolen passion.

And the act of sex is implied,

Because it's this ugly, ugly sort of relationship,

But I don't know.

Must that happen?

Can they not just sleep,

Entwined with each other in the same bed?

No, no.

Because, I do think that affairs are based on passion.

And passion is not something left simmering,

It boils.

And so the implied sex.

The subject is never broached.

It shouldn't be.

And I should not know the conventions of such a thing,

And really, I don't.

Nor should you,

Though you may be older.

It isn't something people find acceptable.

And I should like to know,

Actually, I want to know

What goes on.

What sort of things happen in affairs,

Is there a lot of fretting and worrying about be caught?

Or is it just lusty blind passion?

Or is there a deep shard of love lodged into the souls of each

Of the affair partakers?

I wonder.

But really, I shouldn't know.

And I don't.

Logistics, logistics...

But I do not let things end happily,

Because I do not have what I covet.

Nor should I.

Coveting thy neighbor's whatnot.

That's against the God-rules (aka 10 Commandments).

am currently breaking

A lot of coveting rules.

Oh snap.

Good thing I'm not breaking the law-law.

With the police and jazz.

Affair poems, and coveting.

This is... scandalous.

And on top of all this,

The sea has turned green

In my poems.

The winter has turned the sea green.

Covered in fog,

Filled with seaweed.

And we sail on our ship,

That stands still in the fog.

My Rollercoaster

I started a post,

And then Safari quit.

So I gave up,

And will give you a freshly written poem,

Still smelling of the sea.

Truly though,

I need a new direction.

I am currently just sitting in the same place,

On the same ship.

I'd like to jump ship and swim around a little bit.

A challenge, is what I need.

Maybe I will find one tomorrow.

Winter Sea Sailors.

On shadow ships,

In greying mist,

Slowly becoming

Fog.

-

We sail

Without sails,

On currents,

Without waves.

And in spirit we are

Sailing,

We are cutting through

The green seas,

You and I,

Sailors.

-

In murking depths-

We cannot see

The seaweed monsters,

That grip

The boat

That sits

-Vacant-

On the still sea,

Under veil

Of foggy submergence.

-

We stand on a swaying deck

On the cusp of a winter storm.

-

You hold your hand to

Your eyes,

A shield to

So as to see

What may lie beyond.

-

When we stand still on

Our sailing ship.

That rests,

A lame duck,

In invisible waves.

-

You and I,

Sailors

No more.

For No One

I certainly enjoy days

That remind you of exactly why

People call you a pessimist.

They're certainly swell days.

And I love days

That are there just to break you down

In spirit.

Days when things are just tiresome,

Irritating.

And it's such a negative view,

I know,

But We've all got those sorts of days.

Do we not?

We are all human,

Not everything makes us

Jump with glee.

Sometimes,

We get knocked over by the immense weight

Of what it means to be a living, breathing human being.

And sometimes, it just isn't pretty.

Hence why we sleep,

In this aspect,

We are all blissfully unawares.

It's peaceful.

I want to

Give up a little bit.

And see what happens.

But I won't.

I'm not one for tossing up my grades in the air

And letting them fall as they may.

And since school is all I've got,

There's nothing left to give up on.

And by "School is all I've got",

I mean: It has swallowed me up,

And I am just sitting in its stomach,

Twiddling my thumbs.

Burning the kerosene.

Hmm.

Something positive?

A poem for you, then:

Fireflies.

A paper lantern,

On a sailboat

On the sea,

A small firefly

In the deepened

Sapphire black.

-

The stars,

A tapestry

- Reflected

And all the Earth

-

Becomes

- One

Sphere,

All glimmering

Are the swelling waves,

Undulating

Beneath the sky,

The boat becomes a beacon.

-

No horizon,

In the dark,

Full of specks

- Fireflies

That hang in the air,

And float on the sea,

Distorted

...

And the sailboat,

Sits and weaves

In the middle

Of this night.

Like a snowglobe,

All round and glittering.

-

Full of fireflies

On the water.

And the sky

Bleeds into the sea,

Where once a horizon divided,

The sailing from the flying.

Have I the Right

Without bad,

There could be no good.

What is everything but relative

To something else?

Does independence truly exist?

Things,

They go unsaid.

They sometimes just dissolve,

And I will never get to say them.

My brain forgets things,

That I don't want to hear.

Or that I don't want to say.

Yet,

I've yet to learn to keep my mouth shut.

In general,

I've learned I shouldn't take about my musical tastes,

My political views.

Personal philosophy,

Writing.

There are certain people,

With which I can sat certain things.

Others, I just don't say.

Or I write them here.

For the blank eyes of the internet.

I am fully aware,

That we all think

And we all leave things unsaid.

And I don't know why we do.

I guess,

We don't have confidants.

We don't have the right words.

We don't have the time.

I wonder what we all would say.

What hangs in the air above our heads,

Unsaid?

I have a lot of things,

I'd like to say to you.

A lot of things to ask,

And discuss.

A lot of moments I'd like to not say stupid things in.

Maybe, we should never talk.

Maybe I'd like that.

Regardless,

It would probably be a good thing.

"or who and who)

...

or i and you"

The first and last lines of an EE Cummings poem.

I like how they fit together.

Adieu and goodnight.

I'm Going Down

"I woke up in the middle of the night one night,

And I felt so unworthy,

Didn't bother me too much,

I think I am unworthy,

And everybody's unworthy of everybody else

These days." - Ezra Furman and The Harpoons.

I woke up one day

And it suddenly felt just like

Any other Sunday.

Some ordinary day,

That wasn't a conclusion

To two weeks' vacation.

That was this morning,

And now it's tonight.

And I'm tired of my family,

But I'm not tired of

Not having to wake up and

Function like an awake and alive

Member of society.

And raise my hand to talk,

Along with following some

Schedule regulated by bells.

What are we?

Dogs?

I don't miss swimming through hallways

Of swearing and jegging-clad dramatics.

I do not miss school.

I only miss people.

I realized

How pretentious and

Stupid

And artificial

I am.

Writing poetry

And playing records.

I overheard a conversation today

Between a boy who makes electronic music

And some adult,

And the adult seemed very enthralled

And the boy,

He sounded excited and educated.

And people listened to him.

Is music so different from poetry?

People, they see poetry-writing as

some angst-filled, childish form of expression

Meant for teenagers with low self-esteem.

Until you're famous,

Then people worship your work.

But now,

I am afraid to say I write poetry.

I truly am.

It makes me afraid of what people think of me.

Do they think I'm some silly girl who writes washed up,

Cliched love poems?

Do they think I'm just a loser?

I shouldn't care.

But I do.

I can't help it.

I feel like a little pretentious hipster

Who doesn't know how to do anything useful.

It makes me horribly upset.

And if I didn't love poetry so much,

I'd just give it up.

But it's too late now,

It's integral.

I don't want to talk about it,

I don't want to talk about art

Or films

Or music.

Yet, it's really all I want to talk about.

I certainly hate conflict.

And who or what made me feel this way?

I am not aware.

You know that feeling you get when a holiday is wearing off?

When you suddenly feel jet-lagged and tired, and pissed off?

Oh man,

It's here.

I certainly hope I can wake up and be a little less aggravated than I do right now.

Adieu and goodnight.

The Blues Are Still Blue.

It's hard to believe it's been two weeks,

It's a new year,

And that I have, yet again, failed to do anything.

It's hard to believe we are all still here,

Still breathing and bright eyed.

It's hard to believe it was sixty degrees yesterday,

When it was December.

I like the way December sounds,

I just do not like the month.

Expect for the baby Jesus holiday and whatnot.

Silly baby Jesus, you were supposedly born in the springtime!

It's interesting,

How things go,

And I do wonder why we let things continue.

Why don't we stop wasting time?

I think it's because there's "so much" of it,

We have it in excess amounts,

But not really.

I've wondered many times,

Many things.

About you.

About the sea and the sky,

And the birds.

Who dart and whir above.

In the grey or blue or sapphire-y black.

I group you with things I like.

I associate you with things like the color green,

It's bright and energetic, like you.

And you sometimes have the same calming effect as the

Sea.

The song title is

A Belle and Sebastian song,

A very rock-like song.

I mention this only because

I once made you listen to them,

And I'm not sure what you thought.

I'm still very lost as to what music you listen to.

I'd venture you like classic rock,

But you may prove that wrong.

Right now,

I am missing summertime.

I miss leafy wisteria vines and late nights,

With open window and billowing curtains,

And nightgowns.

I miss walking in the nighttime,

Around the block talking too loudly with my best friend.

I miss summer nights.

They're the best variety of nights.

They have some sort of weightless,

Beautiful aura,

And I remember night swimming in the country air,

In water warmer than the chilling air.

I remember watching the bats swoop and dive,

And it really seemed as though they were catching mouthfuls of stars.

I remember ghost stories and campfires,

And feeling more alive than usual.

Summer air is electric and bold,

While being subtle and sickly sweet,

Like the mint tea I brew in the afternoons in July.

Nights always gave way to clear skies and

A calm zephyr.

I never forsake summer nights.

Lying on the heated pavement

Under the orange glow of the street lamp.

Or catching fireflies with the Qwon.

Or playing barefoot basketball.

Watering the flowers in the dusk.

Nothing is more soothing,

(Other than the sea)

Than a summer night.

Not spent in sleep,

But spent in quiet contemplative thought,

Under a bold blue sea of stars,

Here in the suburbs,

Accompanied by an orchestra of air conditioners.

I long for those nights

In the doldrums of winter.

It is only January.

We've got a-ways to go.

But so be it,

I can still live how I please

When I sleep.

By the way,

When I dream,

It's of you.

Silly boy.

I love you.

Regardless.

Auld Lang Syne

I wish to welcome you to the new decade.

2011.

Here we go.

Yippee.

And so far.

I have a good feeling.

And usually, this isn't the case.

The past several New Year's Eves I have found myself crying,

Because I hate the ends of things, and I have a very bleak outlook.

But this year,

I'm feeling alright.

Slightly nauseous, but alright.

No crying, no sadness.

Just that expected bittersweet feeling.

Watching all those people in Times' Square always gets me a little bit.

Hearing "Auld Lang Syne" and watching the sparkly ball ring in the New Year

Is always something of an emotional affair.

And so far, 2011 is turning out to be the good kind of "emotional".

Hour down.

I am somewhat excited and somewhat indifferent about 2011.

My slate isn't blank, wiped clean.

I've still got everything from last year here now.

I just have a psychological new start.

Nothing magically changes at midnight.

We have to make things happen for ourselves.

And yet at the same time,

It's like you get a nice, cold shower and you're in all squeaky clean for

A new beginning.

Truly, it's just like a shower.

Nothing is really new,

But it can change your perspective and make you feel a lot better.

Although soon I know I'll forget all of these feelings of

A fresh new start,

And it'll be the same old hum-drum of normal life.

I never change anything.

Last year,

I began a "diet" on the first of January.

I haven't lost any weight,

Just made my stomach smaller.

But I've eaten the same thing for two of three meals a day for a year now.

Maybe that's a change.

Maybe I should try harder.

Perhaps,

I should just let things happen.

I shouldn't have any control anyway,

What do I know?

I've sort of decided to attempt to write a poem each day.

I'm going to try.

I can't promise anything.

But we can see.

Oh, and yes.

I thought of you when all the smiley-happy people in New York were kissing when it became 2011.

I thought of you.

Happy 2011, everybody.

Adieu and goodnight.

I love you.