I keep thinking about the way you crashed into my life like a spring electricity storm, and how things will probably never be quite the same. How you twisted around the midnight hours and caught me in your teeth like a loose string. You broke me open and changed me. Left this wide open space where I could keep your memory, and some days I am still trying to figure out if I am a part of your outskirts or your inseams. You’re my favorite inside joke. A rogue wave in my sea. I caught a glimpse of you in coffee grounds at the base of the rose bushes, and every perfect moment where I could tell you things is ruined by half-shaken silence.
Tag Archives: writing
Writers tend to work early in the morning, or late at night, when brains are naturally able to focus deeply on one thought. In the middle of the day, distractions are unavoidable. I wonder if anything worthwhile has ever been written in the afternoon.
Four Related Things
1. I am not subtle. I wear what I want. I am loud. I am bad at keeping most secrets. I like it this way, however it never really dawned on me before a friend pointed it out.
2. I think I’m forgetting how to use my words the way I like to. I want to write poetry again. I want double meanings and second thoughts that hit hours later. I want delicate references and concealed dreams. I need practice.
3. I got 91% on my English 12 provincial. Fantastic news, I love getting good grades.
4. Meaningful conversations have become more frequent lately. I appreciate this. I think I am getting better at putting feelings, thoughts and ideas in to words. I secretly thank my scholarship essays for this, and not-so-secretly thank my philosophy class.
2008
was a reckless year
When we were all untouchable and determined to
Prove it
And our lives were destined for perfection.
The more risks the better.
We were all invincible,
Because the world outside was just a rumor, like imagination.
2008 Was a graphic year
When vulgar tongues flailed and hallways stank
There were fights sometimes
And what happened on the weekend was no secret.
Nothing was a secret
Among the nosy, bored girls perpetually trading gossip,
Wearing down the same tired topic
Until finally someone did something more drastic than more
drugs.
No one wanted to run, or even walk too fast that year.
We were all waiting for something to happen, I guess.
Maybe we thought the world would change itself, or that somewhere
Someone else was getting it all done.
Our effort
was never required, and if you did reach up,
Try to touch a
Star
Then you could be sure someone would
Grab
Your ankle
And tug you back in to place,
In to line with the rest.
The girls wore low shirts and the boys
Wore lower pants and we all looked nearly the same
Even though it was the age of
Individualism.
We didn’t care most of the time
And when we did it we hid it well because
We were all superb actors
We were lost
But we pretended we were found,
That we knew it all and just didn’t want to share.
…but it’s over now
isn’t it?
A piece of the flood
When the sky opens
I hear wind and water, howling for our souls
To be restored
And peace to be, not bought,
But patiently and tenderly taught to blossom