patterns of overthinking (every-fucking-thing)
it was too late to drive home
and exactly, adults don’t have a curfew,
so what does it matter if i come home when i
fucking want to?
2 seconds, 5 minutes, 30 minutes, 10 hours
away
traffic or no traffic
i think i will stay
i adult everyday.
my car was fucking up
well obviously it was,
seeing how it just got fixed for a good
amount of dough
and driving a fucked up car
in the dead of the night
when highwaymen may stop to help you
or to harm you-
well i wasn’t chancing it either/or.
i was too tired
and maybe i was,
tired eyes see even less well than mine.
i don’t battle the dark,
preferring safety over sorrow.
and it doesn’t really matter if i stayed up
super late,
hanging out with friends-
like you don’t know how the lines can
become all blurry
once the yawns set in.
i got sooo fucked up, i couldn’t drive home
and for the record
i never drive intoxicated
and i rarely suffer from hangovers
if at all.
it was raining too hard
so yea i stayed
i can’t see for shit at night
let alone in the rain.
and it doesn’t matter if i have the bomb
windshield wipers or not
night time plus shit tons of rain
equals no driving for me.
i can hardly see in the daytime when the
sky insists on dropping gallons of rain,
but my windshield wipers suck balls by the
way,
still it wouldn’t have mattered.
like i said i don’t see well at night
so rain+bad night vision+bad drivers
means i am fucking staying right where i am
and don’t give a shit if it makes you mad.
all patterns of your overthinking
these are just 5 ways i see you
trying to control me,
but i am gonna keep being me
over and over.
7 out of 8 times you’ve been betrayed in love
but not by me,
we haven’t even grown into a relationship yet,
still i have never done you wrong,
i am your friend.
i’m just trying to figure me out
so i can bloom into the woman i know i am
supposed to become
so i can love myself first and give freely my
heart without bringing my damage along
so stop overthinking and overstepping
every single thing
because you aren’t going to control me
i have already had that relationship before
and let me tell you,
it never works.
Not a pity party, I’m just fucked up.
I dont know how I got so fucked up....
In my head.
I used to be on my shit,
Everything going good,
I was living back then.
Now I’m just exsisting..
Doing everything I can,
For her, accept, being a true friend.
It’s hard because I’ve had so very few.
And I’m sorry i am not a better friend.
At least I’m able to love,
And have someone who loves me,
Might not be in the way I want,
But its love.
And that’s more than most people ever have.
It’s hard to change something you have no idea is not right. Life kinda fucks you up.
OCD is a motherfucker.
I hate that I think so much.
I also hate that I dont know how to fix myself, if i even can be fixed.
I love someone, but fuck everything up about every 3 weeks. I dont want to hurt her, but end up doing so because of the fucked up thoughts in my head.
I dont want to drive her away....
She is the one most beautiful person I have in this life of shit I have.
Sad thing is,
I think it’s too late.
I just wish I knew how to fix myself.
I’m sorry I’m so fucked up....
I love you. You are the most beautiful.
Meditation
I hear the whispers from the sky
spores floating on winds of change
hems of oceans unraveled in foam
silver sprinkle of murmured breezes
I hear the whispers from the sky
gentle sweetness on lips like wine
peaceful silver waves in aqua sea
gulls swooping low to catch reflections
I hear the whispers from the sky
A thousand moons slipping into dawn
echoed seaweed strewn on carpeted sand
unhealed wounds washed clean by tides.
The Pretender’s Potpourri
My first inclination is to speak in generalities, but I’m going to instead post random bits of things that work for me. They might not work for you; that’s fine. Disregard at will. But for 20 minutes I’ll imagine I know something, toss out some thoughts and post them, and perhaps someone will find something helpful.
1. Show, don’t tell, as all the writing instructors say. Never tell your reader what to think when an image will do.
2. While editing, you can probably strike half your adjectives. If you use an adverb, too, you’d better have a damn good reason.
3. Does it really matter what color your character’s eyes are?
4. Listening to the right album or playlist while writing can make a big difference, in no small part because
5. you should never neglect mood.
6. Hemingway for economy (even if he is a bastard) [“Old Man at the Bridge,” “Hills Like White Elephants”], Virginia Woolf for lyricism and her ability to narrate silence [To the Lighthouse, for a start], Thomas Hardy for scene setting linked to narrative vision [Tess of the D’Urbervilles], Joseph Conrad for frame narrative [Heart of Darkness, though Achebe’s right about the racism], Jane Austen for wit and restraint [Pride and Prejudice], Flannery O’Conner for the sickening irony and portrayal of a fallen world [“A Good Man is Hard to Find,” “The Life You Save May Be Your Own”]. The Great Gatsby gets my vote for The Great American Novel (TM). I’ll take Ta-Nehisi Coates over any living essayist I can think of, though I’m less widely read in that genre than I ought to be.
7. And to flip to a different medium for a hastily-considered list, Vertigo, The Virgin Suicides, Moonlight, The Third Man, and The Illusionist, and Tokyo Story all have things to teach a writer.
8. Sections of dialogue become more vivid with properly-timed descriptions of physical actions and setting, which can also provide pacing.
9. Balance the abstract and the concrete.
10. Find a reader and editor you trust (easier said than done, but incredibly valuable and rewarding).
11. Leave your reader space to interpret. Guide the reader, but don’t shoehorn them into a lesson.
12. Being a good Proser means reading, not just writing.
Resolving the Unresolved
—phone rings—
my heart beats
f r a n t i c a l l y
—phone rings—
why does he decide to call now?
it’s been years
of voicemails
and
s i l e n c e
years of
l o n e l i n e s s
and
w o n d e r i n g
(wondering where i went wrong, or if he still cared)
—phone rings—
Y E A R S
doesn’t he realize how much that hurt me?
years
of
late night
whiskey tears
years
of
straining to read
glowing texts in the dark
attempting to find the answer
to all of my
b u r n i n g
questions
—phone rings—
no
he does not get to call me
after all of these years
of
e m p t i n e s s
(it isn’t fair)
—phone rings—
(i take one deep breath)
i will not stoop down to his level
“Hello”
(that one word was the start of a conversation but the end to years of suffering)