Who I Am
Taste my soul
rolling on your soft tongue.
who I am.
Inhale my creative rush,
savor thought pearls,
swallow my essence.
Discover diamond drops
of memory, enhanced
by ginger tang sparkles,
residing under my skin,
drawing us together
to relish our unspoken words
residing under our skin,
silver syllables dangling
from mind baubles,
of inherent instinct,
radiating to senses.
Look into my eyes
taste and breathe
who I am.
Someone who loves books,
Someone who loves writing,
Horses and horse back riding.
A female with dirty blond hair and blue gray eyes,
Five foot two and still growing,
Light skin and unpainted fingernails.
Lost in my own world,
Not into social media,
Because normal people aren't,
Math isn't my style,
Lound country music in my dads truck I'll take,
Windows down and laughter,
A puppy at my side.
This is me.
Who i am
My name is Jenevieve Alex Hardison
but who I am as a person is a complex thing lol.
I’m an 18 yr old girl that’s 5″1′ with wavy brown hair and green eyes.
imma just dive in, like I do off the cliffs of California, never ever looking before I leap.
I’m an Adrenaline Junkie to put it simply...if it’s dangerous, dumb, or you say “don’t do it” I’m going to do it if I haven’t already. it’s not that I want to die all the time but I’m not scared of dying. My friends say I have depression and I guess they’re not wrong but we all have monsters... don’t we?
I’m into Boxing, Camping, Cliff Diving, Music(i do covers and originals), Mtn.Biking(some of my fav. trails are at Fire Mtn. in Cherokee, NC).
My soul longs for adventure and my veins are filled with Wanderlust and...Ambien.
I live off-grid in a dry cabin, so naturally, as you may imagine I don’t share a lot of the views most girls my age do. which leads me to my next topic...
I’m not an above-average violent person or I don’t think so... but I will have to say talk is cheap and if you wanna run your mouth at me you better be ready to back it up because if you don’t watch it your gonna have a left hook at your face followed by a right-handed jab and an armbar.
I’m Studying Medical Sonography (AAS) and will graduate in three more years as a certified medical sonographer with a bachelor’s degree in science.
I love The Office, Parks, and Rec., Brooklynn Nine-Nine just to name a few shows, and FYI I was watching the Office waaayyyy before it was cool so don’t put me in the new Office loving group with all the other fakes. (also anything MARVEL)
My favorite drink(s) are Kombucha, Tequilla, Coffee, and Milk.
I don’t know what else to say without revealing too much about myself so um..yeA
Medicated and Motivated
It's not enough. I am - what? For some reason I think of Virginia Woolf, who had a room of her own, and also stones in her pockets. Do we die for art, or does art die with us?
I'm not actually that retrospective. I'm just a girl. An administrative assistant who writes poems under her desk on post it notes, hoping to god today isn't the day someone empties the trash and finds out about my existential crisis.
I have forgiven my enemies. My mother is sincere now, and I am fond of her absolute disdain for everyone. When I was a child, she would throw things and chase me and call me unspeakable names, and I learned to internalize it as one does. Therefore, I am convinced everyone hates me. But her vocabulary is utterly fantastic and I laugh heartily at her mockery of others, her ability to laugh at what is utterly ridiculous.
I am a psycho. I count out the number of times I read sentences because I am anxious I will get the meaning of them wrong. I am convinced cameras are watching my every move at work. When I write those aforementioned poems under my desk, I make sure the person reading them will be entertained, so there's always some comedy to my madness. I do not forward emails because won't the sender know? They won't. That's the point.
In a panic, I text people back whom I haven't responded to in days because I was writing and submitting to contests. I refresh my email twice a minute. I apply to new jobs, eager and desperate to not have an old crow of an office administrator tell me to file the paperwork for a third time in one day. I'm done. And I am over it.
In 2018, I spent New Years Day at McLean, a mental hospital where Sylvia Plath and other illustrious poets slept and ate while overly medicated. I saw the ball drop at midnight and heard a song sung, one I hated at the time but now relish. It reminds me of sickness and being utterly out of control. Nostalgia, if you will.
I don't remininsce often, I am far too tired and still hopelessly medicated into sedation. But one thing I know for sure is: I'm still figuring out who this body is. I breathe. But do I think? For myself, about anyone else at all?
It is hard being mentally ill, harder to fight it, easiest to write about it.
I am simply a little bit of a lot of things.
A little bit ordinary
A little bit strange
A little bit awkward
A little bit sweet.
I’m someone you wouldn’t look twice at on the street, I suppose
And you wouldn’t see me in a crowd
Though you might hear me whistling as I walk by with my hands in my skirt pockets.
If you glanced in my direction I might, just might wink at you, because I sometimes forget that winking is not always appropriate
and if you happened to watch me from a distance when I thought no one was looking, you might very well see me skipping because I am little bit girlish.
If you only looked you would find that I am a little bit foolish
Perhaps a little bit wise
A little bit whimsical
A little bit discontent
And a little bit peaceful.
I am a little bit quiet but it isn’t because I don’t have anything to say ... It’s just that I don’t always know how to say it, you see. I cannot start or end but I can give the middle, if you’ll only begin. Please just try.
Because maybe I can make your heart just a little bit less heavy.
I have some silly stories and cheerful words that will make you smile just a little bit more
And I make tea a little bit too hot
With a little bit of milk
And a little bit of sugar
If that’s what you like.
I get embarrassed just a little bit too often
I may be just a little bit too clumsy
And I laugh a little bit too much
But I like to wonder
If that makes me a little bit more loveable.
When I lie awake at night
And when I go for walks
Or sweep the floor or wash the dishes
I dream about the kind of things I could have done and the kind of things I will do
And I have a little bit of difficulty voicing my simple thoughts
but if you asked I might tell them to you.
I am just a little bit of a lot of things
I have plenty of love in this heart of mine
And if you just take a moment to stop and listen and look
Maybe I’ll give you a little bit of it.
I am Me
The sum of my experiences, the good, the bad and the ugly.
I wouldn't change a thing about the past. And it took a lot of hard work to accept that every last thing that happened has shaped me into the person I love today.
The person so many say inspires them to keep going, because I did, in spite of the horrors and challenges God threw my way.
So I am a one legged wonder, with a genetic disorder that creeps through my body killing nerves but not my spirit. The medications I take keep it a bay, and I can do what I need to.
I can write, I can walk. My eyes perceive the wonder of the world around me, and I am grateful for each day as I wake, renewed and ready to create.
It's the little things that matter.
I am a person
cut me and I bleed
I've bled a lot in my life
but you never get used to it
and many scars
A lost and fallen lamb?
A mother bear? A buried yam...?
(Oh that sounds quite ampersand,
A yam it is, I shall expand;)
Some long discarded paltry good
Hidden by Red Riding Hood,
Out of greed, or foresight say.
I let the earth-worms have their way.
My nutrients have long expired
To the soundless depths, enmired.
Yet a beast may sniff me out,
Dig me up with worthy clout.
And ’pon my entrance to the light,
I fear I’d be a gruesome sight;
My skin would have grown dull and old,
My bulbous tum all full of mold,
My memories a bitter fragment skipping through the woods...
But no, not that. Not that. You see,
If that were really all of me,
I’d never dare to write this sham
Or hint at who I truly am.
Who Am I?
Who Am I?
I am the one who is listening to the thoughts in your head.
I am the watcher.
I just AM.
I am not a label. I am not a writer. I am not a mother. I am not my job. I am not a woman.
I just AM.
I am not my feelings. I am not sad. I am not happy. I am not depressed.
I just AM,
Just as you ARE.
Who am I
You wanted to know
Let’s open this door.
Hello, this is me!
And this is my room,
The place where I hide
Myself and my truth.
For those who came in,
Take your seats and enjoy,
Not everyone can,
Hear my real voice.
This voice always says:
“ I live in Ukraine and I am 22,
I am young and strong woman,
But the only thing that I value
Me - being a human.
A human that breathes,
That one that feels,
That loves or that hates,
Who laughs and who cries,
And that one that lives,
And who makes mistakes.”
You think: “Nothing special”,
And I do agree,
Cause my simplicity,
Has master’s degree.
Well, I can continue
Tributing to myself,
There are lots of gold treasures,
On my character’s shelf.
But it’s better to stop,
Cause you’ll fall asleep or maybe in love,
But the issue is that,
I taught me to put my own self above.
(I am better at essays but why not trying something like this, please don't judge too much)