Journalling poetry.

We’re sitting in the theater at 9:30 am waiting to hear advice from someone far more important than any of us will ever be
I’m feeling pretty insignificant and pretty
eating popcorn out of Kara’s backpack and watching words form around strangers mouths
I wish I didn’t have so many damn opinions
But I do
and it’s weird that my life is basically lived at this point
but I haven’t even started living yet.
Oh my god, sometimes thinking freaks me out.
I guess if I thought less I would have nothing left to write about,
but then maybe I wouldn’t feel like writing all the time.
I don’t know.
Maybe I should try taking smaller steps but walking a little faster
instead of long leaps
instead of hard falls.
Is everyone as weird as I am or is life only a fight for the unfortunate few?
God, don’t scream everything you say!
Well, I mean everything is interesting, but only a few people are interested
and diamonds could be inexpensive except the market is choked tight and demand is endlessly high.
I just don’t understand that.
All beauty fades.
I was so disappointed by hope that I don’t think I’ll ever recover.
I wish I didn’t love people so damn much.
I’m pretty deprived. I mean
one time I saw San Francisco and I don’t think I’ll ever recover from falling in love.
There are a few really great poets out there. Sometimes I can’t sleep when I think about them
but talent can’t be learned
or at least,
shouldn’t be learned, and if it is then you probably already have a talent for learning.
They’re all just trying to survive
(even me)
Nothing was ever simple. The chemicals that keep us breathing are dangerous and if we mix them we’ll breathe in only ash.
Sometimes I breathe in ash on purpose.
I cut myself on the wooden board
I’m naked and sick and a whore
empty, lucky, free
And I’m stamped with my own mark of approval – in favor of constant reminder,
I actually want to feel sorry for something.
I’m so flustered all the time and god, it’s so frustrating
red face, like my own skin is bleeding.
I am branded like a cow newborn and I was just born for what felt like the first time
but I don’t know anything
I am nothing.
Music is always playing – this is the time for me to make my own music maybe.
I don’t know.
I am always skipping class.
You can always buy used books for less and you can always find used girls for less
but I am so un-used
brand new
like, I’m still in plastic wrap behind a glass case, or maybe I’m still in the factory.
I work a lot, but nothing ever works.
Pins and needles.
I’d like to put the pieces together and represent something, or
be symbolic.
I mean
not all poetry is meant to be understood, and I especially should not be understood
but every now and then I think I could snap my fingers and make wishes until someone understands me
and anyway, I just want to dosomething.
Ya’ know, a lot of people have written good songs about this feeling
but like, fuck songwriting
it’s a whole lot harder than it should be.
“Communications is key”
alright, so what am I communicating? Cause’ I don’t talk when I’m speaking, only when I’m hiding, and I’m not sure words mean anything.
I said “I don’t know what I’m doing” and my parents were crying and I’m crying too.
What’s really frustrating is that I have to be me.
And why is that?
I mean, why can’t we shed our skin and lick it off and dig deeper?
Flip the switch and become someone else?
God, that would be so nice.
I don’t believe in god, but I do think that my creator – whatever he is
he must be really disappointed.
I mean, I’m really disappointed too.
But I think things would be better if I was an umbrella
if I could shut up inside of myself locked tight
and nothing could touch me – no water, no ice
how do I close the door like that? Exhausting.
This life is exhausting, and I’m sorry.
I guess I’m just going crazy (it happens all the time)
I don’t mind, except that some nights I need a place to hide.
Back when I was a child I used to get so sad that I would hide in the big box in the back-top-shelf of the closet,
climb inside and pretend that I was deathly cold and coffin locked.
Well I wish I was still that small.
But that box isn’t big enough to hold a list of all the things that bog me down now.
The man in the auditorium found power in luck, which is dumb.
I wish I could be that dumb.
He said we need passion, communications and networking.
I mean – I’ve at least got one out of three?
But I’m starting to think it would be better to wash up dead on a beach somewhere than to spend my life trying to write something as brilliant as the Titanic? Or whatever?
Whatever.
I wish I was walking toward something more honest than books and starving in soup kitchens.
Instead I am tense. Trying hard to be as tightly closed as an umbrella, and bruising my own skin with panicked fists.
I wish I didn’t ever think because then at least I couldspeak
I’m really sinful in my mind. I wish I was edgy and exciting looking. I’m pretty plain.
I have a lot of friends, but I’m bad at making them. I guess some things we shouldn’t understand.
As for existence, that’s the only thing no one understands.
I do want to give you some time to work.
But when did we ever say we needed time to practice? I mean
I guess everyone could use a little bit of practice.
Sometimes I feel so useless that I ache.
Everyone should be “thismuch” selfish
But I am THIS MUCH selfish and then some
so where does that leave me?
I wish I could speak from a script all the time.