This city is filled with so many beautiful men!
Next time I see one, I think I'll snatch him
up and put him in my pocket...for safe keeps :)
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Nikki Giovanni: Cotton Candy On A Rainy Day...
don’t look now
i’m fading away
into the gray of my mornings
or the blues of every night
is it that my nails
keep breaking
or maybe the corn
on my secind little piggy
things keep popping out
on my face or of my life
it seems no matter how
i try i become more difficult
to hold
i am not an easy woman
to want
they have asked
the psychiatrists … psychologists …
politicians and social workers
what this decade will be
known for
there is no doubt … it is
loneliness
i’m fading away
into the gray of my mornings
or the blues of every night
is it that my nails
keep breaking
or maybe the corn
on my secind little piggy
things keep popping out
on my face or of my life
it seems no matter how
i try i become more difficult
to hold
i am not an easy woman
to want
they have asked
the psychiatrists … psychologists …
politicians and social workers
what this decade will be
known for
there is no doubt … it is
loneliness
Saturday, September 25, 2010
9-23-2010
“True love leads you to God. A person should be so in love with you that they’re willing to be lessened in order for you to see the God in yourself. Love that leads you to a person is idolatry.” -Pastor Sean McMillan
Gives an entirely new meaning to “looking for love in all the wrong places.” , huh?
But, sadly, that has become my story.
A redundancy of men flowing in and out of my life filling my ear and my space with empty words and meaningless gestures.
Hidden agendas and underlying innuendo.
Distorting reality. Giving false hope.
Hiding behind a mask of lies
Wildly afraid to face their own truths.
I desperately seeking approval in the vacant eyes of man.
Hoping to fill a loveless void left by an absentee father.
Blindly searching for companionship, affection, and protection.
Waiting to hear those words.
Stupidly waiting for “I love you”.
Friday, September 17, 2010
5-13-2010
I was about fourteen years old when I wrote my first piece. It was a letter to my mom apologizing for not being the daughter that she needed me to be; for not living up to her expectations; for disappointing her time after time with my unfortunate unforeseen disarray of teenage drama. It was a letter apologizing to my brother for not being there for him when he needed me most; for not being around to pick him up from school or to help him with his homework. It was a letter to my boyfriend apologizing for having left him too fast too soon. It was a letter to my teachers apologizing for not completing my homework assignments or participating in class. It was a letter to myself apologizing for not loving me enough; for not respecting me enough; for not being strong enough to handle the perils that life had thrown my way. It was a suicide note that I had written to myself in second period English. A note that was never meant to see the outside of that classroom because I was too chicken shit to follow through. I balled up the note and, absent mindedly, tossed it in the trash as I exited Sister Mary Catherine's class. Moments later, I realized that ending my life was a dastardly way out of handling the complications my teenaged soul faced. I needed another means of self expression. I needed to create something. Something meaningful. Something that I had hoped would one day touch someone else's life and pull them back from the ledge of utter self destruction. So I wrote! Every chance I got I wrote. Poetry, letters, short stories, journals. I wrote.
One would think that after all of these years of writing to myself about myself, I'd be exhausted of such indirect self-absorption, but I'm not. At 32 I continue to use my writing as a creative medium of self expression. Inspired by passion, anger, beauty, love, life, writing is my outlet, to say the very least.
I would be remiss if I didn't mention the suicide note that I so cleverly discarded. Well Sister Mary Catherine just so happened to be digging in the trash, I suppose out of sheer boredom, and somehow retrieved my lovely note. The next day I was pulled into my guidance counselor's office and later had to endure a horrifying three visits to the shrink of my dreams. I just blamed it all on the absence of my father and wrote about it later.
I was about fourteen years old when I wrote my first piece. It was a letter to my mom apologizing for not being the daughter that she needed me to be; for not living up to her expectations; for disappointing her time after time with my unfortunate unforeseen disarray of teenage drama. It was a letter apologizing to my brother for not being there for him when he needed me most; for not being around to pick him up from school or to help him with his homework. It was a letter to my boyfriend apologizing for having left him too fast too soon. It was a letter to my teachers apologizing for not completing my homework assignments or participating in class. It was a letter to myself apologizing for not loving me enough; for not respecting me enough; for not being strong enough to handle the perils that life had thrown my way. It was a suicide note that I had written to myself in second period English. A note that was never meant to see the outside of that classroom because I was too chicken shit to follow through. I balled up the note and, absent mindedly, tossed it in the trash as I exited Sister Mary Catherine's class. Moments later, I realized that ending my life was a dastardly way out of handling the complications my teenaged soul faced. I needed another means of self expression. I needed to create something. Something meaningful. Something that I had hoped would one day touch someone else's life and pull them back from the ledge of utter self destruction. So I wrote! Every chance I got I wrote. Poetry, letters, short stories, journals. I wrote.
One would think that after all of these years of writing to myself about myself, I'd be exhausted of such indirect self-absorption, but I'm not. At 32 I continue to use my writing as a creative medium of self expression. Inspired by passion, anger, beauty, love, life, writing is my outlet, to say the very least.
I would be remiss if I didn't mention the suicide note that I so cleverly discarded. Well Sister Mary Catherine just so happened to be digging in the trash, I suppose out of sheer boredom, and somehow retrieved my lovely note. The next day I was pulled into my guidance counselor's office and later had to endure a horrifying three visits to the shrink of my dreams. I just blamed it all on the absence of my father and wrote about it later.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
These Three Words...
Time to part ways, and though only for a moment, however fleeting, that moment could last forever. With that very thought in mind, and in a moment of impulse these three words hung from my lips. These three words I could not say…butterflies danced in my belly. These three words plagued with complications yet riddled with simplicity. These three words I’m fighting, biting my tongue. Heart pounding, sweating with anxiety, questioning…what if HE doesn’t love ME back??? So these three words I’ll keep to myself until the next time becomes the right time and the right time becomes “I love you”.
nina
nina
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