I wanted to tell you a long time ago...
Your smile is perfect
And you make me so Happy.
I'm glad I have you
And no one compares to all that you mean to me.
I wanted to tell you a long time ago ...
That im very difficult
And i push people away.
I dont mean to
Im use to people leaving
But i just dont know how to get by if i lose you.
I wanted to tell you a long time ago...
I hurt you
And i hurt myself too
Why cant we start over?
We can fix this
I will do anything
Just so i won't lose you...
But i did.
I wanted to tell you a long time ago...
Its been 4 months
4 long months of crying
And breaking down inside.
I love you still
Doesnt that me something?
I wanted to tell you a long time ago...
A long time ago...
That i cant do this alone....
everyone thought of being the perfect one
to see, to make, to create, and to believe
these words were their stamp
to make themselves the unbreakable mannekins
raising the status is their goal
thinking that they should achieve what they need to achieve
looking that removing one's diginity is part of the process
to have a happy life
now the stars started sinking in
pressures of unbelievable lies are stated
following everything that they should do
in order to maintain the happiness that they should deserve
to copy, to fake, to kill, to tease
are now their words of wisdom
as they seek the mountain,
the mountain of bulimic fitness
wrong, wrong they were
thinking that the impurities within themselves should be burned
for once, the universe calls their attention
and they decided to go to the road to kill
their perfect dissonance
nothing seems to be the answer
they cannot see the truth
if we would be perfect, then we are
diminishing the balances of the existence of everything
and then I realized
that she was there, still standing
holding her heart
that was once pure and light
and now she bears the dark
as she has no use of this world
for she went to the light
and never came back
closing the covers was the only thing to do
as I remember holding the knob
telling her that it would be fine
because her imperfections were nothing but
happiness to me
she was not perfect in my illusion but perfect in my reality
as I touched the box, the musical box
the sunshines were singing
the perfect tune
that she once danced all through the night
that made me remember how happy she was
with just being herself
to me and to everyone
my friend requested me to make a poem that talks about "perfect dissonance" and the result was these two poems
train of thought or loosely structured essay? it could be either...
i’ve been watching interview after interview and thinking gratuitously as a result. imma try and sum this up as best i can because i think it’s an ambiguous topic at times that we actually have at our fingertips and yet don’t really always address, understandably though. culture is something you’re entrenched in, inescapably at times, and when you’re in the middle of it sometimes it’s hard to see the way every day and everything is a possible opportunity for affecting the main narrative.
first thing i thought of when i started listening to eddie huang and heems discuss growing up in the 80’s and using their forms of media representation (blogging, food, music, etc) to introduce different ideas to mass audiences, was that kids in the 80’s and 90’s have really been given a valuable (though sometimes harsh) lens to view the world through. in that two decade time period media gained fuel and tech rapidly increased, and we had this rare upbringing of being detached enough from media and technology to develop authentically within our environments, learn to think critically and observe what was going on around us in the world, and yet also had enough exposure and time to evolve with the rapid change of technology to understand it better, and learn almost by necessity how to utilize it to our best interests, ration parts of our identity from it, and share parts of our identity and contributions into it.
we grew up in this transitioning time, when technology and social media hadn’t yet taken as rooted a role in life yet, but were still a big part of our lives, and where we harvested some, often much, of our values and ideas from. people began realizing soon that we had access to mass information, and the spreading of. this was a tool our parents hadn’t had at our age, so we were kind of the pioneers w/lotta internet frontiers and subcultures.
for instance, the internet has managed to foster a subculture of kids and teens finding and learning about their identities. before the internet, queer was a slur, some older people still think it is, but now it’s being reclaimed by the community, and there’s a widespread narrative from queer folks addressing their identities and re-purposing what ignorance made a weapon.
before the internet, there was no mass outrage being sparked over rape being brought to justice or innocent POC behind bars or the quality of education, or culture and global issues, these are discussions that have emerged from the information at our hands paired with our world views and personal struggles to navigate that world. and in it’s own way that’s power. we have a form of mass media where, if we try hard enough, our ideas, influences, power to empathize and communicate to spread ideas and educate on a widespread basis, can be influential. we made it what it is, and we mold it into what it is going to be and the ideas it will spread hereafter.
what’s interesting to me about this power of the internet, is dominant vs subversive narrative. 80’s/90’s gen reached teen/adult years as the US went into a period of political confusion/a dominant media main narrative of misinformation. hearing eddie and heems talk about what it was like to be a POC after 9/11 at that time was intense. eddie talked about rich white 1% kids in florida displaying an unfiltered level of brutish animosity after the event, being that many of the people they knew and their families’ claims to wealth were being threatened.
he seemed mostly horrified and interested simultaneously in the way they simplified “their problem” to a sweeping generalization; people of color, similar to reagan’s own scapegoating of POC in his personal secretary’s diary. obviously that’s wack. but what he said about these kids really intrigued me because i felt like he put words to what i’d observed myself about many middle class and upper class kids, and recently been contemplating how to get around; “these kids are like…media-trained by their parents. [meaning those who benefit from dominant/oppressive culture use the confusion tactics the media uses to run people in circles about issues to avoid actually discussing them] you could talk about these things with them forever and you’ll never have a real discussion with them until you stop taking them seriously. they understand exactly what you’re saying, they just don’t give a fuck.”
it’s compelling that 9/11 created this thought point for both of them, born in the same era, that caused the incubation of ideas surrounding dissemination of tolerance and thoughts about avoidance of discussions surrounding racism/classism/oppression in the US, and how to use education and communication to change it and repurpose allocations of power taken from cultures by the main narrative.
recently, i’ve definitely been aware of these points eddie made, in that i spend less time responding to others’ thoughts that come from ignorance or anger and more time building my own. less time responding to trolls and more time trolling trolls because i just don’t have time to waste farting around with dipshits when i could be reaching and talking to people who get it and also want to engage in discussions and environments of tolerance and respect instead of more ignorance. social media gives us that horizon of expansion, those resources, and hopefully that ability to recognize that despite the people that make us sad and cranky there are all these people still to be heard and to hear and to respond that we can reach, and the power is in our hands, it’s just about how we allocate it.
when i was about 17 i met a guy who really changed my perspective on what you can actually do to make your own voice. he had a successful career, he was a natural with business, well known for his graffiti, and pretty much lived and dressed well for free because of his social reputation and involvement in menswear. all these different factors of his individuality came together to form a career and reputation he was able to live…better than most people i knew, off of. and he had dropped out of school before he’d even walked across the senior final stage. that impressed me. who knew you could be that successful without a high school diploma? pretty fucking sweet.
we now know how to utilize social media and work your way up based on who you are not what job description you fit. how to create forms of representation and send a message through art, and actually make a living and have everything you need through applying social media to your pursuits. with the unstable economy and prices of school people began to become more aware of how they could get educated outside of an institution, get a job they loved without going to school for it, have a career because of who they knew and their networking abilities as opposed to their resume. and with how much a lot of us have to say and contribute that’s a valuable venue when used correctly and used as a vessel for the right message.
and i think, this mixture of being connected but not completely has given us a rare perspective and ability to contribute in many different ways, with many individual voices, to the narrative. we have the ability to, essentially, drown out the main narrative which we all know is a bunch of bullshit.
look at the way we even just use social media like tumblr and facebook to fuck around with advertisements and different perpetuations of culture in media, like those gifs of billboards that have a picture of a cat on it instead of an advertisement, or clipart that has been fucked around with. how, for fun, some people fuck with facebook and click on ads that don’t apply to their interests to confuse the site when it tries to collect their personal web browsing data.
in such simple ways, we tweak and rewrite the main narrative. and then we can share that with millions of people if we want to, and they can all share that too and so on. social media can be such an amazing tool. because someone can share a post on tumblr saying “does anyone else feel like…” and 50,000 other people can reblog that and suddenly the idea that you’re not the only one with this running around their mind is planted in 50,000 different minds at once. that’s basically creating awareness in a way.
i’ll stop thinking, but i still have tons in my head in response to all this stuff. just wow, really interesting. i’m getting all inspired by these 80’s babies bringing the power back to the people by dominating media with their insights on how to use it as a crux to transition into change via widespread communication of ideas. this is kinda a crucial point in time when we have an advantage and weapon, to create the world we want to live in, with.
If we lived in a non-judgmental world,
where social norm was a blank slate
free of preconceptions and expectations,
a world in which it was traditional to be liberal,
what would you do?
Would you work this hard or drive fast cars?
Would you read 50 Shades of Grey in the train?
Would you still cry in the rain?
Would you be outgoing or spend more time alone?
Would you laugh at funerals and never mourn?
Would you wear your pyjamas for Sunday mass?
Would you identify yourself with the working class?
Would you use two forks or wear socks with flip flops?
Would you avoid dating jocks?
Would you take up smoking or marry young?
Would you tattoo your face and pierce your tongue?
Would you work as a stripper whilst being a nun?
Would you form a jihad against wars and guns?
Would you become straight, forget how to pray
or wish your first born son were gay?
Would you ever fake an orgasm
or admit you like it rough?
Would you follow the stars and lucky charms
leaving all life's decisions to luck?
Would you believe in evolution and gravity,
or argue we're heavy people with sticky feet?
Would you avoid salad or order tofu?
Would you try to go up a dress size or two?
Would you give to charity or take up a sport?
Would you sell your house and by a boat?
Would you order expensive wines or
write poems that did not rhyme?
What would you do?
Perhaps you simply wouldn't have a clue,
for we appear to have forgotten how to be true.
So when ever a Miley comes like a wrecking ball
we unite to share our disbelief and loathe.
As we did to Snowden and Jesus Christ,
we mock and torture and crucify.
The UN, CIA and the Vatican unite,
to teach us how to lead our lives.
For when someone somewhere breaks a norm
that someone somewhere has formed
it has become a universal priority
for the former to be conformed.
Perhaps in this non-judgmental world,
we might decide to start judging each other...
Your words become blades to my skin
And your eyes become the general
To the tears that rebel against
My lashes that beg for mercy.
The look on your face constricts
Around my wrists mocking
The stained blood on my skin
Matching your words that web
Around a grenade waiting
To erupt with my permission.
But my strings lead up
To your fingertips and
My body is limp from
Your unintentional control.
so just walk me to the plank
Your step beside mine
Is a worthless beat
So just use your fingertip
To point me in the direction
Of the waiting water
Just foaming with bubbles
To pile up inside my lungs,
One by one
Till the capacity is full
Like the grave of our hearts
Filled with dirt
Buried by the fuming smoke
Of your words
With unlimited gunpowder.
Your smile and your laugh
Do not direct themselves at me
But play hide and seek
With my satisfaction,
So I'll sit at the edge of mountain
Drawn to the dangling light
illuminated by your presence.
The street walker,the sidewalk his hallway vast.
Filled with dim lights that flicker as he treks.
So many doors he could not open, or wouldn't.
Thoughts kept warm with his hand held out,
That the lights might temporarily shine
And he would use that light to calm his hunger.
He considers which rooms to sleep between,
In between the cold brick rooms.
The ceiling often changes, depending on the weather.
But tonight the ceiling agreed cheerfully.
And so he thought to slumber in his vast garden,
One man who made the city his mansion,
Slumbers on his park bench.
I never thought I'd have to see her like this so soon. So young. So cold.
I should have listened to her. I should have talked to her more. Seen her more. She always asked me why I seemed so distant from her, I always got frustrated and denied it.
Now she's the distant one.
We would argue often. About communication. Our feelings. Her feelings. She had a very hard life. A violent alcoholic father. She grew up untainted by her surroundings, but scarred. Chronic Anxiety and Depression. She would cry often, and get mad and angry for sometimes no reason. She said she didn't know why it happened; it just did, and that I couldn't understand. That made me angry. Even though she was right; I really couldn't.
I haven't had an easy life in the past few years, but it doesn't compare to hers. I didn't know what is was like to be as depressed as she was. To be as anxious as she was. She would always check up on me, because she always worried about me. I myself, just took it and never did it for her.
What a mistake.
I remember my 17th birthday. She was more excited than I was, and couldn't wait for me to finally see what she had done for me. She was adorable when she talked about it. I spent the day with her and she made me a homemade card themed my favorite video game, and a Key Lime pie from scratch. I love Key Lime pie.
How I wish we could make it together, one last time.
A couple days after my birthday, a package she ordered came and she was ecstatic for me to finally have it. They were custom made genuine dog tags. They had my information on one tag, and a personalized message from her on the other. Her message read, "KNOWING YOU HAS MADE ALL THE DIFFERENCE, AND LOVING YOU HAS MADE MY WORLD." I wear them everywhere, even to today.
But when her birthday came around, I didn't get her anything. Not even a card. She was really upset, and I felt guilty when she mentioned it, so I never did get her anything; I felt it was too late.
Whenever she was happy, she shined brighter than the sun. She smiled and laughed and was goofy. She would make up little songs about how much she loved me, and she would do anything for me. Now, I can only imagine how she felt when I left for the night, not doing anything for her.
I knew she had had problems even before she met me. I knew she was chronically sad. I knew she had always been a rock, but had slowly started to erode and needed someone.
Why was I so selfish!?
I notice her mother is crying. Hysterically. They were so close. Her mom was so nice, always inviting me over and cooking for me even when they didn't have much food. Now, she looks like an empty husk of what she used to be. Crumpled on the floor, covered in her own tears, mourning the loss of her world.
Her younger brother sits with their dad, hugging and crying on each other, as well as the rest of her family. You can almost smell the saltiness in the air from all of the tears.
I've cried as much as I can. When I heard the news, I was in shock. I didn't want to believe she was gone. But eventually I screamed, bawled and raged at my loss. She was the only thing that mattered to me.
Now I stand here, silent and empty. My mind is numb, and all I can do is stare at her. Eyes closed, chest still, but still so beautiful. I had to battle with myself to even come and deal with seeing her like this. I finally move my stiff hand towards her curly hair and stroke it, and slowly move my hand to her shoulder. I imagine her opening her eyes and smiling at me with one of her beaming smiles. But I know it won't happen, and that's when the tears come.
I'll never see her smile, feel her lips against mine, hug her small body again. I can never hear her sweet voice again, telling me "I love you." With a glow in her eyes.
Why didn't I show her how much she meant to me? Why couldn't I swallow my pride and be a little more caring and thoughtful for her the way she never failed to be for me? Why? I'm sobbing now. I collapse to my knees and rest my hand over hers. She's freezing. I rub her hands instinctively as if it will warm them up, but it doesn't.
I just want her to wake up. I feel as if it's my fault she's in eternal silence now. Apart of the world beyond, when I want her so desperately to be back here with me. I don't want her to leave me. I feel as if I can't live without her, she was the only one I'd ever truly loved, but in the end I failed her. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, I should have shown her more instead of using only my words!
I slowly stand up still covered in my tears, and stare at her sleeping body. I watch as one drips down onto her expressionless face. I use my thumb to gently wipe my tear away, just as I used to wipe hers. Now all I can is do think about what could have been, what I could have done, and what will never be.
"I'll miss you." I whispering through my sore choked throat, and kiss her cold forehead.
"I love you."
and i was forced into the shadows
unable to use my voice
it was taken
arrested by the bitterness
and the hopelessness that
i would feel empty forever.
and emotional court was present
i was a the only witness, a witness unable to give statements
but i saw it all
i saw what you did to her
you tore out her heart
a heart already suffering from wounds
was fully shattered
and for once in my life
i hated you.
i couldn't bare the thought of your selfish
i wanted nothing more then to hurt you
but revenge, you see
is no way to fight back.
i want to see the guilt
and the shame
slowly tear you apart
so your left with no one and nothing.
and to the utmost worst
i want you to feel deep
because i've seen your kind
you continue to live your lives
under the impression that people move on from betrayal.
sanity is rare
but i can't spare yours.
for you are nothing more
then a killer.
The priest thumbed ash on Sister Scholastica’s forehead, his thumb firm like that of Francis whom she thought she loved once. Memento homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris, the priest whispered. Her mind translated the words her father use to relate often in his foul moods, remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return; then he’d beat her for some misdemeanour she’d forgotten from days before. The dirty ash made her feel as if she was marked out again, that her father would come rushing through the church doors, grab her with his mighty arm and beat, and beat. The priest had a lean face; eyes deep as if they had been set back too far. His lips slits in his paleness. She moved back to her place in the choir stalls; knelt down sensing the first day of Lent biting at her stomach already; the days ahead and hunger; the mark seemed to burn; she wanted to rub it off as she did as a child once and her mother said she would be damned. Her mother used charcoal to draw; once drew the Crucified in such detail that it made her cry. In her lucid days, she would paint for hours, before the madness swung her back and forth in and out of sanity like a pendulum. Through the slits of her fingers, she watched Sister Cecilia kneel as if stabbed in the back; the eyes glaring at the cross; the hands tight together in tormented praise. She’d seen her once, kiss the statue of the Virgin in the cloister, and whisper words. Faith in words; faith in words. Sister Scholastica heard the bell sound, rose, and stared at the priest at the altar. Mass. Bread and wine. Body and blood. Broken and spilt. Francis had not loved her as he said, just in it for the copulation and the image of her on his arms to impress his friends. Wednesday. It had been a Wednesday when they copulated the first time back in her youth; the grimy bed, which she remembered, had the smell of cigarettes and beer and days of being unmade. She lifted her eyes to the Crucified. His arms outstretched to embrace the world; his head to one side as if listening to her every thought and whispered word. Repentez-vous et le péché pas plus, Sister Gabrielle had said once when she was a girl at school, regret and sin no more, she’d repeated to them in her broken English. Innocent days. Mother swinging from lucidity to madness like the censer boat the altar boy swung at mass. Sister Scholastica closed her eyes. Her father raged in her memory at her mother’s growing madness; her mother painting red across the bedroom door; cursing her husband in French at the top of her voice. Peace now. Lent has begun. Sackcloth and ashes. Sin on sin. Washed away with the blood. Monthly bleeds; the blood of the Lamb. Requiem in pace.
This is my life but you take it. I'm caged and its your fault. You have the key but you don't use it. You dropped it in the ocean to keep me forever. I escape anyway. I am free but not forever. You will chase me everyday, every hour, every minute. But this is my choice. My path my life.