jennifer83
I'm 31, born and raised in nj, but since I turned 18 I've bounced around a bit. I've lived in Philly, dc, Texas and back to Jersey. Started writing in 2nd grade when we were supposed to write a story about our class hamster as an assignment. I never finished my story but loved writing it and got the best writer sticker at the end of the year. I've been writing ever since. I stopped writing for years, mainly just lost inspiration. But a few months ago someone (who happens to have great hair btw) motivated me to write again so I have been. I'm still rusty after so many years of not practicing but slowly but surely I'm getting there. And I'm really enjoying it...
I'm not paying attention until the violent
Hiss jerks me awake t
The same way the
Violent crack of a gunshot of would.
Collision of liquid on hot metal
Pushes away any dreams lingering.
Fully aware now I reach for the door, Once a gleaming, vibrant white
Now covered with
Dingy use.
I know the cold air is coming
But still it's another
Jolt to my system,
The chill of the air conspiring the
Brightness of the light,
Giggling together at my obvious Displeasure of them.
Light tickles my eyes into a
Squint like a feather tickles your
Nose into a sneeze.
Through the squint I can see the color of bark,
Dark brown heart of trees
Secretly pumping blood of trees,
Sticky and sweet just like
Ours.
Just like the blood being
Pumped by the
Little heart behind the sound of giggles that has slowly snaked its way
Through the doors and
Around the walls to my ears.
Giggles and shuffling footsteps
Desperately trying to be silent, covert,
Unheard.
But the desperate desire for silence Causes such excitement in the mind of the
Boy that the
Distinct sound of
Shuffling slippers is produced.
The boys realization of the noise Makes him
Giggle at his own sneakiness,
Too young to realize the sound means He's failed,
Young enough to have fun
Regardless.
I think of those giggles as i
Scratch at the itchy
Knot in my neck, a sharp
Contrast to the softness of cotton that I Feel everywhere else
The itch reminds me to pay attention,
Not get lost in those giggles
My hand quickly moving from my neck to the white porcelain bed
Balancing early morning sweetness That's about to be
Devoured
Bed warm and heavy now.
I set it on what I noticed for the
First time is also a
Tree.
I've never noticed how vital trees
Are to my morning.
That the last thought I'll have thats just
mine for hours.
From this point on all thoughts will
Revolve around the boy and his father,
My son and my husband
They walk towards me now
Together
Husband helps with the knot at my Neck
Untying it so I can take off the
Itchy apron and get back to
Enjoying the softness of my
PJ'S 's, my
Son jumps into the chair and reaches For the bed of pancakes on a
Wooden table, starts to pour
Sticky sweet blood of a maple tree,
Far more syrup then he needs.
His father opens the dingy white door,
Experiencing that bright light and
cold air just like I did as
He reaches for the milk
I realize I can see the white porcelain of the plate;
I need to make more pancakes
I pour more batter into the hot skillet
Somehow that hiss catches me off guard again
Just like a bullet would again
I shake my head and look back at the Table, them.
I walk over and kiss both of them
Both tasting like milk and syrup,
smelling like sleepy sweetness and
Looking like my Saturday morning
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 9:07 AM UTC
The end will come
When I'm done being
Broken,
When im done bathing in
Memories,
Done tasting an injured heart,
Throwing it back up.
The end will come
When I'm done
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC
im
flawed,
sick, can
feel it in
the heart of my head i
it's obvious to me, so clear
the heart of my head is so obviously not . well
the scariest part of it all is that I can't even. . do anything about it.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
it faded like slavery
but the screams will not.
not this time
not with this much
involvement
my body, a strawberry
strawberry, begging for fondue
slavery begging for an end
involvement is too exhausting
nor giving any relief, so
much energy spent slowly, as if dripping
time wasted
wasted time, wasted life, dipped in a bitter
fondue, unpleasant and messy
dipping of bitter lips until the bitter
end, *** empty, needs washing, another
exhausting task, requiring to much
involvement, too much effort
Effort is what i can't give, I'm
bitter about that and angry. With too
much resentment, just growing inside me. More
messy baggage,
another issue, as if I don't already have enough. So im
bitter, so what?
What difference does it make?
I'm to battered for repair,
I'm to exhausted for any attempt at anything
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 8:30 AM UTC
How is this possible?
Rejected by a website,
At least that's how I feel.
Not enough likes, not enough messages.
But what else is new?
It's been this way since I was a kid...
Insecurity, neediness
It's not very attractive.
Maybe it's time to grow up.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
it will go like this
be both welcome and dreaded
slow sloppy confused
deliberate and final
that's how it will end with you
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 9:40 PM UTC
"Only happy when it rains"
Am I that girl?
It was easy to deliver a
Eulogy, but a
Toast?
I choked on it,
Couldn't get it down.
Ready to jump out of my skin at a celebration,
Comfortable in the places
Designed to be
Uncomfortable.
Those are my
Places, where I am at
Ease, happy in an
Unhappy kind of way.
The people in
My places, the
Insane, the abnormal, the unwanted, the
****** up,
Those are
My people, comfortable. They
Know me.
Understand my own ****** up
Head.
They don't judge, don't
Look down,
Whisper when I walk away.
They don't notice.
Unnoticed is the best thing.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
Take 1 miserable childhood
Mix with 2 parts of
Insecurity
1 part people pleaser and a
Dash of perfectionist.
Simmer for 10 years occasionally stirring in
****** assault.
Let cool.
While early years mix are cooling prepare the
Relapse filling:
In a large scarred heart mix together nightmares and
Fear of failure. Slowly stir in temptation followed by a pinch of apathy.
to assemble:
Spead the early years mixture across the bottom of an empty soul and top with the relapse mix.
Sprinkle lack of support and triggers along top.
Serve immediately and regret...
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 2:25 AM UTC
He came.
Wielding Neosporin. & hot chocolate, Housed in a thermos, safe
Temperature keeping of course.
Snacks too, always
Sweet.
Honeybuns maybe, or a cake, itself
Housed in plastic, the cellphane type.
Undoubtedly he had read
Somewhere that we
Love sweets, they help us
Thru the absence of what we really
Crave.
So here he came, in a
Glorious naivety, an
Ignorant hope. He
Found me while I was distracted, busy
Inhaling summertime on a
Paper plate.
Bland burgers, burnt hot dogs, Watered-down soda, and
Soggy chips, these the
Staples of a barbecue.
I don't know whether it's the
Charcoal or the
Vitamin D, but somehow that
Flimsy plate full of food is the best Thing you've
Ever had,
Delicious, tasting of smiles and
Tan lines,
Green grass and flip-flops,
Fun and relaxation.
As I took it in, he
Approached, sidekick in tow,
Of course, carrying a book,
That book, the one none of us
Wanted to see or touch, much less
Read.
I thought about running, knew I could. But, my
Blissful escape on paper had been
Provided by the neighborhood
Church. My
Mother had instilled enough
Manners in me to know that in
Exchange for this happy memory Inducing
Food, the
Least I could do was listen to his
Spiel.
I did listen, then I
Excused myself. He,
One more person
Met and forgotten in moments.
Except he came
Back
Again and again,
Praying and talking
With all of us,
Bringing with him snacks:
Honeybuns frosted with an icing that left the aftertaste of
Hope, hot chocolate
Accessorized with
Faith marshmallows. Neosporin to Heal
Scars, result of
Needles and of memories.
He kept coming,
Wouldn't give up; probably he
Couldn't.
Kept trying ,
Trying to penetrate the
Fog, we've all aquire. Fog of
Protection,
Fabulous fog keeping everything at a
Distance, slightly
Blurry, too
Distorted to
Hurt.
To get thru that fog, to make it
Dissapate, would be nothing short of a
Miracle. One that he
Wouldn't be able to
Produce.
We'd all sit
Politely, listen to him,
Wishing we could
Hear him,
Knowing we
Couldn't. Because he
Wasn't human to us.
Too perfect, too saintly, too
Godly.
Unreal.
The equivalent of the
Mall Santa:
Visible, touchable sure, but that didn't make him any more
Real.
Until that day,
That day we talked
Hair.
1 self-deprecating joke & I learned he
Wanted better hair, the
Patrick Dempsey kind,
Thick, flowing. His
Desire for that meant he was
Vain,
Insecure,
Human.
Human meant I
Heard, meant the
Fog was still there, but he was
In it,
With me,
Willing to wait for it lift.
He willing to wait, I willing to
Hear.
He came,
Wielding neosporin, hot chocolate,
Honeybuns. And
Glorious naivety with a side of
Ignorant hope, the
Best kind of hope, really the
Only kind.
Naivety and hope. That
I inhaled, like
Summertime on a
Paper plate.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 8:30 PM UTC