Why do you bother
telling me what to do with my life?
Like I will actually listen.
Because if there's one thing I've learned
In all this time
It's that this life is mine.
I can do with it what I wish
If only I had any idea...
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
My skin is feverish
I am delirious
I'm not sure where my fantasy world ends and the real one begins
I can't talk to anyone
They might find out at some point
That I'm not who I say I am
I'm not okay
Like they expect me to be.
I don't think I can live among them after the truth has been set free
After I'm exploited it won't be a relief.
It won't set me free
It will cage me in
It won't let me leave
Because once you're exposed, people will only see you.
There's no hiding anymore
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 8:45 PM UTC
In these streets gather grime and slime,
And an ideological undercurrent
That is by no means benign.
Indeed, this culture is rapacious:
Exploit, take, exploit, consume,
Endlessly, ever endlessly,
With no regards for when it all runs out.
This cancerous mindset
Is now mainstream.
It is default.
It is not only allowed,
But rewarded.
Selfishness and sociopathy
Are synonymous with success.
You are what you own,
And nothing else.
Your little words and little drawings,
With their little meanings
Mean little to anyone.
Pack up the books, the pencils, the paints,
Stow them in the attic,
And instead,
Slave away at something you merely tolerate.
That, my friends, is the American way.
By: Forrest Jorgensen ©
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 8:31 PM UTC
You
Click your tongue
Purse your lips
Smile my way
I purse my lips
Look away
And smile at the wall
It's an awkward mating ritual
Inversely proportional to how it's supposed to go
But no matter
It's a ritual nevertheless
That's solely ours
We're too interesting for normalcy anyways
This weirdness suits us well
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
That is the letter your name starts with
It's also the letter of the word I use
to remind myself
That they can not know
They must never know
Because you are too old, for me
And I am too young for you
With your easy smile and delicate hands
Your terrible humor and your caring ways
Whenever I'm with you I forget about the numbers
I forget how you were alive for so many years
Before I was even born
But still, I want to wallow in your smile, I want to bathe in it and recieve your praise, forever
I want to bottle your awkward humor and carry it with me throughout the day
Loosening the lid only at the worst of times, when I really need it, because it's rare and I need it to last.
Why is it that whenever we're laughing I forget about the number?
There's too many numbers
Height, weight, number of friends, number of attempts, number of kids, number of divorces
You once asked me what forever looked like.
That to me is undefinable in so many ways, but can be seen in our future together.
The moments of happiness we'd share?
That is forever
But I'm not asking for a number
I'm not asking for years
The promise of time, that's another thing I'm more than willing to overlook
If I can look past that number and so many others.
Why can't everyone look past them for me too?
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 9:31 PM UTC
I didn't -
fall out of love
I tumbled, backward;
overly-tired
chocking on Z's
and poetry:
my, indecent way of
overexposing my
love for you
and
no one likes to be embarrassed
but
I'd rather be that than
without you
so I tortured myself
I strangle my own neck
over and over again
with palms that
want nothing to do with me;
I'd rather
fall asleep
under water
than
breathe this way
anymore
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
A locked door
A rusty razor
A towel stained with red
A folded note
A broken mirror
A young girl lies there dead
Their emotions tangle
And the room begins to swirl
She was mommy's perfect angel
And daddy's little girl
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
Diaspora
From the Greek
When I heard the word I felt it
And I looked it up
In my old red dictionary
I could have used the Internet,
I suppose
But I like to run my forefinger down pages
Of words
I read the definition
And I felt it
Oh
Oh
We are diaspora.
Am I using it correctly?
We are a diaspora.
Diaspora
From the Greek
From the green valley of Ottawa
From Scotland
From Ireland on wooden boats
From the French village thirteen children
From the mines in the North
From Poland and from Germany
From the churches and
From the Blueberry patches
From the Island Manitoulin
From the dark lake Kagawong
From Kinburn and Arnprior
From Markstay and from Sudbury
From Waterloo
From Kitchener, Michener
From the Suburbs
Oh
From the Suburbs
From the red bricks, red currants
And geraniums
From green island cabins
From the desert
Oh
From the desert
From the potholes and pipes
From the salty wind
Cracked Caspian Sea
From the middle of the east of nowhere.
From the mountains
Oh
From the mountains
From the crystal water fountains
From the tram bells
On the cobblestone streets
From the torrents of the Rhein
From the white cross
Oh
From the white cross
On the green hill
From the river Laurence
From the French and from the English
Plains of Abraham
We are diaspora
We are a diaspora
Diaspora
From the Greek
How did it end up here on my tongue?
It is diaspora.
It is a diaspora
Diaspora is a diaspora
And I wonder if it misses its other pieces
The way that I miss mine
Ours
There is no
Roping us back together now
There is no
Home to go back to
There is no
Point of meeting
Of reunion
No
White steeple in our old town
No
Yellow slide in our backyard
No
Old folks on an old farm
No
Walled house on a hill
No
Luzernerring 93
No
Familiar riverwater
There is no
Ancient Greek anymore
Diaspora
Only fragments of fragments
Of roots of stems of words
In different dialects
There is no
Place for you to belong,
Diaspora
You’ve been sliced to pieces
And scattered
Into the wind
But
When people ask you
Where you are from
You say simply
From the Greek
Oh
From the Greek
And
When people ask me
Where I am from
I say simply
From the diaspora.
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
I can't think of anything to say...
The cliché of an apology, I'm sorry sounds weak and falls flat in the staging area that's my mind.
But saying, "I'm sorry you've felt sadness" feels heavy and thick, even though it may be the truest thing I've ever wanted to say to you, it asphyxiates my decision making skills
So at this point, admitting the truth sounds like a pretty good idea.
Which means I'll admit the fact that I have no idea what to say to you, to your face or your soul.
I have no idea how to fix you, no matter how hard I try
Maybe one day I will
When sadness has hit me the same way it hit you, but for now...
All I can do is give my condolences...until a better more earth shattering explanation for why we've felt sadness has come my way
And I can't give you a date because to give you a date would be to mark an unspeakable day, which will make me able to speak to you
I'd do anything to be able to speak to you again
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC