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7.4k · Apr 2013
Father broke my heart.
Julian Dorothea Apr 2013
I cried at the breakfast table this morning
my father carefully explained,
"wives must be submissive to their husbands"
"housecleaning is the domain of the woman"
"God created woman because man asked for a partner"

This past semester I wrote two papers

One, a fire and brimstone sermon
          I quoted Anais Nin
          sending the creators of sexist commercials to eternal suffering
          "**** them!" I said. "May they burn in hell."
          For the women they portrayed were doormats

The other, the role of women in the 1920s,
           No longer confined to the kitchen
           they dropped ballots with their new freedom
           they wore short dresses and short tresses
           fingers wrapped around cigs
           they quoted Wilde instead of Alcott
           they danced until their feet hurt
I read of Anais Nin's "new woman,"
her partnership, not submission to man,

I craved a room of my own, neigh demanded it
For sheep stayed in the kitchen,
The Woolf had a study.

I read poetry
I wept for their starved, depressed selves
caged, suffocating inside the clasped hands of a man.
Loved like rib-cage jails.

Adrienne Rich made me angry,
her daughter-in-law
forever trying to fit into a box
she was always too big for, spilling
at the edges, her shaved
legs like "white mammoth tusks"

I was finally
happy with my womanhood.

******, ******, *****, *******
they are mine.
******* free to move unrestrained,
jiggling under my shirt.
Wetness between my thighs.
Menstrual blood,
they are mine.


I am not ashamed of what I am
because there is no shame.

I am woman,
I am girl,
I am lady.
I am a creature
with a voice
a mind.

a creature who endured much abuse,
continue to endure.

I am woman

and I don't have to be wife or mother
unless I want to be.
I was not created for man;
I was created for the same reason he was,
to serve the same great purpose on this tiny blue dot.

I am not rib.

I am ******, ******, *****, *******
******* free, unrestrained,
Wetness between my thighs.
Menstrual blood,

I am a per.
I am a wo.
I am a hu.

Man and son need to back down,
collaborate not dominate,
speak not command,

for when less are forced into silence,
the maddening scream
hidden inside skin and bones and muscle-meat
becomes song.

this world of car horns and tire screeches
crying and wailing from raw throats
angry protests of indignation

could use a little music.
Spur of the moment. Written after breakfast. Help me edit it, please? :)
4.6k · Apr 2012
Julian Dorothea Apr 2012
I’m talking to you
in my head

been cultivating this shyness
since I was three years old

talking to inanimate objects

painted smiles, rubber-skinned
metal frames
turning wheels

the family minivan kept me company
as mountains rose and fell
like held breaths
let go.
playing games with pregnant raindrops
rolling down the glass
obsessed with the shark’s fin triangle
the wipers could not

I’m obsessing over seeing you.

always trying to be invisible
your eyes beginning to skim past I,

they didn’t used too.

“The voices that once spoke love
but did not mean love.”

the withered rose living
in the trash,
abandoned friends in the attic
forgotten songs
unfinished books

I am the forgotten
I am the abandoned
I am the left behind

the silence connoisseur
I wear loneliness like an unwashed favorite shirt

If I die
Will you read this?
Does anyone else think such things
or is Tonio Kroger my only brother?

I am Kafka’s cockroach,
everyone is waiting for me to die
or to change into what you want me to be.

my name will not be in the history books
by the time my children’s children will have children
I am no one.

Everything fades in this world
like whiteboard-marker on acetate lives.

Desolate corners and garbage
tell stories
art is vandalism, vandalism is art.
and people wear diamonds but they are worth nothing.
and babies inherit their father’s eyes.

I am not yours.

You are not mine.
Isn’t ownership objectification?
If a man owns a clock
does the clock own the man?

Let’s be
money and greed
greed and suffering.
one cannot survive

Let’s be
the mismatched pyramids
of wealth and population
form a parallelogram
like bricks on an unstable wall
never falling down.
4.2k · Dec 2012
Julian Dorothea Dec 2012
when you say you like someone else
I retaliate with silence and made up faces
of calm and i-could-care-less

"haha that's so funny"
you're not thinking about this
you are not thinking about her
you are looking at his eyes
(stupid eyes that look at another's)

don't grit your teeth
oh he's holding your hand
did he hold her's like this too?


get rid of that sarcastic face
he is looking at you
and he is holding your hand

Julian Dorothea Dec 2011
splashing on the banks of this urban river

another tropical rain

puddles of rainbows
by the auto shop

foil fossils
plastic skeletons
trash cadavers
block the concrete mouths

gaping, open, waiting.

children's hands
bowls of chocolate liquid
thrown, given, shared

gifts of laughter and disease.

mosaic of colored umbrellas

rubber slippers

there is no shelter
there is only rain.
2.5k · Sep 2011
Picket fence
Julian Dorothea Sep 2011

did you imagine red?
so did I
which is weird because the apples I eat are kind of yellow


I said asia
not China

I remember the time
my history professor told my class to imagine asia
I thought of an exotic
with arab sheiks
and snake charmers

the Chinese
the Japanese
and the orient

it was then that she pointed out
"haven't Western ideas just messed with you?"

and it was then that I realized
"Wait; I'm Asian. I've lived in Asia all my life."
how come I saw it as something foreign
and strange?
I've never even seen the things I imagined.

I remember when I watched Big Bang Theory
and the four friends sat down to Thai food
Raj made the mistake of asking, "where are the chopsticks?"
which led to Dr. Sheldon Cooper saying
(in this paraphrased version:)
"they don't use chopsticks. They use spoons and forks.
The fork doesn't go into their mouth.
They use it to push food unto the spoon, which then goes into their mouth."

I sat there thinking..
well that's weird

when a couple of months later as I watched the episode again
I realized
that's how my people eat!
that's how I've always eaten..

the houses I picture in an average neighborhood
are two story
concrete structures
with shingled roofs

and oak trees

my own house
is one story
of brick and wood
it is beside a highway
and surrounded by guava trees
and coconuts

I don't even know what a picket fence is.
just some random thoughts..:)
2.1k · Oct 2013
water metaphors
Julian Dorothea Oct 2013
sometimes my apathy falls
like a silk robe to the ground,
and once again I stand before you


ashamed of myself
I try to cover the monster that you ran from.

I walk on the sands of the hourglass
for our time has ended.

there is only one set of footsteps
because I needed you to carry me
but failed to realize that you were not strong enough.

I sit alone on the beach
unable to listen to Best Coast
because that would make me cry.

I hug myself
and feel very
very small.

the gentle waves of memories
lick at my feet:
your unimpressed face when I laugh at the way you mispronounce words,
or just your face
or just the way you could make me laugh
your disgust when I joke about your **** ***,
or just your ***
or just the way we could joke about that.

it almost makes me smile
but you are the only person alive who knows my tickle spot.

the way your fingers comb from the back of my neck
to my bangs like a fisherman's net,
a feeling the sea breeze wants me to forget
as it tousles my hair violently.

the shore has too much of your face.

I dive into the water to cleanse myself
of the haunting absence of your presence

but I am too small.

my thoughts and your words surround me,
and in my attempt for closure
I am nothing more than closed.

cleansing nothing at all,
I drown in this baptism
as the distorted and unfamiliar
waters of the past soak my lungs
emptying me of breaths of hope
filling me with waters of desperation.

I am sinking into the darkness of depression
my chest compressed like the lungs
of a deep sea diver with no chance of return.
I'm so bad with rhyme and stuff. help?
1.8k · Sep 2011
Julian Dorothea Sep 2011
My favorite music is imperfection
the little breaks
the husky
inaudible screams
the short breaths
the ahs
the un-understandable pronunciation
the weird rise and fall
and awkward syllabication.

Like a cd that's got just enough for one last spin
perfection of imperfection

My favorite music is imperfection
off key harmony
and drunk, smoked-up throats
the hard breathing
the sharp little pitches
the accents
the sudden switch from singing to speech
the guitar that's just a little too loud
the drums that are a little too fast
the back up singer that forgets the lines
or the lead singer too drunk to remember what his own hands wrote
prolonged Ssssss....
off time beats
and ****** up base lines

Imperfection's my favorite music.
1.8k · Jan 2012
too small handwriting
Julian Dorothea Jan 2012
Distant bells start the day
the sun casts strips on blue-gray walls
cobwebs hanging lazily above
not strong enough to pull bodies
from beds
of hard wood and tiresome sleep

on the edge of this pencil, a poem
watching specs of dust
gracefully failing to fly

Early rising
needing more sand than most
1.8k · Aug 2011
teenage wondering
Julian Dorothea Aug 2011
I think about ****
I think
about ***.

It's that kind of thing you're not supposed to think about
but everyone already expects that you do

It's the thing you hear in whispers
and shouts
which people mask with humor.

It's touch magnified
yet lately


I think about ***

not the *** of two hot bodies
mixing their sweat

but the *** of exploration

knowing everything about the other person

hands moving slowly
in pitter patters
sifting carefully through limbs and bedsheets.

there are melanin filled marks all over my body
something I inherited from my mother
on bored quiet days
I wonder
if anybody
will knead through all my folds
and count

I think about *** another's arms
and fingers feel
tracing lines and curves
hands following the rise and fall
chests beating to the quiet rhythms of exhaled breaths a kiss feels with lips closed
because tongues are disgusting alien creatures
I don't want to think about

(which is kind of funny I guess because *** has that other stranger 'alien')

my sketch pad smells of oil pastels
my journal's almost filled

I have a math exam next week
a biology quiz tomorrow
I'd sure love some chocolate
ice cream maybe?

I think about ***
but not
too much.
1.7k · Sep 2011
four legs
Julian Dorothea Sep 2011
tables and chairs

leftovers lie on the table
paper plates stained with chocolate syrup
beside the foam
fossil of a milkshake

fingertips and corners of lips
dinosaurs and tiaras

table napkins wipe away
giggles and smiles

wooden table
little words etched in
hearts, crosses and names
jagged lines through the middle
random doodles
curse words

stained with grease, an empty pizza box
soda bottles all over the sticky floor
a single can
of beer, empty
touching a hundred lips
curious little sips
awkward conversations,
air thick with secrets and lies
confidence and cockiness

*clean white table cloths
long-stemmed flowers
crystal wine glasses

no one quite fits into these

knees always banging
and cutlery always clanging

no one quite fits into these
1.6k · Sep 2011
this fake electronic love
Julian Dorothea Sep 2011
love you.:)

when deep inside it's
'I'm not sure'
fake electronic love
vague posts of
'this is what I want to tell you!'
yet *you
has no name.

in person a plastered smile
wearing masks of
'everything's fine'
'no of course it wasn't you'
words hidden
easily retractable


was that post for me?
well then this one is for you

answering vagueness with vagueness
in this fake electronic love

with hearts beating
to nothing but cowardice.
1.6k · Jul 2011
Julian Dorothea Jul 2011
She watches a drama on the television
calendar pages flying
from time’s prying fingertips
showing her,
reality is
trudging ,
dragging in its pain;
she paces quietly,
wandering down
lonely stairwells of her memory,
her feet shuffling,
on loose tiles
of broken promises.
the floor is covered in his tracks,
decaying leaves of fickleness, letters of blotted ink, thick gray scratches; 
his unsaid goodbye, lingering
heavy and stale,
the air
filled with the smell of him,
scents of his self doubt and insecurity.
1.6k · Oct 2011
teenage dream
Julian Dorothea Oct 2011
As I stare at the face in the mirror I think
It would look good through the window
of a casket

where time and decay can touch it
away from peering eyes

when all the thoughts are

              what she could have been

                                            what she was

and not

                                                               what she failed to be

So many have sealed their fates as legends
by dying

Like fireworks
that fly high and burst
as the crowd ooohs and ahhhs

I don't want to be the stars
hung forever

until everyone forgets their beauty

for in a crowd of white dwarfs
so few become supernovas
and there is always the risk
of becoming
a self-destructive
drag others down with you

black hole.
1.5k · May 2014
you exist.
Julian Dorothea May 2014
I write "you exist"
on the fragility of my wrist
because I need to remind myself
that this isn't a nightmare
and life has good parts too.

I need these words to fetter me
as if I were something solid
because I haven't felt that lately

I am the dead leaf
detached from branches
broken off from life

I am the echo in the mountain
too late
belonging to no one

I am the carving on the tree trunk
a reminder of a love already gone
fading, unnoticed

I am the falling star
burning, blazing
dead a million years.

I am nothing
but I exist.

I exist.
1.4k · Oct 2013
Julian Dorothea Oct 2013
my life consists of needing mirrors
to remind myself
that I am not invisible

you have taken parts of me
and thrown them away without question
without regret.

the ease with which you let me go
echoes within me
like a "*******" spoken in church

a crack on the pane
of the room's only window.

you were not a liar
but you made yourself one

and I say that I do not hate you
because I've forgiven you

but you made that a lie also
you shaped it so that the reason for my lack of hate
is that I can no longer bring myself to care.

I will smile when I see you
because you can no longer hurt me.

your apathy shook me
like an antique chandelier
just before it crashes to the ground

and the fact that you read my poetry
and feel nothing
makes me shiver

you are cold.

you are the corpse frozen in indifference
a dead heart pumping the liquid
of fake tears.

you look and move like you used to
but I can see the stitches in your skin
the glassy, empty, gaze in your eyes

you are a monster
but I am no longer afraid.

I drop my torch and pitchfork
and watch you
destroy all the things that we built.

I raise my palms

and warm myself by the fire.
1.4k · Jun 2012
Beautiful Junk
Julian Dorothea Jun 2012
palms are masks
that cover nothing
fingers, frustrated fishermen
combing dark waters, searching
for the uninhabited isle.

the tree stump pitifully trying
to grow,
melody of the typewriter,
the letter opener's song,
withered daisy in a plastic display,
hidden bookworm art
carved into dusty paperbacks,
overgrown, abandoned houses:
sleeping animal,
dormant jungle.

wet asphalt puddles of fallen sky

dead butterfly

blind blue eyes;

tragic, difficult, poetic
         you are

(unplayed piano furniture)

1.3k · Sep 2011
Julian Dorothea Sep 2011
I'm walking armless in the dark

nervous unrest my only companion

My heart beats inside me
like a watch
inside a crazy man's head


to explode
1.2k · Aug 2013
let go.
Julian Dorothea Aug 2013
loneliness clings to me like wet paint
so I walk the streets at night
leaving behind neon footsteps

traces of your absence
color the asphalt
blue on black
the wind is cold
but at least it touches me.

I have grown more intimate with the rain
you are unfamiliar.

my brother's phone vibrates
and I remember when the sound
was once

I am lonely
and I am sorry for this.

I hang on you like a noose
I am the weight you drag
the useless end of a tow truck

I know I shouldn't need you as much as I do
it is unhealthy
it is unfair

**** me.

like all parasites,
I must die
so you can explode like the amazing fireworks display you were always meant to be
or burn burn burn, you infinite star..
spontaneous. needs editing. suggestions?
1.2k · Nov 2011
Visual Viola
Julian Dorothea Nov 2011
Mind if I play pretend?*

What if it was you and me
on a breezy hill

         overlooking nothing but grass


grass waving to the wind
like waves that never crash

would you sit beside me
and stare at it
be silent
comfortable enough
in each others' thoughts?

I would watch you
from the corner of my eye
and you would be

(I always have you smiling in my mind)

your perfect bangs ruined
yet beautiful.

I'd watch your magic eyes

boy with the old poet's soul.

looking at the same field
yet you'd see it better
than I

you will capture the parts that contain the unexplainable
and hold it
in your heavenly rucksack

while all I have are
eyes bending the light,
making sense of the colors.

your mouth will not open
you do not tell me what you see

but you free what you've trapped
in your poetry

and there do you give

you to me.
I hope you do not mind my posting this...:)
Julian Dorothea Feb 2012
There is an emptiness
inside me
consuming my peace.

we are.

abandoned shoes
in the middle of the sidewalk.

rusted metal
car casings,
where the washed clothes

painted graffiti
in a hidden place,

whispered secrets,
bottled letters
to the ocean's waves

we are the ocean

the ocean inside the seashell  
discarded pencil shavings at the nearby starbucks.

Unsteady hands
coarse, rusty locks
we are.

the staring blank spaces,
the screaming questions,
the tired voices,

they who do not speak.

we are
I wrote this a while back...kept it wedged in a book. I loaned the book to someone and had to shyly explain my mistake. well here you go.
1.1k · Mar 2013
You idiot
Julian Dorothea Mar 2013
have a God,
be a deist instead
then marry me,
the mediocre Catholic.

let's have children,
let's not have children
because "Parents, they ******* up."
but you'd make a great dad
I think
yes? no?
and I'd make a great mom...
...sort of.

We'd love them (the children or child..whichever)
and we'd be weird
so they'd (or he or she..again, whichever) be weird
and their friends would say,
"Who the **** are The Beatles?"

Eh...let's not get married
let's hold hands first
or be together a year
or get through one meal without having to giggle and look away
because I caught you staring at me
or was it me who was...never mind.

Now I'm studying my hands,
the ones you have not held,
the ones with the ugly, fat, stubby, unlady-like fingers
the same fingers you said you loved.

you're such an idiot sometimes.

Remember that time you said I was beautiful?
which time?
oh right, you've said it more than once;

you idiot.

Do you notice how when you're not looking at me
I stare at your face?
your eyes?
your lips?
your perfect lashes?


I should stop now.
see you soon,

spur of the moment thing. will polish later.
1.1k · May 2012
murmurs from a distance
Julian Dorothea May 2012
Alone again in this four-room house;
the wind stagnant, like water.
empty beds
from bodies that have long ago left.

On the table there is but one placemat
and eight chairs.

I have turned off all the lights
to look at myself
on the moon on my table.

I wish you were here

but you never are, never were.
you are a ghost
hiding behind words from far away.

It's been days of us reading
each other.
letters, commas, question
marks dancing
into a person.

I crane my neck to hear your voice
but there are only faint echoes,
like murmurs
from distant mountains.

There is a house on Trepidation Street
and it is where I have often lived.
You are beyond

a poem
you are beyond me
you are my fear in human form
because you are so many things I am not,


you are what I've been looking for
and more,
it is this more that makes me fear
the distance
between us is further than my imperfection can take.

My own fear rests
in my occupation of this space
you've given me: between loving you
and wondering
you love me too.

or perhaps
in the realization
that no good poem will come to me untilyouleaveme
but I don't think any poem could be worth losing

I find it easier to write when I am high on a broken heart or an unrequited love.
Julian Dorothea Oct 2013
the truth is
I want to die
but the truth is
my death
would hurt more
than my life.

for in living
it is only I who suffers.

and I have discovered
that the greatest pain
is not in being hated,
but in being ignored.

and sadly
the only way for anyone
to really understand what I meant by that

is to live through a life
of being overlooked.

of speaking
and never being heard.

of wearing masks
so everyone can stand being around you.

of being constantly told
that you are fine
when deep down you know your truth.

of using tears
to clean your face
just so you can smile once more.

being frustrated
at your inability to articulate
these feelings into words,
failing to realize that there is no way
that they could understand what you mean

because what you experience,
this personal hell,
is not in their scope
of existence.

I could go on
but their voices have seeped into all my cracks
"it's all in your head"
"get over it"
"you're just being dramatic"
and I end up judging myself

feeling less like a person
and more like a thing
that was made wrong.

a misfit
a mistake
a dysfunctional
an oddity
an alien
a ****** up
overdramatic attention-seeker.

everyone has ****
why can't you keep yours in line?

everyone has pain
why can't you fix yourself?

just talk about it.

let it out.

it's easy.

what is wrong with you?
why can't you just tell me?

I hide tears away like illegal contraband
feelings that should not be indulged.

I wear smiles like special passes
so I can weave my way around society.

and all I really want
is a little patience
a little acceptance.

I'm not too much of a freak
that I cannot be loved.

I promise I'm not so bad.

just give me some time
I'll be good

if anyone needs to talk,  I'm willing to listen.
1.1k · Feb 2012
Julian Dorothea Feb 2012
heavy faces
like rainwater
on tarpaulin ceilings

sinking into the meaningless
prose of daily life

cliched, cafe, journal writer
asking for someone
         to answer

the why.

and everyone is wearing earphones

's an empty magazine
colors, forms
from somewhere else

          we are no longer


thin, fat,
black bars
in a white box
          we willingly enter

reluctantly leave
           to feel
the joys of coming in
1.0k · Jul 2014
Seeing you again
Julian Dorothea Jul 2014
there was a brief moment
in our acknowledgement
of each other
when everything felt right
a shared smile
and locked eyes


it was precisely this ease
of slipping back into
what once was
which made everything
so absurd

and the jolt in my heart
pulled my head down
as I stared at my feet
walking away from

1.0k · Aug 2011
familiarly strange
Julian Dorothea Aug 2011
happy birthday to you
happy birthday to you
happy birthday...
happy birthday...
happy birthday, to...*

Today I felt like I was born as a much saddder person
I feel sadness because I feel lost
the country I lived in all my life decided it was somewhere else
and the people I called countrymen and friends decided to go with it

nothing looks like it used to
nothing feels like it's supposed to
and even nothing has changed
to become this everything.

the sound of laughter escaping lips
needs subtitles
and the messages from my best friend's eyes need decrypting
a knowing look no longer knowing

where my parents house is
where the giant tree, with kites stuck and tire swings
is planted where I spent my years growing
my old toys lie in attic space  

I do not know what happened
I don't know what went wrong
but I just want to hear again the tune of that familiar birthday song


now, how did all that go?
please tell me how to improve this poem.
1.0k · Sep 2013
Julian Dorothea Sep 2013
I used to enter the coffins of bathroom stalls
to dance my weird away
to be free  from prying eyes…
now, they are chambers for my sadness
too small to hold it all

they are the mummy's sarcophagus
and I am cursed with your ghost.

I am

but the only place
large enough to hold all this loneliness
are your wide open arms.

"move on"
you said.
as if it was easy
like loving you,
as if it wasn't more
like dismantling pyramids from the top
down with a toothpick and an unsteady hand.

someday you will choose to love
but I am not the girl
to change your mind.

I am slowly accepting your death
brushing the dirt off of artifacts:
the way you held me
like an ancient civilization’s most precious deity,
late night walks
through labyrinths, with no wish for threads of return
jazz concerts, green jokes,
our staple, our oral tradition
and food always parted at the middle
a sacrifice for all the hopes we had
in this dating ritual.

you will never be the you that I once knew,
that you is dead

existing only in my memory
like a brain kept in a jar
away from the rest of you.

This new you
(the only you that exists)
is a stranger
a different person
an un-dug desert, jungle un-ventured

and though
I grieve for he who has died
it would be stupid to dig up his grave
inside of you.
1.0k · Jul 2013
a tryst with rain
Julian Dorothea Jul 2013
the building is covered by rain
it pitter patters on the roof
like quiet whispers to the ear
by an unknown breath
I cringe at the neck
too close

where are you?

rain flows from the cracks
on the wall
the windows are crying.
the paint is damp and cold
and peeling.

I am on my bed
to be drenched.

the room is filled
with rain

the floor, invisible
my bed floats
as the waves lick my sheets
I am cold

the falling of rain
the sloshing of waves
sounds encircling me like arms
touching my cheek
my hair
my lips

arms that
hold me by the neck
crashing raindrops like the banging in my chest
I cannot breathe.

I read back old conversations
and they are not our voices
they are muffled sounds
this isn't really finished...but I really need feedback.
942 · Sep 2011
Julian Dorothea Sep 2011
The truth is
I've got no more face
to face you

I've been such a ****
and when I look into your eyes
all I feel is shame

your face
with its smile
and accepting eyes
has become a mirror
of all the times I put you down.

I am not avoiding you
because of you
I am avoiding you because

of me

it's the whole cliche'
of "it's not you, it's me"

but maybe it is you

the fact that you
do not hate me
or condemn me
or even as much as recognize my shame

you're drowning me in guilt
and your open arms
are worse than the prodigal son's father's

so when I say
know that
it's not you
it's me
and my insecurities
and my self doubt
and maybe my depression
and maybe my fear

so I'm not gonna like you
I'm not gonna like you

even if I already do
925 · Aug 2011
(insert angst)
Julian Dorothea Aug 2011
The ****

muttered under breaths
of exasperation
is the language that you speak.

your life has become a series, unanswered
questions, curses, solitude.

you walk from dead end
to dead
crossing dark roads in between

as cars shine yellow eyes behind you
your shadow shrinking
swallowed by your footsteps
with the red taillights
fading into the distance

you are
want to be

you're angry,
angrily searching
for peace.

smoke rises from your parted lips
forming the lyrics
of that last rock record

it probably sold millions
your pain and frustration
caught in it

yet still

                                  no one understands.
893 · Nov 2011
Julian Dorothea Nov 2011
I am intrigued...
who are you?
I say to the boy
with the eyes screaming
"save me"

his smile smelling of dead things
and boiling tar

what are you?
and he laughs
a sound like the quiet echo of a raindrop in nowhere.
this has been in my drafts folder for a while and I don't know what to add to it....still editing...
885 · Sep 2011
Public Speaking
Julian Dorothea Sep 2011
she speaks

(a book
sandwiched in)

between ahs,

of bookmarks)

her words drown in
the syllable,




are uh…




is her voice
and the ideas that no one else has

881 · Sep 2013
you were home.
Julian Dorothea Sep 2013
sometimes I think of you and die inside. and I end up crying in bathroom stalls. I miss you. I miss you.

sometimes I want to send you all these books I've read because they remind me of you but the truth is that no two people read the same book, no two people are in the same relationship, a conversation  is not shared, a moment, a laugh, a look. We were never a we. There was a you and an I. A you with your thoughts and an I with mine.

sometimes I think that perhaps if I write you letters. endlessly. endlessly. and put them all into a box I would eventually come to realize that there will never be a possibility of you replying to them. And you turn into nothing more than a thing in the distance that my voice will be unable to reach. and slowly. slowly. I will accept that you have gone. that how we are is no longer what we once were and that we can never be that again.

we used to refer to each other as "home". are you a wandering vagabond just like me? are you a homeless, restless, soul? are you like Julian's tourist? I am. I am. I am. You were my ultimate symbol of acceptance. and now nowhere is safe. I have taken to walking the streets every chance I get. Every time my mind is not locked on some book. on some lecture. on some dream. I am walking. walking. walking. It is the only way I can survive. to stop. to pause. would only bring me to the loss of you. it is this reality I run from.

I read book upon book to escape you. blare music to my ears til I'm dead. but all the words contain you. every line has you. the songs sing in your voice. you are everywhere. there is nowhere to run.

I'm sorry for being too much like Tereza, you deserved more than that.

and I am too scared to open my journal.
Julian is Julian Casablancas and Tereza is Milan Kundera's character. This was only supposed to be the beginning of something but I don't think I have the strength to write it yet.
870 · Nov 2011
Julian Dorothea Nov 2011
I've been curing my loneliness
with solitude

talking to myself
instead of somebody else.

I've been spending days
staring at the ceiling
dreaming myself to outer space
or New York

instead of leaving my room.

I've been writing letters
whose length would make Anna Karenina blush
all tucked into the curves of my cerebral cortex

instead of sending

"hey, hw r u?"
text messages

I've been curing my loneliness
with solitude

if you call crying alone
with my own hand patting my back

this is a draft bu well i'd like some feedback
855 · Aug 2011
Julian Dorothea Aug 2011
I loan my heart
to anis mojgani's hands
thin and perfect
with a wideness that can hold the moon,
the earth,
a word.

their quiet rising
and falling
their cannot-be-bottled-
up fidgeting


that I too may learn
to express
no shame
no fear
no doubt.

just me.


with conviction.

my heart's beat
will thump
thump THUNDER!

I don't care who stares
It won't shut up,
I won't let it.
let their brooms bang on the ceiling
send for the cops!
call my parents!

I don't
I'm gonna shout *******

833 · Sep 2011
Stormy weather
Julian Dorothea Sep 2011
Imagine for a moment that the weather is a ******

She is bored as she peels off the chipping paint on my window
and with eyebrow raised flicks the pieces at my bed
(the same bed I am lying on)

I hear the woosh and flutter of her dress
as she parades and struts around.
She is purposely blowing cigarette smoke to my face
like a high and mighty *****
with painted lips and black stockings.

I pay her no heed

She screams and ruffles the trees for attention
flinging branches and leaves in a fit
she speaks and her spit hits my eyes in little droplets.

Her heavy breathing
and banging of doors and windows
is becoming a little too dramatic

I close the window again,
I've closed it a million times
and with her dainty fingers she pries it open to peek

she sulks in a corner
eyeing me crossly
annoyed at my reading
my writing
my contemplation

and true to her nature

          she does it all again...
If the western hemisphere has snow storms..we have tropical typhoons! yay no classes! (not that fun actually...)
I know this isn't quite ready yet..but I just really needed to post something.:(
792 · Aug 2011
He is the earl of confusion
Julian Dorothea Aug 2011
I. first memory of him:

in a bus
bodies were squeezed in like crayons
he, at one end
I, at the other

I remember him looking into my eyes

seeing something I knew I didn't have

I felt nothing
what the hell did he see?

I looked away  

II. the second memory of him:

covering a broken window
opening to a basketball court

thump thump thump
the ball went
alone he played

I turned my head as the wind blew
our eyes locked




III. the third memory:

running away

IV: the fourth:
my anger
letting him slip

V. the fifth
waving at each other

smiling lips

and polite


791 · Nov 2011
Alone again
Julian Dorothea Nov 2011
I find myself soul searching inside Cafes
As if to expect sitting there
The six year old who asked how the cricket sings
The two year old who could not be understood
And the first grader who'd just learned to fly

But every sip of coffee does not give something back
The records playing tug no inner chords
And the pages are as blank filled
As when the notebook was first opened

Strangers' eyes do not hold couplets
And their smiles are painted curves
Of chipping, fading memories
This is a somewhat of a first draft
788 · Nov 2012
Julian Dorothea Nov 2012
You've eaten two chicken burgers in front of me

and the second time
I realized
you were beautiful.

That sounds stupid, but hear me out;
your eyes
they're perfect
your lashes are so delicate
like gossamer black frames of thin, long, lady's gloved fingers.
I sound crazy, I know
But I'm writing a poem about it
and Art is a license for madness;
So leave me be.
I'm stalking pictures of you on the webs
of the internet
But these golems
these flat, lifeless, smiles
leave me unsatisfied
None of them capture that moment
when I was
in a state of silent staring
like cobwebs in empty, abandoned room corners

your voice muted by the screaming
in your eyes

as you
bit into that burger.

I wonder how I looked then.
This was a spur of the moment kind of thing...**** me.
785 · Aug 2011
wired weird
Julian Dorothea Aug 2011
You're the only one I've ever known to stare
at the face of the clock on your wrist,
carefully following the




just so you could brag about
what every two-eyed person missed--
catching the minute hand move, in its slight little twitch
or maybe it was the hour
I fail to remember which.

Saw it with your own two eyes you said to me while
and i shook my head in disbelief,
amused at that tricky timing.

I looked at you and thought some thoughts
of how your you-ness has always been
a what you get is not what you see,

your patience forever a complexity,

and your determination, the perplexor
needs its own personal illustrator
You've always known where you were headed
but you also made sure that you'd take
the longest, most

                                                    weirdest path
to get and eat life's cake.

I knew I couldn't follow you
but well I gave it a try
and when you finally put your wings on
I was just happy to see you fly
782 · Sep 2012
Julian Dorothea Sep 2012
Let me be the Bonnie to your Hyde
I can be the Z to your Scotty
Let's, let's ruin each other baby
Arms and fingers locked
Drugging the other down
We're two gnarled bodies, writhing on the ground

No morphine needed
We're both about the pain
Inhaling you fast
You're my line of pixie dust
I fly to fall down
Faith? Hope? I just need to suffer now.

You're the apple tree splinter
Poking my eye so I can't see.
The mirror on your door is me
And the fairest is anyone but you.
I'm your painting mr. Gray
Hide me in the attic; can't throw me away

Let's, let's ruin each other baby
Oh wait we already did or do.
These brass scales are getting heavy,
It's me for you

And do you hear that sound?
It's our siren lullaby.
We crash into each others'arms
Tied to each others' masts;
Drugging each other down
There's the frog and the water-sound.

We're one, we're done, well that was fun.
Once again..not a poem. Lyrics lyrics..for no apparent reason. Anyone care to add a tune?
769 · Aug 2011
canned knot
Julian Dorothea Aug 2011
I have used up
to reap
only frustration,

crossed out
after word
after word
phrases sentences stanzas
not knowing


forcing verse to rise
from the dark waters of self doubt,
time and effort coax and tease
and tempt
and tug
and pull

yet pencil lead continues
to disappear
on pages

but thick hard gray scratches,
second guesses
angry strokes

Voices hum from the towering trees,
inspiration hiding in a corner

and I listen
to myself
            I can't.

And all the poems that could have been
fold like smoke
this still doesn't seem finished. i'm sorry.
765 · May 2014
Julian Dorothea May 2014
sometimes I feel very very small*

I am here
on the bed
a cocoon
fighting desperately to be a butterfly

you are there
a bird
big strong wings waiting
to eat me.

I am small
like a loose thread from an old sweater
moving against fingertips
you could roll me into a ball

and you are the smudge on the window pane
that this ball cannot wipe away.

I am the small drop on the shower head
clinging, trepid,
anticipating my great fall

you are the hairs on the shower drain
not going anywhere
hindering the flow.

I am small
and I am tired of you

I am sick of the parts of you still in me.

I am the cocoon
-ly fighting
to be

aching for freedom
I break my mattress cage

I crumble, choke, struggle
instead of fly

The feathers in my pillow
are yours


smother me.
had a little help from my best mate, Phil Lester (her name's Jay should totes follow her too).
754 · Nov 2011
Fake tales echo
Julian Dorothea Nov 2011
The road he travels is filled
with bleeding markers
wrought with the pain of a past

They described him to be substantial
and ****
like unfinished books
on coffee tables and subways
pages blowing

His future promised to justify
his parents'

A wanderer
silently obsessed
with the road less traveled
with reading the American continent
like Sal Paradise

But he lived with windows half unhinged
getting there...
The title and some of the phrases in this poem were randomly pulled from a was great fun and great exercise:)
742 · Dec 2012
trying to write a poem
Julian Dorothea Dec 2012
As I was making my way to the kitchen
I dropped the cup I was holding
and it bounced on the floor, bangin in its wake
but still the sound did not fill the emptiness of this large room
on this lonely night

I miss you

I miss everything

No face comes to mind
no moment, no place, no voice
only a feeling
a feeling that I was once whole.

I am broken now
like the shadows the trees' leaves cast
on my solitary walks

I am quiet now
or have I always been?
I guess I typed this up a couple days back and left it in the drafts. I don't remember the feeling I might as well post it. Any suggestions on where I can take it?
Julian Dorothea Aug 2011
you never held my hand
    I was always too shy to let you
    and you respected me too much to try

but you held my shoulder
grabbed my arm every time I was about to fall
you always let go after
afraid that saving me was too much contact already

     you never tried to kiss me
because we never got that far
but your lips with all its talking has always been enough

I never got to touch you
as much as I would've liked
but you gave me more than that

     you gave me your words
let me into your ideas
let me touch you in places no one else had
and I let you feel

my fears and my dreams

    maybe it was too brief
and maybe we were too young
for it to have been love

but as far as I know I miss the way when we walked together
how you'd always take the side of the sidewalk where the cars sped by

and in that way I always felt
you risked your life for me and I never even got to say

thank you.
I can't believe I'm thinking of you still
698 · Aug 2011
Julian Dorothea Aug 2011
I bury my eyes
in shane koyczan's voice
feel the folds of the syllables
rolling off his tongue
in there a whole world could fall
and burrow in.

I close my eyes
see nothing
but his fireworks

the tornado
the hurricane
the spewing raining lava of his words
as his sentiments color my insides
and paint the soul
of my soul*

I blink
and rub away the clear cut
edges of my box
to finally
properly and openly
695 · Mar 2012
you are what you eat
Julian Dorothea Mar 2012
I am the broken binding
of a tattered book

many times opened, never

edges brown
from fingers, passing

no notes on my borders
few sentences underlined

creases, plenty
mementos of 'come-back-to-read-you-later'
thin brown lines
like palms
all ready to break
686 · Sep 2011
I'm messed up
Julian Dorothea Sep 2011
I remember the day
you said
'I like you'
I acted cavalier
ran the hell away

yet the truth is
I thought I kinda liked you too

I don't know why
I stopped myself

I've turned the pond of silence
between us an ocean

but sometimes,
(just sometimes)
I still feel your glance
and I swear I still hear the
whispers in your eyes.

I've run,
yet here you still are,
and still here I go
to there...somewhere

when the truth is
that every time you come,
to that moment before I turn my back
walk away,
I had already spent




­        for you.

The truth is
I always
know when you're there,
I've memorized the way you walk
to the messy of your hair.

There's nothing more to say because

I've never said anything
nor have I ventured near enough to hear you

I am paralyzed
by this anxiety
this deep fear, they've weakly deemed


I hate when I wear my pretend indifference,

because the truth is
I like you,

I've always.
681 · Oct 2011
Julian Dorothea Oct 2011
everyday she tries to turn
her existence
into a dot


but it's always a comma

or a question mark

       ?         ?    ,
                                   ?  ,

and the closest that she ever got


was a
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