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why
these writings,
these ramblings,
these, incoherent thoughts,

are many things to me.
i write for several reasons,
and I post my work for several more.

this, is my therapy...
this allows me to go back in time and, re-live moments, to re-think thoughts, and most importantly, re-evaluate my internal response and outlook of the situation, feeling, or occurrence.

my writing focuses upon my internalisms, my thoughts.
very few of my pieces are outwardly inspired. Very rarely is my writing based within my physical perception of what is happening around me.

I post and share, for several more reasons; some purer than others.
I share because I don't want others to suffer as I do at times, and perhaps, something in my writing will inspire a change in thought or feeling, or at the very least, allow someone to relate, and realize they're not alone.

I share so that someone, someday will recognize the true weight and reflection of my writing and be able to identify how, and why I am how I am, and help me better understand myself and the world around me, and minimize, or even eliminate this endless battle, and help me find the only thing in life that I truly yearn for:
peace.

i share also because i feel that my experiences and thoughts are common property. my creations, once made, are no longer mine to keep to myself. these words, these thoughts, these feelings are yours to do with what you please. love them, hate them, learn from them, or ignore them completely. Just as speech is common domain, so is my inner speech.

lastly, i share Because of my struggle... this is my selfish motive. I am addicted to the validation of seeing you all read my inner thoughts and react to it. It tells me I am not dreaming. It shows me that what I feel is, in fact, real and that I am not just a figment of my own imagination.

Why am I writing this?
to show you i am not merely a writer behind a mask, or truly a writer at all.
I am just a human, a person sharing my existence in the form of written words.

Thank you,
And may you all find a true, everlasting peace, and love within yourselves, and each other.
Hasi Aug 6
But.
What if I didn't want you to let me go.
Sitting with my head to the window,
back to the door.
I dunno if I can run anymore.
From you.
But.
You let me go.
I'm still holding on. To you.
But.
I love you.
Still do. Always have.
I love you.
I want you to be happy,
with or without me.
But.
I keep turning around.
To you and the closed door of us.
It's been so long. You are past 'us'.
I am not.
But.
I want you to be happy.
With or without me.
But.
I want to call you mine,
so we can dream together.
But.
I love you.
And I want you to be happy.
I won't run anymore.
                                                      "If you want something, fight for it."
I am.
I'm trying.
                                                                            "It's too late."
It might be.
But.
You left a hole in my mind,
knowing that was what I treasured the most-
not the heart, or soul, or even the body.
It's a black hole,
******* all that I am and all that I know,
into the abyss that you used to inhabit.
But.
I love you.
It's a mantra.
I love you.
But.
I don't know
if you love me.
I don't even know
you
anymore.
But.
I'm willing to try.
If you'd let me.
(Monologue), Long-ish.
"I never knew it was toxic, until I tasted freedom with love. I never knew what it was like to be loved, without being encaged. But now I can take my decisions, I can roam free. I can be loved and be my own person. I chose what I do today and forever.
It was love before, it is love now. But now he loves me into independence. I discover more about myself. I find myself healing.The stifling breath, and aching sobs in my chest are slowly fading.  It was love before but the bad outweighed the good. Too weak and in love to leave. But I am not a possession, I am my own person."

- excerpt from a monologue of breaking free from a possessive relationship
This is my mono-monologue.

I stand alone befoe the world,
My lonely clean white flag unfurled,
Wondering when the winter sky
Will melt my wings and let my fly.

Perched upon a mountaintop
With not a soul in sight
"When will my isolation stop?"
I cry with all my might.

This is my mono-monologue.

The wind whispers
What I hoped I'd never know:
"You are so far away from them
Because you are below.

"But maybe you are
The one who lives above.
Maybe that is why
You never could be loved."

This is my mono-monologue.

I've lived a shunned life
(It can be hard to see)
Although I haven't felt much strife,
My freedom's far from free.

I do not truly know
What you mean by 'best friend'.
I'm fated to live alone
Until the very end.

This is my mono-monologue.
Mono-monologue: A monologue on loneliness.
Emmanuella Jun 18
"And you,
my dear lady,
are the poem.
I just give it voice."
And I could recite it evermore.
Why do I keep doing this to myself?
Once again I’m skunk as a drunk
(Perhaps the other way around)
In that dark alley behind our bar
Desperately searching for you
In the bottom of another bottle
Rehearsing that effect speech
I’d say right in your face

Truth be told, these lines are all in vain
I’ll probably never see you again
And even if I do, I’d be speechless
Falling under your spell (and your legs)
So I giggle at myself
While pouring another shot
And toasting to my silly monologue
Bartender, bring me another bottle of the good stuff!
Lucía Apr 29
chill out
sometimes
it's OK
not to be
the best
.
Emmanuella Apr 19
"Oh! 'Tis great grief,
Wrought by fate's mischief;
To pledge my love by some vow,
Even when Cupid hasn't strung his arrow into his bow."
An Elizabethan tragedy in four soliloquical lines.
And a sprinkle of an eye rhyme.
Winnie Apr 14
I gave my heart to you
I said

We're just friends
He said

You controlled my mind
I sighed

You're too emotional
He replied

Why you
I asked myself

Sorry
He said

Silence
I answered
Jade Mar 27
I had my first kiss at the cinema, the contour of our silhouettes illuminated by the glow of the rolling credits. He tasted like Altoids and cigarettes, an ambivalent concoction of ice and fire. At one point, I'd bitten him by accident. Whether this was a manifestation of inexperience or (seductively, with heat in her eyes) hunger,  I'm not sure. But, sitting there in the thrill of My Something New, I was certain of one thing: this was a red carpet moment, the stuff of silver screens and glimmering Hollywood starlets and rows of type writer ribbon waiting to be transposed into something theatrical.

After the film, we sat outside a cafe a block over, the fever of summer adhering to the back of our necks like (giggling) misplaced hickeys. Smoke corkscrewing from the end of his parliament, he told me how John F. Kennedy was addicted to opioids. I couldn't help but think back to earlier that afternoon when he first admitted to being a smoker. How he'd asked me, "Is this going to be a problem for you?" hesitation rising up his throat like bile.

I smiled because 'Everyone's got their poison," I replied.  

And poison? Well, there's something so strikingly poetic about it, don't you agree?

(beat.)

JFK must have been Marilyn Monroe's poison, I think.

"So," I offered, "What do you really think happened to Marilyn Monroe?"

"How do you mean?" he said between drags of his cigarette.

"I mean was it really an overdose or--"

"Was it an assassination?" he interjected.

"Mhmmm."

Another drag of his cigarette.

"As they say, the simplest answer is often the correct one."

"Maybe. (beat.) But what makes for the better story?"

After two weeks of courtship, he took his leave. My mother's obvious, unwarranted disapproval was, perhaps, a source of anxiety for him. Me being freshly eighteen, he was also concerned about that (sarcastically) whoppin' three year age gap. (beat.) Not fully buying it, are ya?

Well, neither did I.

Here's my theory: his feelings (or lack thereof) were the reason he called it quits. And instead of being a man--instead of being honest, instead of owning up to the true nature of his intentions--he spun some relatively believable excuse. A coward's way of removing himself from a situation he doesn't want to be in. Surprisingly enough, I wasn't as disappointed as I would have anticipated, had I foreseen the end of our fleeting romance.

I was (beat.) fine.

It does make for a great story, after all. (wryly) But you knew that already.

Because for every Norma Jean, there's always a Marilyn Monroe.

Tell me then--who are you?

(beat.)

Girl curtsies, transitioning into a tableau of Marilyn Monroe's iconic pose wherein she attempts to hold down her dress as the air from a nearby subway grate threatens to expose her undergarments.

Lights fade out.

{Fin}
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
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