Where to begin
How to start
All I have to do is
Take a breath. Go.
Say what you need to say
Highlight your main points
Oversee any changes,
Under and over with vocabulary
Let it flow through you
Definitely. Divide. Daft. Difference.
I think this is... I think.
Where do they lurk? Where can I find it?
Rather a difficult chore, it seems
I can hardly take it! No more!
Take me away! I almost... Just a little. I just can't....
“every time i feel my stomach convulse it’s a new wave of tears
take vitamins, she says
you should just eat, she says
you got skinnier, another says
“eat! eat! haven’t you been eating!? and this bandaid! quit cutting yourself, kalena”
and for a moment i think it’s truth
i think it’s honest
i shout “i do eat! they’re just cat scratches”
and if she would have lifted up that bandaid
she would have learned it was honest
it was truth
but it was melted away flesh that she would have found, not torn
and in the highlight of this moment i see all of my dreams come true
finally, someone notices!
finally, someone cares!
but yet she’s willing to stop eating. to make sure that i do.
my little thing. an entire 98 pounds, not by choice.
so unhealthy, so sick. all the time. so damn tired.
she would stop eating for me.
and though it doesn’t help, the thought is comforting. it should be disturbing.
it is. in the way that if she stopped eating…
she would lose weight.
and then i would fight harder and harder until my rib bones were sticking out so far they were larger than my chest.
bony fingers that boys don’t want to hold and girls don’t want to kiss.
hair that slides out with the slightest tug.
no one wants that.
except me, of course.
i want that.
i want to weigh 85 pounds.
i want to die.
i want to be so high on the emptiness that i die.
i faint. and they cannot wake me up.
eternal sleep. forever peace. and the best part of all?
I would be horrifically tiny in even the smallest coffin. “
today I read a series
for writing poetry.
one that caught my eye was:
"If it hasn't been edited, it isn't a poem. It is a draft."
it was stated with such conviction, I was convinced.
I said to myself:
"I've never written a poem... these are all
but this guy also said:
use the word soul
and you should be shot,
if it doesn't sound beautiful
it isn't a poem.
also he was writing rules
on how to write poetry.
who does that?
I resolved that he must be
a pretentious wanker.
this is the raw stuff
that we all have to work with.
but no one ever publishes
their first draft.
so we're stuck
living in our own raw
and comparing it to
everyone else's highlight reel.
if you don't want to call this
poetry, that's fine.
you can suck on
my initial vomit.
Time is an old story teller,
he is all-knowing and all-seeing.
An old diner that sits in the west under an illuminated open sign,
holds the most twisted relationship there ever was.
Black coffee sits in an old dirty white mug,
false smiles highlight the masks of the two,
pastries gather together on an ugly dish.
Crumbs collect on their laps as they sit in their unhappiness.
Her skirt rumpled, his jeans creased,
her makeup smeared, his beard unshaven.
His wandering eyes, her lips turned towards the table,
their glumness leaves a distasteful air in the vacant restaurant.
Together they sit alone,
the rock clasped to her finger, a symbol of their struggle.
The man shudders in the cold, stands up, and walks away.
She does not follow.
Her coffee has become ice cold.
And yet the clock on the wall