For the man who writes verses
Right before I got sick a friend sent me this link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AeSCsB2uOmI&index=11&list=PLIS0VmeE8PZ_VpbGinaET_D5B9EW6JumJ
His timing couldn't have been any better. As for the video. It's just that I'm taking off the silk suit to put on the panties. Everyone has a bad habit. I'm loving this band. I just got into a disagreement with a friend over music. He likes a lot of really happy music made in the late seventies and the eighties. I probably hurt his feelings because I was honest about the first link he sent me. It sounded like perky 80's jazz. As a friend, maybe I should've lied and said that I liked it. That would be the normal thing to do.
I'm used to people not loving my favorite music. A few people caught my title was part of the lyrics for 'smells like teen spirit.' I picked that title for my own amusement. I remember having this english teacher who was proud of her status as a former hippie. Now everyone bitches about the flaws we see in millennials. I didn't know until recently that I could be considered one of ....them. I was born in 82. My problem was maturing way too young. By ten, I was at my adult height, My tits were a 34 DD. I was happy to be a dork because I couldn't handle the pressure of being that little girl with the massive titties. When my mom went to nursing school, I was ten. She dragged me to her college one day and left me sitting on a bench.. This lady my mom's age sat down next to me. She looked at me and just trying to be polite she said 'what classes are you taking?' I remember blurting out 'lady, I'm only ten' She had no words.
I guess I fall technically in the classification generation y. But, I was raised like I was generation x. I wasn't like most k**s. I went to work two or three days after I turned f******n. I got put on the work schedule six days a week. I was doing everything in a restaurant, mostly waiting tables. It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't easy. But, I grew up quick. I worked each day with this classic group of middle aged women who relied on meth to get through each shift. I have so many stories involving those women. One of them involves a woman about to deliver a dead meth baby miscarriage she allowed to fester. I got her to the hospital as she was birthing the dead baby in the waiting room screaming like she was in a place beyond death, My car was a putrid bloodbath. After that everyone called my car the bloodmobile because it's impossible to get dead meth baby miscarriage blood out of cloth seats.
My point is that I was a fully formed adult that was responsibly working, fucking, partying and keeping up with advanced classes before I ever entered my high school as a freshman. I loved music. I loved everything about music when I was a teenager. The day I lost my virginity was highlighted by the pleasant memory of buying Beck's Odelay. Back to the topic I started with, my friend who liked eighties music hated any link I sent him. At one point he said if he listened to it any longer he'd need to slit his wrists. Without thinking, I blurted out 'your music makes my ears bleed.' I was raised on nirvana. The english teacher I had could lecture us once a week how our generation was simply fucked. She gave this speech where she broke down the lyrics to 'smells like teen spirit.' She foamed at the mouth when she talked about the phrase 'here we are now, entertain us.' She wanted to know how come we thought the purpose of everyone in our life was to provide us entertainment?
In her opinion, the baby boomers entertained themselves and actually felt something besides angst and apathy. She also used to bitch about k**s like me wearing vintage clothes. I was her primary target when it came to that issue. She demanded that i stop ripping off the fashion of her generation and stick with what was cool around 1996. I just remember lame girls wearing floor length black skirts. There was a lot of satin. Shirts with ruffles. Velvet. I rebelled. For the most part I wore my grandma's clothes that had been in storage. I'd also have days when I dressed like a total teenage slut. I don't know if I've blogged about this or merely talked about it in letters. I think I figured out how to break most men. It involves about one and half inches of bare skin above your thigh highs and before the hem of your skirt. I swear that inch of skin on a woman's thighs will absolutely get you whatever you want from a man.
Maybe my teacher was right that I ripped off my fashion trends from the sixties. She was also right that everyone I knew expected to be entertained. Her speech did the job. It was entertaining as a motherfucker to here her attack us for being so melancholy, emotional, angry and numb The music we loved captured those emotions. Most of us came from broken homes. Home usually wasn't a happy place.
I graduated in 2000. People were just starting to get cell phones. The only way they affected my life at that age was my mom being able to tell me over the phone that my dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. My mom does not sugarcoat a goddamn thing. My first cell phone moment was in a denny's parking lot. She said she had bad news. I told her to spit it out. Her exact words in a monotone with no emotion were 'your dad has pancreatic cancer. There's absolutely no treatment or cure. He'll be dead in roughly three months to a year. And I think you should know it's one of the most painful ways a person can die.' At that moment, my deep hatred for cell phones began. I didn't know what to say. I went home with my boyfriend. We had angry, kinky sex. Then I went home and walked straight to my room probably to listen to something like Nirvana unplugged. I might have even listened to odelay.
I wish I could say that was the only time my mom told me information that was hard to process but very important for me to learn. My aunt, (her sister) had many suicide attempts. No one really knows how she died. My mom swears her organs simply shut down after she had something traumatic happen. I just remember being eight or nine and people at her funeral could only talk about the fact the coroners didn't rule her death suicide and that meant she could go to heaven. That is some confusing shit for a little girl to process. My mom was devastated. However, she always treated me like an adult. She told me to sit down because she had something very important to tell me. I was like 'what?' She just busted out with 'never ever try to kill yourself with pills, most of the time that doesn't work, all you do is hurt your organs. But the worst thing about trying to do it with pills is that no doctor will ever prescribe you pills again and that's totally a fate worse than death.' I will tease her tell the day i die about that speech. She stands firm in her belief it was an important lesson for me to learn around eight years old. Seriously, if I was suicidal, I wouldn't use pills. She's right. No doctor would ever give me medicine again. And that is a fate worse than death in our family.
Back to the argument about being generation x versus generation y. I grew up with no technology besides cable television. I guess that makes me more x than y. It's funny that my friend said my kind of music made him want to slit his wrists. Loving that music kept me from slitting my wrists. It made me who I am.
I didn't plan to give out that much of an explanation before getting to the point of this blog. I decided to clean my room. The kind of cleaning that involves opening boxes that you haven't touched in a decade. It's really a miracle any of my stuff from high school exists. I think I've blogged about the worst part of my dissociation disorder. I don't know how I do it but things disappear from my house. I know I'm the culprit. Anything that I cared about was systematically thrown away, destroyed, hidden or god only knows. I lost all the cute clothes i wore. I've lost every picture I had of friends. I lost/destroyed my dead dad's wallet. I think I may be throwing things in the creek behind my house. I even removed the backpack I used from eighth grade through my senior year. It chronicled my life. It had patches all over it. I don't have a clue what I've done with my mementos and clothing.
I got excited months back because I reached Into this crevice in my closet and pulled out a david bowie shirt I forgot I ever had. Not long ago I bought an awesome t-shirt that had an x-rated drawing of a vintage naked pin-up with her nipples covered with stars. Written across her crotch area was the phrase 'fuck you I found jesus.' I can't believe I would eliminate the 'fuck you I found jesus' shirt.
When I was cleaning, I stumbled across something that managed to escape my amnesiac purge of memories. It's a folder of stuff I scribbled on loose notebook paper when I was in high school and college. I couldn't stop doodling. I also dealt with emotions like teenage love gone wrong by writing. I would scribble out my thoughts. They are the ramblings of a mad woman. They are a funny glimpse into my life. I remember writing poetry. It kind of freaked me out to read stuff I wrote as a teenager. Some of it spoke volumes without using many words. And then some of it you can tell I'm just playing with words. Instead of sexting, I was coming up with weird rhymes. I can read what I wrote and remember what it was like to feel misunderstood. I can remember what it was like being bipolar with no treatment. I would write a verse about deep depression, snap out of it when the bell rang to switch classes and spend five minutes happy as I've ever been hugging friends with this genuine smile on my face. I was very sad and very happy at the same time.
This post is dedicated to an incredible man I met on this site who writes poetry that makes me feel something. You can feel his sadness and it's not unpleasant because the words he uses are beautiful. I love a message or comment from him because it's the only time I sit down and try to make him feel the same emotion. This is a porn site. It's also a place where people do things like swap verses. I never liked the word poem. I've shared some of the recent stuff I've written a couple of times. If I start rhyming, it's hard as hell to go back to normal speech. So this is for my friend, so he can see what I wrote when I was young.
I have a stack of verses and I don't know which one is the best. In a way they only matter because somehow they didn't get destroyed like almost everything else. My very good friend who didn't like my taste in music caught me on the wrong day. I couldn't pretend to like happy 80's jazz. I could only think about the music that shaped me. I wouldn't have written this stuff if I wasn't melancholy, emotional, angry, numb.and lacking love in my life.
Do you see what I see? Bitter enemies,Hatred glances
sipping on trances, taking the chance to Feel you,
Steal your smile, your glowing dignities.
Your lounge chair love
shove me away, never to stay.
mile for mile, asking for more
like never before. I climb. I shine
I run from your eyelashes
negative heart beat flashes
inside me pulsating behind me
moving to divide me
you can have it for free
constant grin telling me shut up
smut and guts blown away
push push push the ideas together
always and forever
a cloud of red dust. deadly disease
spreading beneath me
behind my eyes I feel you
stealing strength molding like clay
-stay away
Breath so hard, singing sigh
lingering like music to my ears,
pushing my fears away from my courage
the pure allure of my dangerous taste
just to waste
my waiting.
Fate knocks on the door
demand more damn it
And I'm gonna write this one down too because I know this folder will not last long before it ends up with all the other pieces of my life
The book is open. the time is now
enter the moment. steal the vow
kiss the bride. murder the groom
secrets gone with the sweep of a broom
slide through the ocean, a delicate motion
honeymoon bliss, a slip of your lisp
the look in your eye
Black floating stye
cutting it open. watching it die
sad bloated face
sharp twisting teeth
ready to win this c***dish race
I have your doll with bows in her hair
I let her fall in the river last year
caught in a maze of moss and carrion
sipping on wine. taste of true time
snow on the ground
blood falling down
pretty as a princess
drowning in soot
sweeping the ashes
from her long flowing lashes
blush on her cheeks
hating the grime
of the long winters night
bare footed kiss. dew on your lips
run through the mist
wind in the trees
begging you please
down on your knees
down the embankment tumbling
writhe in the dirt
His timing couldn't have been any better. As for the video. It's just that I'm taking off the silk suit to put on the panties. Everyone has a bad habit. I'm loving this band. I just got into a disagreement with a friend over music. He likes a lot of really happy music made in the late seventies and the eighties. I probably hurt his feelings because I was honest about the first link he sent me. It sounded like perky 80's jazz. As a friend, maybe I should've lied and said that I liked it. That would be the normal thing to do.
I'm used to people not loving my favorite music. A few people caught my title was part of the lyrics for 'smells like teen spirit.' I picked that title for my own amusement. I remember having this english teacher who was proud of her status as a former hippie. Now everyone bitches about the flaws we see in millennials. I didn't know until recently that I could be considered one of ....them. I was born in 82. My problem was maturing way too young. By ten, I was at my adult height, My tits were a 34 DD. I was happy to be a dork because I couldn't handle the pressure of being that little girl with the massive titties. When my mom went to nursing school, I was ten. She dragged me to her college one day and left me sitting on a bench.. This lady my mom's age sat down next to me. She looked at me and just trying to be polite she said 'what classes are you taking?' I remember blurting out 'lady, I'm only ten' She had no words.
I guess I fall technically in the classification generation y. But, I was raised like I was generation x. I wasn't like most k**s. I went to work two or three days after I turned f******n. I got put on the work schedule six days a week. I was doing everything in a restaurant, mostly waiting tables. It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't easy. But, I grew up quick. I worked each day with this classic group of middle aged women who relied on meth to get through each shift. I have so many stories involving those women. One of them involves a woman about to deliver a dead meth baby miscarriage she allowed to fester. I got her to the hospital as she was birthing the dead baby in the waiting room screaming like she was in a place beyond death, My car was a putrid bloodbath. After that everyone called my car the bloodmobile because it's impossible to get dead meth baby miscarriage blood out of cloth seats.
My point is that I was a fully formed adult that was responsibly working, fucking, partying and keeping up with advanced classes before I ever entered my high school as a freshman. I loved music. I loved everything about music when I was a teenager. The day I lost my virginity was highlighted by the pleasant memory of buying Beck's Odelay. Back to the topic I started with, my friend who liked eighties music hated any link I sent him. At one point he said if he listened to it any longer he'd need to slit his wrists. Without thinking, I blurted out 'your music makes my ears bleed.' I was raised on nirvana. The english teacher I had could lecture us once a week how our generation was simply fucked. She gave this speech where she broke down the lyrics to 'smells like teen spirit.' She foamed at the mouth when she talked about the phrase 'here we are now, entertain us.' She wanted to know how come we thought the purpose of everyone in our life was to provide us entertainment?
In her opinion, the baby boomers entertained themselves and actually felt something besides angst and apathy. She also used to bitch about k**s like me wearing vintage clothes. I was her primary target when it came to that issue. She demanded that i stop ripping off the fashion of her generation and stick with what was cool around 1996. I just remember lame girls wearing floor length black skirts. There was a lot of satin. Shirts with ruffles. Velvet. I rebelled. For the most part I wore my grandma's clothes that had been in storage. I'd also have days when I dressed like a total teenage slut. I don't know if I've blogged about this or merely talked about it in letters. I think I figured out how to break most men. It involves about one and half inches of bare skin above your thigh highs and before the hem of your skirt. I swear that inch of skin on a woman's thighs will absolutely get you whatever you want from a man.
Maybe my teacher was right that I ripped off my fashion trends from the sixties. She was also right that everyone I knew expected to be entertained. Her speech did the job. It was entertaining as a motherfucker to here her attack us for being so melancholy, emotional, angry and numb The music we loved captured those emotions. Most of us came from broken homes. Home usually wasn't a happy place.
I graduated in 2000. People were just starting to get cell phones. The only way they affected my life at that age was my mom being able to tell me over the phone that my dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. My mom does not sugarcoat a goddamn thing. My first cell phone moment was in a denny's parking lot. She said she had bad news. I told her to spit it out. Her exact words in a monotone with no emotion were 'your dad has pancreatic cancer. There's absolutely no treatment or cure. He'll be dead in roughly three months to a year. And I think you should know it's one of the most painful ways a person can die.' At that moment, my deep hatred for cell phones began. I didn't know what to say. I went home with my boyfriend. We had angry, kinky sex. Then I went home and walked straight to my room probably to listen to something like Nirvana unplugged. I might have even listened to odelay.
I wish I could say that was the only time my mom told me information that was hard to process but very important for me to learn. My aunt, (her sister) had many suicide attempts. No one really knows how she died. My mom swears her organs simply shut down after she had something traumatic happen. I just remember being eight or nine and people at her funeral could only talk about the fact the coroners didn't rule her death suicide and that meant she could go to heaven. That is some confusing shit for a little girl to process. My mom was devastated. However, she always treated me like an adult. She told me to sit down because she had something very important to tell me. I was like 'what?' She just busted out with 'never ever try to kill yourself with pills, most of the time that doesn't work, all you do is hurt your organs. But the worst thing about trying to do it with pills is that no doctor will ever prescribe you pills again and that's totally a fate worse than death.' I will tease her tell the day i die about that speech. She stands firm in her belief it was an important lesson for me to learn around eight years old. Seriously, if I was suicidal, I wouldn't use pills. She's right. No doctor would ever give me medicine again. And that is a fate worse than death in our family.
Back to the argument about being generation x versus generation y. I grew up with no technology besides cable television. I guess that makes me more x than y. It's funny that my friend said my kind of music made him want to slit his wrists. Loving that music kept me from slitting my wrists. It made me who I am.
I didn't plan to give out that much of an explanation before getting to the point of this blog. I decided to clean my room. The kind of cleaning that involves opening boxes that you haven't touched in a decade. It's really a miracle any of my stuff from high school exists. I think I've blogged about the worst part of my dissociation disorder. I don't know how I do it but things disappear from my house. I know I'm the culprit. Anything that I cared about was systematically thrown away, destroyed, hidden or god only knows. I lost all the cute clothes i wore. I've lost every picture I had of friends. I lost/destroyed my dead dad's wallet. I think I may be throwing things in the creek behind my house. I even removed the backpack I used from eighth grade through my senior year. It chronicled my life. It had patches all over it. I don't have a clue what I've done with my mementos and clothing.
I got excited months back because I reached Into this crevice in my closet and pulled out a david bowie shirt I forgot I ever had. Not long ago I bought an awesome t-shirt that had an x-rated drawing of a vintage naked pin-up with her nipples covered with stars. Written across her crotch area was the phrase 'fuck you I found jesus.' I can't believe I would eliminate the 'fuck you I found jesus' shirt.
When I was cleaning, I stumbled across something that managed to escape my amnesiac purge of memories. It's a folder of stuff I scribbled on loose notebook paper when I was in high school and college. I couldn't stop doodling. I also dealt with emotions like teenage love gone wrong by writing. I would scribble out my thoughts. They are the ramblings of a mad woman. They are a funny glimpse into my life. I remember writing poetry. It kind of freaked me out to read stuff I wrote as a teenager. Some of it spoke volumes without using many words. And then some of it you can tell I'm just playing with words. Instead of sexting, I was coming up with weird rhymes. I can read what I wrote and remember what it was like to feel misunderstood. I can remember what it was like being bipolar with no treatment. I would write a verse about deep depression, snap out of it when the bell rang to switch classes and spend five minutes happy as I've ever been hugging friends with this genuine smile on my face. I was very sad and very happy at the same time.
This post is dedicated to an incredible man I met on this site who writes poetry that makes me feel something. You can feel his sadness and it's not unpleasant because the words he uses are beautiful. I love a message or comment from him because it's the only time I sit down and try to make him feel the same emotion. This is a porn site. It's also a place where people do things like swap verses. I never liked the word poem. I've shared some of the recent stuff I've written a couple of times. If I start rhyming, it's hard as hell to go back to normal speech. So this is for my friend, so he can see what I wrote when I was young.
I have a stack of verses and I don't know which one is the best. In a way they only matter because somehow they didn't get destroyed like almost everything else. My very good friend who didn't like my taste in music caught me on the wrong day. I couldn't pretend to like happy 80's jazz. I could only think about the music that shaped me. I wouldn't have written this stuff if I wasn't melancholy, emotional, angry, numb.and lacking love in my life.
Do you see what I see? Bitter enemies,Hatred glances
sipping on trances, taking the chance to Feel you,
Steal your smile, your glowing dignities.
Your lounge chair love
shove me away, never to stay.
mile for mile, asking for more
like never before. I climb. I shine
I run from your eyelashes
negative heart beat flashes
inside me pulsating behind me
moving to divide me
you can have it for free
constant grin telling me shut up
smut and guts blown away
push push push the ideas together
always and forever
a cloud of red dust. deadly disease
spreading beneath me
behind my eyes I feel you
stealing strength molding like clay
-stay away
Breath so hard, singing sigh
lingering like music to my ears,
pushing my fears away from my courage
the pure allure of my dangerous taste
just to waste
my waiting.
Fate knocks on the door
demand more damn it
And I'm gonna write this one down too because I know this folder will not last long before it ends up with all the other pieces of my life
The book is open. the time is now
enter the moment. steal the vow
kiss the bride. murder the groom
secrets gone with the sweep of a broom
slide through the ocean, a delicate motion
honeymoon bliss, a slip of your lisp
the look in your eye
Black floating stye
cutting it open. watching it die
sad bloated face
sharp twisting teeth
ready to win this c***dish race
I have your doll with bows in her hair
I let her fall in the river last year
caught in a maze of moss and carrion
sipping on wine. taste of true time
snow on the ground
blood falling down
pretty as a princess
drowning in soot
sweeping the ashes
from her long flowing lashes
blush on her cheeks
hating the grime
of the long winters night
bare footed kiss. dew on your lips
run through the mist
wind in the trees
begging you please
down on your knees
down the embankment tumbling
writhe in the dirt
7 years ago
