Dead Poets

Poetry is when you want to feel sorry for yourself. It's when you want to tell everyone exactly how you feel, with a disclaimer that reads,"Yeah, I feel like shit, and I'd like you to know, but I don't want to discuss it, because then I'd have to admit to myself how pathetic I am, and right now, I just want pity. Deal?"

Poetry is when you want to tell someone that they are beautiful. It's when you want to say exactly why you love them- explicable much, but with a disclaimer that reads," Yeah, I'm totally in love with you, and I'd love if you knew just how needy and weird I am, but I really suck at handling rejection, so right now, let's just 'pretend' that I 'dropped' this journal, okay?"

Poetry is when you want to take the sheet music you wrote, which just happens to be stashed between your favorite book and a jewelry box on your shelf, and put some lyrics to it. It's when you want there to be meaning behind that awkward hum of yours, silly song you tried to write on someone else's guitar, but with a disclaimer that reads, "Yeah, I know I feel like this, and it's really cheesy, and kind of awful, and doesn't even rhyme that well, but if you totally have an epic freak-out-throw-down when you hear it, it's real easy to stash, and of course, hey, it's just a song."

Poetry is when you spew out your most conceded, awful, shameful little feelings at high speeds, dishing out syllables in vicious slashes; speaking so quickly with practiced consonants that the confession dawns seconds after your silence is filled by rosy cheeks and straggled breathing. It's when you hide your thoughts with due warp-speed in an aimless attempt at swift mercy -unfound- with a disclaimer that reads," Yes, of course I'd love to tell you everything that I've ever wanted to hide, but based entirely on the fact that I'm not strong enough to handle a reaction of any sort, I've found comfort in confusing you with nonrhythmic slam poetry, because if you give up before I actually tell you, it's a much more merciful business."

Hey Morning!!

It's not late, it's early. Paul Simon told me so.

Hey, Morning! I'd just love to let you know that you're full of opportunity. You've yet to let me screw up Today and drag my feet into another Tomorrow. You, Morning, haven't taken away a thought. You haven't blacklisted a feeling; haven't drowned a word. Until a later Today will you fill me with caffeinated longing, and sit me down where you want me, letting me know what I was trying to forget. What a great kind of morning.

What I Don't Think I'll Say

I love it when people are trivial. I don't think it's annoying. I love the little insignificant things that people are thinking about so hard. You want to tell me that your grandmother sneezed thirty-three times this past hour, and that your cat has 437 gray hairs on his left foot? Go ahead. It mattered to you, and that makes it worth while to me.

I love it when people screw up. Go ahead, trip all over yourself. Stutter like a trooper. Look at the girl on the cover of that magazine, and forget what you're going to say. Be an awful kisser. Freak out that your clothes are inside out, shoes are on the wrong foot, sang a God-awful note, and screamed like a banshee when you slipped on the ice. It makes you really, really human, and I love it.

I love to disagree and feel the same. Today, let's argue politics. Throw a screaming fit. Let's talk about what's moral and what's not. Let's want to kill each other. But tomorrow, when we're done screaming, I want to know that we like the same artist, that we both sleep like cats, and can't stand the sound of nails on a chalkboard. I want to know that we met the same best friend at Girl Scout bingo. I want to know that we hate dryer sheets, or love being stuck in traffic. I want to know if we had the same 'Word of the Day' from entirely different calendars.

I love people with bad taste. Correction: it's not bad, it's different. You know that. And I want you to know that it's okay if you think orange and blue are complementary, or that baggy turtlenecks are a total turn on. I want you to know that it's okay if you like shallow, meaningless, screaming, taunting music, even if it makes me want to throw up a little. It's great that you like skinny, balding cats and flavorless food. It's okay if you want to date that creepy kid with the pedo-smile. Maybe he's secretly really sweet. And maybe you lose yourself in that kind of music, or found someone who really thought those obnoxiously clashing colors really bring out your eyes. It's beautiful.

I love it when people get lost. I want to see when you close your eyes in the music, only hum when your favorite song comes on (out of respect). I want to see it when you get lost in telling me something that only means something to you; why e is your favorite number, the Star Wars convention made your decade, and how you had an uncontrollable urge to make a snowman in nothing but your boxers yesterday. I love to see people passionate about something more or something so much less. 

I still just love people. And I love people who love people, too. 

Hey Journal

  Hey journal.
         I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I haven't written in over a month. I'm sorry that I picked Facebook over you. I'm sorry that I'd rather read next to the boyfriend than write to you lately (Ha! I'm not sorry... I just should be). I'm sorry that I've lost some writing style, some words, some thoughts, ideas, contradictions, oppositions. I'm sorry that every time I wanted to write, I pulled the notebook out of my purse,and I'm really sorry that I didn't put any of that in here later.
    Life's been busy. Don't get me wrong- that's no excuse. Life isn't ever NOT busy. It's not the Geometry, Biology, home-made theology warfare (nightmare, death stare) that's got me lost (weighted, cross, frustrated).
   I'm sorry about the half-fine, airtime that I've been giving every hobby, duty, forgotten, lost obsession, creation,mentality, and I'm still sorry, just to you, that my biggest priority has a y-chromosome.
   On the subject of regret.. I'm sorry that I spent three months trying to fix a four month run; that I let three and a half infidels tell me what's pretty; that not being enough scares me even more than what lies behind the shower curtain at 2 a.m.; and that I stare down that poor, undeserving phone like it's carrying a strain 2 of rotavirus.

         Apologetically,
                                         Vi