Filed under: Poetry, Ranting | Tags: admire, amazing, boy, boys, death, done, flaws, girl, girls, greet, happily, happy, life, lifetime, moment, more, poem, Poetry, short, sing, something, song, spent, succeed, success, swell, think, thought, thoughts, vibrant, what makes you think, why?, wish, wishing
What makes you think that you could
Try it once again
Your heart says, it can’t hurt
Your head says, you’re really stupid
What makes you think that you might
Find that once again
Not that you had It before, but
It’s never a low goal, so
What makes you think that you can
Sashay into his world
Pale hair, hips swinging, smile
And it’s usually the opposite reaction
What makes you think that you should
Attempt to snag a heart
It’s too late for this new start, and
It’s so foolish but your pulse races on
What makes you think that you are
Worthy of his life
It’s sad but his is so different, it’s not
Like you’ve known each other long
What makes you think that you will
Connect with him and his
There’s not so much time to
Act and still it tugs at you, it calls
What makes you think that you may
Ever see tomorrow
Ever get the chance, since none of
Us have time left
What makes you think that you are
Entitled to waste a moment
Dwelling on your flaws when
He could be admiring them
What makes you think that you are
Unworthy of his time
When girl, you’re strong and vibrant
And he’ll know it if you let him
What makes you think that you are
Any less amazing than those other
Girls who look his way
Why you, why you, why you
What makes you think that you can’t
Sing out and greet your lifetime
The seconds that you’re wasting
Could be spent more happily
What makes you think that you won’t
Succeed when it’s been done before
What makes you think that you’re wrong
For wishing at something more?
Filed under: Writing | Tags: assistance, bovet, bovet primary school, broken, caitlin, dead, death, determination, do something, dr. bob, education, family, friends, God, gowanda high school, grieving, help, impulse, impulsive, kaffir boy, killed, love, mark mathabane, miriam's song, more, read, read in, reading, ready, south africa, spontaneous
I cannot stand it.
I am having an “I just can’t stand it anymore!” moment.
I can’t stand being here while the TV blares sports and my house is solid and warm and I am clean and educated while tiny children who are malnourished and diseased with no family or guidance are dying somewhere with no one to teach them or love them.
I can’t stand that I can’t tell anyone my Read In plan because I’m scared it’s a bad idea.
I can’t stand that after a week and a half of sunning myself in God’s love, I can feel it’s glow start to fade. It’s because I’m not doing anything.
I know, cerebrally, that duh, he’s still there, and still cares. Still loves me, and everyone else. But I can’t feel it, and I can’t stand that.
I also can’t stand that, in addition to malnourished kids, my love-starved cousin is living like a typical American teenager (aka wildly) because she’s under the mistaken impression that everyone understands. That she should live, and not care, because everyone’s chill with it.
I’m not chill with it.
I can’t stand that she does reckless things without a thought for anyone else. Selfishly, I can’t stand that she would put herself in situations where she could die and I’d never see her again. She could destroy her own future. Her own brothers already did a really excellent job of that for themselves. What the hell. What great examples. And her poor mother. And grandma. And Michelle, who looks up to her. Where would they be? Broken, grieving.
Personally, I know it would shatter me to know that if I got myself killed doing something stupid, my family and friends would be hurt because of it. I wouldn’t want to cause them pain, so I wouldn’t do anything dumb. I have trouble even thinking about doing impulsive things: that’s why I’m no fun. I don’t want to jeopardize my future or nudge my family’s expectations for me into a rampant tumble.
Then again, we’re very different people, my cousin and I. She actually lives. I sit at home or work at school and think or write about living. My mind clouds dreamily with that faraway prospect of one day having fun, one day doing something exciting and worthwhile.
That’s why I’m always scared. That’s why I don’t do anything spur-of-the-moment.
That may be why my actions on behalf of the Read In plan are so hesitant, because I’m not used to things– namely, my ideas– being so spontaneously ready to go. It feels like there should be more to it, but inwardly I know there’s not. It’s all there, and ready to be presented to someone (Dr. Bob, possibly/probably) who can give me the proper permission and authority to drive it to completion and fruition.
I just hope that this fear will burn off as determination blazes in. It is not right for me to sit here, with assistance easily a fingertip’s reach away, and not do anything.
I can’t stand that I’m so weak and pathetic. I can’t stand that I’m not taking action.
I can’t stand that I’m letting my own personal faults and fears keep me from giving something to this broken, bruised little world.
Filed under: My Day, Random Thoughts, Writing | Tags: and, crave, craving, fitting, frankenstein, incessant, mary shelley, more, planning, pretty, quote, shelley, thirsty, words, working, write, Writing
It’s lately seeming that, the more I work and plan, the more I want to work and plan. The more I actually attempt to work and plan.
The more I work and plan, the more I feel the need to read, to escape the incessant working and planning. But the more I read, the more I crave words, and knowledge. The more I want to write.
It’s nice being driven like this. I’m thirsty.
I found this pretty quote in Frankenstein and decided it fit my mood. That’s why I came upstairs to blog, anyway. I wanted to post this quote:
“…I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven, for nothing contributes so much to tranquillize the mind as a steady purpose– a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye” (Shelley 2).
See, it’s pretty and fitting (and pretty fitting), if I do say so myself.
Filed under: My Explanations, Random Thoughts, Ranting, Writing | Tags: appearance, beautiful, body, boys, brunette, capable, cares, confine, creatures, depths, desperation, discovering, dripping, efficient, emotion, essentially, expressive, family, feet, flash, flawed, flawless, form, four, gilded, girl, head, headache, humanity, inner, intimidating, irony, jaded, lies, life, limits, living, look, love, me, mentally, more, nails, now, perfect, physically, secrets, shallow, stereotype, still, story, superficial, superficiality, tall, things, thinking, thought, thoughts, time, tits, unique, vampires, want, Writing, you tell me.
It seems to me that I want too many things.
I was just wishing I was four feet tall, brunette, with big tits and a tiny, compact body. Oh, and don’t forget the expensive, perfect clothing that all comes from brand name stores.
I thought about it some more and decided that it was a silly impulse, but it bears more weight than that. It leaves it’s consequence in my idle musings, because it is that sort of thought that makes me question who I am.
Would more boys like me, if I looked like that?
Would I still be me, in another’s form?
Would I still be as capable, as intimidating and efficient, as expressive?
Or would I be confined to the limits of that (I’m assuming) shallow and superficial girl?
I could be stereotyping, but a girl who cares more about getting her nails done than she does her future, or her family, or her own private and personal ambitions might be considered shallow.
It just produces thinking. Sure, my head hurts now, but it forces me to explore the depths of my own superficiality.
My story holds some of that flashy, appearance-driven appeal. I’ve been working and thinking about that quite a bit lately, so naturally my thoughts now are twining around it.
My story involves some beautiful, unique creatures. Their very existence is jaded and corrupt, though, even if their outward glamor is flawless.
Maybe that’s the irony of it, I’m discovering. Okay, so humanity is flawed physically, mentally, emotionally and essentially. And these creatures only have a type of eating disorder (yes, fine, they suck blood for a living, don’t judge me) and some deep moral decision-making to do. But perhaps that’s the intriguing part of it: with so much going for them, what’s to lose?
That’s right, their souls. They’re assumed to be already lost.
So what’s more valuable? A life of love and value, flawed and mortal and unattractive, but well-lived? Or one without finality, an endless stretch, where the appearance is gilded and gorgeous but the inner sanctums of which are dripping with secrets, lies, and desperation?
You tell me.
Kick Drum Heart 