So often I feel the urge to write, a random sensation that always leaves me searching for random irrelevant extras: stickers, markers, sharpies, notecards, etc. I do always end up writing, but I find the majority of my effort gets sucked into some doodle I incorporate to stand bravely surrounded by a chaotic rushing river of words. The images act almost as like a distraction & a reward for the reader.  I love (& hate) that I do that without intent most times.  I grab a marker to outline the words at the top of the page, which then turns into justifying needing more colors, & pretty soon it looks like a unicorn shit out a letter- various colors of the rainbow & filled with random sketches of make believe (mostly).

So often I begin writing and doodling and somehow in the blink of an eye I am diving head first into a lengthy and artistic letter for a close friend. Sometimes I write 20 or more pages!

Why can’t I just hand-write & keep up with a physical journal? Your guess is as good as mine. I have journals from the past decade of my life scattered about my belongings somewhere- each having maybe one, sometimes several, but never a filled book. Never. I have never in my entire life filled up a single journal. And I usually vent when hand writing, it’s very peculiar, I suppose it’s an old learned coping skill from my childhood. Releasing anger in a constructive way that no one gets hurt by.  Growing up I often used poetry as a means of escaping and transforming my pain and angst into incredibly raw but magnificent poems- it was a way to tell the world all of those ‘secrets’ that I was told to keep hidden away- poetry, in a way, was my rebellion. I transformed some pretty intense emotion into a vivid whimsical or dark image which was contorted by each reader in their own different way. Magic!

I would just love to be able to keep up with a journal of artwork- that would be so incredible. I’m so self critical with art that I always end up giving away every single piece of artwork I create. I think to myself that maybe this person will actually cherish this and display it, whereas it would end up in a closet or buried amongst junk if it stayed with me.

I should push myself to get back into writing poetry. Maybe I could taper off of my medication for depression/anxiety and be able to use my long lost coping skill for that surfaced emotion and constant stomach knots.

• When she was younger
• She had all these dreams
• Wanted to be somebody
• To be anywhere else it seems.
• She had no fear of standing up
• And saying what was just
• Often catching the backlash
• Becoming the black sheep was a must.
• Over the years this girl did learn,
• That her voice was not desired,
• Like fighting a violent and choppy sea,
• No one heard her screams- & she got tired.
• Different because she cared the most,
• “Bad” because she’d “talk back” too,
• In time conditioned to bite her tongue
• Clenched teeth, burning tears, is what she knew.
• This girl carried her voice against instruction,
• And proclaimed LOUDLY what was true,
• Only it was often in a rhyming story,
• About someone else, hiding you.
• She went on to fill binders with poetry,
• Some silly, some dark, & some fair
• Finally her voice was actually desired,
• They never did see the truth hiding there.
• Published alongside fellow poets,
• Invited to Washington at age 13,
• Recited a dark poem from memory
• & silenced a room of hundreds- invisibly seen.
• Almost two decades later she looks back,
• Wondering what that little girl would see,
• If she knew I hadn’t written any poems,
• Wouldn’t that mean I’d be disappointed in me?
• I wonder what she would think,
• Seeing her younger dreams left incomplete..
• She’d probably push me down in anger,
• And then help me back to my feet.
• She’d ask so many questions,
• And she’d bottle up any tears,
• She’d show good manners outside,
• But inside, she’d be drowning in her own fears.
• The saddest part about it all,
• Is I don’t know how I can help.
• There is no machine to change the past,
• I tried to make due with what I was dealt.
• I know what she’d ask me after,
• Why those cards were kept,
• I couldn’t tell her I gave up exhausted,
• So I just smiled, stepped outside, & I wept.
• I’m sorry to my younger self,
• You deserved all of your dreams,
• I hope we still can find them again,
• One day, if our higher power deems.
• Remind me of the strength once known,
• Show me in myself what you’d hidden with others,
• Illuminate me again, please light up that fire,
• Mine hasn’t burned bright, but just smolders.
• Help me remember & find the kindling,
• And to allow that fire to breathe,
• Remind me that it may seem pointless now,
• Until darkness & cold show me need.
• Let’s go together on a treasure hunt,
• I bet you still know the ways,
• Let’s unearth all that shouldn’t be buried here,
• Explore the unknown together, always.

I can do better I’m sure after more sleep.  I liked how that inner child battle just sort of erupted in that composition. Very cool.

Until next time! Stay weird & beautiful my friends!