Below is a poem that I’ve copied word-for-word from my high school journal. I was 17 years dumb. I don’t write this type of stuff anymore BUT Paul’s recent poem made me slightly nostalgic of the old wanna-be-poet I was once-upon-a-teenage-time AND I’ve been meaning to reconnect to my teenage self via my old journals for a while now. I get this feeling that I’m going to dig up a lot of stuff that I can still relate to today- and this poem, is a prime example of a little treasure buried deep in the emotionally-complex rubbles of my pre-adulting years (I’m still emotionally-complex but for a shitload of completely different reasons, of course).
There’s a question which has grabbed ahold of me tightly. It’s flowing like a harpoon in my mind, daily and nightly and it’s killing my brain like a poisonous mushroom. So let’s get quick to the point, to the point no faking. (I don’t eat bacon so I won’t be cooking any MC’s like a pound of them nor have I ever heard a real-life cymbal so I’m not sure if I’d go crazy if I ever heard one…have I lost you already?!) Perfect.
If I had a penny for every single time I’ve whispered “what the FUCK” to myself by the end of any day-
I’d be rich. I’d be able to pay off my credit cards. I’d be able to half-ass-afford my own Starbucks addiction without willingly overdrawing my bank account-I don’t think you’ve been able to grasp the “realness” of my caffeine struggles guys.
If there were a way to capture a screenshot of what’s happening inside of my fucking head right now, I’m positive it would be immediately flagged as inappropriate content and banned by whoever those prick-people are who have actual jobs judging what gets banned from social media. It would look like a fucking battlefield-except there would be no bodies nor blood-only wounded thoughts: some shattered into millions of fragments, desperately dragging their amputated, decapitated bodies in every direction-never to make any sense; some held captive as prisoners in shackles by the enemy- Denial; some are innocent children-abandoned, confused, and seeking purpose; some are cowards-hiding from their own shadows…too terrified of what would happen to them if they stood up for themselves. A brutally poetic setting, I can assure you.
Ok ok ok. I’ve told a little white fib. It’s going to be more like 50 things. But I wouldn’t have dared smuggle “50” anything into the title because such a choice would have doomed this post the *Rue of the Blogger Games. And we all know the odds were not in her favor.
Your first thought: Who is this “Stella” and I mean..how many of them are there? Hmm…’cause I know zero Stellas except that one chick from the movie with the badass braids and muscle for days!