vH1 blogytellers

one day i'll learn how to write a post without directly referring to the post i'm writing.


one day i'll be able to release forms of creativity into the world without need of explanation.


one day i won't worry about being misunderstood.


but for whatever reason, today is not that day.


i don't know how to start an entry without apologizing for the content therein. it's totally stupid, totally unnecessary and only projects awkwardness and insecurity. the weird thing is i do this even in my own personal journal entries that only i read. every crisp new journal i purchase begins with some kind of apology for the fact that there are countless other crisp new journals with about a month's worth of entries that have long since been abandoned. every time i journal on my laptop i have to comment on the cliche doogie-howser-ness of it all. if i can't get past my own fears of misunderstanding me, how am i supposed to get past my fears of you misunderstanding me?? it's a sick sad cycle, i tell ya.


but i'll work on it, my friends. or rather, my friend aimee -- as i'm pretty sure you're the only person who will ever read this.

:)

my given name

crazy is a cutting word the connotation kills
the way it’s wielded like a weapon wounding me at will
floods of insecurity flow in while blood is spilled
to fill the void that dignity once but no longer filled

crazy is dismissive in its limited portrayal
the way it keeps me hidden thickly under crazy veil
cruelly compensating where compassion often fails
confining me unwillingly in ignorance’s jails

crazy is a dirty word defiling what is pure
it masturbates the tongues of those deceptively demure
tools of mastication used to mangle and obscure
effectively dismembering what stomachs can’t endure

crazy is so circular it works without intrusion
it sneaks into my psyche without warning of confusion
collaboration clean and quick in seamless execution
prophetically condemning me in my own persecution

A pain and pleasure to explain
Why crazy is my given name

i didn't know it

but i'm a poet.

one of the classes i'm taking is a poetry class. it's kinda weird to be required to write poetry but i suppose i can use all the exercise my creative muscles can get.

so i present to you the following:


The Best Defense

I was once told that the best way to defend yourself
when you’re about to be raped
is to defecate
and rub it all over your body
Thus rendering yourself undesirable
and your assailant flaccid
I should note, however
This advice was given to me by the type of woman
who forwards those email horror stories
The kind you’re supposed to
PASS ON TO ALL THE STRONG INDEPENDENT WOMEN YOU KNOW
Stories that have you locking your car when you pump your gas
So no sicko can sneak up in your back seat
And slash your Achilles heel when you least expect it
Stories that up pepper spray sales
And add paranoia to the preemptive fear
That that type of woman already feels
So that now when she walks to her car at night
The purse she already clutched close
Also contains a can of mace
alongside her tube of lip gloss
And now the two can click together in time
As said woman walks confidently
With keys like claws between her fingers
However
I am not said woman
I am not that type
And although the image has never left me
I’ve never been tempted to carry laxatives in my purse
Much less mace
My defenses are meant for offences far less violent
But violations none the less
So that when I feel threatened
When I fear my heart is about to be intruded upon
I’ve been known say the wrong things on purpose
Or say the right things with purpose
Or say too little but more often too much
To effectively
Cover myself in poo