Hello! This is where I write things :) I typically post on Fridays, but since this blog is fairly new, that schedule is subject to change! For my personal writing search #shyshyswords
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landlordâs daughter
It deflates my stomach to see the photos
of good times you spent with her.
It threatens like the image of spilled innards so gross
to make my half-digested supper reappear.
And she looks so cute with the sunflower
larding the spot behind her ear,
The flower, like a gentler sun at its golden hour
harnessed, tucked right against her ginger hair.
And if that flower is the sun,
then so goes the cliche, her freckles must be the stars.
And as poetic tropes for the moon go indefinitely on,
the admirability of her waxing smile extends just as far.
But I should have saved the comparison to the moon
for her eyes, because each is one
Galactic blue slivers when the smile shines,
striking pale orbs when the lips straight, smile gone.
Like how gravity from things in space
Makes waters united rise and plummet
Seeing the photos of you both together, two lovelies in the same place,
Makes something ferment in my stomach.
Seeing the reality, that you stood and smiled by her
Makes me want to get very drunk.
And knowing that the gravity of her moons worked you, sir,
I feel nauseous, I need my stomach pumped.
this poem and others published here >>>>>Â Â https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/181418932-small-room
#poem#poetry#author#young author#writer#novel#book#wattpad#reading#freelance#commission#blog writer#article#please give me feedback#shyshyswords
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Small Room - small room (on Wattpad) https://my.w.tt/GagVG9pe3U A collection of poetry, stories from my small room
#acid#anxiety#depression#drugs#high#life#love#lsd#poem#poetry#recovery#school#weed#books#wattpad#amreading
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small room
I very well recall the night when a boy named for a plant Was lit underneath my Christmas lights and in the unseasonal light of them did grant End to my pining ache for serotonin; he invited me on a trip And back then barely did I know him, and soon after did he dip But first did his fingers go underneath my tongue and only barely did they linger, His index and his thumb. Fore it took only a fleeting moment for him to drop his stamp; He knew just where it went-- its design dissolved in the damp Under-part of my mouth, tucked into that safe place Sandwiched as is proper and couth in that dark under-tongue space. He smiled as he put that tab where it ought to be, Then he arranged for a cab to come and set him free.
#acid#lsd#poetry#love#drugs#writing#writer#young author#please give me feedback#shyshyswords#poem#author#heartbreak#shy
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the beginning of a thing
This is the beginning of a thing. It is also published here >>>>>Â https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/178504141/write/705655879
enjoy :)Â Who am I? Your guess is as good as mine, really.Am I simply the young hardware store cashier with blue hair and long roots who sometimes wears bright red lipstick (which, by French fashion standards, is more of a warm red than a cool tone red and doesnât match my skin tone)? Maybe Iâm not all that complex; itâs possible that my life really isnât much more intricate than what customers see when I scan the barcodes on their oak two-by-fours in their carts and take their dirty coupons in my thin white hand with a smile. For the most part, I donât speak to my coworkers unless spoken to, and as far as customers go, I am on autopilot: âHello, you find everything okay?â If the customer only sets one or two items on my counter (usually a soap-box-sized carton of screws or some small random piece of plumbing piping): âWould you like a bag for that?â (It makes me happy when they say no; plastic bags are horrible for the environment.) The customers usually insert their cards into the card reader on my counter and then stare at me in their idle, waiting for me to perform some magical cashier trick on the computer, unaware until I peep up and tell them so that the card reader machine is waiting on them to push a button or enter a credit pin number. Maybe Iâm just as dull and reticent when I go home after nine hours of, âHello, you find everything okay? Would you like a bag for that? Itâs gonna have you select debit or credit--hereâs your receipt, and here is a coupon for five dollars off a purchase of twenty-five or more,â as I am when I take my lunch breaks alone in the quiet of the training room, reading some overdue library book and pinching small bite-sized pieces off of a gas station brownie to nibble at instead of taking direct bites out of the suspiciously oily pastry.Maybe Iâm actually the notions inside my head. Maybe I am just a tool that they use to be heard and make their dreams a reality; maybe Iâm not my body or job. Maybe I am a successful, peaceful, light-hearted artist and author--I just havenât published my novels or hosted any successful art shows yet. Or any art shows, for that matter.Perhaps Iâm my motherâs daughter; stubborn and crazy, with an invariably rotten attitude and enough financial issues for myself and all of my fellow cashiers to build a boat out of and sail away from civilization and debt.Maybe Iâm always so quiet because Iâm holding my tongue, like my mother, and thinking about slashing tires and throwing ceramic dishes at skulls and sinking screwdrivers into flesh, all in the name or petty revenge or an intense burst of anger. Except, come to think of it, my mother doesnât actually ever hold her tongue, so I suppose I might just be quiet for reasons entirely my own.Maybe Iâm just like my motherâs mother, like my mother is so committed to convincing me I am, except fifty years younger; nasally voice, although mine is less whiny and severe; sitting in front of a computer for hours a day, except she uses the computer her husband bought for her to do lazy transcription work so she can have money for cigarettes, the only thing in life her husband wonât buy for her, and I saved up my paychecks in high school to buy my laptop so that I could leave Mudcap High School and graduate early through online classes; we both sleep a lot, and, as my mother said when I was in high school, I âspent a lot of time on my assâ just like Grammy does--although my time in bed was always induced by an inability to find the motivation to get up, and Grammyâs bedridden state came from staying up too late playing online solitaire. Maybe Iâm just that girl from Mudcap High School whose hair displayed a new fresh (done at home) short cut and color of the rainbow at the beginning and end of every month whose clothes all came from Salvation Army and whose stomach was always making obnoxious attention-seeking noises in Spanish--wait, you thought all that time that I was a boy? Well, yeah, I guess thatâs reasonable. I wore a lot of huge baggy sweaters.Maybe you just know me because you know somebody who knew me. In that case, maybe I only exist in your world and consciousness as the girl who broke Jo-Ellanâs heart, or the girl who tried to look like a boy but then dropped out and grew boobs and is now hot (in the online pictures, at least). Maybe your friend has a friend who knew my twin brother, and so you heard from your friendâs friend who knows my twin brother that my twin brotherâs friend saw me on a dating app, and my brother told him, âDonât worry dude, she doesnât like dudes. Sheâs just looking for a sugar daddy.â And so my twin brother, whom we will call âZâ, laughed about it with his friend once the shocking sighting of Zâs twin sister on a dating app had passed, and all was well, but now people know that Zâs twin sister is a sugar baby and not as quiet and sweet as she seems.Maybe you heard about me from Dan or Katherine; maybe you hope to meet me someday, because I sound like a very sweet person and you like the artwork of mine which they showed you. Maybe you heard about me from Tyler, the guy I made sandwiches with when I worked at Subway in high school--in which case you probably believe him when he says that I did drugs in the back room of the restaurant. Maybe you donât even know my name--maybe you know me because youâve seen the art I post online. Maybe you feel very connected to me, and feel pleased to see me when you see that Iâve posted a picture of a sketchbook page Iâve completed. Maybe You donât know my name at all, but the way I layer paint and colored pencils and vary the thickness of my lineart is enough. Maybe the portraits and paintings I share are enough for you to care about me.Maybe youâre one of Sageâs friends. Maybe you hung out with us the October night when it was warm and I was seventeen and he was eighteen and he put acid under my tongue with his goofy smile and then left my house because he was high and felt like God and my bathroom-sized bedroom was like a birdcage for him at that moment in time. Maybe you were there when he skateboarded from my house to Sebastianâs with more acid and weed in his backpack and the intention to share. Maybe youâre one of the three other guys who were at Sebastianâs house, already under the magical intoxication of Sageâs acid when he called a cab to pick me up from my house and bring me there to drink canned beer and smoke mediocre blunts until the sun came up and I noticed how swollen my lips felt, because acid always makes my lips feel all swollen and purple. So maybe you know me as Sageâs girlfriend who he didnât call his girlfriend until I finally dumped him months later and he begged for me to stay and apologized for never giving me attention or being a good boyfriend. And that was the first time he had called himself my boyfriend.I donât want to think about nights like those anymore. The boy Iâm dating now regards LSD with as much hissing ostracism as if it were all cocaine sold from the alley behind a gas station dumpster. Just thinking about that night makes me feel high, though--my anemia leads me to shiver even in sixty-degree weather, which Midwesterners consider quite warm, but I didnât mind the wind blowing through my maroon flannel and thin anemic skin that night. As I sat on the cold chipped concrete steps in front of my house waiting for the cab Sage had called for me, the cold was refreshing and good-hearted instead of a brittle cruel punishment from Mother Nature. I didnât feel insecure about my dingy old black high top Converse; my high-waisted jeans and black T-shirt didnât make me feel like I looked like a twelve-year-old boy; and the dead-ends in my chin-length purple hair were not worth my concern. The sky all up above and around me and the globe, hugging the horizon of the sleepy little dangerous city, cradling the most dangerous place in all of Indiana in its arm like a tired baby, was stark black, and I could basically smell it; it was a nice undiluted solid black, and there was no pollution hiding the stars. The stars had had a grand day, and were ready to make sure that I was going to have a grand night.The neighbors on all sides of our house were drug dealers, and those were just the neighbors we actually talked to and knew anything about. The National Guard Armory to the right of my motherâs house, right across the narrow one-way street, was comical considering the neighborhood it was in. But none of that mattered; for once I didnât hate it all. The sky was a rich fragrant black, thick enough to choke you if it had such bad intentions; but its intention were only good. The black was the many yards of high-quality fabric of a fine ladyâs skirt flowing endlessly down from a well-tailored strapless bodice with a lovely fit and comely sweetheart neckline. The stars were bright and small enough to be all the jewels and shiny beads which her personal tailor had surely spent weeks or months or even a lifetime hand stitching onto the top layer of her many layers of skirts.It was such a good night to wait outside for a cab.I will never have nights like that again; life is constantly changing. I can try to recreate that, but I will never get it right. Recreating such good things is a privilege entirely out of my pale mortal hands.Maybe you know me as the girl who drew really nice insects at Emmons Elementary when we were nine years old who has since moved to and from at least three public schools in the next city over, and then left public schools entirely right smack in the middle of junior year. Maybe thatâs how you know me.You could know me as Andy. If you still know me as Andy, you probably either havenât spoken to me since sophomore or freshman year, or you knew me in eighth grade when âAndyâ was still a thing, and calling me by my real name now just wouldnât feel right after all that time. I told people to stop calling me Andy junior year, and people obeyed--well, really I just stopped talking to anybody, so nobody called me anything. But the man I am dating now called me my real name yesterday, and it just sounded strange. He never knew me when I was Andy, and Andy only lasted a few years, and I donât introduce myself as Andy anymore. I donât care to be called Andy anymore. Yet it feels so strange, hearing somebody casually call me by my real name. Not knowing that I ever had another name. I donât think Iâve really spoken to people since high school, so that was one of the first times Iâve heard somebody say it. My mother doesnât even use my name--sheâs never really called me my name, or anything nice.Iâm rambling. My name just sounds weird. I donât like it when boys say it passionately.There are so many people that I may be--I canât even begin to guess which one you may know me as. Even if I were to know exactly what experiences weâve had together or who told you about me, maybe you donât even see me as what weâve done together or what youâve heard--maybe your own personal thoughts and emotions warped what you know about me. Maybe for the better, probably for the worse. Maybe jealousy came into play somewhere along the road, and no matter what good things youâve heard, you refuse to accept that somebody who dated somebody who you wanted to date can be genuinely kind and good. Maybe you donât even remember anymore why you donât like me. You just donât.Maybe youâve loved me since freshman year, before you even knew my name, before you cut your hair short and before I grew mine out, so no bad things you hear about me sound right or can scathe your love. Maybe you donât want to know me. Maybe you wish you did. Maybe youâre thinking about checking the back cover of this book and scavaging the pages of tiny nonsense text that comes before the first chapter and prologue just so that you can find some email or way to contact me because you think I sound interesting.However you see me now, though, that will change. The way I see myself changes at least three times per hour.
#writing#writer#author#young author#romance#short story#chapter 1#book#novel#unpublished#editor#please give me feedback#gay#lesbian#high school#shyshyswords
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Diana Ross on the TV special G.I.T. On Broadway - Aired on November 12, 1969.
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No âBodyâ is PerfectâŚ
  Peter Pan âPick Upâ Bras, 1958
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