A feeling I hate

Grrrr. I love my boyfriend. I love everything he says and does, I love the way he makes me feel, I love everything about him. I hate the fact that I can't seem to make my jealous streak shut up every time this one girl talks to him in any medium. I hate the way I get angry, and that it gets to me. I know he loves me, I am not worried about any type of infidelity or unfaithfulness. I just can't stop myself from wanting to hit things every time she pops up with a comment or a text. They never even dated, and she is the only girl that makes me bristle this way. I hate it. What do I do? How do I make myself not be this way about her?

The Discarded Letter

preface: I wrote this a few years ago as an exercise for a writing class, it's designed to make you think, ask questions and then answer them yourself, kind of like a prompt. Feel free to post your ideas in comments if you want, that could be interesting....


On a wet day in April, on a seldom used road; a dog limped by a discarded letter. This letter would remain unread, dear reader, except that it’s words were mine. And it was by simple chance, or maybe fate, that my rambling survived the spring storm. But survive they did and that plagues my soul, for that letter should never have been. I t details a day in my life that I am still not sure truly happened ( although the truth is not so important in this tale) You see on that day I met myself, through her, although I am convinced that she resides not in this world, but only in my head. Still, she gave me back myself. Whoever she is or is not, and it was for her that I wrote the discarded letter that is the catalyst for my story. I wanted to remember her in a tangible way. You see she was not my lover, she was not my friend, she never spoke to me, but instead, she showed me things. Things that I have never gotten over, things that sent me to this darkened road. I will never be the same again. I’m sorry dear reader, but I have to leave you now. They come to attend me, they rattle keys in my lock, and soon I will be gone, the currents will bring her back again, I long for the day that she chooses not to leave. The day when this dank hell will end.

Survival

Ah the days that roll on by
and the shadows on my wall
They bleed together in watchful sorrow
because I am without you and alone
To survive for me is not enough
because I long to live
and now that you have found me
you are the life that gives
But here I sit without you
enduring the cruel joke
And there you are without me too
unable even to see
Ah the night rolls through my window
and the shadows now complete
leave me to my thoughts alone
a vexing place to be
To write you as I have tried
in lines and letters of words
is simply to much to attempt
for you are more than u
I hear your voice and am content
until I open my lashes
and am assaulted by the void
of the lacking space beside me
The phantom arms that hold me close
each and every night
are not as strong as the counterpart
that reality amiably binds
in miles and hours and highway lengths
and empty pockets that find
a bit of octane fuels the heart
much more than it fuels the drive
Ah the suns rolls above the clouds
and the shadows release to play
and I alone with myself wake to find
I have survived another day

Viewpoint

How many times a day does a person walk through a door? Do we ever really think about it? The doorway, I mean. Perhaps we should.

Meghan stared through the display glass window of the dress shop. Her light grey eyes focused completely on an antique wedding dress that was made almost entirely of lace the color of dried corn silk. It was strapless, but it had matching gloves that ended at the wrist to imitate sleeves. The skirt puffed out under the lace layer in a trumpet like shape. Meghan loved it, she knew that dress was meant for her.

Inside the shop a woman with blue horn rimmed glasses and dark hair pulled back in a menacing bun, watched the grey eyed girl with interest. Most of the people on the street would turn to glance at her small store, but so few really appreciated the beautiful peaces that were her life's work. This girl she could see, was absolutely taken in by it. She smiled to herself, and the deep wrinkles on her face stretched themselves deeper. Perhaps, she thought, here was the opportunity she had been waiting for. She walked around the counter and looked up. The girl was gone.

Jonathan watched Meghan from across the street. His deep red hair hanging in his face made him look sad. She was staring through a window at a dress shop. At what? he wondered. He shrugged his shoulders and his denim bomber jacket jingled as one of the buttons fell to the ground. He groaned, attracting the attention of a cute blond girl that was walking past. He winked at her and she giggled, then he bent, picked up the button, and returned to watching Meghan. Meghan, whose black hair hung to her waist in soft waves. He loved her hair, and he was almost paralyzed by it as it fanned in the wind when she turned away from the window and started walking down the street. He didn't notice the blue-rimmed glasses that watched him as he moved away after her.

George Conover was a business man. Business was what he was all about, and business was what he was good at. He was the highest paid consultant in the entire state, but he had a little problem paying his parking tickets. So now, he was sitting at this smelly corner bus stop waiting for the green line to show up and take him a block from home. His leather briefcase sat at his feet, it was heavy and polished black so that is shone and was almost reflective. He looked down at it and was surprised to see a flash of silver, a high heeled shoe, two of them actually, on feet. He looked up at the dark haired girl in the green halter dress. She smiled casually at him, her grey eyes crinkled slightly, but she said nothing. He nodded back at her and looked around. The bus stop, which had been empty when he arrived, now held three other people, the girl, a red haired boy, and an older man with a can and an oxygen tank. George got up off the bench and offered it to the old man, who wheezed at him in gratitude and sat down. The dark-haired girl smiled warmly at him. "That was incredible" she seemed to say. The red-haired boy coughed behind her and moved a few steps closer to them. It was a relief to George to board the bus when it arrived.

The boy with the denim bomber jacket and brown biker boots caught her eye, and Brooke shifted to make room in her seat for him. She smiled when he sat, and crossed her legs, letting her shorts ride up a little, to show him her thigh. She was rewarded for her efforts when he took a long look, and she ran her finger down the line of her leg for him. He blushed a bit and looked up. She caught his brown eyes in hers and uncrossed her legs, for some reason this boy made her feel bold, and a little dangerous. She reached out for his hand, and he closed his eyes as she laid it on her exposed inner thigh. She flushed when she started to gently moved his finger over her skin and towards her center. She was afraid to look at him again as he touched her, but if she had, she would have noticed that he was watching the girl who sat two rows ahead of them and across the isle, and if she had noticed that, she would have been insulted. Instead she was moist and hot when he got up without a word and followed the girl off at her stop. Brooke smiled with pleasure at the encounter.

Ryan was thirteen now. Today was his birthday, and he was teenager. Three years away from his license, and lifetimes away from ever getting a date. He looked longingly at the cars parked on his block, and thought about how it would feel to drive one. He waved at Meghan, the pretty girl from down the street as she got off the bus. She waved back and kept walking. Ryan didn't really pay attention to the red-haired guy behind her, he was too busy watching Meghan walk, but he noticed when the guy pushed her into the alley, he heard the thud as she fell. He also noticed that one of her shoes had come off on the sidewalk, one of her silver high heels. She wore those shoes all the time. He scurried across the street to the mouth of the alley. He should have tried to help her, he knew that. Instead he watched. She saw him standing there, her eyes begged him to help, but Ryan couldn't move. She was bleeding from a cut on her forehead. The guy had a hand over her mouth, he was raping her. Ryan knew that. He knew a lot of things, he knew he should do something. So he picked up her shoe, and watched.

Betty Miller answered the door. The neighbor boy Ryan, stood on her porch. He was shaking and pale, covered in sweat. He handed her a silver high heeled shoe, her daughter Meghans, and then he fell, face down into the house. Betty screamed when she saw the boot knife and the blood. She called the police. She was too late. Betty trebled as the covered the boy with the body bag, she answered every question, but no one could answer hers. Why did he have Meghans shoe?

Anchor woman Joy Alms scanned her top story for the evening news and frowned. Just once she would have liked the top story to be happy. The producer gave the cue and Joy came on the air. She told the story of a local girl, found in an alley, she was rapped and beaten. She was wearing a single silver high heel. Joy Alms didn't know it, but Betty Miller, had finally gotten the answer to her question.

I write Poetry

I read poetry with a biased eye
Who decides? I think, that these words
mean more than mine
But as I read, I step in time
To someone else's rhythm and
someone else's rhyme
I picture places I've never been
I see new faces I've never seen
I hear words spoken that touch my heart
I deal with places
I am torn apart

I read poetry with a biased eye
Who decides? Thinks I, that these words
are more than mine
But as I read
I step across seas
I enter palaces
I float with the breeze
I move through time
I settle in space
I watch death
I see grace
I relearn lessons I thought I knew
I look around, I see new hues
New colors come in
They fade
and die

Because I read poetry with a biased eye

Ahhhh.....yay stuffs.....

*sigh*

So many things are going through my mind these days. Things about houses and jobs and futures and can I just say WHOA! Of all the things I never thought I would be concerned about, it's my job. I mean seriously, I want to write and travel, that's it. So what does it matter what kind of job I have? It matters quite a bit it turns out. I have recently began to love pretty much every aspect of my personal life, both currently and in the projected future. And let me tell you, loving my personal life has only foiled how much I loathe and despise pretty much every aspect of my professional life. So, what am I going to do about it? First things first. Finish my degree, I have one class left, and that just looks bad. I mean, what serious employer is going to hire someone who quit at the end? Nobody likes a choker, I mean seriously, I'm a Bears fan, I know how much I hate it when they quit at the end. So, that's goal number one, and should be achieved at the end of the spring semester. Huroo!

Then what? Well, to be honest, I'm going to wait to finish my degree to try to land that killer job. Of course, first I have to find it, apply for it, call about it, inquire about it, and basically be almost obnoxious about it until I get that interview. I've always been good at interviews. I'm 98% sure that I can land any job I want. I just have to land the interview first. But before I can land an interview, I have to find the job. Such a vicious cycle. oh well. I suppose I should put together a list of good professional references as well. That's a little scary.

Also, this job, has to have a level of flexibility in it's scheduling. I know I know, that's asking a lot, but, it's really non-negotiable when you consider the amount of traveling I do locally and abroad. I would love to find something that is 3/4 of the year on, and have my summers off. I just don't want to teach, which poses a bit of a problem. I know I'll find it, I just have to learn where to look :)

Anybody got any ideas? I'm open to suggestions.

And on the Rollercoaster I Ride...

Well, gosh. It has been awhile. I apologize, but I don't promise to do better. SO much has happened since I last wrote that I'm unsure of where to start, so I usually find in times such as these that my subconscious has some type of creativity in store, so I will write spontaneous poetry and hope it makes sense, and hope it is a poem. lol. Here goes.



Where do you start when you can't begin
I suppose you go to the beginning again
And that was years ago and a different me
So how can I tell you what can no longer be?
When everything is changing then I can't be the same
I know that I am suddenly weary of my name
At of the way it stands today, but all that is ahead of its place
It's too early to explain the smiles on my face
Before you know the trials I explored
The time I spent face down on the floor
Begging God to take it away because I couldn't have it anyway
Walking through my door everyday with anger in my heart
Feeling taken advantage of, lost, and torn apart
I had no where to turn that I would acknowledge
After all you can't get my life just because you went to the same college
And somewhere in all that I snapped
And left it all behind
To help a loved one, and be repaid in kind
The payment came alright, though not the way I hoped
I met the guy I'd always dreamed of, and turns out he couldn't cope
So I gave up again and turned to the friend that lived outside my lines
And what a turn of events that when I spoke to him I find
That my world has expanded it's borders, or maybe his contracted
but suddenly I could have the one to whom my heart was attracted
And now I sit in the palm of his hand
Happy because he is my man
And on the brink of change again, I find myself slightly whelmed
It can't be as good as it sounds
So many things left unsaid from the beginning that is now at end
And the beginning that is begging to start
I find the wanderings are now in my imagination that used to reside in my heart
How's that for a story
Not quite enough?
Well you try it sometime
Telling a story is art, and this is rough
and just beginning, even though technically, it's finally ending.