Need weekend plans? Why not show up to one of the country’s largest and most active poetry slams in current existence?
Hiya Tumblr followers! This is an incredible event and I’m part of Team Portland that will be competing this weekend! Plus it’s free. So if you happen to be in the area or just want to watch some good slam poetry, this is the the time to do it! Maybe even say hi to me
To date, I have read The Catcher in the Rye 9 times
The longest I spent on finishing a project for school was 3 weeks
and the quickest I had ever finished one was in 49 minutes.
People tell us that we should never become
a statistic or merely a fact
But I think it’s pretty interesting to look back and see what
you have accomplished when it comes to the hard numbers.
I’ve had at least 32 crushes and 3.5 girlfriends
(.5 because do you really consider a 6th grade relationship where we talked on the phone twice a solid 1?)
I can look back and see my feelings on each girl
intertwined within notebook paper and bad poetry.
“I wanna look good so you ain’t embarrassed with me
And maybe look good as your boyfriend. Can you see?”
The farthest I’ve been from home was 8736 miles
and the furthest I’ve been from home has been every time my parents told me they hated the way I chose to be myself.
I’ve eaten Pho for breakfast, lunch and dinner too many times to count
And one summer my brother and I bought 20 bags of frozen Tilapia from Food 4 Less because it was a dollar each and we ate that fish for half the summer.
I averaged 7 points in middle school basketball and 7 assists and the longest I played in one game was 12 minutes and 32 seconds.
I have dedicated my time to 5 different hobbies to try to impress girls only to impress myself
On a day to day basis,
I tell at least 3 racist jokes
Smile any time I see a pretty girl
Make at minimum one pun
Eat 4 meals
And clock in an average of 7 hours and 56 minutes of sleep.
Every summer I have read my Calvin and Hobbes collection cover to cover
And I have drank out of the same snowman mug for the last 1463 days in the morning
I’ve gone through about 216 pairs of socks
And have written in 4 notebooks front to back.
These are the facts that are written in my head
But I can’t wait to see my stats after this game is over.
How many times have someone thought of me?
How much money have I spent on food?
What food did I eat the most? (My bet is on Burgers)
In which year did I cry the most?
Who did I spend the most time thinking about? Writing about? Whining about?
How long have I spent in the bathroom?
How many lies have I told in front of the mirror?
How many times did I make someone smile?
How many times have I smiled?
So far, I’ve lived through 3 presidencies
14 2pac albums
5 family cars
5 John Green novels
One pack of cigarettes
and 58 million, 4 hundred thousand breaths
When I get up there, I’m going straight to the number man
So I can watch my highlight reel
My first child being born
The moment I changed somebody’s life
My 5th grandchild
The first book I published
The last bill I had to pay on the mortgage
Every kiss that lingered for a second too long on her lips and mind
And when I’m up there, I’ll be one of those compulsive fact checkers
seeing if I’m still bringing in any numbers:
How many times someone thinks they felt me
How many times someone tells a story about me
How many people still know me
They say that since the dawn of mankind there are 14 deceased people for every 1 person living.
The fact and statistic I’m most excited about is seeing whose
1/14 of a life did I die for.
I’ve always been terrible at remembering things.
And it kind of sucks because the professions I’d like to be successful at
(Rapper, Actor, Slam Poet) all kind of use memorization in the day to day of it.
It was why I always bad at science and math
I couldn’t remember which formulas fit into where
It felt like holding circular pegs surrounded by squares
I had no idea how to do it and it was beyond frustrating
(Which sucked for people in my math class cause when I failed a test, the 8 people around me failed as well.)
So I always tried to study and remember those facts
But I couldn’t really get the hang of it.
My brothers told me that repetition is the father of learning
So they would make me write out my times tables
until it was ingrained into muscle memory and I knew that
8 X 8 was 64
But you say something too often and it loses its meaning.
I didn’t understand multiplication.
I just saw an unmoving block of text that I’d replicate
I found out that I had to find out what it meant,
even if I couldn’t ask questions.
So when my parents told me that I couldn’t turn up the dimmer switch all the way up, I found out it was because the power is too high and it would melt the room.
When I always had trouble finding where the chili peppers that my dad ate, I finally figured out we kept them in the freezer because they were so hot and that was the only way to keep them stable.
And why 8 X 8 equals 64 was because Nintendo had 8 letters, so that’s why it was called the Nintendo 64.
So I learned my memory was good for weird things.
Strange little tidbits that I learned were just interesting to me.
Grover Cleveland’s last words were “I have tried so hard to do right.”
A giraffe can kick a lion’s head clean off
Comic books were filled with social commentary and Xavier was MLK Jr. and Magneto was Malcolm X.
Maybe I didn’t learn all the state capitals or exactly what calculus did,
but I kept to memory the things I thought were important.
Which scares me.
Because I’ve never forgotten how I’ve felt about any of the people I’ve liked.
Crushes come and go, they say,
You’ll meet other fish, they say.
Well each crush has left me with casts autographed with bad poetry
And an ever growing aquarium with fish that never die but REQUIRE feeding
I’ll read your favorite books
Or listen to your favorite song
And I’ll think of you and how 5 years ago I used to walk you to your ballet classes
Or how I tried to teach you chess
Or maybe when I first sent you a message on Myspace, just hoping you would reply and we could be, at minimum, friends.
When I go to the Fred Meyers you work at I’ll think to myself
“Oh, I might see you there. I hope I look good if you see me.”
I think that if I run into your parents at the grocery store, will they tell you
“Guess who I ran into the other day? Alex! He’s doing great. Nice kid. I’ve always liked him.”
And sometimes I hope that you’ll see something in your day and you will think
“Hey, this reminds me of Alex.”
But memory doesn’t work like that.
You remember what’s important to YOU.
I’m merely projecting
Like an old film reel, already burning at the edges
An old home film that’s being recorded over for a new episode of something.
And I’m pissed that you all get to forget me so quickly.
You can throw away the poems I wrote for you
Or the CD that I made
and you can delete those text messages
or donate the sweater I lent you.
I can’t do any of those things.
Because I already found out what you meant to me.
No question about it.
a lot of the times,
I WISH I could ask questions.
I want to understand what the actual reason is behind it.
I’m sick of coming to conclusions alone.
Because as good as I am about remembering what Homeostasis means (It’s a status where you feel at home with)
I’m really good at coming up with reasons on
I missed you a terrible amount today.
Lost, lonely and longing for some sort of comfort,
I found my way back to the streets we once roamed.
Along these avenues and roads I decided to be productive
hoping to lift me from my funk.
Purchasing a youth bus pass like you did back when
we were younger.
When we were impressionable young teenagers still wondering
how our bodies worked
and still in the dark about how calculus worked.
Sometimes, I eat my feelings so I decided to get some really decadent
They were covered in asiago cheese and bacon and grilled onions and garlic truffle aioli and it was awesome.
Admittedly I ate for both of us because there were a LOT of tater tots there
and I would have enjoyed it more if I were sharing it with you
You ever notice how much I shared food with you
and how much I love food? Just something to think about.
Full but empty, I thought that maybe seeing your grandparents
a visit and then taking a walk around your room
might ease my pain.
Your grandpa said it was the first time he saw the floor of your room in 4 years.
Did you stop cleaning when we started dating?
Seeing your room again made me feel better and worse.
Funny how things happen like that.
While I was poking around through your things, I felt like I should have taken something just to remember you by. Just something I could have when the nights get longer or the days stretch out like a wasteland.
Your stashed paraphernalia greeted me with July 4th smoke.
Hot tubs and cigars, we knew how to celebrate right, didn’t we?
Maybe I could have taken one of your shirts that didn’t fit you that well
But would wrap around my torso tightly,
mimicking your arms when I slept.
I found coats in your closet from when we first started dating
You promised you would give them back but I didn’t imagine
me just taking them like this. They’re all still in there.
The book shelf was the next obvious place
The words that your eyes once glanced over
It would be nice getting to see the things you saw
Maybe even think the same thoughts as I get to that sentence
that jumped out at you. But each fit so snugly in their
spot that I didn’t want to disturb them.
After about 30 minutes of searching for the perfect
thing to bring back home with me, I had decided
Maybe I should just leave everything the way it is.
She’s always going to be on my mind
It’s not like she’s going anywhere.
So after sneaking through your drawers
and underneath your bed (by the way, it’s pretty messy under there)
I was about to flick the light switch off.
But I saw your hat.
This cream colored beanie that you always liked wearing.
It’s weird that you didn’t take it to college.
It’s a bit weird that I gave you mine.
I grabbed the hat and I could smell you still there.
Behind me you were silently holding me
My navy beanie on your head.
Your cream beanie on my head.
We’re always on each others minds now.
A Deus Ex Machina
Inquirer must be equipped with basic math skills in order to be a reciprocal to my feelings. Please note that if inquirer is serious about being my deus ex machina, he or she should be able to solve must sudoku puzzles with ease and enjoy jigsaw puzzles because my problems have me broken into an approximate 1200 piece puzzle. Note: some pieces may be missing.
If still interested, please also be aware that inquirer should be caring enough to remind me I have sand in my shoes and will offer to help me clean it off. Or, inquirer should be steadfast enough to remind me that if I leave the sand in my shoe, through constant struggle and irritation, my soles will produce pearls.
This job and position is a difficult one, for it requires tending to a dumb boy. Please be sure that you are willing to take on the task of getting this boy who’s been 8 for the last 10 years to finally turn 9. If offered, inquirer must have decent party planning skills, for the last employees have tried 10 different theme parties ranging from cowboys to mystery murder and none were able to hold another candle and throw another party.
Please have flexible hours because sometimes I can’t sleep and will need someone to bounce ideas and emotions off of. And sometimes I fall asleep on the couch without a blanket and I catch cold easily. Hours must remain flexible because I am indecisive and impatient which will mean for you that I won’t know what I want but I know I want it now.
Though this task is a heavy one, it does come with a list of perks to compensate for said employment. Comes with a comfortable room and board on the corner of my brain street and my heart avenue. Come as you please and make yourself comfortable for a long stay.
You’ll never need to go grocery shopping as you will see your cabinets and refrigerating unit will be stocked with the freshest foods for thought, courtesy of me.
The management team here understands that sometimes the best work comes when there is a reversal of roles, so do not be hesitant to call in sick and have me come in to tend to your needs. Sick days and vacations days can be stacked and rolled over for as long as you are employed, and we will try to accommodate your needs. We can be contacted through various modes of media which will be given to you within an appropriate amount of time.
For security purposes, your performance may be recorded within poems, songs, or proses for future reference. You may ask about the previous employees evaluation reports and you may also deny to sign the release form if you may choose.
Though there are many specific duties listed here (and many others not included) this is not an extremely strict job. We value creativity and spontaneity as long as the results are documented and effective. The management team, in the end, is looking a for solid partner in this very peculiar line of work.
Accepting applications from all and actively seeking for well qualified candidates.
You’re washing the dishes and you turn on the garbage disposal.
this weird little thought just pops into your head.
“I should totally stick my hand into it!”
I do it, you do it, and I’ve always thought why.
Why is it that when every time the bus arrives I think “Oh man I could totally dive in front of this and probably not survive!”
Or when frying eggs in the morning, when it gets a bit boring, my mind starts adoring the idea to grab the pan and melt my face, just because I can.
I mean, c’mon, why am I thinking
“Oh, look at that hot bonfire! I should lick it!”
They say it is “Intrusive thoughts.”
Freud said it is “The Death Drive.”
The French say it is “The Call of the Void.”
Thoughts that intrude upon your mood to exude possible attempts at doom as they collide and consume until your room becomes a chamber in which death looms.
Long nights on longer roads and you think you can just swerve into the other lane.
Like it’s all a game in which the insane is everyone who wants to circle the drain and this brain is thinking “We get there all the same. Why not just take a quick and fast train?”
When the abyss calls and leaves messages saying “Hey, boy.”
That’s the void.
Someone says that we recognize the danger and we materialize it as thoughts,
so your brain realizes the drops
the potential chops
The hidden behind every corner cop ready to hail gunfire.
But I knew the dangers with you
The consequences still rang out true
And the monsters in the void just grew.
Every burning light bulb I wanted to touch
Every heavy traffic flow I wanted to rush
Every knife I had wanted a cut
Every door saw my head and wanted to shut.
Every call from the void,
Every text from the void,
Every look from the void,
Every brush from the void,
Just kept making me walk back to that deep well
How far does that blackness REALLY go?
And every time I would walk around the clock to pass the time
Or to feel the winter wind just to cool off
I kept finding myself to this north star
Leading me home?
I kept trying to avoid it.
Kept my mind busy.
Read comics to deal with my issues
Tried new foods to appease my curious appetite
I even tried origami but in the end I folded to the pressure.
I looked straight into the void.
And if you get real quiet, you can hear…
I haven’t hit the bottom yet.
Do you hear that?
That small ringing in your ear, do you know what that is?
Echoes from the Big Bang.
Because just like New Years, this party started with a POP! Off comes the cork and splashing out is cosmos after cosmos, bubbling and spilling and thrilling. When champagne was invented he said “Come quickly! I am tasting the stars!”
Twinkling diamonds in the skies translate to stars in our eyes. We hold together the fabric of the universe in our hands and dust from the millennia flow through our veins: streaking and zipping comets flying inside of us.
Meteors zoom above our heads because we are larger than life. Paint two north stars inside your eyelids so every time you blink you can catch home. Slurp soup from the little dipper and take a bath in the big one: us humans are magnetic and phenomenal beings.
We grip that incandescent ball of fire and keep it in the side of our mouths: a hot, cinnamon jawbreaker. Playing connect the dots with the stars we use planets as Bingo balls. Pluto is our center tile, cause let’s face it; he gets that honorary mention at least.
We’re dancing ON the stars and toe tapping on the black velvet stage in space. A ball and gown with a astronaut’s helmet: we’re ready to waltz in perfect rotation as we orbit around each other.
Isn’t funny how we can eclipse the sun by merely walking in between the syzygy of you and him? When we started to learn about supernovae we started to learn about the Superman within.
Plucking out galaxies like apples from orchards, we’ve reversed the roles of man and the final frontier. Doodling sketches in the margins of our astronomy homework, we’re getting ready to load our pistol with some gun power and a strong bullet and POW, POP, BANG.
We just did it again.
Every day we create new worlds and we find more answers and unveil more questions. Marveling at the human condition and conscious we are able to deduce our origins to the oldest light in the universe. We can look so far ahead we can see places that haven’t existed yet BECAUSE that light has simply not reached there.
A speck of dust? A tiny dot?
Well this dot is speaking up. So I take one long drink from the Milky Way and shout from my megaphone: my own cosmic Twitter:
I have dissected my realm’s largest of creatures. I have observed the gas giants and the oblivion of black holes. I have lifted dying suns and crushed the densest of ores. I have mapped my genome and memorized the spectacle of intermolecular square dances. I have recorded the biggest wrestling bouts for those asteroid belts and sparred and trained for my match with you, my galactic foe. But this is not a fair fight. We’re in different weight classes.
Our calculations estimated there are 10^22 of observable stars inside you, dear Universe. But there are 10^27 atoms in my body. I am 100,000 more universes of atoms shaped through a million years of cooking and evolving: adding salt and pepper and a dash of that secret ingredient until it was just right. I am here. Are you listening?
That’s the sound of the universe unfolding inside of you: an eternal echo.
This goes out to that girl.
That girl whose legs divide more often than families
More often than how in bowling split happens.
That girl we all know and… tolerate.
Because her face
(Not a necessarily beautiful one)
but a hot one. Giving more
Fs than a strict school teacher nun
An apathetic she-devil who practices, incorrectly,
empathetic trebles along a sympathetic bass line
Because in her mind
She gets an E for effort and pops it without any
That girl gives a dollar to the Red Cross which automatically
Makes her exempt from Heck
She’s golden in Gosh’s book.
The girl who doesn’t know what’s going on in Iraq but is more concerned with taking pictures of her above average breasts using her newly received iPhone. That’s iRack on racks on racks.
All pop-culture without the subsistence
All appetizers without the sustenance
A teaser without any follow through because
Make up can’t make you wake up as a person
Plus, she’s boring in bed, so sleep is inevitable.
Her ass is on a pedestal but her personality is too tired to stand like a bicycle.
She won’t get all these jokes I write
Funny since she’ll still assume this poem is about her.
Bur regardless, let me hear you shout!
Cheers! Hurrays! Huzzahs!
1 for the poet, 2 for the person and 3 for the theme!
Reverb it and work it
The trinity of terrible. The Triforce of suck.
This girl is hot. But not pretty.
She’s general cookie cutter attractive.
She wears sweatpants that advertise her ass
The billboard reads across the rear: Juicy or Pink
She’s vapid and gets ridden like white water rapids
She smokes “dat piff” and thinks she’s hard by listening to Wiz
Khalifa. Saying “Fuck the police” but
Feels relief of mind when seeing red and blue lights when she’s in a “rough”
SE neighborhood. (SIDEBAR. Marshall is not “Deep SE.”)
Evidently the closest she’s been to the hood is when she’s skiing.
The closest she’s been to the hood is the top of her head
Only giving good thoughts when she’s near your head and bed
Likely to be wed and instead is never taken out of the box and packaging.
She drinks all that she can
And says “All I need is my man!”
OR “Fuck all guys, I just need my girls!”
Depends on the week.
She takes “wine and dine” and
flips it to “pay to play.”
But in the end, she’ll win in the loosest definition.
Because basic bitches like you always do.
Inspired and Dedicated to Emma Burke.
Original Post: An Ode To That One Girl
Every time I step behind a microphone, I die one glorious death.
Whether it be in martyrdom or the take down of a ruthless tyrant,
My death is legendary.
The tale of the hero with a 1000 faces has been translated by sages into the pages of this young boy with 47 poems and growing.
Without knowing up from down, or left from right, I write because this is a right that I earned through passages of rite. I write passages to right the wrongs.
I ascend to the clouds above and when I’m not shown any love I descend into the belly of hell and I compose quotes every 6 minutes and 9 seconds so Geico can’t even match my turbo inferno.
Weaving nightmarish tales for the audience to gasp and cry at.
Throw your sticks and stones.
Shatter the bones of this unholy prophet.
Let me die a death fitting of the world’s greatest villain.
Spilling rhymes like red wine on a white carpet, my target is expansive so any shot I toss is right on the mark.
Let me tell you my deepest secrets, let me spelunk into my abyss and grab a fistful of quills and I’ll tattoo the truth onto you so you can leave with a piece of me. And then I can die in peace, see.
Behind this pen, behind this contraption that allows my voice to reverberate of the walls of this hall, I will emancipate and create something for the young. Something for the old. I will leave SOMETHING.
Because after every performance, after every work, after every thing, I will always leave a chunk of my soul behind. Look,
You can see the footprint.
Man conquered the moon and mapped the stars
But we still have yet to get over our fears of public speaking.
Isn’t it funny that our greatest fear is talking in a room full of strangers?
That currently makes me America’s Most Wanted.
So as I stand behind this mic, my rhymes about my life will attract the FBI and I, in the blink of an eye will be gunned down and die.
But no one gets out alive.
And with every poem is another funeral.
And with every applause is another eulogy.
My epitaph is a paragraph broken in pentameters or characters
Call me Leander or Scapino
I am Childish Gambino
I am the homerun from the Great Bambino
I’m the reveal of the punchline
And the ding of the typewriter.
And I leave my obituary
Because I’d rather memorize words in my head than physically carry them everywhere.
My hands are already full any hows.
My inventory is filled with 99 phoenix downs.
UGH. YOU ARE A BAMF.
This is going to be a poetic letter dedicated to you and your incredible level of awesome. (Occasionally also your general face area place and how that’s awesome.)
The way you weave words together effortlessly like a grandma working on her ten thousandth scarf is just pure magic. You string them like old fingers on guitars; familiar and easy. Writing shares with others intimate moments, memories, secrets. So after hearing yours, I feel like I know you so much better. And I can’t help but imagine and wonder and wish to learn more past your writing.
And the way you tell these stories: it’s like your narrating a script of my life. How do you know how I feel all the time?! How can you look into my eyes and pick a particular piece of my past and present it with such poise that makes my own life palpable enough to watch as its performed in front of my peripherals?
You treat these words so well that I feel blessed when you exchange for the shoddy ones that I have. Every thing you say is like a secret that makes me want to lean in closer so I don’t ever lose one word: like this was only meant for me.
Plus, you’ve got a really nice face to go with this smoking hot personality. This whole “I’m a good person and I’m definitely smarter than you but I don’t make a big deal out of it” look is totally your fit.
It’s funny. It’s like your soul is reflected outwardly and that’s why you’re so pretty. Soft and nurturing translates to a creamy complexion. Free flowing thoughts turns into your hair. You’re never just one noted: your curves are evidence of that. Pondering thoughts, long and elegant of course become your legs. You’ll never let things go because you want to help everyone, so you have strong hands for that. And you walk through life like an adventure: like everything needs to be tasted and be enjoyed. So you have a wonderful mouth. There’s so much beauty in your heart so it comes out through your voice. Every thing you say being filled with naive enthusiasm and paradoxically experienced wisdom are swirled into your eyes: deep, old, youthful eyes. Eyes that look at you without the slightest hint of irony or teen angst. The most human, genuine, look that makes your heart crumble in the best way possible.
This was a letter to you. To you. To you.
Never, EVER meant to be read by your eyes.
But only listened to.
your poetic fool.
I’m totally interested in what you think I am. And that goes for most of us. We want to know who we are to someone else. But to myself, who am I? What am I? What pieces of elements in some twisted chemistry and bonds comprise this guys design and make up?
Well. I’m a monolith for one. Carved from one single piece called passion, putting that fire into everything I do, it’s greater than anything you can imagine. Because imagine the passiveness of letting nothing ever happen. That madness will drive me towards blackness. The action that I take will drastically change the sadness to gladness.
I’m balanced on two feet. A feature that propels this future teacher and speaker back and forth because I’ll be an active professor, and not one of my lectures will feel prosthetic like dentures. But I venture to have my students go out and have an adventure: take a real bite out of life. I’m not teaching them to cut, I’m only giving them the forks and the knives.
My pair of legs, lanky and skimpy, pillars that are adorned with tight fabric because, well, it looks good. The muscles that flex and turn with ever step, right and then left and what’s left is the best adept strut that shows off my confidence and of course my cute ass Asian butt. Redundant.
Hip bones that keep me framed like the piece of work I am, I’ve got a slight V that if I tip over slightly, you’ll see that I’m greater than he.
They call it a rib cage cause my heart cannot be stopped, only contained. Because this guy is hardcore even when chained. Bruised like a suicidal peach, cut like it’s a wrap, scarred like Mufasa’s evil brother and battered like some fish with of course a couple chips. But it throbs with rhythm because it is my internal drummer, the inner system, that kicks and keeps me going, and going, and going. Just listen.
My chest opens up easily and reveals my heart for you. A flat landscape, so it’s kind of like a board and is pretty easy to screw.
Shoulders that are tired from the weight of the world and my head, but they’re never wishing for a lighter load, just some more conditioning and strengthening instead. The shoulders obviously shoulder my cause.
Two arms, slim and crafted with careful contours and subtle curves: they aren’t blasted. There’s not a lot to gander at but they have the tenacity of a boxer’s: so getting in my arm’s way is getting in harm’s way.
The hands that write with the right to write, they write passages without a passage of rite.
My neck, protect, like the Wu-Tang, so I’m never in danger. My head and mind is constructed because I am the motherfucker that built the 36 chambers and THEN SOME.
Black flippy hair before Bieber copied. With maybe a common Joe’s face but dude, I am not sloppy.
I’m not that short but you will look down at me but that’s only because you’re viewing from the balcony.
And honestly, my honesty will never be obsolete. I am what I am: everything I want to be.
It’s a testament to how much you like the person when you don’t think about kissing them or fucking them as much as you think about doing the boring things with them.
Because, yeah, we’re humans. We wanna do it. We want to feel that rush of adrenaline and tap into the most basic of instincts, but when you fantasize and romanticize about the little things, you have something special.
Cause girl, you know me, I’m a hopeless, and I’m hopelessly looking forward to every mundane and boring moment that the world has for us. Long bus rides together? Hell yes. Standing in line with you? Sign me up. Deciding what to order? Oh yeah.
I kick my head into day dream overdrive mode and (well let’s face it, I’m still human, I’ll think about boning you too) but more often or not it’s the living things I imagine with you! Grocery shopping with you would be fantastic because then I don’t have to worry about buying a bunch of junk food, you’d be there to hold me back. Or other way around. We’d take turns on who’s the responsible shopper.
How about folding laundry? I’d do that with you. Hard. I’ll even do the part before hand, and I know, we getting a little freaky with the washing machine and the dryer but hey, I’ll get down on that and I’ll bring my own things too: detergent AND fabric softener.
Baby, me and you, we can clean out that fridge like no tomorrow. Cause I know we’ll have different ways in storing it (I like putting milk in the center aisle, you like it on the door. We can work pass that!) but this is something that we HAVE to do and I’m willing to do it with a smile. Even the freezer!
Why? Well. I just think that it’s not about the things you do, but who you do it with.
So bring on the cooking of meals, the cleaning of the house, gardening, weeding, getting your oil changed, and even going to THE FUCKING DMV.
If it’s with you, it’ll be good.
If I could, I would share my heart with all the pretty girls out there. One by one, I’d woo and swoon and flirt with fire and dance with the flames licking my fingers. I’d scrape my knees a few thousand times and would cause an influx of surplus for the Band-Aid company.
If I could, I would randomly appear at your door way, or your window sill, or your backyard armed with those crazy two person Snuggies, a basket with tomatoes, pasta, garlic, basil and some fine Parmesan so I could cook for you later, and the 3rd and 4th season of Friends, because I don’t know why, but I always liked those best.
If I could, I would fall in love with every beautiful soul that passed by my eyes and I would share the love songs and the adorable poems I write for you and then it’d be out of my hands since it’ll be your reaction, but hopefully it would be a vaguely positive one.
If I could, I would toss all caution to the wind and always tell the truth and tell the people how I really feel, how I really felt, even if I were never to see them again or to be in constant contact with them thereafter.
If I could, I would do this. But should I do that?
I should share my heart conservatively, wait until I trust the person enough. Because yeah, whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but that’s a hell of a lot of recuperating time. And honestly, not every one will share back and they might just end up stealing parts of it!
I should appropriately tell you in normal manners and fashions how I feel about you and maybe if our relationship progresses in the sense I can do romantic gestures, do it when applicable, and not do it, say, the next day after meeting you so I don’t come off TOO stalker-y. And I should probably ask how you feel about grand schemes and test the waters on food and even TV shows.
I should watch myself because I know love loves to love love but misery LOVES company and too much love giving away will result in a consequence I might not love so much.
I should make sure I know the person well enough and gauge the situation on how real I should be, because honesty is nice and is the best policy, but out of process of elimination, that makes dishonesty the next best thing. And there’s being honest and being brutally truthful that makes you come off as a dick.
I should do this. But if I could do something else, what would I do?
And I’ve just got to tell you. And I’ve just got to tell you. And I’ve JUST GOT TO TELL YOU.
These words swell up in my chest, waiting to burst, waiting to be released because there’s a million ways to give birth and they all end up in pain and in something beautiful. The message is cracking through my hardened exterior like the proverbial rose that grew from the concrete except with every beat of my heart, the street where I start walking crumbles further and further so I finally find out what Shel was talking about when he spoke of where the sidewalk ends. I’m running out of steps and what’s left is that I either tell you or I have already leapt. This letter that I addressed to you is sealed in a faded manila envelope that won’t ever stop growing like an upward asymptote. The parchment heavy and the product never ready to show you. And never will you be able to read it until I figure out how to steady my hand and figure out how many damn stamps to put on this fucking package. And from my epitaph arises hollow moans of regrets and what could have beens and what should have been and what good it is to finally release my death rattle because the weight of my shadow is nothing compared to the battle of what if in my head. Because I’ve just got to tell you like a child running home through the pouring rain after school, clutching in his hand his 98% spelling test in a Thundercats folder, jumping over boulders and splashing through puddles, soaked to his socks because he thought that if he brought that test to you as soon as he could you would know he finally did some good for once in his existence. This is something that should be released upon immediate seeing of you next, because the thoughts that perplex and give my head stress would be in less than a sec relieved if I could only relay you the realization I made when I replayed the relapse of emotions before I relaxed and then screamed. Because I’m so frustrated that I can’t tell you but every natural act and force of the world and of science and of Newton’s laws of physics and of every man written word derived from God or gods or kings or mobs seems to tell me to fucking man up and do it. But I can’t. And that’s the truth, it’s… it’s… it’s… ineffable?
That’s not true. And we both know it. It’s fear. It’s time. It’s circumstance. It’s social policies that makes honesty some sort of blasphemy. What’s stopping me is an eight sided diagram of over thinking, over analyzing, hesitance, being scared, being lazy, uncertainty, rejection, and conditioning. When really I just need to realize that this is as simple as blinking, and though it might seem surprising, this intelligence is being shared, being played, see, perfectly the intention of this reasoning should be all that’s worth. So I guess I’ll just say it.
I’ll just say it.
I’ll just say it.
I’ll. Just. Fucking. Say it.
But maybe I don’t know what to say yet.