HBO: Def Poetry

Watched this, as well as other Def Poetry slams, during my senior seminar
on performative autobiographies last spring.
"I wanna hear a poem where ideas kiss similes so deeply that metaphors get jealous."
Loved it then, love it still.

grins

cuddling into sheets

reaching for water

searching for pillows lost in the shuffle

stretching

curling up

sunlight through the blinds...

these are what mornings after

are made of.

there are some

i'd tell everything to

and others

who get the vestiges

one doesn't know

of the other

both sides think

they're getting it all

but to be honest,

there's a third.

and this one 

honest to god

does get everything

hopes, fears

smiles, tears

there are some i'd

tell everything to

but i don't

you're my cup of tea

all i need on a cold day

your sweet scent tickles my nose

as my lips move towards you

and you're warm,

calming my insides.

with you

the drinks all go straight to my head

i can't think straight

and the next day i can't

remember anything

i always think the next time will be different

and that i wont make the same mistakes

but it's no use

something about you

is intoxicating

and it's mixing with my drinks

to bring me under

and show me the error of my ways

Namesake

our time period was short

but the pages you've caused are many.

our time has passed

i live in the now

but my words betray me,

take me back,

as do the photographs

and the opening chords of our songs

(i still consider them our songs)

we happened so long ago

but i still find things to say

about things that happened

circa sometime

Le Petit Prince

"...when someone blushes, doesn't that mean 'yes'?"

used

but easily made up

like my bed

that

no matter how many times

i clean

will always

smell of you.

your sweet smell

spices, sweat, and nature

does more than linger

it's found a home

within my sheets

within my memories

it's like i could

close my eyes

and you'd be right there.

but you're not

you wont

ever be right there.

we were strangers once

we can play those roles

so well

once again.

i like it when stories take sharp left turns.

you think you're going to hear a love story,

then without warning, it's nothing more than a "fuck you" to the terms of endearment you once held dear.

i like it when the narrative falls apart

and the protagonist, who once had the girl,

loses the world.

i like it because it's true.

"happiness isn't a fixed point anyway, 

you find it, you fumble it"

and these stories show that.

show what it's like to be at the bottom

and how the bottom never

really truly is the lowest.

you're always at someone else's high.

Volume's up

to drown you out.

if i look like i'm paying attention,

let it be said that i'm not.

window's down

because i'd rather hear the rushing of wind

and traffic

than you.

volume's up

because those singers

are saying what you want to

but more eloquently.

window's down

because there's something

beautiful about you

pushing the hair out of your face.

volume's up

so we can be together

in peace.

a sturdy chord

strummed at the same pace

as a tapping foot.

this is what my heartbeat sounds like

an easy chord

at a steady pace

strum down

then up

at no particular hurry

this is the sound of my heart

before it skips a beat.

this is my life, a full book on the floor, feel free to open and read, i think i wrote it for you anyways.

by that, by saying that i thought i wrote all of this for you, if you were to find it - i don't think that's a complete truth...for one, the proverbial "you" is a large one in regards to this. the subject of my rants, words of love, whatever, changes often. the only distinguishing features are catchphrases and references to pencil skirts. here's hoping i can recall those allusions when i'm older and revisiting. right, now. if any of these "you" found this - and read this - and attributed writings to yourself - then fine. i'm not going to be around to say whether you were right or not. you wouldn't listen anyway. speaking of anyway, maybe, in a way - these are my memoirs. find. publish. one dream down, a million to go. i always wanted to pen my story but always pictured it as daunting. here it is - uncut. unabridged. just like life. only better.

my room is packed with books - with stories of lives and loves i'll never experience

hundreds of vignettes show me exactly what i'm missing

however, some have been helpful tomes

they've led me in the right direction in order to pretend my life was storybook

but like all lies, those had to come to an end as well.

my room is my own library

where i can revisit the same stories

night after night.

my dreams, hopes and aspirations are coloured by these pieces of fiction in ways fiction should never be considered.

storybooks and fairytales are cautionary -

build houses out of stone, not straw, and don't rest until you've finished the race - 

so why am i reading them with a comparative eye?

books make sense.

life and love make sense in books.

they aren't supposed to in real life.

at least, i hope not.

because then otherwise,

i'm reading the wrong books.

sometimes i wonder what will happen when i'm gone. who will be the one to end up going through my things? read my journal pages? will they mean anything? i've left a lot of names out...hopefully i'll remember who i talked about so vehemently, so passionately. when i go, whose eyes will scan my pages? someone i've written about? if so, i'm not sorry. i didn't make anything up. i accept your apology, though.

swift fingers plucking a piano,

that's my soundtrack.

mostly single notes, a couple chords,

make up the intro.

but eventually the single plinks

escalate and blend

into both hands

spewing a melodic tune

at an increasing pace.

faster and more beautiful,

the music goes on

until it stops.

don't give me flowers,

flowers eventually die,

and i see signs in everything.

don't give me chocolate,

it gives me stomachaches,

and i see signs in everything.

call me atypical,

but all i want is your kiss.

indoors and out

morning noon and night

kiss me in the rain

or on my doorstep while judy garland

sings in the background,

"somewhere over the rainbow

way up high

there's a land that i heard of

once in a lullaby."

i see signs in everything.

tears fall

as a mind races

history is revisited

without any traces

of a smile

that vanished

along with ideas

of a "you"

that never materialized

Stories from the live-out-loud-broken-hearted, a generation born into clarity

1. 

My spoon clinks against a coffee cup

and the birds outside sing in tune

songs about early mornings that blend

with late nights

long dresses that graze

dirty streets

that i tread

while everyone sleeps.

but those birds see.

the nightbirds watch over me

and in those wee hours

that i catch sleep,

they tell my stories

so morning birds

can sing my tale.

2.

sometimes words can't express my thoughts, regardless of how hard i try to mold them. my stories aren't unique. i'm just another casualty in the war of the open hearts, and the soldiers before me have already woven their tales, created intricate tapestries that far surpass my later, foolish attempts. so instead, i hang their stories up because they're also my stories. i read their tales and learn their mistakes so i can recognize when i'm making them.

"that's the problem with being both really smart and a little screwed up. you're able to concoct the most believable self-defeating positions." - Diana Peterfreund

never in my life will i ever say,

"i am nothing without you."

i am something, with or without you.

your presence doesn't miraculously change me,

though you would add to my definition.

on my own, i am still someone

someone great.

a liver, lover, giver, taker, seer, traveler, recidivist, ne'er do well, perfectionist, musician, artist, champagne aficionado.

together with you, i am still that someone

someone great

standing by

sleeping with

loving someone great.

i am something without you

and something better with. 

i wear love like a see-through dress

a loose cover up

but covering nonetheless

hiding my scars

but just barely.

i wear love like a loose dress.

gauzy armor

ruffled by the wind

and lets the sunshine through. shining onto every imperfection, highlighting ever perfection. but covered nonetheless. i stay covered throughout. 

i wear love like a see-through dress

forget modesty -

i just made the best mix.

the songs complement each other

as well as my memories.

the highs are highlighted

and the lows bring me to tears.

cathartic.

a handful of years

down to a fistful of songs.

on repeat.

unlike my memories,

these songs are welcome.

Lore

it was the middle of winter

but someone was looking out for us

amidst 20 degree days

our day

was in the low 50s

our day

was tshirt weather

in the depth of winter

our day

was spent on patios

with bottles of wine

and belgian beer

our day

had its own dj

spinning a soundtrack

that belonged to us

our day was perfect

a harmony

of recollecting the past

and imagining the future

our day

it was in the middle of winter

and there were bluebirds

just for one day

our day

love at first drink

the last shot is the deepest.

clarity comes on long walks home

go straight

with him

or turn

for another night alone.

waking up to pounding heads

and dry tongues

is better together...

your mouths can take solace

in each other.

lust at first bar

the last drink is the decision maker

and it's always on the mark.

so throw it back,

keep your chin up,

walk forward,

and don't look back.

the last shot is the deepest

but it all starts with

"can i buy you a drink?"

poorly drawn coats begin to describe our disheveled love.

my fellow dreamer

on the other side of the world

gone for a year

but still in my heart.

i think of you without thinking

and find myself dialing your number

but the electronic message 

is a rude awakening

to a present without you

to thrift stores

long drives

concerts and crafts

completed on my own

and kept aside

to show you on your return

Happy Valentine's Day!

Truth be told I don't think I've had a legit Valentine's date in probably forever, but that's okay. I love love in all its forms and shapes, so usually my friends and family are at the top of my list, and really, unlike any dude I've known, they'll always be there for me. Recently, I sent a package to a girlfriend of mine who is abroad in Korea which mainly consisted of a letter and a mix. And this mix had a CD cover. And I'm proud of it. So I'm sharing it. It's Valentine's Day! Love love!

Front cover - and a glimpse of the line-of-hearts ribbon enclosure.

For the "Shake It" mix

"Like You"

"Mean It" - the CD slips in as follows: 

Just something pretty to end it off.

And for those of you who aren't abroad in Korea, and therefore did not get a package with a mix from me, here I give to you the next best thing:

A sweet, totally sultry, blush inducing .gif of Clive Owen being....Clive Owen. You're welcome!

I die. Why can't more dudes dress like this? I swear, most girls are fans!

And now a break for sartorialism.

Okay this might be random, but there is definitely a direct correlation between this train of thought and the recent amazing weather we've been having...I absolutely love button downs on men, but thus far no man in my life has worn one of the short-sleeved variety very well. And then I saw these photos of Chuck from Gossip Girl and everything fell into place. 

THIS is how men should wear short-sleeve button down shirts. Fitted. In the summer. Fitted. Emphasis on fitted. Or at the very least - not really baggy.

And it has to be said that I'm completely aware that maybe I just want more men to look like Ed Westwick, but hey, a girl can dream.

i woke up to the sound of birds today.

and here i was, thinking it was still winter,

still time for overcoats

and tissue boxes.

and while this morning might be a fluke,

and the snow might fall in a few days,

that bird knew to fly home already.

who am i to judge its internal calendar?

maybe come february,

we should look up to the birds

instead of down to a groundhog.

No words right now, just some of my own visual inspiration...

Sources: The Sartorialist, j'ai oublié the rest (my bad)