holeintheblue

Hi! This is basically my journal, but public because I'm a chronic exhibitionist

[holeintheblue]

For Grandma Mary

I wish I’d met her But I half forget her And the parts I have Were only told to me.

They’re mushy and blurry And they make me worry, see- There’s a ghost, I see her, at the edge of these scenes I can’t see it but I feel it, I feel the unseen.

Sure, domestic bliss, but can’t you all see this? Sure, thank you for the kiss, but first- isn’t that weird mist?

I don’t mean to rock the boat. I don’t mean to be too mean. But you don’t mention her, don’t venture there, Into those things unseen.

[writers-bane]

[holeintheblue]

Yess proper writing is meant to be one step up from maladaptive daydreaming

[holeintheblue]

My dreams, they- they- haunt me, stalk me, Then float away like a Bruise in deep shade. An indent on the arm No one claims to have made. I cannot get it out But it will not go away- So I’ll wander, like a lout Until that very Day-

[holeintheblue]

As “women” or whatever, I guess we’re supposed to find the diamonds in the rough and prune them. That’s our job, right? Garden, be patient, slow, tend to the roses. I’d rather stab myself with a thorn. I’d rather bleed- or rather, bleed more.

When I was 11, I fell into a rose bush because I was running too fast. Too desperately. I was never willing to sit still for your viewing pleasure, and I am not about to start.

I don't care if I bloom, but I will grow.

[holeintheblue]

To watch the brilliance when you don’t have it-

Open-mouthed and half the talent,

To be the corner of the room,

To watch a whole crowd ahh and swoon.

It feels like needles-

It feels like need.

A gaping hole, it seethes and bleeds.

[hudsonagba]

Today will be a great day, and I know this.

[holeintheblue]

I know it too!

[holeintheblue]

To watch the brilliance when you don’t have it-

Open-mouthed and half the talent,

To be the corner of the room,

To watch a whole crowd ahh and swoon.

It feels like needles-

It feels like need.

A gaping hole, it seethes and bleeds.

[holeintheblue]

It's Spring and I

I may be ugly but the world is not The sun beams down to my shaded spot And caresses me, convalesces me And I can’t seem to care how I ought.

Yes, I am alone but I cannot fear When there’s a whole wide world out past my ears When the rain still hugs my dry ass skin When the elements rage and I let them win

How could I complain about this life? Well I have and I do, but sometimes strife Passes and I recall to see The blessings right in front of me.

A god-given gift by a deity: I won't kick it in the mouth, I’ll let it be-

You created freedom and gave it to me.

[holeintheblue]

To watch the brilliance when you don’t have it-

Open-mouthed and half the talent,

To be the corner of the room,

To watch a whole crowd ahh and swoon.

It feels like needles-

It feels like need.

A gaping hole, it seethes and bleeds.

[holeintheblue]

In a little house with fresh flowers on the kitchen counter… filling it with their fragrance…

I think I knew, even then… the incandescence of our pure joy in strange, beautiful lights… It was magic. It was magic I got to witness- even better, to participate in. And I believed there would be other joys, but none so sharp and new as this. And I was right. I was bitterly, wonderfully, right.

For once in my life.

[holeintheblue]

Molting.

Oh no, I’m molting.

It’s that time of year again. I’m pale, and the sun always gets me, it gets me. And I molt, I do. Pale skin burns away, like a dog’s fur with the flu. It’s the old trick: change turns self into self, shite into shit. At least I’m not the only one. At least I can cover it. I pat my dog’s pale head and my hand holds heaps of hair. I release them and they float, flee into the air.

[writingblus]

i dont "go on walks," i dont "use character sheets" and i dont "plot before writing," i raw dog it, and if it doesnt flow, I FUCKING CRY.

[holeintheblue]

Crying is the water filter of the soulllll

[holeintheblue]

I want to write a story that makes a girl strong/ that makes her belong/ sit up and cling on/ to the wild run we’re all on.

[holeintheblue]

Geez, someone really sold you a bag of goods, he said, but he didn’t know the half of it. I wasn’t sold anything. I was a child, and children have nothing with which to buy. But I had empty hands that grabbed on instinct, grabbed whatever was put in them. It was a time before nail beds and manicures, before judgment. I accepted all of it without judgment. How much harder is it now, then, to look on the past. To dismantle the dreams. Because they’re not dreams, to me: they’re all reality realistically can be. The nail polish never gets un-chipped. We just paint over it. Or we pretend we did.

[holeintheblue]

Finding Louise Glück & Co.

I only find the best poets After they’re dead. I look at the black ink of their death date And give a polite Hello, ma’am, in my head. Even ghosts Want for courtesy, I imagine. Want for feedback. I love your poem, the one with the grief. The wordplay! Heavenly. Heavenly.

See, while they lived I was In grade school or My mother’s womb or simply Whiling away time, time which could have been spent Emailing live poets. Instead, I was a live wire Without a power source. I was a pre-poet, an un-reader. A future admirer you’ll never meet.

I am sorry, ma’am, That I came late to your life. I am sorry that you had to die at all, and most of all, That your being dead has saved me.

That prolificity piles on pain. That I found all these perfect poets Just a little too late.

[holeintheblue]

What is a miracle? It’s a changing of tone, it’s Being found as a person who never had home.

Endings are fluid, unwritten and empty, but each start is a stone, a dome built alone. She stays there, plays there, at back of mind: a girl, who swirls, no conception of time.

Imprisonment has a unique power It can grab you, nab you, steal hour after hour Until you feel you have no power Until you stand and sit, and sit and cower.

She needs to be free, and in needing, won't be. But what started as bread once became wine so miracles bloom in the doom I called mine.

What is a miracle? It’s an unforeseen plenty It’s plans and romance and chances that sent me Out from my cell, Gave me stories to tell.

These are real miracles. And they happened to me. They freed me from the narrative, They allowed me to bleed.

[holeintheblue]

Could be a classic rags to riches, except I have rather nice clothes. A Monte to liberatée, except said freedom just sits, staring at me. What can I be? What story fits me? I am lost and tangled up and alone. And worse- as I had a happy home.

If you can't be a hero, what becomes of you?