Writing Journey

The Journey

We all have a journey. We have journeys that take us to physical places, mental places or emotional places. We have family journeys, school journeys, reading, artistic or what-not journeys. I have a writing journey. I struggled to learn to read and write because I'm a bit dyslexic. I always put extra letters into words or made my letters backwards as a child. I've had to memorize every word I've ever learned to spell because it doesn't make sense to me why things are done the way they are, and language rules never seem to help! Anyway, I started with poetry. Poetry began when I was a kid, and progressed until shortly after high school. Now college is over and I write novels... maybe the occasional short story. 

The first thing I ever wrote to completion (other than my own name as a 4-year-old) was a poem. I remember it quite vividly. I was sitting on the ugly 1980's brown carpet in my bedroom and playing with a crayon and a piece of paper. I drew a little picture of a boat and thought it was a pretty nifty boat. Then my mind started wandering to what boats did and where they went and who was carried off by them. I felt a sting of inspiration and started writing about an experience I had never had. My parents found it and loved it, right down to the spelling errors. What did I write? I don't have the original anymore, but it was something like this.

The water is blue and green 

The boat is big and brown

It carries away the fisherman

to where they can't be found

The bell tolls as they leave

Their children wave goodbye

The anchor lifts from sand and

they sail past the sky.

I know, right? Does the poem really mean anything? Is it great? Is it grand? It is to a kid. I thought I was hot shit. I thought I had an original idea and that I was expressing myself in a creative way. It was just the beginning. As I grew up, I kept writing poetry to express simple emotions I couldn't verbalize in other ways, as well as to work through issues of little-growing-up-me. I lost my father at a young age, found myself thrown into the mix of a (wonderful, wonderful) blended family, and trying to figure out what direction my life would take. Poetry was an outlet and I shouted it from the mountaintops. I built my own website dedicated to poetry (Yes it still exists and NO I will not post the embarrassing URL) in High School and published in the school newspaper and magazine. 

There were a lot of unfortunate street people on a major shopping street where I grew up. Nearby to a university, the very desperate of society would panhandle for spare change. It made a profound punch at my view of the world and I was sad every time I saw someone down and out. My favorite "guy" always stood in the same place, wearing the same clothes, holding the same battered styrofoam cup. It didn't matter if it was the middle of winter or the high heat of summer, he was always dressed from head to toe in heavy clothing, complete with a ragged scarf. I always gave him my change because he was always there and I always looked for him. One day he wasn't there anymore. I wondered what had happened to him. I really hope he moved on and found something better in life, but I wrote the following, fearing the worst.

Streets

Lonely streets lead nowhere

Hollow rusty gutters and

little streams of sludge

flowing along uneven curbsides

Many Tired Souls

toe high is cigar butts

dropped a desperate thought here

looking for redemption

Missing pieces fall like

loose change and dreams

until they expire like

empty promises

Lost and cold among

the crowds that do not stop

the unseen are not there

and only imagined

Turning in circles

darkness swallows shadows

back dropping memory

dully lit in a dark sky

Never be the lonely man

the street will drink you empty

I was also a little angry from time to time. Ever date that "bad" guy? You know, the one who you KNOW is bad for you, but you just have to date anyway? Well, I did. I dated all the losers because they were "living life" and "high on life" and "wouldn't let the man keep them down." Needless to say, they were the druggies, burnouts, sons of wrecked homes or car jackers. Yes. There were at least three of those types for me in high school. Seems it took three to learn my lesson and find a normal, healthy relationship. Anyway, I wrote this after my boyfriend was sent to juvenile hall for stealing cars and joy riding for the second time.  I also discovered he had cheated on me, sleeping with some random girl from another school. His exploits were the fashionable rumors. I kept thinking he was going to end up someone's father and be terrible at it. I felt betrayed. I was more than angry. I dumped him and published poetry about him the school magazine to vent my anger. 

You'll Fail

You make me 

sick

Your smile's

too gaunt

Your dreadful

nature

nonchalant

A fool's love

for dreams

you sail

You can't

stop now

Think you

can't fail.

You failed

before

Why not

fail again

You're as

much a

fool

as you were 

then.

Die a

coward

Plant your

seed

But we know

you

can not

succeed.

Even with big family life changes and sad boyfriend choices, I did manage to keep a positive outlook from time to time. I turned to art, becoming one of those kids you found in the art room on their lunch breaks and in the library after school, or participating in poetry club with all the "emotional, depressed, eccentric or off-type people." I embraced those who didn't belong to clicks and shared the same interests as myself. Together we pumped each other up to produce art, verbal or otherwise. One really "up" day, I wrote this.

Life Eater

You're afraid of me

I'm too strange for you

You call me odd

But I am happy

You told me your name

I said I haven't one

You call me dull

maybe I am.

I eat exotic fruits

look for danger

You call me dumb

But I am happy

I haven't need for cash

I love the little things

You think I'm crazy

Maybe I am.

You hang out with me

I think I'm afraid of you

You call me weird

I'm sure I'm colorful

I dance in the rain

You danced with me

They think you're odd

Maybe you are.

We stay up all night

Dream of distant lands

They hate you now

But you are happy

Why bother with shoes?

God gave us feet

They think we're odd

Maybe we are.

You're still with me

I dyed your hair purple

You were polkadot pants

And you are happy

They think we're weird

Eating too much life

Said you'd stay with me

For we are happy.

One of my personal favorites... I get tired of people who don't believe in God feeling that they have the right to "take his name in vain" saying, "God damn" or whatever other combination of blasphemy you can imagine. I was very Catholic back in the day and even pursued the idea of becoming a nun, which didn't work out. I was dating the "bad boys," right? Now I label myself something of more "spiritual" than anything else, but still retain a lot of my Catholic upbringing. One day I became angry at a friend for cursing and I wrote a poem about it.

Atheist

You're lost and so you speak his name

as if he'd run your fears to tame

He knows you never knew the way

you disbelieve but still you pray.

You think that you are soundly sane

yet you take another's lord in vain

Why do you speak yet not conceive?

You never knew and don't believe.

Today I was listening to the radio and feeling pretty good. It's been since 1999 since I last wrote a poem (or wrote down the date of one). I pulled out my iPhone and pulled up the notepad and started typing. I felt inspired. This morning was good. I was feeling good about the world and feeling good about being me.

Untitled

I want to be free to

Be who I want to

Outside the box of

Conformity

I want to be taller

Reach for the stars there

Building on love scenes

Of possibility

It's not done. My inspirational moment was interrupted by a screaming baby. I'll come back to this next time inspiration hits me, or maybe not. 

What's the point of this blog post? I don't think there's anything on a grand scale that I'm reaching at. Does it all suck? Probably. Will someone like it? I don't care. It's not important. It's the journey that's important. This was my poetic journey, and even with a long break of not writing poetry, it seems it'll come back when I'm feeling inspired.