Insomnia Poetry

I started writing more poetry during the excruciatingly late nights in the news room. While I waited for edits, I brain barfed uncensored poetry into gmail drafts and lazily sent them off to friends and critics. Some are more eloquent than others, some more passionate than others. Some rhyme, most don’t. What I could extract from my gmail “Sent” folder is included below.

What If
Insomnia and loneliness dance through my veins,
And I let them permeate my brain, let them taint my thoughts.
I watch as my potential lives play like movies across the backs of my eyelids.
All the parallel universes that couldawouldashoulda existed… There as a reminder of everything I never did.
All the forks in the road, all the ultimatums, all the conversations I never had reclaim some remnant of reality there in my 2am brain spaz.
I carry on both sides of the conversation…
Things I wish I had the wit to come up with without forethought,

Things I hardly admit to myself,

Things I wish I had the guts to say rather than feverishly type them into a document that still exists only on my desktop and in my mind.
Words you know, but only because you know me. Words I never could say.
Because having that conversation in real life would mean relinquishing my control over the outcome.
Shouldawouldacoulda…
Here, in my half-lucid not-quite-dream world, I dance the tango with two dangerous words.
And let the possibility of what could have been color my darkened room.

Toes

I’m all wild
Red hair and leopard prints
Independence and big talkin’

I “dig” my own holes
And tread on your pretty little toes
With my garishly painted, toe-ring studded ones

Sorry if I offended you, dearest Napoleon
Sorry if you met your match
I’ll fight logic with emotions
I’ll fight your tactics with my words
And win

But winning is really losing, isn’t it
This isn’t litigating here
With you, toe to toe

I just scare you off
God forbid I not be some prim Southern belle
But mayonnaise with Jell-o?
Gross
And debutante balls?
Archaic displays of long-lost virginities
Complete with frills and baby’s breath

I’ll stick to my beer
And my outspoken, underdeveloped opinions
Sorry I scare you away, kid
But this isn’t the 1940s

I’ll let you let me be the girl that got away
But I promise you, Ace
I will not go quietly

A Taste of Fall

It’s like savoring a childhood ice cream cone,
when I watch the northern sun set.
After 72 hours of cloudy-with-afternoon-showers,
it’s a long overdue apology from Mother Nature.

“Sorry for the messed up makeup,” she says,
“the never knowing what to wear outside.
Sorry for the mud-stained boots, the chill,
the loads of wet, moldy laundry, the pneumonia.

Just sit with me a while, friend,
And enjoy your colorful consolation.
Pour some hot cocoa, pull up a seat,
and share some silent, sweet conversation.”

And I sit there, cross-legged and cold,
and stare into my her eyes a while.
I pull my Snuggie in around my goose-bumped legs,
and share a stolen moment with my new frenamie.

The conversation transitions seamlessly,
from tangerine to peach to pomegranate.
In the most delicious, sherbety goodness,
that my eyes have ever tasted.

And then she fades away too soon into the black,
the gray, the shades of winter cold.
And I’m left with a lingering fruity sweetness,
clashing with my hot-turned-luke-warm chocolate.

My Life in Lists

If I ever had the guts,
to just up and quit everything
and write a memoir,
it might not be that interesting…

Probably a female angsty
version of some Salinger story.

But I’d call it: “My Life in Lists.”
Because I have the annoying habit
of breaking everything down into
bite-sized lists.

I blame my mom.

Word documents fill my desktop…
Bucket lists, Christmas lists,
lists of boyfriends and books to read.
Ideas for a story, words I think are pretty.
Lists, lists, lists.

Somehow, writing a list feels productive,
organized, constructive…
when I know its just procrastinating,
not doing the things actually on the list.

But it looks so pretty. All the check-less boxes,
There’s so much damn potential.

Sometimes, I put things on the list
like “Wake up” and “Breathe air”
just so I can feel the satisfaction
of putting a tick in that tiny, perfect square.

If I ever die and someone gets hold of Lloyd
(that’s my laptop),
they could dissect my whole personality,
my hopes and fears and dreams,
from the contents of my desktop.

Thought Soup

Sometimes, in our instant-message society,
The words we mean to say become scrambled
Like a Denny’s breakfast (noms).
I try to fill the awkward silences with
Gilmore Girls-esque brain barf, unscensored nothings.
And my hands come alive, dancing.

I always speak with my stupid hands.

As a writer, my whole life revolves around words,
All the whos and whoms and whichs and thats.
I explain away the unexplainable,
And my head spins with song lyrics and stories.

I so seldom stop to listen to them, though.
I mean really listen.

I’m a Gemini, through and through.
There are so many different ‘Marians’:
The tomboy Marian, the writer Marian
The sister, the daughter, the scholar
The friend, the baby girl, the child.
I hardly know who I am, anymore.

I’m not comfortable sitting still and making peace with myself,
Whichever version of myself myself really is.

“I have so many problems,”
I say while sitting in a lonely newsroom at 3am,
Turning my psychological thought soup
Into sloppy, haphazard poetry.

No edits, I tell myself.
Let the stream of consciousness run its course,
Eroding away my sense of comfort.

Heck, maybe this is me:
Half finished thoughts, strung together.
All the pieces
With emotion and 3am logic.
(Whatever logic there is at 3am)

Poetry: “Shades of You”

For some reason, I was writing last night and the phrase “shades of you” came to mind. I liked it, so I ran with it. Twice.

Shades of You (v.1)

Shades of you,

Lackluster faux-mances without the inside jokes and comfortable silences.

Poor perfects don’t stand a chance against your unkempt mess of a personality.

The way you try to use your psych talk to analyze me.

You kept quiet but I had to brain barf all over Tyler’s shoes.

Sorry.

I can hide 3,000 miles away,

But my 2am insomnia misses you.

Me too.

Shades of You (v.2)

You loved me,

Once.

I caught on a little late.

I told you you were smarter than I.

As usual, time wasn’t on my side.

Impromptu drivebys turned to awkward mornings.

Life’s not a romantic comedy…

No climactic music and kissing scenes.

Oops.

I used to think that putting “us” off,

Meant that I was in control.

I’m such a control freak.

Now,

I’m trying for “hopeful” romantic,

Even if it’s a challenge

(It is).

He’s great, you know.

He gives me a headache.

And his hair…

And he kisses my head like I know you would.

If you would.

But…

(Gosh, I hate that word)

But shades of you,

Will never shine quite as bright.

For what it’s worth,

I still love you.

I Love You, Boston

Minimal posts lately… I’m on vacation!

I wiggled my way into my dad’s east coast trip. We spent a day in San Francisco then jet off to Connecticut to pick my baby brother up from school.

Thennnnnn we drove up to beautiful Boston, to kill some time and see some WONDERFUL people. And I’ve fallen in love all over again. This place is such an integral part of me; I don’t even see the gum splattered cement. I don’t smell the subway perfume. I don’t mind to hustling commuters or the bikers who don’t stop. How could I focus on that half-empty stuff when I’m too busy jumping into (multiple) public fountains, catching up with the best girlfriends I’ve ever had, and walking the streets that saw me transition from small-minded freshman Californian to comfort-oriented, Bostonian journalist. I love this place.

Random Thought to Ponder: Laughter

Did you know babies laugh on average 300 times a day compared to adults, who average 15?

Now that’s a depressing statistic… ever laughed for no reason? Just because laughing feels WONDERFUL??

Try it.

Notice the little things and laugh because laughter is life’s medicine. Laugh because it trumps everything else. Laugh because it’s life’s anti-drug.

Laugh with friends, laugh at books, watch some comedy. Laugh at yourself, laugh at friends, laugh at life’s little twists.

Laugh because it burns 1.3 calories per minute, Laugh because life is so thrilling at times, and laugh because it strengthens your diaphragm.

Laughter turns life’s depressions into comedies. And it grants us a sweet taste of perspective.

Laugh. It’s contagious.

To all the “Nice Boys:

This is a letter on behalf of all women to the “nice boys:”

Boys, I’m sorry.  I’m sorry for making you walk me home and carry my shopping bags. I’m sorry for using you as some backassed shrink whenever I had questions about whatever asshole I happened to be dating at the time.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for calling you “cute” and counting you among my girlfriends. I’m sorry for watching you fall for me and pretending not to notice. I’m sorry for thinking of you as a nonsexual entity. I’m sorry for it all.

Because honestly? You’re the one that I want. And my psyche knows that. But instead I’m spending my nights eating crappy food with some guy who cares more about his band than asking me about, well, anything. Instead, I’m inviting you over when I need a pick-me-up because I know you’ll be there faster than light.

And it’s an out-of-body experience. I’m watching myself make a complete mess out of you. And I’m so, so sorry. But thank you for putting up with it. Because someday, it will all play out like some romantic chick flick and I’ll turn around and realize it’s been you all along. Someday.

But for now, thank you for taking my coat and for treating me to midnight snacks. Thank you for going with me to buy shoes or tampons or a new date outfit. Thank you for waiting outside the dressing room while I try on hundreds of potential getups.

Thank you for watching me watch chick flicks. Thank you for picking up my call every time (even if he doesn’t seem to think I exist). Thank you for sharing online jokes and acknowledging my birthday. Thank you for giving me second (and third and fourth) chances. One of these times, I promise, I’ll get it right.

Ideas for writing: Road trips

You may have noticed from my Bucket List post that I’m a little behind on my driving… stuff. Technically, I was taught to drive by a boyfriend when I was 14. But I never really got around to getting my license (for a variety of reasons, all somewhere rooted in lack of communication with my parents). Now that I’ve been driving a little bit more, I love the freedom. The car is probably one of the only places in the world (except maybe a rock concert) where I can’t hear my own thoughts. And that’s really a blessing. I’m schizophrenic sometimes (all the time), I swear. There’s always some music playing. Oftentimes, two different songs in different ears. I have full fledged conversations with myself. I’m psycho.. I know.

Moving on, driving is a wonderful feeling and lately I’ve been feeling the urge to steal my daddy’s car and take off on a road trip with a girlfriend. Turns out Sears auto center is actually hosting a program where they select 20-something teams to go on 9 predetermined routes all over the U.S. and write/record/photograph their experiences.

In some cruel twist of fate, I don’t qualify for the competition. But my mom does, and she’s auditioning with an old colleague to drive any of the nine routes. I’d be very envious if she got the opportunity but excited, too. Here’s the link to Sears’ site: http://www.exploringmyamerica.com/

Great opportunity, right?

A little (more) background on me… I initially wanted to be a travel writer ala Elizabeth Gilbert. Don’t know how practical that is now, but the love of travel still stuck with me. And while there are thousands of places across the globe that I want to see in my lifetime, I’ve only ever visited about 30 of the states. How cool would it be for some winter vacation to just pack up a sleeping bag, Christmas money and all of Taylor Swift’s music and just jet off on an adventure? My head would finally be quiet for a whole week 🙂