Elegy for a Crayon

I saw you lying there

Used up and broken.

Your flaming shade

the color of blood-

I half-expected to see

a pool of scarlet oozing

from your stubby ends.

Your wrapper

had been peeled away

completely from one of your pieces;

the other lay in shame

very like a rape victim,

in tattered vestment.

Your identification had been

ripped away.

Only the bold letters OLA

remained.

As I cleared the table,

I placed my hand over you

quickly

To conceal your

wretched state.

I recall a time

when I had adored ones

such as you,

and would never have thought

to leave them in

such a pitiful condition.

I wonder how many more

rainbows you would have

created,

had fate not sent you such a

vicious end.

I toss your remains

into the trash,

apologetically,

and I think to myself.

Children can be so cruel.

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I’ll Ask You Only

Writer, teacher, student, daughter,

introvert, lover, poet, scholar.

All these describe you, but in the end,

I’ll ask you only to be my Friend.

 

A person who shares my deepest sorrows

and comforts me with fresh tomorrows.

One to who, I too, can lend a hand

when the ground around you is sinking sand.

 

Your passions, above all, I beg that you reveal;

and every stir of your soul they make you feel.

Your worries, also, please always expose;

my duty as Friend is to lighten that load.

 

Times of madness, times of brilliance,

ideas, wishes, dreams, experience.

Heavens and hells, comings and goings,

I pray you have these to overflowing.

 

The hurts will happen; don’t quake, Dear Heart!

They arise to make you more stalwart.

Without anguish, we would never see the Light.

Without pain, blessings wouldn’t burn nearly as bright.

 

The delights of your life I hope are so many

they drown out the heartaches you have, if any.

The tears you shed, some will be sad,

but with my help, joyful ones even more will be had.

 

We two, so different, and yet just the same

walk paths unalike, play contrasting games.

Our lives go on, ever changing, but in the end,

I ask you only to stay my Friend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Freakshow

I ran away to join the circus,

thinking I might fit in better there.

But when I arrived,

the ringmaster looked at me dubiously

when I told him I wanted to be part of the Freak Show.

Clearly, he wasn’t able to see my obvious freakdom.

When I tried to explain,

he nodded, as if he understood.

He wrapped his crimson-clad arm around my shoulder and said,

“Let me show you something.”

He guided me past the bearded lady,

who sat combing her legendary whiskers into a intricate braid.

Past the snake woman,

whose glorious scales twinkled amber and teal in the sun.

I thought he would stop by the two-headed man,

whose twin faces smiled kindly at me,

but he seemed to quicken his step instead.

Past all the other human curiosities we walked,

until we were standing outside of the colossal striped tent.

Only then did he wave his white-gloved hand

toward the crowd awaiting to see such oddities.

He pointed to one man in particular;

a man who, after a first glance, not a soul would remember.

He was plain, and insignificant.

“That man beats his wife.

His second wife, now. He killed the first one.

That child there,”

The ringmaster pointed to an adorable boy about ten,

whose hair stuck out in mischievous tufts.

“He tortures small animals,

before cutting their heads off and burying them in a hole.”

He nodded toward a middle-aged woman,

her ridiculously-enhanced breasts threatening to expose themselves.

“She,” He said, almost affectionately,

“has been married four times.

All of her husbands dead from old age.

She now preys upon younger men half her age.”

My eyes had begun to open;

he continued.

“That girl there,” a young lady, very pretty,

“was raped by her cousin,

her uncle,

and her father’s friend.

She has told no one of her pain,

but will kill the next man who is unfortunate enough to try to touch her that way.”

He looked at me then,

his eyes searching mine, before he asked earnestly,

“How can you join the Freak Show when you’re already part of it, baby?”

You Are Beautiful

Fitting rooms are death.

As in, every time I enter a fitting room,

I die a little bit inside

when I look in the mirror.

This dress would look great!

If it wasn’t on me.

I think to myself.

It doesn’t seem to matter

that I flaunt a pair of plentiful breasts,

the sort of which many women would pay dearly for.

Or that my legs,

though considerably short,

are toned from hours and hours of

wearing heels,

or waiting on tables.

I climb out of the dress,

which is rather difficult

since I forced the zipper up

in hopes of making it fit.

I shake my head and vow

that I will not be undone by an

inanimate piece of fabric.

I dress in my own not-quite-so-fabulous attire;

I face myself once again in the mirror,

and repeat to the refection there

the words many men have proven to be true,

the words friends that only tell the truth have spoken,

the words I remind myself that I believe:

“You are beautiful.”

 

Nothing But Nonsense

I must say that of late, I’ve had not even one interesting Spam comment. For that matter, I’ve had hardly any comments at all. (But I completely appreciate all the comments I HAVE had!)

However, when I was looking through the Spam comments just now, I noticed there were several of the same comment made on a number of different posts. I’m paraphrasing here, because ’tis not worthy of a direct quote: Something something about that’s nothing but nonsense.

Basically, I have been found out. It takes a ballsy Spamator to call me out on my utter nonsense. I’m amazed it took someone this long to realize I’m a hack.  (a excessively busty hack, but a hack all the same.)

Sure, I can be witty, and surprisingly creative at times, (have you read my smut?) but I openly admit my blog holds very little of import. You will not find great life lessons written here, (other than to NOT propose to your forty-something boyfriend in a post-it, because he will deem it  unworthy of an answer) nor will you learn valuable truths (unless they are about me, in which case, if you ever are lucky enough to meet me, are very valuable indeed). To most, it would probably be said that my blog carries less entertainment within than a child’s Dr. Seuss book. (Fun fact: Dr. Seuss wrote for Playboy occasionally.)

To prove it, I will prove how nonsensacle I can be:

It’s true , what They say,

about money growing on trees,

it doesn’t.

But the best things in life are free.

BAM! 30 second poem.

As The People Sleep

The downside to working

the night shift:

The only people awake when you get off

are drunks, insomniacs, vampires,

and you.

Sleep would come

Unbidden,

If I bothered to lie down for a short second,

but being left alone for the weekend,

and wound up from unsatisfying work

leaves me awakened and

buzzed on exhaustion.

So I

partake in Alone Time Behavior.

Bad teen comedies are my guilty pleasure,

and I wonder inanely if your newly done

self pedicure looks as good as the girl’s on

the T.V.

Before you know it,

it’s 4 AM,

and you’ve got less than three hours before you

have to pretend

you’re a Church Person.

Just enough time to

masturbate.

 

Who Are You?

“Who are you?”

That was the first question in

Mcleod’s Getting To Know Yourself.

Ironic, isn’t it,

that a book that’s supposed to

help you find yourself expects you to tell it

who you are?

I could write my name in the blank line,

but I’m sure that’s not what Mcleod meant-

since there are seven more blank lines.

I look up at the ceiling,

pondering.

Who am I?

I wonder aloud.

Just then,

I notice the sparkles on the ceiling I’m looking at.

I’ve lived here for three years and never realized

I’ve been living under an artificial Home Depot sky.

I come back to the task at hand.

I put pen to paper-

the handwriting I hate that is mine comes out in a

beautiful fuschia gel shade.

I am a person who talks to herself,

gets distracted by sparkly things,

and is, at times, completely un-observant.

I nod, satisfied.

I think Mcleod would approve.

I continue.

I am terrible at making decisions.

I pause.

But once I make one, I do not change my mind.

Not entirely true,

since I was once married,

and am no longer.

What Mcleod doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

That reminds me.

I am someone who cheats.

No.

I am someone who cheats. I have cheated in past lives, but not in this one.

Much better.

Now on to the nitty gritty.

The thoughts come faster than I can write

and I forget a few.

I am a mother, but have no children.

I long for a father, but refuse to forgive the one I have.

I love alone time, but am terrified to be abandoned.
I work hard, but am irrevocably lazy.

I believe in God, but I think He can be an asshole sometimes.

I want to be a writer, but find every excuse not to write.

I am amazingly stubborn, yet I compromise more than anyone else I know.

I am the saddest girl there ever was,

yet everyone that knows me say,

“How happy she is!”

That’s the one that always gets me.

Unforgettable, cunt, beautiful, odd-looking, sexy, dorky, talented, loser, amazing,

These are all words others have used to describe me;

I cannot help but wonder who it is they are talking about.

When I look in the mirror,

I am just me.

I read everything I’ve just written.

Contradictions, every single one.

I toss Mcleod’s Getting To Know Yourself on the floor, irritated.

How are you supposed to know who you are when

everything about you is a paradox?

I look back up at my imitation stars.

I think a moment,

about all that I have done,

the people I have known,

the lives I have lived;

then resolutely, I pick up Mcleod’s self help book.

I scribble a little on the corner of a page

to make sure my fuschia pen still works

before I write one more thing.

I am Love.