I wrote my way out


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writing-1055085_1920Can this be my story? I want to write my  way out of all of the blocks and jams I get myself into. I want to write my way into fighting what I believe in. I want to write and write and write until the words flow out of me. Nothing will stop me. I will write my way out.

I’m listening to the Hamilton mixtape while I’m struggling through more assignments. This week I’ve been swamped. I’ve been having a bit of a crisis of faith as well, wondering if after all of my questioning and making decisions about my life that no matter what I do I’m on the wrong path.  I want to be on the right path. I don’t want to throw away my shot. I feel like if the path I’m on makes it so that I can write every single day and that I can enjoy what I am doing and be passionate about it- I am on the right path. I’m scared that my anxieties and my impassivity are going to hinder me. My fear of connection is going to hurt my communication skills.

If I just keep pushing, if I just keep writing- I’m sure I can write my out of this darkness that seems to haunt me. Get it out of me. Embrace who I am. Find some confidence and I can tell people- I wrote my way out. I was brave enough and strong enough and talented enough to push and push and finally win.

I know I want to be in the room where it happens. I want to be influential. I want to write.

I want  to make something that will outlive me.

I want all these things and I don’t know how to get them. Do I want too much? Is it bad to be ambitious? I feel like I’m not impassioned enough, or strong enough to make these things happen. My ambitions are bigger than I can chew. I’m always choking on my self-worth when I realize that I took on too much.

You know what will really help? If I wrote my assignments instead of blog posts.

Then I could really tell you that I wrote my way out.








I decided to love myself.
So I took the most beautiful girl out to dinner,
bought her  red roses, our favourite.
I kissed her hand, and told her
I’m here to protect you.
I’m here to save you. 

I told the most beautiful girl in the world
that I’d love her forever.
The way that her mind worked,
the way her skin felt,
her soft hair.
The way that she thought stupid things were funny.
I fell in love with her idiosyncrasies. 
Her predilection for the words “like” and “um”
The way that she’d mutter perverted things under her breath,
and pretend that she said nothing. 

Oh how I care for her,
ready to try and dry her tears,
when nothing seemed to work out.
How I love this girl.
This girl in the mirror,
This girl in my skin. 



I was single celled for half an hour,
stewing in my juices, until I realized it was time to split,
and split again. 
I diced myself into so many distinct parts that you cannot tell where I begin or end,
I split until I spilled into this world,
and I will split until I leave it.
And all those organisms that live with in me
with their single celled ambitions,
and their single celled dreams
will never know what it’s like to split, 
and build into something better.



Like wax your fingers clutched the rosary beads,
small and bird like,
I never noticed how tiny they were, 
I never even thought to notice their movement,
until they were still.

You were you,
but you were wrong,
your hair like wires, brushed straight,
and I knew it was probably a wig, 
 because the chemo stole your hair too

They had done your lips in palest pink,

and for some reason you looked like a wax effigy of yourself.

I waited for you to move, 
and your hair to curl,
and your lips to blossom into that deep red colour you wore,
as far back as I could remember,
You would speak in your small warbling, half- apologetic voice,
and tell us not to worry. 

I waited until the blurred light from my tears obscured your face,
and said goodbye



I correlated creativity and dreams last night,
trying to remember when I was lucid,
how many times I dreamt of things like giant birds 
terrorizing tiny towns,
or cats that grew and could talk before my eyes,
or selecting semi-precious stones from a bin,
while dead children from my childhood stood with their hands empty.

I tried to remember how many things I had put on paper,
writing sometimes about dreams,
or things I saw in flashing pictures,
moulding media in my mind, until it comes out 
like igneous rock,
Molten together sediments.

I cobbled my dreams and words into a 
progression of dots,
and decided to follow them upwards. 

Lightly Seared on the Reality Grill


Did you hope your life was rare?
Bloody and raw, uncivilized, unbound, unchained 
Sorry to say you’re mistaken.
You are no special snowflake.
You grew up in a building, not a cloud,
you slept in a bed, or a futon, or if your life was shit 
on the floor. 
You went to school.
I don’t care if you were smart or dumb.
There was probably someone smarter,
and there was probably someone dumber.

I don’t want you pretending that you’re different.
We’re all connected.
We’ve all had our bad and our good.
Stop pretending that you’re better than me.

You are not the prime cut of meat,
you’re hamburger,
ground beef
A fucking mess.

Sorry to say that you’re mistaken,
but you might be roadkill,
hit by someone texting and driving
(those assholes) 

I didn’t mean to burn you,
It’ll heal.
As soon as you realize
that this is real. 

Small ghosts


Italo Calvino said: The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts. Describe the ghosts that live in this house: Image credit: “love Don’t live here anymore…” – © 2009 Robb North – made available under Attribution 2.0 Generic

Small ghost hunger for deep rhythms,
from their small houses where they were born
into flesh.
Crammed into tiny places,
they blossomed through the windows,
and hid privacy in the hollow trees.
There was no place to hide in the house,
(minus under the covers, that didn’t cover much)
no place to eat,
no place to write.
But always space to die.



I have not forgotten what the spaces past midnight feel like.
They welcome me, with their ticking clock chatter,
going deeper into the next day.

Arguing with my regrets,
that wrestle voices from my subconscious.
I count dead-eyed sheep,
that bleat tired tones,
bored by their lack of originality,
I wonder if I should count dragons. 

But nothing pushes me off the edge,
and I start to hate my bed.