I'll Be Back in Time

     You know how you have those days that are just...empty? There's no real joy nor contentment,  neither sadness or anger. It's as though you have failed to live and now merely exist. Lost in your thoughts, though you're not thinking anything. 

     Am I alone on this one? Perhaps it's just me. Anxious and nervous for no reason in particular. 

     The idea frightens me a little bit. That I may have become so apathetic that I cease to live. That I may have become so emotional and concerned that my worries and fears are in control. 

     Regardless, I'm leaving you. In hopes of resolution. Off to the most therapeutic thing in existence, God's own creation: nature. It's high time for a little self-evaluation, don't you think? I'll be back in full swing, loves. 

'Tis a fine time 

To leave everything behind.

Sweater dressed and

To the mountains

I'll be back in time, but

For what or whom, I still don't know.

I'll Send You a Quote When I'm Nervous

     Sometimes, the Golden Rule doesn't exactly work.
     In fact, I don't remember the last time it did.
     But, then again, I don't remember much.

     I am nervous today. For what, I can't be sure. I do believe it's the blasted ADHD medicine that's the culprit of my anxiety. It makes my heart race, hands tremble, arms fall numb, and stomach twist itself in knots. But, that list of ever-growing complaints is for a later post.
     Writing has always been a way to release whatever stress or worry I have. Patchwork poems, questions, one-liners, and quotes have all been scribbled along the margins of my notebooks (I used to use my phone, but my "technologically handicap" tendencies proved detrimental to my privacy). Raw, rough, and ragged. That's my writing style when I need to let something out. On days like these, however, I send approximately five people (usually ones I don't think will respond) a random quote. Then I close my eyes and pretend that someone sent me this lovely little message. No one sends me quotes, but I pretend they do by sending them. Sort of tricking my brain. But not. It's like how I put Twitter on my phone so I think people are talking to me all the time. Today's a lonely day. And it's raining. I'm in one of those moods.
     I think I'm going to go to bed. Goodnight, loves.

Whit Happens

The Old Wicker Tree

Three a.m. poetry...I'm going to bed now. When I wake up I'll call it abstract, as nothing is ever really logical at these wretched hours.

Toss your shoes
Behind the old wicker tree.
Forget your worries,
Leave your anxiety
Tucked beneath your laces.
Sink your toes
Into the soft, cool earth.
Run 'cross the dewed grass and
Release all your troubles.

Don’t look back.
We’ll return soon enough.

Close your eyes,
See the world with your body.
Absorb the sun’s rays and
Flow with the wind
That rustles the leaves.
Let the sun melt your doubts,
The breeze swipe all suspicions.
Submerge yourself
In the gentle current waters and
Drown your uncertainties.

Don’t look back.
We’ll return soon enough.

You tell me that
Soon enough is not fast enough.
Your clothes are sticking,
Shoulders burning,
Eyes drying,
Toes bleeding,
Personality chafing, and
Your shoes could be stolen.

Don’t act so naïve.
We’ll return soon enough.

But soon enough is never
Fast enough for you.
There is no such thing
As spare time.
Silence does not exist, and
How could it?
You have so much to do,
Your mind never rests.
Sleep is optional,
They have pills and beverages now
That force your body to be alert.
Knowledge comes from
Books alone.
Rewards are only received
When you stay in the lines,
Cross no borders,
Do what you’re told,
And work hard – nonstop.
So this is why you must go back.

Don’t grow up so fast.
Play pretend with me once more.
Feed me meals of bark and leaves,
Bring treasures on board our ship of clotheslines and sheets,
Save a damsel in distress, or
Fly to the moon.
Just don’t leave me yet.

But no. . .gather your things from
Behind the old wicker tree.
Your burdens still lie just
Beneath your laces,
Dragging you down with your
Medications,
Cups of coffee, and
Paychecks.
Was it worth it?
Eating without tasting?
Sleeping without dreaming?
Speaking without thinking?
Hearing without listening?
Breathing without living?
My dear, you’re thriving in knowledge,
But knowledge is nothing
Without wisdom.

Don’t grow up so fast.
That, love, will come sooner than you think
And you can’t go back.

Of Late, I...

1. have been paying attention.
2. depend on my fingers.
3. love notebooks
4. hate computers
5. purchased an instant camera
6. kicked a chair when I discovered the camera's battery is dead.
7. cried a little, over nothing in particular.
8. laughed a bit, over everything that doesn't work.
9. turned left at a sign that read, "Right Turn Only".
10. flew an imaginary plane 'cross a library hall.
11. pretended not to care about things that really made me want to fold up like a clam.
12. shushed my dog when he barked.
13. bruised my hip on a doorknob that wasn't there two seconds prior.
14. made a decision.
15. had a horrible nightmare.
16. wrote a poem.
17. played at Velour.
18. have been oddly generous.
19. talked to myself.
20. wished I wasn't so quiet sometimes.
21. held my breath.
22. listened a little better.
23. want an accordian.
24. needed more silence than usual.
25. made excuses.
26. wrapped my pinky in scotch tape.
27. purposely poured water on the floor.
28. spent money I don't have.
29. forgave the undeserving.
30. regret saying that.

Amourpropre

Ollo. 
In Socratic we've been studying WWI and the literature we just finished with it was All Quiet on the Western Front. (I highly recommend it to anyone who hasn't read it, it's quite the masterpiece.) Upon completion of this reading, we were given the weekend to write a war poem. As much as I love writing and poetry, I can honestly say that this is the hardest assignment we've had all year. I spent HOURS trying to wrap my mind around the horrors that I know nothing about. Whenever I've been in a writing class or conference, or whatever it may be, one thing that your lecturers harp on is to write what you know. After banging my head against the keyboard, racking my brain trying to uncover the emotions of a soldier, I realized that I couldn't possibly put myself in that situation, but I do know what it's like to be on the other side. I wrote from a much more mature perspective than I can personally relate to in detail, but it's better than having no connection at all. In the end, I think I accomplished a fairly sound piece. It's not finished of course, as nothing is ever really 'finished', we simply turn it in, but I would like to improve it. So here is what I turn in, I hope that my effort is shown, if not, I've been jipped. Then I'll be forced to tell myself that some Whit just Happens.
Just as a side note: amourpropre is French for vanity or self indulgence. But, you already knew that.




In the pearl white casket
Gleaming with glory
Lies the man who belongs
To an unfinished story.
The black sea of despair
Draggles after men we treasured.
And silence is nearly tangible
As wrung hands cry their displeasure.

We'll bury him like any other,
Deep within the ground,
Where he'll never ease the pain
'Cross the lips of his lovers frown.
She'll collect his pay,
But forget why it was important.
She'll pretend to hear their respects,
But drown in her own discordance.
Her restless nights in woe
Because half the bed was cold...
Tell her the honor in dying
In a land that’s not your own.

Leave her to her tears
And shattered breath,
For tonight we converse with God
As we begin to question death.
We pray,
"Our hands are stained with our brothers’ blood.
We try to suppress it with the flowers we've plucked,
We lead the lie that if we build a higher gravestone,
Engrave the courage that resonates in his bones,
Our crime of exorbitant amourpropre
Can somehow be erased."

But her lover is still dead.

A broken home trapping the ghost of he who bled.
They'll give her a medal to replace her regrets,

But her lover is still dead.

His mere mortal strength
Matched not their artillery,
And now in freedom's dirt
He'll rest or turn forlornly.

We’ll bury him like any other,
Deep within the earth,
Where he'll never again hear his mother's talk,
Her pride in his worth.
She'll hold her head high;
Respectfully follow her one and only son.
She'll blindly shake strangers’ hands,
Not knowing her war has just begun.
But far from the crowds
And the noise of the opaque,
Her eyes will swell as she swears
Her misfortune is all a mistake.

Leave her to her tears and shattered breath,
For tonight we converse with God as we begin to question death.
We pray,
"Our hands are stained with our brothers’ blood.
We try to suppress it with the flowers we've plucked,
We lead the lie that if we build a higher gravestone,
Engrave the courage that resonates in his bones,
Our crime of exorbitant amourpropre
Can somehow be erased."

But her baby boy is still dead.

A mother's heart patched by loose threads.
Her prized possession lost, we're all free instead,

But her baby boy is still dead.