I want to throw this book at the fucking wall.
This cursed and critical voice is my downfall
I am scratching at a dry and hardened surface.
It is a fiery twist of anger, making me nervous.
Words obscured by destructive, massive insecurity.
Laying splayed open, bleeding, cut up by scrutiny,
If a prose begins it is ruined by my sinking fear.
Discarded in tattered edges of the pages I tear.
Adrift wondering blind, my mind, body is numb.
Written phrases- trite, cliché, mediocre, dumb!
Bounded and torn, laden with crippling self-doubt.
Pressing these lyrics now as the flame burns out.
Actually, I hate these lines I am pessimistically jotting.
All inspiration murdered by a familiar voice scoffing
Resenting the laborious task of laying pen to page.
My hand pains me and there is nothing to assuage
I have somehow lost the boldness needed to express
That wonderful imagery and tone from which I digress.
My charmed descriptions of experience, of my crazy.
Now grasping at straws, my grip has become lazy.
Those sentiments, these haunting stanzas, delicate stories
It is a being and it is choking to death, it is a burden I carry.
A waif, my muse falls through my slippery fingers and dies.
I need something beautiful before the ink of my pen dries.
Call it whatever you want, Summer Teel 8/7/17
I don’t even really like this one. It’s over the top melodramatic. I am sick of writing about this subject matter. If I go for a few days without something inspiration I get this itch in my brain and I guess that’s what I am trying to express here. Life gets in the way most of the time. Sitting down to just write and meander through my thoughts to find my next direction is an important part of life, but somedays there is no way I can make it to my journal. It builds up and I feel angry and sad. Terrified that I’ll be stuck in that zone where I didn’t write for 3 years. I also, maybe even more importantly I need time to read other people’s poems and entries. That way I don’t I write the same shit over and over (example above). “Keep going back there Summer”, a very wise man said to me. So here I am.
P.S. I started working on a piece about my campers as soon as I finished this one.
The pavement steamed with the sheen of misty rain and humidity. Faces were shadowed by the low illumination of street lamps, and hazy reflections followed passersby’s as they meandered down the streets. The sidewalk between her and I stretched out before me. The space was a canyon I had dug with selfish desires. My manipulation during a time in our history knew no limits. I had laced her up neatly in a self-serving web that was completely unholy. A pattern I’m only a little ashamed to admit I have repeated often in life.
Abruptly, our eyes connected creating a collision of rocks falling into that chasm building an unfortunate and dangerous bridge for her to walk over. Her shoes ticked across them like some absurd drum roll beating with my heart. As she approached the air grew stale and acrid. Fear of the judgement day for one of my worst storms grew in my stomach. I remember her being quite deft with words. Every step I felt a tidal wave of bitter sentiment buttoned up neatly in a slicing sermon. The revealing of my greatest insecurities and the scrutiny of my wicked soul.
“How have you been?”
Wiping my hand through my hair.
“Uhm, fine, really good actually”
Silence, the thickest heaviest silence I have ever endured for the seconds it lasted. In searching her face, I saw no hate, disgust, no warmth even, she was awash in flat affect.
“Well, I thought I’d say hi. See you around”
She started to turn away leaving me on the island of estrangement. Where was the venomous disquisition, the coals over which my honor was to be raked?
“So, do you hate me or what?”
The words barreled over my tongue with some masochistic need for crucifixion.
Barely breaking her gate… “I nothing you.”
She threw the words over her shoulder, and they fell on the cobble stone at my feet like a clanking piece of trash.
I stood there, stung by the chilling deflation of my over worked ego. I didn’t watch her go. I stared passively at the ground as it gently reflected the movements of the night.
Dangerous Bridge, Summer Teel 8/4/17
This is a departure in style for me but it was fun to write. The girl is some projection of who I wish I could be in a situation of running across someone who has hurt me. The other character is an amalgamation of people that have used my trusting nature and empathy to their own devices. People with mental illness can be susceptible to people with dark character flaws. We often find ourselves in abusive situations because of a variety of reasons. We don’t think we deserve better, we are going to save them and save ourselves in the process, we really believe deep down they are a good person. I know I have fallen victim to people who sense a weakness and honed in on it with laser precision until I didn’t recognize myself. I am much better at letting people show me who they are and believing them the first time. My husband has taught me a lot about judging character.
Sitting, wishing I could gather my words and throw them at this paper, observing where they land. I would contemplate their loveliness as they slide over each other gradually combining to make strange new words. A purging of thoughts through the ramparts of expectation. If I could then run my fingers through them, experiencing the texture of each sound and enunciation. To be unshackled by these lines, instead of having to lay them down in a tethering chain. Breaking free from the bondage of the empty pages in my journal. Unconventional, powerful, free to alight the story as they desired. Creating a curious, rare new dictation of my soul. Some conception that is un-played and exclusive to this empty surface. Spitting them right out of my screaming, racing, nervous, fidgety, unhinged brain. An exquisite prose sovereign from the rules of written expression. Would you be willing to look for meaning in my chaos? Would you see genius in the mayhem of my discourse? Would it be possible to relate to my turmoil?
No, I might be thought to be crazy, and maybe I am.
I might be crazy, Summer Teel 8/2/17
Sometimes my thoughts are impossible to line up because of something called rapid cycling. It’s typical for my people to cycle through depression and times of high energy. Rapid cycling is when you move back in forth from these experiences in rapid succession. Your mind feels out of control. Focusing on self-expression feels impossible and you want to escape it but can’t. Having a conversation hurts, finishing a sentence can be difficult, sitting still feels like torture but you also feel frozen with indecision. The idea of having that just explode from my experience would allow a deep sigh of relief. I also wonder what that would look like. I imagine it would look like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Art: Jamie Poole, She deconstructs paintings into art. It’s amazing.