Poetry Slammed

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This weekend I am supposed to write a poem.

A poem.

A single. Poem.

My response?

I just wrote it.

“Best Poem About Gaming Ever–oh wait, it’s not about gaming? Whatever, best poem of 2016”–IGN

That quote is literally from IGN, I totally know everyone who works for them.

Not.

nycpofest-logo-transparentI’m also not a poet. I admire portions of poetry, I admire the way poets can string words together in a way that injects emotion and breathes live into something otherwise bogged down with simple definition or boring fact. Somewhere I read in a poetry book that everything in life was a teacher, and we just had to be keen enough with our eye, and with our words, to learn. Poetry then, was a reflection of that learning.

Something like that.

I’ve been wondering what to write my poem on. I’ve never been a simple person. I want to be able to describe something, perhaps an action, but having the meaning separate from the action. I’m pretty sure that’s what a lot of poets do anyway, and I’m just being a technical prick. I can’t really tell. You know why? Because I’m not a poet.

Ask me to bust out some fiction, or a nice comedy reel, I got you on lock. Ask me to be fragile and yet aggressive in some stanza’s and make words feel like liquid gold across the tongue and I’ll probably just slap you all the way back to your momma’s house, because I can’t make words into liquid gold, that is physically impossible. While I’m slapping you, I’ll explain known physics to you, because it’s obvious you lack that knowledge as well.

Like I said, “Technical Prick”. That’s my new title.

I can be excruciatingly literal sometimes. I can also be annoyingly metaphoric sometimes. I believe a strange combination of both attract people to my writing.

I could write a poem about insomnia because it’s 5:17 a.m for me and I have yet to get more than a few minutes of sleep. In this time I’ve managed to print tickets for a Halloween Haunt at Great America tomorrow–err, today. There: someone who is a poet, put that into a poem for me and I’ll give you 1/3 of my grade at the end of the semester. Why 1/3? Because poetry is 1/3 of the class and you will now be doing all my assignments.

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There is much to write about, I just need to let it flow onto paper, regardless of what it sounds like. The more I think about it, the worse the poem is going to sound  I think. Isn’t that usually how it works? Or is it the opposite? Uuuuggggghhhh poooeettrryyyyyy.

Perhaps I’ll write about things that are there and yet not. That’s always a fascinating topic for people who don’t understand it.

Tonight I was not home, tonight I was about my boyfriend’s house. I got there around half past midnight: he has a printer and I do not, and Great America does not send PDF’s to your email like every other e-ticket vendor in the world, they require you print it upon purchase from a different tab in your search engine, so I went to his house. He was doing what he normally does: play video games.

And when I was leaving, which was about a half hour ago,  I noticed my shoes sounded really thick against his wooden floors. I said out loud that I hated my shoes, something I always say, then words came out of my mouth I wouldn’t normally say. I said: “I sound like a dead person walking”.

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He’s used to me saying weird things, and he was tired, so he didn’t say anything. I, however, started freaking out.

You all know me by now as the one with the demons following closely behind me, breathing down my neck and reading my blogs as I type them, and the rest of the universe in front of me, guiding me away from them. Well, the demons were close this evening, young ones.

I had to park two blocks away from his house because there was no parking anywhere near, and his parents cars take up the driveway. Their driveway is shit anyway, I hate it; you back out against a blind corner into two lanes of same-way traffic. It’s a death sentence.

Anyway, I’m walking quickly down the middle of the two lane road because it’s four forty in the morning and silent. I love silence when I want it, I hate silence when my mind is reeling. I feel I can hear every little sound, every little scuttle, every little voice that might happen to roll along in the wind. In my head I’m repeating the line I said in the house and wondering where it came from.

185bno26vplqxjpgI turn behind me for no reason a few cars away from my car and see a man in all black following my exact footpath. He was about a block behind me and had no face or footsteps or shadow and I quickened my pace because I got it in my head he wasn’t human. I got it in my head he was the reason I said what I said, and thought like I thought.

I made it to my car a second later, turned it on, backed out like I needed to get back on the race track, and searched for the man in black but he was gone. He wasn’t down the two side streets. And while I fought myself gallantly over what I believed–“well he could have gone into a house”, “no, he wasn’t human”, ” he could have just been walking and turned down a street and you just couldn’t find him”, “no, he put those words in your mouth, you saw him, you’d never say something like that”, “you’re just tired”–I decided I wasn’t going to fight it. I decided the man was a figment of the demonic force that follows me, indefinitely, whether he existed or not.

Flipping through my songs, I could find nothing to soothe the panic, not until a song, out of my 749 songs on Spotify, started blasting through my speakers:

And I knew the universe had my back, even when it didn’t feel like it. The song stretched until I made it home and when I parked it ended, as if on cue, and here I am now, sitting on my computer waiting for that guy to pop up outside my window.

I’ll write a poem about that.

Rant or Something Of The Sort

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I cannot CHILL.

Nope.

Nothing.

Nada.

Looked for some chill under my bed . . . wait, it’s two mattresses on the floor, no I didn’t. I looked in my CLOSET for some chill and it was missing.

I searched my laundry hamper thinking maybe I threw it in the dryer and it shrunk, but I burst from my pile of clothes empty handed.

I ate a couple cookies hoping maybe the chill was in the chocolate chips but I think that made it worse.

Maybe it’s the stress. This usually happens. I must have been ignoring something. Maybe I’ve been ignoring all the school stress and work stress and mucking my subconscious up with it to the point where my subconscious has no other choice but to hurl it back up through my system in the form of anxiety, hyperactivity, energy, and that patented “panic” feeling.

alex-gregory-oversensitive-car-alarm-new-yorker-cartoonAlthough last night was much worse. I started noticing my heart beat (that’s how it always starts) And when I tried to lay down I kept waking up to it beating in my ears. My head was spinning, my thoughts were racing, and I could barely focus an ounce on the computer screen when I tried to use YouTube,  my faithful savior, to calm me down. I went through the motions of wondering if this was it, if I was going to die, I went through the motions of wondering about things so quickly I can’t even remember what they were about, and then I remember the Ativan. I remember how well the placebo effect worked with those useless things, so I scrounged around in the bottom of my satchel to find a measly half a milligram.

While my heart rate has calmed down, I still feel my blood racing through my veins (that’s what it feels like, a million ants or centipedes crawling underneath my skin) and my leg is still bouncing like I’m on a drum set smashing double bass for a black metal band, and my thoughts are all over the place. You know, the kind of thoughts that sort of bounce off your skull like your brain is a trampoline. But instead of waiting their turn, they all get on the toy together and jump around screeching. Because that’s what your brain is to them, a toy.

My left hand keeps tapping at the opal stone on my necklace (it’s really pretty and shiny, it’s one my boyfriend gave to me) and it’s another way to relieve tension if I can’t keep both of my hands busy I suppose. If I don’t tap the necklace I’ll have to find something near by to grab like a knife or a pen to just tap on my desk or I’ll just tap repetitively on my collarbone. I like the gentle thudding sound it makes in my head. It’s so repetitive.

5-more-minutesBecause I didn’t sleep until 5 A.m yesterday, and was too lazy to get up at nine, I missed my afternoon class. Luckily it’s philosophy and the class was just a review. The test is Thursday but let’s be honest you all, how the fuck do you study for philosophy? Just keep the views of the philosophers in your head so when you answer a question about them, you can just reason it out. That’s how I get through all my philosophy. It’s not rocket science.

Tomorrow . . . err, today, is my math class. It’s at 8 a.m and I still can’t get to sleep. It’s 1:02 now. I usually have to get up at 6:30 to be ready to leave by 7:20 so I can get there ten minutes early and find a comfortable seat away from everyone.

My head is pounding and my brain will not turn off tonight. Nope, not tonight.

Night time always evokes anxiety in me. I like the silence, but I don’t like the lack of company. I think perhaps I could get to sleep, like I said my heart rate has calmed, but now it’s all about the brain. It’s all about the thinking and the feeling like I HAVE to do something.

I could clean (least likely). I could ride my bike in the freezing fucking cold. I could do yoga. I could stay on this computer all night (most likely) messing around on this website, going on forums, and multitasking all around. My eyes feel tired, my brain doesn’t (yet) and I feel as if I’ll be taking a quick nap through chapter eleven in calc tomorrow.

I’m hoping I can lay in bed and let my body do what it does naturally: pass out.

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But that probably wont happen. And I’ll probably be late to class again tomorrow.

It’s interesting how you can feel your brain moving so quickly but not have it think about anything really. There’s no substance to the thoughts, they just pass and I see them and I reach out to shake their hand and they pretend to have never met me.

Things about school, things about work, things about theories and cognition and the universe, and how stupid IQ’s are.

But at the same time, my brain is blank. It has thoughts with no volume, like a pool with the theory of being filled but never experiencing a drop of water.

Even though my eyes hurt and I want to lay down, I don’t feel like there’s a point, not with how fidgety my body is, not with how actively inactive my brain is.

Then again, it’s almost three in the morning and I need to be up in three hours.

I should probably lay down.

Tomorrow is going to suck.

You Ever Been Demon-Choked?

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Has anyone noticed the amount of chocolate syrup Starbucks puts in their hot chocolate? It’s still sticking to the roof of my mouth.

Has anyone noticed I start out all my posts with random lines that usually have nothing to do with the actual post? Because I just sort of noticed.

I’ve always had trouble beginning pieces, alright?

Anyway, I think I’m a fairly strong person. I have my moments, as we all do, but I tend to learn to adapt and strive towards the best possible solution.

I don’t panic. Probably because I’m in that state of anxiety 24/7. So when a car swerves into my lane and comes right at me and my passenger screams, I swerve around it and tell them to shut up. When it’s 9 at night and my mom’s car won’t start and she’s flipping out trying to turn on the ignition and sighing those large, dramatic sighs and her face is turning red from frustration, I’m busy spewing out three or four options to get us out of the situation. She hates that; she has to have her time to panic and then calm down and then think. I skip all the middle bullshit and just think.

creepy_devil_baby_doll_postcard-ra8df4234441d4a8fb45912b9b20aeeaa_vgbaq_8byvr_324But there’s a difference between anxiety/panic and stress. She can handle stress (and pain) like a boss. She’s slammed her hand in the door of her truck when I was younger and barely flinched. It swelled about five times its size and turned dark, dark purple and probably throbbed all day and she drove me to school and went to work where she types all day. My birth? Psh, she doesn’t even remember pain. Not an ounce. I asked multiple times. She said she just remembers a couple pushes and boom I was born with little devil horns on my head (which they conveniently removed) ready to spit shit at the world.

The horns make that story even more miraculous that she didn’t feel any pain.

She got kidney stones when I was about ten or eleven. She got them lasered into smaller pieces and refused any medication to help her through the rest of the processes. She was bedridden for about a week or so and when I asked if any of it at any time had hurt, she stared at me like she didn’t understand and said eh.

When her newspaper job cut her commission and refused to pay her when she actually reached her monthly goals (all those workers could have easily went to the labor board, these people were completely unethical) she was stressed, yes, and when she quit she was even more stressed, but she didn’t break down and fall into some deep depression like I would have.

People are different. My dad and I are the same. When he gets a simple cold, all hell breaks loose. He’s whining like he’s dying and needs people to wait on him hand and foot. When I get a sore throat oh . . . my  . . . Gosh . . . I can’t handle it. I’m whining for hours and hours and resort to using cough medicine to get me through the night.

Although I found straight lemon helps alot. It burns my throat and sometimes I can get through the night without the medicine.

If you didn’t know, I don’t even take aspirin when I have bad headaches, so using cough medicine to me is a failure. Your body is capable of handling these things (headaches, colds, and yes, the fucking flu no matter what strand it is) on their own. We’re only making the viruses stronger.

teresaMy whole point in this rambling is I can’t take pain or stress. Stress makes me break down almost immediately and wreaks some crazy havoc on my body. For the last week my stomach has been aching like I’ve eaten nothing but rocks for dinner and I have no energy. Both my stomach and my mind keep me up all night now so I’ve got too sources working against me.

So I tried to get some sleep today. But because my father hasn’t seen his regular doctor yet (he just got out of the hospital yesterday), they haven’t been able to address the other weird temporal seizures or misfirings or whatever he has. He’s had two episodes today where he starts his little loud breathing tactic and says he gets dizzy and stares at you like the universe is expanding in his eyes and when you talk to him all he does is nod or smile like Jack Nickleson. He got up with his lighter and just started turning it off and on and wandering around aimlessly.

The second one he started his loud breathing tactic and said he was getting really dizzy. Usually once he says that, you know it’s going to be the last coherent sentence out of his mouth until it passes. But still, I continue to ask him if he’s okay to make sure he can hear me. And he does; he turns his head and stares with the universe yada, yada, and this time when I asked if he was still feeling dizzy his response was “We’re all dizzy all of the time so what does that matter? It doesn’t matter. Whenever I see you in the house you’re always dizzy. You’re always busy, busy, I mean dizzy not busy”.

It’s like loose association city over here.

It’s better than the sometimes “blahblehahbeloglogloglog” that you hear.

The trick to this shit is knowing when to call 911. At any moment it could burst into a full seizure (although all his grand mal’s have been alcohol related). But still, the threat is always there. And guess who’s had to monitor this shit for the last 6 years? This chick. So I know all the signs and all the symptoms and I can hear that breathing pattern in my sleep through the walls and know I need to go check on him.

Obviously, that causes a lot of anxiety.

So I went to sleep today when he took a nap. But it wasn’t really sleep. It was more like . . . my brain being half awake and making up sounds that weren’t there to keep me riding the surface waves of consciousness. I kept hearing him calling me into the living room and other random voices and I kept waking up in the middle of sleep paralysis. You know, you’re awake and aware of your surroundings but your muscles are rigid, your body is tight, your eyes can barely peek open, and although you feel your brain trying to move your limbs, they’re cemented to your bed.

I’ve met a lot of people who thought demons were choking them at night when really they described an instance of waking up during sleep paralysis.

Or maybe demons were choking them, I don’t fucking know what horrible things they’ve done in their life.

Demons like to have a little fun too sometimes.

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Anyway, my nap today consisted of a bunch of unfamiliar and familiar voices telling me I had to go into the living room, conversations about random shit that ultimately ended with voices telling me I needed to go into the living room, and frustration over the fact that I couldn’t move my body.

I am not well rested.

I’m so glad when people who know me tell me how stressed out they are about their new car or new job and all the family planning holidays bring. I’m sure it’s so horrible.

I wonder if people ever give thanks for their health as much as they should.

You know, on every other day besides Thanksgiving.