How it be - 1

While this weekend was jumpstarted with furious homework completion in American National Government, Algebra, and Seminar, I still have not touched the grammar workshop that was assigned Tuesday. I have sitting next to me, neatly and intimidatingly, twenty-five pages of grammar exercises. I not only have to work through these 100+ grammar questions, but I also have to grade them myself.

And I am writing a blog post.

I'm running low on weed too.

To be fair, I have gotten a lot better at work distribution and organizing my papers (it seems). I can't think of a time so far that I have entered panic mode to do anything for class. If I can keep up this academic sprint, I might not drop out and sell crack.

Discernible Direction

I'm not really sure where this page goes these days, but I don't intend to take it down or archive it anytime soon. I started posting on here around freshman year in high school after reading through and being encouraged by a mentor's blog. Those last couple sentences were written briefly before my first week of college, and today I just flunked my first college test - two weeks into the semester.

School days generally consist of me briefly blazing up in the morning, followed by a review session, and then finally dragging myself to wash up prior to class. I come home from 3-6 hours of exhausting myself mentally and make an attempt to organize my assignments. To be fair, I did finish most of the homework for the test I just (miserably) failed. I'll get my test back on Tuesday, and that's when I'll see where I went so wrong.

It's funny, the only class whose ice breaker in which I referenced wanting to do well in college is the only one where my grade is below 90%. This is nothing like high school - there's not a day I don't go over my notes, and that's not just because I need to study for my grade. I can do well in most of these without studying, but I want what comes into my head to stick this time. I want to know exactly what I'm studying.

Poetry 59 - Memory Redesigned

I’ve written hundreds of poems from March 31, 2017. However, they have shared a home - an abundance of thematic grieving. These works reflect best what I will refer to as my Elliott Smith era. Poems from that time, roughly the last four or five on this blog, would express that era of work well enough. That being said, I am ready to return to my standard sequence of writing.

Memory Redefined

There were hippos, sparks,
thought sharks lurking and flashing
from dark matter frog to dark matter
lily pad from the fog to the projector.

Spark
Spark
plugs, outlets, conductors -

copper falls to rubber whispers
muffled screams of once muscled dreams.

Broken circuits burn, the gears no longer turn.
Water and gears - a rusted desert to which
nothing healthy can return.

Poetry 57-58 - Mother and Father

Before I wandered too far
into the night sky,
there was you.

And after that sky devoured my soul
and after it spat it out - 

mangled like the kitten

who dared share food with the dog,

there was you.

Thanks, Mom.

-

You did not follow me down

all those sketchy roads.

No, and that's okay - 

you stayed

and made sure in the end
I would still have a home.

When I drove through walls

and into lives

undeserving of devastation - 

you were there

to pull me out of the wreck.

Thanks, Dad.

Poetry 56 - The Medicine

Sometimes,
the medicine tastes like
muffled screaming.

And others,
more like
the first sip
after a long thirst.

Poetry 55 - Keep the Scraps

If everyone kept the paint
that peels from their walls,
they could turn rooms
into rainbows.

Poetry 54 - Gentle Apathy

I spotted it land its funny little body on my left arm.
Innocent black wings,
and I did nothing.
And I will always remember
when I let that wasp sting me.

"Thank you," I said,
"for allowing me to feel so profoundly."