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DREA & SAMHonestly, we're just two girls a long way from home trying to get by with a little help from our friends and this blog apparently. Sam, SPARKY, is in Bloomingtom, Indiana for 10 months of the year and Drea, IGOTNOTHING, is in Boston, Mass. for those 10 months but every so often, they find themselves "comfortably" at home in Los Angeles, Ca. We're pretty cool, no lie. |
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Tuesday, September 8, 2009
December 24, 2006 Christmas Eve, almost 3 years ago. Some family friends gave me a journal. I've never kept a diary. Never cared to keep it going, but I liked to "write" - or pretend I could anyway. That night, I was so betrayed. That night, I cried. & That night, I put my present to use. I thought it was cool to write poetry. Well, I still think it's cool but now I know, I shouldn't try. & this was when, poetry had to rhyme or it wasn't real poetry. Needless to say, it's one of the worst things I've ever written, but the emotion is there. The pain I felt lies in every word and every effort I put into those rhymes. Man, I tried so hard. Tonight, as I look at this journal, I was almost scared to open it. Scared to revisit (not only my lack of skill) but the pain I felt. I'm an avoider. It's what I do. I turn the page. Another poem. Less emotion. I used the word fungus as a rhyme. Made me laugh anyway. I turn it one more time. Some more uneven rhymes. "Dear Lord" was one. Too much Berchin poetry, I guess. Next page, wow, one I actually like. Not so bad, trivial and hollow, but at least the writing's not so bad. Mwahaha, there's the song I tried to write. & the rest sits empty. This journal sits on my shelf. Untouched mostly. Worth absolutely nothing to anyone, I'm thinking I should rip out the pages. Have a fresh new journal anyway. But I won't. I can't. Bad writing or not. That night sits with me forever. I almost forgot once. But it's paired with another night. They remind me of each other and finally, a 3rd night as recent as a few weeks ago. I think of one, and they all rush to mind. I don't like to revisit things I write. I can feel my hurt. I know the facts that lie in between the ambiguous words. But on nights like tonight,I reflect. I feel the pain once more. I keep it fresh so I can avoid it again in the morning. 10:03 PM
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