Monthly Archives: July 2013

A Short Poem

This is a short little poem, just a couple lines I wrote a while ago about words. I think it’s funny and a little clever if I do say so myself:

A word is just a word

Unless correctly heard

Of course some words

are really quite absurd,

And others, once uttered,

You wish you’d never heard

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It’s Not You, It’s Me

I haven’t written anything in quite a while, and I do feel bad about that. Not for the sake of anyone who may or may not be reading this stuff, I could not possibly care less about that. But for my own sake. The reason I started doing this was because I wanted to write more. I have a degree in creative writing, and I found my self writing so infrequently that it became somewhat disheartening. It shouldn’t be such a chore to sit down at a computer and write for a few minutes, especially when the topic has no limitations what so ever. And yet it seems that it has become exactly that. A chore. And it’s barely begun. Very sad. If I don’t write, what am I doing? Nearly all the other activities in my day seem to be passive when it comes to the intellectual output they require. But writing is different, it’s active. Unlike reading, where you are simply following along with a story that someone else has imagined, the content is yet to be decided. The writer determines direction, pace, topic, everything. There is nothing before I sit down and begin typing, or writing, or however I may choose to physically express the words in my head. And it is listening to and harnessing those words in my head that no other activity seems to demand. Even when I’m at work, and I’m selling things to people they don’t need, I have a short list of phrases that I’m required to say and that I say over and over again within the course of the day. I don’t even have to think about it anymore. And they’re not even my words to begin with, they are words that were carefully chosen based on consumer psychology and marketing and all those sorts of tricks that are used to trick people into paying money for cheap crap that they would be better off not buying at all.

Mostly in college I wrote poems. As a creative writing major, there is usually the choice between fiction and poetry at all levels to fulfill degree requirements. Some people take both, some focus on one or the other. I found out early on that fiction wasn’t for me. I would get so obsessed with creating a tangible mood in my stories, that the action was nearly impossible to decipher. The readers were fully aware of how my characters felt, but had no idea what was happening in a literal sense.  Hence the draw to poetry. And every once in a while I’ll have a random flash of inspiration and jot down a few poetic lines, but recently these flashes have been very few and far between. I think it’s because the most drastic moments of inspiration come from times of strong emotion, whether it’s profound happiness or intense depression. But at the moment, I don’t feel very strongly about anything. There are people that I miss dearly, but those I care about enough I make a point to speak to often on the phone or otherwise, which makes the loss or distance less dramatic. I am simply content, and that does not make for very much inspiration.

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Do What I Say, Not What I Do

I’m just beginning to realize that I have a problem with authority. Not the idea of it, but the people that have it. I’m not saying that I think I’m better than everyone else and therefore refuse to take orders from anyone, but the people who give the orders too often make me uncomfortable or even angry. The way I see it, people who are in managerial roles are there because they started at the bottom, showed whoever was above them that they were worthy of more responsibility and were subsequently promoted. As a person in general, I like to be able to take pride in the things that I do, and that includes the work that I get paid for. If I am putting in a large amount of effort to complete the tasks I have been asked to do to the best of my ability, then I expect the people above me to be putting in an equal amount of effort to the tasks that they are required to do. At the same time, I expect to be treated as a human being, with respect. I expect that the fact that I am doing my very best to not be overlooked so casually. The problem I seem to be having in the various different jobs I’ve had since entering the work force at 16 years old is that very few managers and or people in leadership roles exhibit the type of behavior I expect from them. The most common reason for me leaving a job has been lack of professionalism or leadership from my employer or supervisor. And with regards to my co workers in these jobs that I have left for this exact reason, it genuinely astounds me the level of abuse and degradation that people will stand for. As long as the person yelling at them and calling them names and humiliating them puts a check in the mail every week or two, it’s all worth it. I just can’t agree with this. Of course I can’t say that no amount of money is worth it when it comes to a disrespectful employer/manager, but at the wages that I can expect to make as a 22 year old with a useless degree and less than desirable levels of experience, it definitely is not worth it. I would rather clean toilets and have a good manager, than sit around all day and paint my nails while being treated like an ignorant child by someone who was promoted to a level of superiority because they were friends with the right people.

Eventually, I would like to go into business for myself and end the cycle of less than deserving superiors.

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Ain’t No Cure for the Summertime Blues

A poem about summer:

An empty street and only the quiet sounds of generic

suburban life let me focus on the sound of my feet

on the pavement, the soft scrape of my soles

on the cracking blacktop.

My fingers find lint in the fleecy pockets

of my sweatshirt and roll it into little pellets,

bite-sized pieces.

My eyes squint against the dim sunlight

currently losing a battle with the clouds,

powerless against the overwhelming gray,

and yet my pale eyes can’t quite stand it.

A pointed brow and down-turned mouth

keep strangers from smiling.

The blank horizon is blanketed in human dust

and all the colors have left, fled this dying place

like they knew something.

I wish I knew something, wish I followed them

to where colors want to be and people know

how to live. I always figured I’d find the answer somewhere

unexpected, but all I’ve got my hands on

these days is lint.

 

As a kid, summertime was so exciting. No more school, no responsibilities, you could stay up late and eat ice cream every day and play all the time. At least that’s what it seemed like. That’s how we like to remember it. As an adult, with no scheduled breaks from reality and responsibility, summer is less thrilling. It’s almost like a 3 month long reminder that nothing, in fact, gets easier, there are no breaks, and if you eat ice cream every day you will get fat. I haven’t had a good summer in a while. Every summer for the past few years something has happened, something that makes the rest of the summer less than enjoyable. What is it about summer time that makes us feel invincible? I always seem to be blind sided by my sad experiences, like I think nothing bad can happen when it’s so beautiful outside. For me, summer has become something I wish to get through as quickly as possible, and that too, makes me sad.

 

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