Keeping up inspiration for what to write here is stretching and pulling at the fabric of my mind in ways that are daunting but not impossible to defy. I want to write about things that I and other people feel they care about, not just vacuous sentences filled with scraps of my life that I am willing to be seen. But I keep forgetting how important little scrappy things are. It is the little scrappy things that make a person build up and be capable of important ideas.
Today I’ve been going over old diaries and typing up my adolescent poems- it is wierd I’m not a teenager anymore. I was so scared to grow up, and yes it is hard but I’m pleased with how its going so far (pretty muchhh). I see similarities with the people who I have been- yung mgb loves peaches and flowers and Virginia Woolf just as much as the mess of ‘me’ now. But I am braver. I will look boys in the eyes without blushing and being a wallflower is no longer such a dream. I am brave not broken- not perfect but I can still dance like i’m 17.
The poem for today was found scribbled next to a pencil drawing I did of people at a house party with fags and beer bottles under graphite pointed stars. Being young is golden, but being alive is better and I’m learning that change and fluidity are SO IMPORTANT to human survival. PEACE OUT BLOG THAT’S ME OUT FOR THE DAY NO MATTER HOW MANY WRINKLES DON’T LET THAT CHILD HEART WITHER xoxoxox
Being 17 is weird
like floating the ocean on an island.
Rhythmically hit with sighing
waves- on shores of a feeling,
I’m feeling something.
Will I ever grow up, can I
always be young?
Will I find love?
What are taxes?
Why do adults look so broken and
crumpled all the time
when they can legally buy alcohol?