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"how vain it is to sit down to write when you haven’t stood up to live."

college notebooks are for poems.

an empty bunk, a corpse girl
forty-five degrees to the left
of within this world.
an empty bunk, and toes curl.
forty-five or so dollars to the negative
but that was last i checked.
running off the heat
that over-powered her cold,
running with broken feet
from the defeat i couldnt hold.
she smoked us both clean into a book
while i ran head first
away from green.
pictures drawn were of a scene
i would guess: us, at our worst.



date?: im guessing early 2010. im guessing march, 2010. im guessing the time when alex came to visit but i was with gretchen, or trying to be anyway, and she was trying to be with nick or trying to pacify her friends (they wanted her to live the straight life) and we were trying to spend less time arguing but we ended up spending more time in the hallway crying and alex spend the whole time in my room, high.

i need to write more about this trip-- her trip down, all the reasons g didnt want to trust me, all the things that made alex rash and hate me, all the people who came in between myself and my sanity. the people i put there. the people i laughed with about all the shit i brewed for myself, the girls i loved who couldnt understand my concept, my lifestyle, of dishing it out but never taking it. i create disaster. disaster is what i'm used to. drama is not what i love but it IS what i know. when things aren't going wrong, i'll find a way to maintain the chaos I cherish and crave. the moments when i'm two feet away from putting me in my own grave are the moments that drive me, the seconds that remind me i'm fucking brave.

truth be told-- im the fucking strongest woman in my whole world. and so yes, i fuck like a dude, talk like a dude, do what i want like a dude. but maybe it's not because i AM a dude, maybe it's society's idea of strength, of self-assurance, of the facade of confidence that is really insecurity, (fear of failure), that are all typical traits of the male gender, traits that i possess without trying, traits that are MINE. i've always been a boy in my mind. i've always thought of myself as a soldier, a fighter; i've always sported a competitive heart and a will strong enough to bend iron bars. i've always wanted to spend all of my time honing in on my skills, making myself stronger, faster, better than the person who beat me last. but this is more than a defense mechanism, more than a survival technique. it's that fear of losing, that fear of failure, that shake-me-to-my-bones, hold-me-close-mom (but she won't, because she can't love herself),god forsaken TERROR, of being alone, a lonely loser. i know when i piss off every potential wife or whatever the fuck, when i write-off every woman who shows interest, even by accident, and find myself alone because i couldnt accept their love, because i could dish it out but not take it, ill be alone, with doors closed and tears stuck in my throat, but i'll still have me. i'll still have everything i've written, every rap i spit and every muscle on my bones. i still know, deep in my mind, deep in my soul, that the only human being i need is me.

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things ive found 4 (written at work)

verses written at work:
(i can tell because theyre always folded into a small square and each square/side is numbered so i can know what order to read them in. its so i can write on the guard tube without my boss seeing.)

1. for war

one world, one home to destroy
playing with death like life's a toy
one breath and the next could be the last you enjoy
the bloods on your hands, girls and boys
ghosts and stands are all that remain
bombing for pride but what do we gain?
kill for the peace, see how they maim?
it's chilling how cold power became
once it got its first taste of our pain
blotches of shame drip from our legs
so we run through our days, sip every dreg
of our coffee and forget there are family members dead.

date: may 2011
purpose: brain storming to see if i could write a sufficient poem for the song that I wrote for mairead and i's final project. she wanted it to be about war and we ended up using andrea gibson's piece "for eli". it turned out sick, but i figured since i spend so much of my life writing lyrics i might as well try to write something of my own before i used someone else's work, even if it is beautifully crafted and i tweaked it to suit our purpose.


2. a memory storm

if i can document how each person changes maybe they dont want to hear it, maybe you'll always be the same.
maybe you dont even have the urge to hear this anymore
the thoughts of me growing out of myself, my old ways

awkward.
there are things i remember that you spent in your head.
real hands. several times ive had to forget how they feel in mine, or maybe i just have to ignore that i know someday ill remember maybe i wont want to forget
your eyes
when i forged through the storm in your heart and you opened up your lungs and i sucked your soul from your lips

pleasure.
you know where to put your hands and when to tell me what
is in your head (You) in parenthesis, me with a semi-colon
red blue button down read wrong again-- i'd rather not know instead, dont tell me what the others think, it changes every moment.

date: i have no idea, 2011
purpose? this is some sort of brain storm. the italics indicated cursive. i have no fucking clue what im writing this for, but i know the who of the beginning and i can guess it about the parts following pleasure. must be some time april.


3. scrubbin on em

i wrap like saran
make left overs of ya, man
im hot headed, your minds lukewarm
make it rain words call it a brain storm
i aint scrubbin on em, but if you could pick me up
ill rub you down something nice.
im never buggin on em, aint no parasite,
thuggin every morning
already got my swag on before im stretchin, yawnin

i aint got no wheels but the feels i cop
make the tricks wanna treat me to the candy shop
and with the beats i drop, their pants fall too
i aint ballin' but at least i CALL you
entrall you from the passenger seat
thats shotgun im hangin from though im no elite
i kiss like im one If im a buster, why i make you bust complete?
have you trustin me, i hope your love dont cost a thang
like a packet of mustard please dont get flustered if i scrub its with mr. clean
i got the rap free to rupture, happy fucking halloween

my ass aint broke, in fact its quite put together
i live with my kinfolk and i take walks to wherever
but any girl who gets my jokes i could be with forever
so long as she knows my only buried treasure
resides in my mouth, gotta tongue to make her shout
and yes, this is my best friend's ride im hangin out
aint my fault yo booty's somethin to holler about.
these lovely independant cuties got me wilin' out
so i rain this freestyle no brainstorm, no clouds
get loud, get proud like a homo spit purple on em
steve urkle on em hotter than the potter phenomenon i nerd up on em
no cash but i got these dinosaur words to vomit
you need a thesaurus and a stritz of comit
mixed with a dish rag cuz youre a scrub honestly NO CONTEST.

date: october, 2010
purpose: debut with reverends rebels was on halloween, and i have a 12 bar freestyle. i was so nervous. i always brainstorm before live impromptu shit, especially if i have specific things i want to be sure i remember. like talking about being a scrub and mentioning the holiday. i used a portion of the first bit, or something inspired by it. i remembered this one being very successful, but also the one i prepared the most for.


4. dance anthem

im just a pip squeak
bouncing like a maniac
every time i speak
i become such a pain in the ass
that brainiac, too unique
cant handle me? sit back
enjoy the light i give your bleak
life, relax.
no, fuck that. get on your feet
and twerk that jerk like i do
take it to the street
let the booze create new dance moves.
juke step, too wrecked
to do anything that looks cool
disrespect, just offend
every girl they so cruel!

date: feburary, 2011
prupose: dumb dance verse for a good, heavy hip hop dance beat. inspired by and written while working at the front desk for the basketball game. their warm up mix is all this retarded jerk rap music and i would sit there and listen and be like, if youre gonna suck, at least be fucking good at sucking. i have like a million of these hidden about in my shit, useless and yet so marketable.


5. on a blue post-it note:

girls up, bros down
fuck bitches, get muscles
gay-z
feminem
hip hop in a sports bra ft. handsome beats
young buzz cut baby
call me a dude, boy boy, cant you see my cups?
line up:
new leaves
beast of the mic
sunny
play hard, work harder
f.u.n.
love song
a little insane
bananas
you were
twit verse, dance verse, party song could be combined into one?
i miss you verse?
trick rap


(advertising ideas/the line up for my goho show in march)
how is your life?
how is mine?
it is very intense, tiring, but i am making transitions. i still need to sleep more, but the fact that i'm aware of that is great. i'm not nearly as all over the place. i feel sturdier. i feel like i wish i could have been sturdier when we first met. i feel like a lot of bad shit happened, we made many mistakes, both of us, but when it came down to it, at the end of the day, i appreciated you.
i liked having your room, your bed, your lips, your company. i miss these things, but i understand that everything i have/had to process was going to prevent me from being the man that i am. it took me far too long to come to terms with the fact that i am a man. but i have now. and everything makes a million percent more sense. i know that i am stronger than where i let myself sink to, but i need to reach some lows to understand what i need, what i want, who i am. bad shit happened, a lot of it, but that doesnt change the intensity of our connection for me. i still carry you around with me. i wish i wasnt so anxious. i wish i didnt expect so much from you. because i wanted you to take care of me in ways that i refused to take care of myself. ive been processing everything all semester, nonstop really, because ive hardly been smoking weed and ive no time for fun, though i try to sneak it in there every now and then. well, i wanted us to work so badly, but i needed to come to terms with myself in order for that to happen, and for some reason, i was so sure you would never accept me as a boy. and now that doesnt matter, i just need you to know this is my truth. (im sure you knew already)


location: back of spanish notebook
age: 20 (april? 2011)
comments: started as a brain storm for the first time we'd talk again in person. i wanted to make sure i knew what i was going to say. im glad i found this before tossing the notebook. its a good marker for where i was a year ago, to a few months ago, to now. i think its fine that i wanted to look at myself as a boy or a man, but now i know that i have so much to process about my life that i cant, dont, and wont have time to go through any more changes until ive dealt with the changes that have already happened. so until then, i am maintaining the fact that i am a kickass woman, stronger than i gave myself credit for, strong enough to fit what society tells us only men should be capable of. i dont care about my gender i dont care about changing into anything but a better person. you opened my eyes to so many things that i still havent even seen them all yet. i cant wait to know what else i can learn from having you, and what else i can learn from losing you. if theres one thing i should have paid attention to, its that i was NOT ready for that. and i still am not ready for anything of the sort, and today i sit perfectly aware of this, and perfectly okay with it. im not looking for anyone except myself. im not pursuing anything except peace. i wont stop trying to love myself until i love me in all the ways i expect someone else to love me. i dont know or care how long it is going to take. nothing changes if nothing changes.

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things ive found 2

makes no difference to be out of the norm,
cliche attacks on my appearance
i swear one of these days it WILL get old.

ive become a floorboard with just my face to be stepped on though im durable enough to hold up the world, separated by the countless parts, the whole picture shows the hole i cover.
sometimes i try to trip you up, i want to lie, and sometimes i hope your socks get caught in my frayed edges that i cover so well with ill-placed furniture that has been dragged across my features, leaving gashes and scrape marks.


location: in a notebook from a summer camp i went to summer after freshman year of high school.
age: about 15
comments: okay i see you, younger-self. good concept with the metaphor, could have been executed better but the work im doing now on intentionality is taking care of that. and just so you know, younger-self, it did get old, and though you will probably never stop facing attacks because of your appearance, at least now you look the way your heart feels, and who could ask for anything more?

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things ive found.

if i could write you an r & b song,
it would sound like this--

i wanna get you alone, just you and me
can you tell from my tone, im hungry
and ready to eat you up like a delicacy
ready to beat you up until you scream
cant you tell im aching, i want to get inside
until your legs are shaking
and im breathing too hard.


location: in a notebook from a summer camp i went to summer after freshman year of high school.
age: about 15 (2005?)
comments: raunchy teenage poets of america -sigh-

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things i have found.

i am cleaning my room. all of the posts after this will be from things ive ripped out of notebooks-- high school, college, summer, doesnt matter.  my words are every where, in between the algebra, after the rough drafts, before the numbers, bullets and sketches.

also, i make a lot of fucking lists.

so, to keep up with tradition, here's one:

things to buy:

mic adapter
school books
license (lollll i suck.)
more odwalla! im obsessed
protein (the good organic type will do)

and thats all i can think of.
my room is such a hgidfdflglkhf work in progress. but its getting there! i have a desk now that I can sit at and type things.  I have new shelves and got rid of the old crapstic ones. i bought thumb tacks and my walls are feeling more home-y and Ive sorted through so much yuck that i cant think about it.

found pictures of you as a little girl and i had to put them back inside the card and forget about them some more. im not ready to sort you yet. im getting there though.

six foot seven foot red fish blue fish

over ten days no drinks. 43 pages of story/letter written. 9 days no addy. almost a week no marijuana.
what do we do? we eat eat eat. write and run and eat and run and run and pushups!!!
what do we do? we work work work. 2 until 11 all weekend and we squeeeeeeze the lobster salad. squeeeeeeze out all the anxiety and pressure! that has built up over the weeks and months and squeeeeeze for dear life because, honey, this ride got a little too tumultuous and i would cryyyyy but i dont want to this time. i watched the time travellor's wife and i thought of you. i wrote you a letter, but you are not living at home this summer. i think about you every day. i think about you and i think about me and i am trying to get better. not for you, not for her, not for my mom. i am trying to get better for my sisters, for the kids i might have one day, for the people who might want to hear my stories.
and i dont give a FUCK about rejection any more. i dont give a single FUCK if no one cares because someone cares. someone will always care. 
i want to make all-conference and I want to get rid of this stomach and i want to finish this book and publish it.
i want to have all of my songs on a cd that i can hand out to people and i want to write better, more thought provoking verses.
i want to survive as a CA and i want to kick even MORE ass academically this fall.
i want to stay sober, but that means staying strong, and i just dont know. i just dont know.
i want to know. goddamnit i want to know!!
i want to be with her be with her BE with her. be WITH her.
i want everyone to understand. but weezy said, "i think you stand under me if you dont understand me."
i want to be weezy. how about that. id fuck the SHIT outta you. all of you. yeah. how about that.

rock a bye.

i am learning how to let people in, how to keep people close, how to show them how much I love them
I loved you, but i did not do a good enough job of showing you.
i hope one day i can talk to you again and i hope when that day comes that you are open and understanding and that you hear my words and know that they are so much more than just words now.

everything is going to be alright.
 i hope this email finds you close to done with finals and ready to head home.  i know im not yet, but then again, this place is closer to the idea of home than my house was for a while.

i know about what happened this past weekend and it feels weird. everything feels weird. 

i feel like i still couldnt talk to you because of this possibility that there is still something there. and by possibility i mean, i feel like there is. i regret never telling you to the extent that every thing sucked for me, for having so many walls, and for not putting my foot down when i should have.

i loved having sex with you.

i still love the idea of doing it, and i would tonight if i could.  i showed a lot of restraint but it was because i felt i had to.

Where Were the Cops?

my verse for the song Jordyn (Habitat) wrote-- "Where Were the Cops?"
He wrote the chorus below it. Naomi will be singing it in our performance this Thursday.


Our society is all about control
So when my dad found a hole in Springfield’s pay roll
They stuck him in state pen just for sayin
They aint payin no custodians three million
They weren’t playing when they said “don’t expose us”
Busted down his door and fucked his ass up
Hand cuffs found his wrists got that four to six
I was pissed, shitting bricks. He disappeared like he didn’t exist
I asked myself, “what’s the difference
Between a criminal and a vigilant?”
Because of those meddling, crooked ass pigs,
I lost him and it cost us our relationship
How could I know so young those cops are double crossin?
Pressing zero to accept the collect call from Boston
But when he came back he told me, Kid,
NO ONE watches the watchmen, yeah.
He said No one Watches the Watchmen, girl.
No one watches the watchmen.



The chorus is:
Where were the cops when Eric got killed on the monument square?
Bustin kids with gangster lids when they smelled weed in the air
It was 8 to 9 on a bright summer night when his fate met despair
True crime is fine if it’ll only make a dime and it only costs a prayer.

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