titles are for chumps

these are the accumulations, the teeth of
my downward spiral, a
double helix of
everything I am unable to mutate out of

I am jealous of the birds
for their escape artist exit strategies
(my roots aren’t even deep enough to

hold me upright.)  You had a nightmare,
you tell me, where I was thirsty and you
offered me water that killed me when I drank it

I am surprised and pleased to find a metaphor that
finally makes sense

any way you know it

“I don’t wanna know, leave me in the dark
If I can’t hold it then I can’t tear it apart
And it seems if, everything I touch comes to pieces
I toast to another head rush for when hell freezes
Increase the dosage, take me there
Make me numb, I don’t wanna care
Turn your back, move towards the sunset
Forget about the past, the drama, the unrest
I resent what inspires me
The struggle between apathy and irony
Tryin’ to see, and it’s driving me to that place
Where every face gets erased
You don’t exist, it’s just me and this fist
That I use to beat and abuse my grin
If I was a little bit more intelligent
I would protect my skin from this wind”

I know slug is from Minnesota, not North Dakota… but it probably gets pretty cold there too.  When I walk to school tomorrow it will be -13 degrees, -29 with windchill.

I SHOOK HIS HAND ERMAGERD I LOVE SLUG AHHHH I need to go to bed.

run

How easy is it for you to like someone? 

This weekend I’ma meet some people and try and figure out whether I am a judgmental person.

Will they be babies dressed as old people?  Probably not.

I have no desire to go to Europe.  I have no desire to see the Eiffel Tower, to see England…  However I WOULD like to go to Tomorrowland.  Not Europe for the sake of Europe though.  I’d rather do Thailand.

eventually typing over and over again ESCAPE ESCAPE ESCAPE ESCAPE would do just as good as this poetry. oh well..

I’ve been
methodically slicing up my
choices
and tossing them back overboard
since I was old enough
to dream of fish
that are always greener in other
oceans
the oil-spilled tide
is rolling in
this place is a
boarded up house
I cannot wait to stumble out of

Idiot.

I am changing my major for the sixth and last time.  At this point I just want a degree and I want to GET OUT. If I continued with English Education I would graduate in May of 2015. I can’t do that. My scholarship only covers four years, not five, and to be honest, if I have to pay for college, it isn’t worth it.

(This is not my picture)

All I need is a degree to get a decent teaching job overseas. A degree in anything. So! Bachelor of University Studies it is, I am now officially a non-major. I can take whatever classes I want (mostly upper level though) and I will graduate May of 2014, like I had originally planned. WOOH GETTING OUT GETTING OUT GETTING OUT!

I’m getting TEFL (teaching English as a Foreign Language) certified this summer in Thailand.  That, together with a degree, should be enough to get me a job most places.  Except America, but hey, who wants to teach here anyways, all the kids are disrespectful.  (is that a stereotype, also, why do I like parenthesis so much?)

anyways: poetry. (mine)

Untitled

jet trails slice
what every crystal ball
has been too overcast to show me
across ursa major
I would rip apart my cupboards
smash everything breakable
sacrifice my household appliances
on an altar of
materialism
if I thought my possessions were
holding me back
like a tree I have always been
my own cage
do not ask me to stay
do not wish on the night sky
that your arms will be strong enough
to keep me
flightless

Oh amy, why ya gotta be so melodramatic?

Cages are just dramatic that’s all. Even when they’re imaginary.  Takes violence to get out.  Fun fact: I’ve still never punched anyone.

..

jacked this off tumblr, don’t remember where

“If you laugh at jokes about raping people I will laugh at my fist punching your throat because sure it’s violent and demeaning but I think it’s funny so why aren’t you laughing get off the floor and stop whining I am trying to assert that my desire to make a joke out of your traumatic experience is more important than your pain it’s called Freedom of Speech read a book”

Applause to this.  APPLAUSE TO THIS.

also:  a song.

fly like paper

I have always been impressed with how you
wield your shrugs
your careful smiles
how your handshakes are always the right amount
of indifferent
I would have liked to see you
dancing oblivious
window-shades open
I would have liked to see you
drunk
you manifest unknowable
you doorless wall
all hard edges and
unfathomably
blank
eyes
I would have liked to see you unmasked
shaking your fist at god
feet bloodied from kicking mirrors
having finally reached the realization that
sometimes there just
isn’t enough apathy
to go around
trying to study. Whenever I’m writing a poem and it seems kind of boring I fix it by making it ridiculously melodramatic and I think maybe that is not the right way to go about things.  also, I will be buying my tickets to Korea at some point this week. kinda nervous. I have never really traveled without my parents and that is sad. 

52 card pickup

I’ve made a lot of people sad in the last two years.  Often while making myself sad in the process.  Although, when you think about it, you can’t really blame that kind of thing on anyone.  There just isn’t enough emotional strength for us to each have enough.

Sometimes restaurants are really
Rorschach tests
and your
last statement
hit me like an ax to the
throat
I was not in love
I was only
sleeping

I saved 6 Indians from Freezing to Death outside of a club on New Years

I knew two of them, and four of them were FRESH OFF THE BOAT! 

fun fact.  “Gori” means white chick in Hindi.  Kinda like Gringa in Latin America.  So! If you ever walk into a group of Indian people and you are a white female, tell em your name is Gori.  I work with International Student Orientation tomorrow and I think that’s what I’m gonna do.  wooop!

Or alternatively you can yell “GORI AA GAYIIIII!!”  (ga eeee for the last one.) which means “A white chick is coming!” 

here’s a song.  I like it, perhaps you will too. 

untitled

I’ve been waiting three
winters
for your skin to soften into something
I can recognize
counting your edges when the tea is cold
with your frostbite
spoon-feeding forgetfulness to your grudge-
child when you are too hungover to
sharpen your claws
I have been waiting three suspected counts of arson
for the ashes to give you back to me
——
I write about the sun and fire quite often, especially in regards to destruction and rebirth (Icarus flying too close to the sun, the phoenix, the sunset as a violent death followed by a night that births a sunrise).  Birds too.  I identify with birds, especially the cage part.  yellow birds with clipped wings, caged birds that still sing,  limping, broken messes of feathers that somehow learn to fly again.    This poem doesn’t hold any of that, except the ashes bit is definitely a nod to a phoenix.