Lost Art

When I look back on old poems and stories I used to write, I’m always amazed at how easily the words flowed out. No matter how clichéd or melodramatic my words were, it always felt like they came naturally. I was only 16. Today I am an adult who has experienced many of the things I wrote about as a teenager with a wild imagination and yet writing a poem, even on this insignificant blog, seems like a daunting task. I feel as though the years of AP english and college essays have made me cold to the idea of dreaming and creative writing.

I miss it so much.

I thought about starting another writing blog and making it more mature, more thoughtful this time around. But looking back all the journals I never finished, all the blogs I neglected, all I need to do is write, and write on. Old posts here serve as a reminder of how much I loved this art and how much I’ve grown since. New posts here will document my journey.

There’s no better place than here, no better time than now – here’s to new new beginnings.

boys

as young girls we are taught that we do not need sex or vodka to fill the void.

be confident
be happy
be you

but i’m feeling
especially lonely
tonight

if not boys
if not heavy liquor
then what?

dear cam

i loved you
like borat loved pamela
to no avail.

obscurity: great for poetry, not-so-great for reality

people these days (myself included) are unable to cut to the chase without lengthy, grandiloquent metaphors and drawn out analogies. ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I love you’ doesn’t have to be prefaced with a Nick Sparks novel, you know.

blues

sometimes you are
my favourite reggae band blasting
top down
(so everyone can see us)
in dad’s old chevy in
californian air as you
kiss me
with rhythm and blues and irresistible calypso.

and sometimes you are
a breathy message
left on my answering machine at
four in the morning
‘come pick me up’ because
you made out with a foreign freshman
and the taste of his
gin never left your breath.

lily

she was a simple girl who
loved gardenias as much as
her own mother.

she picked him
forget-me-nots on their very first date
when he held her hand and said she was pretty

and when he was away she was
rootless
and empty

and he loved to make her cry but
she loved gardenias even more

and she would throw rose petals in his footprints where
his boots left muddy marks

and one afternoon
he destroyed the garden while
she was planting daisies.

onwards.

Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.

E. H.

What do we become, where do we go?

Death terrifies the life out of me. I simply refuse to believe we vanish off the face of this beautiful Earth.

actress

Halfway between autumn and her fall,
He pulled her in to snap a picture and ended up
Taking a video instead.

And if he hadn’t deleted it he would have witnessed
2 glorious seconds of blithe beauty.
A Chiclet-smile,
Eyes in heaven,
Rosy radiance flushed her cheeks.
The camera clicks but the film is still rolling and
Her eyes glaze over and
The smile evaporates like day-old milk and
She lowers her head and
Dusk creeps over her collarbones.

And it was the last time
She ever smiled for a camera.

 

last letter

Grainy seabed heals my heart
Ocean currents soothe my soul as they
Oscillate from calmness to calamity
Darkness takes over
Breathless, I still think of
You, oh,
Everything was for you.