Questions for my Diary

Can I write in my diary, the small loves I have had and how I cried for them all? Will recording my thoughts and beats of my heart console me too long to love no more? Dear diary, I wish you had ears to hear the songs I sing to remember those loves. Songs that give way to tears and sometimes laughs. Can I write down those feelings that grip my body to the core? Will they translate onto the page?

I must do so even with all my questions, nothing else will quiet my mind.

Bare Skin

She looked down at her legs
Time to shave, She thought
The hair graced her calf so smoothly
Like an array of jewels all looking the same
She never thought of her leg hair like this
Always as something needing to be removed
Tamed
Shaved
Is it really a movement to fight the power?
Or just becoming comfortable in her own skin?
She will blame society for her insecurities
Hair love changed by social norms
But to move forward
She must start to love her body
Casting no more blame
And accept the hair in all the places it should be

Re-read

I keep going back to my own writing. Reading it over and over again. I can’t seem to stay away from the words that I have already written. Each time I go over them, they sink deeper and deeper into my heart. Imprinted like a stamp on my emotions. Am I in love with my own eloquence? It seems as though re-reading my poems gives life to my soul. Each word and each phrase conjure up pictures and memories in my mind. With time, these things fade but when I re-read my poems those memories come alive again.

Depression

Some days I believe that I am the ruler of the universe. Other days I feel more content to scold myself into the position of a serf. It sometimes does not come easy to smile. My mind becomes angry at itself and I wish that I didn’t exist. Other days I can’t help but sing the whole day away. I forget that we don’t all live in our dreams. Its hard going through moments and periods of depression. You feel constantly nagged by the overwhelming sensation that you don’t matter. Sometimes I feel that if I love myself enough then I will be happy. But my happiness fades and I end up staring at the key board hoping to be the next Fitzgerald. He never was truly happy, right?

Death and Love

I know recently I have been writing a lot about love and death. Death and love. I want to let you know that I am not trying to be dramatic or play on your emotions. I just have been missing loved ones who have passed especially those that died too young. I honestly never really cried when people in my life had died so there was never really that satisfaction of immediate grief. Instead it has taken years for me to feel sad and miss them. Maybe I am cold hearted maybe I’m terrible with emotions. But this is how I have processed my grief. When I write poems and short stories it helps me to relinquish the hold my heart has had on those emotions. I can move past the grief and look forward. I do not want to forget but maybe that would be the best thing for me. Forgive my blabbering and non specific writing. Death and love: love and death. These are two things I can be sure of in this world. And I am currently trying to paddle through the channels of emotions that life is pushing my way.

The Hero

The hero of the story is rarely the martyr. They will not die with a sudden swift death. Instead the hero will live on into the present moment. They will continue living as though their heroism is finished. Does the hero really live such a simple life? After all the boxes are wrapped and the bows are tied, is there nothing more for the hero to accomplish? I am jealous of those heros and how they give of their time and effort for a single cause. But these heros live on and continue with their lives. When people see them on the street, they whisper words of bravery and confidence. Might and power defines their characters. But many times these adjectives are given by others. Is that what makes a hero great? Being defined by other generations or other people? They receive the praise with little acknowledgement of their actions. Heros in our world do not die for their cause. They do not know even how to be a hero. Do I even know how to be a hero? My heart grows heavy as people define heroism in single sentences and phrases. There is more to the hero than just words. There is more to the hero than just actions. The hero is a person. The hero can be people. But when does the hero die?

A Letter to My Inner Self

Hello, How are you? Since we are being cordial, I might as well ask, How is your mother doing? Oh right she is my mother too. But this coincidence is not the point. I wanted to write to you for two main reasons. Well maybe three but you understand that I am terrible at counting. First, I want to thank you. You have helped me through out my life. I enjoy our talks even when I am sad. You cheer me up but also give me good advice. Well at least I think so. You have given me company when no one else is present. Thanks for making me laugh and allowing me to partake in moments in unique ways. Secondly, I would like to remind you that you are a constant annoyance in my life. Yes, I care for you dearly but sometime you drive me insane. You make me question my goals and intentions. You paralyze me. This makes me sad and then I have to have you console me which makes the whole situation worse. So I want to let you know that I appreciate your efforts but I must turn to other friends. You cannot and should not be my only comforter in this life. I thank you for where you have brought me but I have out grown you. Well, not exactly because you have grown with me. So you understand how I have changed for the better. Believe me, I am a different person so don’t try those old tricks on me.

Talk soon,
Self

A Lifetime

If I wrote for a lifetime, would anyone care to read? Would the great historians of the future even care to notice? Am I so vain as to think my writings would even be read? I guess so.

I guess I want to imagine my lifetime of writing has not been spent in vain. That for a moment I will live past myself. But where has this line of thinking lead me?

Only to guess at the future and forget my intentions for the present.

Each time

Every time that I stay away from writing, I find myself wandering along with each passing day. I try to convince myself that somehow, writing is a crutch and I can live without it. I walk. I run. I end up passing through the day, helplessly grasping for something that only writing can quench. I’m thirsty, hungry to share my thoughts even with just one person. I cry, weep for the fact that I have become my own stumbling block. But here I am. Back to stay? The words flow from my mind through my fingers on to the page. Here again I admit my longing to write. Each time I start to write my restless mind starts to calm.