It’s a Mad, Mad, Pseudo-Scientifically Determined World
Please choose the statement you feel is most applicable to you: A) I am easily frustrated and lack motivation B) I am afraid of what awaits me in the future
No One Cares
Does it bother you? I’ll tell you right now, it doesn’t really bother me much. I don’t think twice very often. I scroll past articles titled WARNING: ICE CAPS MELTING and RESOURCES LIMITED: TIME TO CHANGE without pause because what am I supposed to do about it, really? and then stop to appreciate a two-minute video of a social media influencer caught doing something ridiculous in public to get that perfect product-sponsored post, all the while I’m filling the bathtub to its brim for the third time that week (and it’s only Wednesday, don’t @ me).
A Letter, Long Overdue
To the one who loved me too well… I’ve been trying to think of metaphors (Locked doors for secrets, mini-disguises for guilt)
Looking For Something
There’s a girl in every crowd looking for something she fears will never be found. Still, she looks. She looks because every romantic movie and every love song, every couple celebrating their 50th anniversary tells her that she’ll find it someday. And in her heart she kindles a bit of hope that she’s capable of finding it, when her head tells her that she’s not—that she’s damaged. In every crowd there is a girl with a ghost for a smile, still looking for something she fears she’ll never find.
“Listen, baby,” she’d said all those years ago. “Music is ugly. It is ugly and hard to look properly in the eye.” “Music has eyes?” I’d asked.
Standing Right in Front of You
Bing bong. John stepped through the door into the cool interior of the Verizon store, clutching his dripping phone in one hand and casually smoothing his dark, soaking hair with the other. His shoes squished and squelched as he made his way to the heart of the sale floor.
"Google, define comfort zone." "Comfort zone. The place in which one functions with ease and familiarity." Well then, by formal definition, my comfort zone measures at an approximate fifty-mile radius, ninety percent of which consists of farmland and sagebrush. It is endless stretches of fields, country backroads, and Grandpa cussin’ the referees between grumbles of “you call that holding, ref?” and “someone get this man some binoculars!”
I Am Not What I Am
I am not what I am; I am what I am not. Hear the voice of my pen tremble At the sound of these undeniable words. I sit at my desk. I recall their vicious laughter,