I take it.
I take it, and take it, and take it.
I sit, stand, lie down, and roll over.
I take it.

I absorb your harsh words,
razor-edge birds, flying into my face
invisible blood oozing down my cheeks.

I deflect, reflect, accept.
I volley.
I take and give and give and take.

But - as all of us must - eventually
I have to stop.
I am not a bottomless pit of anguish.
I cannot contain all your worries,
your fears.
I can lessen them, take on some to be mine own.
But I cannot package them away, compress them
zip them up in a garment bag
shape them into a neat cube of pointless aggression.
I can absorb, deflect, reflect, accept.
But it stays within me, on me.
Like chip fat on paper, you can see the marks, if you look.
And eventually - as all of us must - I reach the limit.

You can always tell when it happens.
Abruptly, the calm attitude slips off,
like a silk dress in a sex scene,
and I am naked in my rueful, laden state.
I can see the acidic accusations and prickly regret,
dripping off my arms, sliding down my calves,
gluing my hair to my skin.

I have reached my limit.
My memory card is full, and my screen has frozen.
Maybe it is blue, maybe it isn't
but either way
the game is over.




----- Author's Note: More blather. I was thinking about a concept that occurred to me in the car. I won't say what, but it intrigued me enough to try to write around it. That's all I'm willing to say ^^

One Wall, All Round

I want to eat you.
Eat you right up
with a spoon, and a cherry
proper
because you're just so sweet
aren't you
snookums?

When women approach you,
intercepting your crooked toddler path
and blurt this out
it's far from comforting.
Rather, you feel the roughness of her fingertips,
the length of her coral-painted nails
your young nostrils are overwhelmed, their caverns stormed
by the scent of perfume, fabric softener, and... old lady.
They aren't even that old, necessarily,
but the very act of pinching a cheek, cornering a small youngun
- one who, like all others, is perfectly fine with their cheeks intact -
puts you firmly in the category of "aged" whether you like it or not.

It's not as if they need to be dealt with, like some sort of hazard to the public.
SWAT teams constructed solely of old women,
bacteria-proof carpet bags clutched to their pastel chests,
swarming around a plump-cheeked child, who can do nothing but stare
as he or she is engulfed by cooing, clawing, clenching women.

Feel free to shudder.

I want to eat you.
Eat you, eat you, eat you right up.
Give me a spoon, a moist towelette, a book of poetry
and you'll start to soften, bend, mold to my curves.
Bring me a purebred cat, a dried rose, or a secret,
and you'll ooze further, slipping down from my arms
into an oh-so-convenient bowl
strategically placed, so you can never slide away from me again.
I'll add a few things.
Raspberries, a dash of rosemary, a little flour
and then you'll be ready.
I will take my spoon
the spoon you gave me
and scoop deep down, through your ribs
into your chest, gliding along
until I find your heart.
I'll find your heart, spoon it up,
and delicately sample it.
Then, of course
I'll slurp it down, my hunger spiked
an unquenchable thirst flaring up
needing more
and more
and more of you.
Until I've drained the bowl dry, and you are mine
and I am yours.



-----Author's Note: Yeah, well. That's all I have to say. Aside from DON'T JUDGE ME. Or report me to anything. Or think of this as a polished piece of writing at all. (The last one is the most forbidden.) Love you all.

-----Author's Note: I did another semi-made-up warm-up. In this, I wrote two conversations, as show below (B). And then I blended them together - the first line from the first conversation, the first line from the second conversation, the second line from the first conversation, the second from the second conversation - etc (A). The next time, I did it much crazier. I took the first "1" from the first, then the first "2" from the second, then the "1" directly above it... etc (C). Kind of crazy. Tell me which one feels most interesting.
Order Experiments

(A)
Could you pick up some groceries on the way home?
Are you asking me to sell my soul?
Yes, of course.
Not in so many words.
We need eggs, organic, obviously -
Then what do you want from me?
Obviously.
Just a safe haven.
...one carton of 2% milk; hold on, there's one more thing...
I'm not sure how safe you'd be with me.
Take your time.
But how safe would I be with myself?
Terribly sorry, I've forgotten.
You have a point.
Don't worry about it.
I'm glad to be of help.

(B)
1Could you pick up some groceries on the way home?
2Yes, of course.
1We need eggs, organic, obviously -
2 Obviously.
1...one carton of 2% milk; hold on, there's one more thing...
2Take your time.
1Terribly sorry, I've forgotten.
2Don't worry about it.
1I'm glad to be of help.

1Are you asking me to sell my soul?
2Not in so many words.
1Then what do you want from me?
2Just a safe haven.
1I'm not sure how safe you'd be with me.
2But how safe would I be with myself?
1You have a point.
2I'm glad to be of help.

(C)
1Could you pick up some groceries on the way home?
2Not in so many words.
1Are you asking me to sell my soul?
2Yes, of course.
1We need eggs, organic, obviously -
2Just a safe haven.
1Then what do you want from me?
2Obviously.
1...one carton of 2% milk; hold on, there's one more thing...
2But how safe would I be with myself?
1I'm not sure how safe you'd be with me.
2Take your time.
1Terribly sorry, I've forgotten.
2I'm glad to be of help.
1You have a point.
2Don't worry about it.
1I'm glad to be of help.

Laundered Sheets and Brainstorming

You can come out now.

Yes, you.
I can see you.
I'm not in here for blindness, you know.

Hello?
Can you hear me?
I told you, you can get up.
It's ok. I wouldn't hurt you, even if I could.

Could you pass me that cup?
No, it's on the side table.
Thank you.
I can't do much confined to this hospital bed.
What? I do... what?
Oh, no. I have no idea.
No one has had the courage to tell me.

Do you know?
Oh, well, out with it then!
No? ... Why not?
You can't speak, can you?
I'm sorry. Is that why you're here?
Oh. So... why are you here?

Not big on communication, are you?
Yeah, ok.
Wait - Don't I know you?
Haven't we...

God, I can't remember. But you seem so....

Wait - Jenny? What are you doing here?
Jenny? Where are you going? JENNY?
ANSWER ME.


Please?



----- Author's Note: I kind of hate it. But there's something in there I like, so I'll let it lie for now. I'd LOVE to hear people's interpretations of what the story/concept behind this is, and what it "means" or what's actually happening. I think... well, I think it looks like one thing, when in reality, it's completely different. Do tell!

Draw Your Weapons, Gentlemen

Gentlemen?
What's so gentle about you,
rough and raw,
salty and burnt,
primate, primeval
sometimes just evil,
pure and undiluted
strong than the finest vodka I can buy, undrownable,
undrainable
a pus-filled boil that festers before my eyes
disgusting.

Your left finger is twitching as we pace,
circle
stand.
Reaching for the trigger
(yours or mine?)
and I barely believe I welcomed you once.

Do you remember? I called out for you in the night
a night
most nights.
I called for you to take me
hard, long, deep
soft, short, and shallow.
I needed wanted loved tried ripped cut for you.
I would have - have had did have may have - torn my own heart
whispering apologies
from my lividly white chest.

I want for you to stumble, your monologue to wither
your voice to hesitate, unsure of the next line.
You're cutting off my laughlines, you're upstaging me
you're skipping my entrances, my exits, my cues
until I'm unsure if we're still doing the same play we began
doing the same circle, square, turn, stand
drawing our weapons, staring each other down
one lonely actor
versus unblinking death.



----- Author's Note: This is a very rough draft.  I don't usually edit, but this one is truly a "journal piece" - a stream of consciousness that leaves you slightly unsure what you just read. So I plan to refine it, save bits of it for another time if they don't fit. See you on the other side!

Little boy, or old woman.
Him or her.
Drink up baby, please
it'll be clearer, maybe.

With him, it would be perfect.
Sugar-spun windows, and constant silence.
Repetition repetition over over and over and again
and over and again.
Sweet nothings that really are nothing, ending either in empty marriage
or parting, confused and the tiniest bit lost.
Mistake after
tiny
smiling
fuzzy
sweet mistake.

With her.
With her, things would be...
Different. Not perfect.
And because they weren't perfect, they would be... perfect.
They wouldn't make sense, for one.
It would kill me, principal-wise.
She'd have to come to terms with her sexual orientation,
I'd have to come to terms with my own sexuality.
We'd touch, and bite, and fight, and make up.
It'd be a real relationship, but deeper
more invasive
watching a roller coaster onscreen,
and though you know it's a simulation,
try convincing your nausea of that.

I sound like a pessimist.
I sound like a romantic.
I sound like it's 4:06 am and I going to bed.

I used to be scared of poetry, and only write prose, short stories, and the like. However, I began to acclimate myself to poetry, and over time, I grew to love it. I do love poetry, really, I do. But as I was learning to love said poetry, a niggling fear of writing prose crept up on me so quietly that I didn't really notice until now. I am terrified to wrote prose, to speak in complete sentences, without dramatic line breaks to save me. Eek.

I will have to work on this.

Warm-Up

If I were to pack
unpack
repack
depack
pack
before our trip, I can
predict
edict
direct
protect
reflect
detect
what would occur.
You see, I'm not the sort to
plan
scan
observe
reserve
deserve
tickets for Broadway.
I've always thought of myself as more of an
impulsive
compulsive
repulsive
sort of gal. And really, when you
think
ponder
wander
ramble
gamble
about it, isn't that
better
wetter
faster
stronger
longer
than worrying about the
details
entails
avails
prevails
sperm whales
of a situation?
Really. Just
sit
emit
permit
transmit
submit
here, and I'll get you a
mug
tug
bug
rug
of tea. It'll all be
fine
wine
mine
thine
in a few minutes.
Love you.



----- Writer's Note: Yay! I wanted a warm-up, so I semi made one up. That was fun. And I didn't use a rhyming dictionary, which I am very proud of. (Except for sperm whales. I wanted something ridiculous, and I found it.)

False Starts

Stop it.
Stop hating him.
You know this - why are you asking for more?
If you stopped, he might start
you say
reason
But if you started, would he stop?
When did you start, and when did he stop?
if he didn't ever stop, then how did you start?
How did he start?
When did he start? Was it before or after you stopped?
Well, it would have to be after you stopped, or he wouldn't have be able to start.
But if you'd stopped - when did you start?
Did you start? And if you never started, that means you never stopped.
Does he have to start for you to stop? Do you have to stop for him to start?
And if you never started, and you never stopped,
How did he start?
Stop.
But is that asking for more? Or less?
Too much, or too little?
Why are you asking anyway - as soon as you start asking,
He'll stop.
So if you're asking, then that means
He isn't asking - and if he isn't asking
Then why are you asking? Is it because if you stop asking, he'll start?
Or did you want him to stop asking.
Did you want him to stop asking so you could start, or so he would stop?
Did you want him to stop? Why did you want him to stop?
And why are you asking?
Are you asking so he can't start asking?
But if he already started, that means that you starting made him stop.
And if you starting made him stop, then why did you start?
"Can you fall on purpose?"
"Can you love by accident?"




----- Writer's Note: Blather. I wanted this journal to be for what I call "real pieces," but fuck that shit. It's just not a journal. So it's my journaling minus the journaling, meaning it's ramble. I think. (Oh, stop.) Also, I kind of like it without the latter bit. I'm referencing the first question, you see, but I don't really bring that through. So now read it with just the original bit:


False Starts

Stop it.
Stop hating him.
You know this - why are you asking for more?
If you stopped, he might start
you say
reason
But if you started, would he stop?
When did you start, and when did he stop?
if he didn't ever stop, then how did you start?
How did he start?
When did he start? Was it before or after you stopped?
Well, it would have to be after you stopped, or he wouldn't have be able to start.
But if you'd stopped - when did you start?
Did you start? And if you never started, that means you never stopped.
Does he have to start for you to stop? Do you have to stop for him to start?
And if you never started, and you never stopped,
How did he start?
Stop.

----- Writer's Note: I rather like that better. Also, I need to stop looking at the word "start" as it is beginning to look really odd to me. This poem is not dedicated to anyone, but based on Jacob. (That does not mean that any thoughts, feelings, or references expressed here are true now, nor ever have been. This is not a factual poem.)

So I've been putting this off. If you hadn't noticed. So much happened, and I just... I get overwhelmed. So, naturally, I let it all pile up. Sigh.

But anyway - I had an idea last Friday. Said idea was to have a writing journal. "But, Emma," you say, "you already HAVE writing journal. Right here." And while I agree, it is by nature a personal journal, not OFFICIALLY a writing one. So I've decided to have one.

I'm going to write in it everyday. I had decided to do this AFTER writing about the past three weeks - but I keep putting that off, and at least twice everyday I have an idea for something to write. Thus, I am doing it first.

Said writing journal is here, and the username is amant_de_autumn . Should be fun. I'll probably start tomorrow.

Love you all!