“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)”

By Sylvia Plath 

After posting my last entry I was sifting through poems and I found this. Apparently Sylvia and I had something in common. Although I am not the poet she was. Maybe one day that will be different.

Sometimes this weird thing happens to me. This coincidental lapse in time where I struggle to put my pen to paper. My heart to beats. And I think it near impossible to drive my point home. I can think of him. I can think of how I felt. I mean really its all I can think of. And then I hear words that say it all. Giving me an out. Someone else taking the heat. I listen to their words. Her words. Saying all the things I wanted to say. She hates him . I hate you. But we hate in the same way because its close to not at all. Its just everything he does. And she and I hold hands with our fucking generation, with its bat shit reasoning for putting everything in our face. Everything in our face all the time. And we need it. We suck it up. We get off on it. It’s fucking miserable.

Take me back to Clark Gable, and Frank Sinatra. Shirley Temple, with her curly q’s and methodic tap dances. Anyone I beg you.

So I did what I had to. Put him into this imaginary box floating through time. Similar to one that would be left on a doorstep had he left his things here in my apartment. He didn’t. There’s no proof it happened at all, and I think that’s what’s making me feel nuts. That its quite possible it never existed at all. Like you didn’t exist at all. Like I didn’t exist at all. “It’s the way you stay in my mind.”, her voice sings.

 Maryam Qudus is crazy too.

-Kaitlin Chamberlain

Afterwards you had that drunk, drugged look

my daughter used to get, when she had to let go

of my nipple, her mouth gone slack and her eyes

turned vague and filmy, as though behind them

the milk was rising up to fill her 

whole head, that would loll on the small

white stalk of her neck so I would have to hold her

closer, amazed at the sheer power

of satiety, which was nothing like the needing

to be fed, the wild flailing and crying until she fastened

herself to me and made me seal tight

between us, and sucked, drawing the liquid down and

out of my body; no this was the crowning

moment, this giving of herself, knowing

that she could show me how helpless

she was—that’s what I saw, that night when you

pulled your mouth from mine and 

leaned back against a chain-link fence,

in front of a burned-out church: a man

who was going to be that vulnerable,

that easy and impossible to hurt.

By Kim Addonizio

Maybe she holds onto you because you feed her.

 Lines and wishes and wants and promises and bullshit.

And maybe its because of those stupid fucking princess movies that are stuffed down our throats like that tube that was thrown into that anorexic girl from Mr. Thompson’s class when she took a bottle of Tylenol PM.

Just wanting to sleep.

Eternally I guess.

Like a real life version of Sleeping Beauty.

But the reality is that the prince never really shows up. Not how they told her he would.

Not like you told her you would.

And I’d like to sit here and write how all men are assholes, and quote the daft lines of Marilyn Monroe.

“If you can’t handle me at my worst, than you certainly don’t deserve me at my best.”

Some priceless knowledge like that.

I just can’t take it anymore how the body begs to be ripped apart. We all want to be torn from limb to limb, have someone else’s hands hanging from our skin.

Making us feel like something.

And no matter what you say to her, she knows.

I mean she has to know that your hands have been all over that slut with the ivory breasts and the pouty lips.

But unless those words come out of your mouth.

Which they won’t.

She knows nothing.

And just like all the other princesses, she’s just living in bliss.

Just sitting there. Like yesterdays idiot. Waiting for you to tell her something that isn’t real.

And you’ll be back, because lets face it, you always come back.

You need to be back.

“Welcome home, Darling”, she says.

-Kaitlin Chamberlain

I watch him spread the peanut butter effortlessly across a piece of Wonder Bread.

A lot like the way my mother used to do when packing my lunch as a kid, almost identically really .

And seeing so entices me to remember the way I would open my New Kids on the Block lunch box so gently and peek in to see if there was a napkin inside.

If there was a napkin, there was a little note written in red ink on it, and if there was a little note, then there was happiness.

I would slowly pull the napkin out with my small nubby hands, hands that even as I look at them now in adulthood, still look a lot like the way they did as a third grader.

Although that napkin could bring me the brightest of days, it could easily take them away. The days when she would forget would cause a lump to merge in my throat, and I would feel my eyes begin to moisten.

I would sit there and tell myself I was getting too old for such things. Because being in third grade means growing up you know.

Now he is cutting his sandwich into quarters, the way I’m sure his mother used to when packing his lunch as a kid.

Passing peanut butter and jelly sandwich skills down to her son, without even knowing it.

I watch him dip the first square gently into a glass of milk. His lips kiss the bread and as he draws away with his mouth moistened by milk, I wonder if that’s the way he looks when he kisses me.

Awkward yet completely satisfied.

Peeking in to look for happiness.

-Kaitlin Chamberlain

It’s I, your long lost friend, Kaitlin. Ive decided to revamp my blog. After all it is a new year, and a time for new beginnings. I used to have a blog where I posted poems I wrote, but after some sort of mid twenties existential crisis I had stopped. In part I blame a poetry writing class I took because although I did very well in the class, it made me question everything I had written before those assignments. And it told me all my previous poems had been complete shit and childlike. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it so seriously, but I did. But I feel different now. After all creativity is unique, no one can tell you how to paint, or how to write, or how you should take photos, and make music. Its all subjective. Life is subjective. So now I’m back, to share my words and the words that inspire me. Cheers to my 11 followers!

A lot of my friends are getting married these days. And its made me think a lot about marriage in general. I have decided if I ever get married, I want my wedding to be fucking funny. I want funny pictures, none of these glamour shots by Deb. I want to hear funny stories and for my friends and family to dance in funny ways, maybe someone could fart at my wedding. That would be funny. Wedding pictures always look so ” Oh we are in love and were real serious about it, and dont my tits look great in this dress.” I want my wedding to say, ” Holy shit were gonna some fun together.”