Poetry/Freestyle Rap (your choice..), Soul-Searching Rants, Witty Rants

January 30, 2003

Below is a poem that I’ve copied word-for-word from my high school journal. I was 17 years dumb. I don’t write this type of stuff anymore BUT Paul’s recent poem made me slightly nostalgic of the old wanna-be-poet I was once-upon-a-teenage-time AND I’ve  been meaning to reconnect to my teenage self via my old journals for a while now. I get this feeling that I’m going to dig up a lot of stuff that I can still relate to today- and this poem, is a prime example of a little treasure buried deep in the emotionally-complex rubbles of my pre-adulting years (I’m still emotionally-complex but for a shitload of completely different reasons, of course).

Who is this girl,standing here before me-
staring back at me with equally tired dark eyes.
“Why are you so sad, girl? Tell me who you are?
Tell me why you’re angry with the world. Won’t you tell me why you cry?”

Why is she hesitating? She cannot get herself to speak-
She is silent, yet she tries with all of her might to scream.
She wants to be heard, but I can sense that she is much too weak.
She feels so many mixed emotions within,
but doesn’t know what any of them mean.

As I stand there before her- desperate to understand what’s wrong.
A wave of dejavu takes over me, and it’s not very long,
before I remember this sad girl…I remember who she was once was-
But she was never this broken-
she was always so strong.

Where is her passion?
why has she gone astray?
Where is that fire?
That glow that once gently kissed her face?
All at once, I can suddenly feel all of her pain.
I can touch her soul and understand her sorrow-
I’ve stood beneath the same rain with her-
I was with her just yesterday,
when we made a pact to give up on tomorrow.

This strange, broken blur-
She is an accumulation of all of my regrets,
of my guilt, of all of my hurt.
I am the hesitant girl-
that no longer cares to try to speak.
I am the silent girl-
who tried with all of her might to scream.
I am the broken girl-
who once wanted to be heard.
But the world-
has made her much too weak.

I am her. I am the broken girl who seeks-
a moment of peace, a moment of empathy, a moment of inner tranquility.

I am the strange and silenced girl staring back at me.

I am her.
And she is me.

We are broken reflections-
Seeking quetionless answers-
Seeking ways to perfect our imperfections.

Apparently I was going through some heavy stuff at 17. It’s hard to tell [insert sarcastic eye roll]. Flipping through my high school journal was embarrassing even for me, the writer. I can barely recognize who this person was! There was SO MUCH SAP, I’m pretty sure I earned the classification of  Gummivore on the food chain back then. (If you didn’t know- well a Gummivore is the kind of species that literally feeds off of sap).

 I’m telling you, you’ll learn something new every single post around these neck of the woods ladies and gents! You just stick around and keep taking notes in your handy dandy notebooks.

Rest in Peace Steve. I wasn’t a fan anyways. And of course you did drugs. HOW ELSE dude. Ugh.

I’ve stopped writing this kind of numbing poetry because well- I kind of stopped being a sap over the years. I’m more of an ass now. You can thank broken hearts and adulting for that. I lean towards sarcasm and humor to divert what’s actually happening inside now… (please say the following in your head with your best impersonation of a gangsta) it’z jus who I BE yo!

It’s insane just how much a person can change through time isn’t it? But still,  if I ever come across “that” version of myself, I maybe vow to go for it and let her come out and play. What do I have to lose anyways? Besides my dignity? Pffttt…


Share something you wrote WAY back when… don’t leave me hanging out here on a limb of vulnerability. I showed you mines now show me yours.


8 thoughts on “January 30, 2003”

  1. There is nothing more painful than going through one’s old writings. My short stories, my poems, my horrible horrible diary. It takes everything I have not to chuck my memory box into the fireplace lol. But I will say, I have never met a writer that wasn’t egregiously hard on their own writing. I often write something, love it, read it again, hate it with the fire of a thousand suns, crumple it up, find it months later and say ” hmm, this ain’t so bad” and the whole horrible process starts over. I will say, I quite liked your poem!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Aw thanks a mill!!! ☺️And yes reading through my stupidities about love and “dying” over love almost made me Choke on my own vomit lol. SO EMBARRASSING! 😩🤦🏻‍♀️

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Dang. That was heavy like a Chevy. Didn’t know you had it in you! You could probably describe most of my poetry as sappy, I think. In Canada, we call it syrup. Sorry I can’t go more than two lines without making a joke. I think this post is gonna inspire a post for me, but I’m not sure what it’ll be about yet. It’s slowly coming together in my head like Ikea furniture. See, every two sentences. Share more poetry, it’s really good and I’m intrigued!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. LOL! Your jokes are like- errthang. Also- Chevy over Ford all day errrday. And also- but when DOES Ikea furniture actually “come together” other than, 76 hours later. And also- Canada has Ikea AND Mcdonalds? Man. I need to go there. lol just kidding! and looking forward to see the masterpiece that I inspire somehow! 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

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