Sometimes I like listening to my heartbeat
wondering how long it would take to look in the mirror till I can see myself as beautiful
how many poems I would need to write to cover my indecencies and backside
Maybe lovely people are the ones full of light
or maybe the lonely ones
I'm not quite sure.
Because I find ripped quilts and sandy toes quite lovely too
and people don't usually have the attributes of porcelain teacups or foamy waves
I think my giggle is a note off for the lovely ones
It's a little squeaky, but I like how it sounds.
Sitting in a church pew, choking back laughter
oh, isn't religion funny?
aren't people droll?
and doesn't this ocean breeze make you want to run your hand through your hair and sing
I'll tell you a secret/I've got them sugar water blues/where everything's real sweet/But I can't help but think about you?
I'll tell you another secret
Sometimes I want to stand out in this wind naked
with a notebook pressed against my stomach
and a pen in my hand
It has something to do with feeling innocent,
knowing nothing but this wind, my goosebumps and flesh
The sensation of shivers with the association of emotion
Sometimes, I think I care too much about my clothes
maybe that's how they decide if I am one of those people,
one of those lovely people
or maybe it's the curvature of my cheeks and hips
maybe the closer one's curves are to a circle
the closer one is to complete
It's not like loveliness has a definition or perfection has a form
Just sometimes, I want to know if I am one of those
the lovely people
without knowing what that means
I said I love the broken people
the slightly askew noses and shoes
misplaced clocks and wind blown hair
mismatched patterns, word snippets, ink spills
And I think waves are the ocean's lovely ones
and the clouds are the sky's pride
But I've never seen anyone who looks like the sky
or cries like the sea
Just sometimes I wonder if I looked long enough in the mirror
could I figure it out?
Could I figure out if I am one of those people,
the lovely ones?
But then again, sometimes I just stare out at this beach
listening to my heart beat
and I don't know if I look like one of those people
but I feel like one of them
a lovely, broken, sand sculpted being that can always touch the first wave of the sea
But I'm not sure if I'm one of those people
the lovely ones
Saturday, May 18, 2013
I've lost track of the number of times someone's told me "You're going to be a writer." This definite statement I've come to inherit, Mrs. Gibson, 7th grade "Have you ever considered being an author?"
My family, this rolling novella, part saga, part drama-a story of 5 people stuck in a house too small and hearts too wide, brains filled with entire libraries of books, postcards from Grandma, religious debates and sandy forests.
You have so many stories. I know, I know. You're going to be a writer. I know, I know.
I don't know.
I don't know what being a writer entails, if there is a certain cloth I need to wear, if I should use black or blue ink. I'm good at writing because I know my rules, but I'm not bound to them. I like being strategic, but I hate strategies. I know I'm going to be a writer, lived the course of a couple books-13 schools, 7 or so moves, bobcats, raccoons, 30 chickens, a VW bus, some miracles, nail polish/flaking paint hands, bright colors, patchwork people and a 5 3' frame against the backdrop of taller mirrors.
I've always felt marked, known some kind of buzz that comes with a pen, ink dancer, bzzzz. I never was good at ballet, but have you ever watched my pen twirl? You're going to be a writer. I know, I know.
But I'm not afraid of that, I just know the feeling of a pen against my throat. Pens with arrows attached to them, "This way, this way!" And on the other end, I can't find my way back. I don't know what exactly I'm afraid of-maybe it's myself, maybe it isn't living up to all those voices, the ones that can't see the legitimacy in what I've become. All those be-rationals, be-sensibles, why would you go to college to scribble in your notebook, find a plan B, you'll never make money doing that, you'll never be successful doing that.
The scariest thing is that most of the voices from me. This cracked creature, my deepest confidant and midnight whisperer. Today I thought, I'm grateful for the ability to love myself, this ability I haven't employed all year-not good enough, not good enough.
And maybe this is why I entrust so much of myself to page, a page can't judge. It's not like I'm any different from anyone else, rather I seem to have found some find of loophole into an extension of myself that let's me look at my crookedness without hiding. And without that paper perspective, I come to loathe myself. And it's about that, sometimes. You're going to be a writer. I know. I know.
I reply. I hope so. I know so. But I think, I have to be. Not a stone, but rather if I don't write, I'll hate myself. I'll hate the curvature of this earth and its vertical lines. It isn't all about that, but it is sometimes. I just know that at some point writing became the one thing my life lacks-a definite structure, a structure that always knows my weight. Yes, structure, but the one thing I've come to most respect, a free willed freedom to rearrange, clean house, dust or throw glitter. A place for wet and dirty dogs, big black sweatshirts, little hands and grey high heel shoes.
It's a part of me I can't control, and I'm constantly letting go of. They say opposites attract. I've never known who exactly they are but maybe it's ironic. The control freak fell in love with a free spirited pen. I don't know. I don't know. It scares me.
You're going to be a writer. I know. I know. But it scares me. Like I've been branded. Like I've been branded with a recipe for success or a filing cabinet for disaster. Because Lord knows, I don't go for in-betweens.
I'm a hit the pavement running/bloodied knees/orsmoothsailing/brokenwings/orhighflying/marked with adjectives
exceptional-just a know it all
self aware-just plain oblivious
Lord knows, I don't go for in-betweens.
You're going to be a writer. I know. I know. It just scares me.
Posted by Hannah Louisa Yerington at 12:32 AM