In second grade I thought I was going to grow up to become a librarian. In fourth grade I saw a documentary about a cave diving marine biologist and decided I’d become a scientist, a dream that lasted until my senior year in high school when I realized I didn’t in fact like studying biology at all. Never through all those years did I think I’d grow up to be a poet. It’s a passion I fell into through taking a chance, one that took coaxing to start, but one I will never regret.
I’ve written a lot about heartbreak lately, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Poetry is the outlet that lets me heal, my real true love. No matter where my heart drifts or cracks, it will always have a home in words. Thank you for listening and letting me sing.
I looked at the clock around 9:45 tonight and thought, man, I’m going to get to bed early, finally get a decent amount of sleep to kickstart my Monday without watering eyes and sluggish limbs. But then the itch began, the compulsion tingling behind my forehead, radiating to my fingertips, the cusp of a poem aching to spill out. So here we are, an hour later, an hour of sleep lost to creative whims.
Good night, my friends.
The original first line of this poem was “Started from not knowing what to write about.” I haven’t been writing much lately, which creates a void in my creative heart. I crave expression, whatever method it may come in: writing, singing, interpretive dancing under the influence of many glasses of wine, etc. This week’s been expressionless and I hate that repression of my inner child that needs to be heard, needs to shout out how I’m feeling and run around in circles without care of judgment or behavioral norms.
I put myself in a box this week. Don’t be reckless, Leanne. Don’t go out on the weekdays. Don’t drink so much wine. Stop sending your friends so many pointless texts. Do more yoga and eat salad. Don’t spend unwarranted money.
It’s like in trying to be the “better,” more responsible “adult” I lost a piece of myself along the way. One of my friends commented a few days ago that it seemed like I had lost my playfulness, my sarcastic positivity and joy for what I love. I told her I didn’t know what was wrong with me. There wasn’t anything specific to complain about. Nothing was wrong, and yet everything.
This weekend I’m crawling back out of that pointless box, starting with this much needed poem and this journal entry that has taken over this blog post.
I’ve loved and been broken, dated again and been disappointed, and started the process all over again. Putting your heart on the line is exasperating, terrifying, and exciting and sometimes we feed off that exhilaration and put ourselves out there and other times we can think of nothing worse than going on a date. I wish I could say that taking the chance on love is always worth it. I’ve had several experiences where the heartache outweighed the benefit of telling someone that you like them. I just hold on to the hope that one of these days I’ll find that person that is as stoked to take the chance on me as I am for them. In the meantime, I write.
Tonight I’m obsessed with the song “Scene Four – Don’t You Ever Forget About Me” by Sleeping with Sirens. I’m pretty sure my roommate hates me because I just played it about 7 times in a row:
Don’t you ever forget about me
When you toss and turn in your sleep
I hope it’s because you can’t stop thinking about
The reasons why you close your eyes
I haunt your dreams at night
So you can’t stop thinking about me
Don’t stop thinking about me
Do you really think you could see this through
Put on a smile and wear it for someone new
Don’t you do it
‘Cause I know I’m not the easiest one to love
But every ounce I have
I invest in you
But no one said love’s not for taking chances
I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately. One of my best friends just got engaged and we’ve been talking about how she knew that he was her partner for life. Her answer, simple and honestly vague, is that something deep inside her just knew.
There’s no common factor that can explain why sometimes we feel romantic chemistry and sometimes we don’t. There’s no trick to lining up that connection. I’ve always been someone that feels it right away and in my experience, no matter how much time I spend with a person doesn’t change whether or not that spark is there. I do believe that love is a decision, ultimately, but it’s foundation is built upon that invisible force that draws you to each other. It’s frustrating when chemistry just misses or when bad timing prevents the heart from sensing it. There are no set paths to falling in love and that exploration, that heartbreak, that discovery, that journey is why we write.
I haven’t posted two poems in one day since maybe the first month of She’s in Prison, over 2 years ago. I guess the inspiration is flowing tonight. I couldn’t help myself. I’ve never been one to have self control and though I could have waited to post this until tomorrow, I needed to get it out now.
Good night loves.
I write this poem with extreme thanks for the blessed life that I’ve led, a carefree childhood and loving family. I recognize that Mother’s Day isn’t rainbows and butterflies for many people: mothers that have lost their children, children that have lost their mothers, broken families, reality. Even in my family, there’s an element of sadness on this day. My parents buried their first child when she was 16 months old. This is also the first Mother’s Day since my Grandma Genny died.
It’s easy to forget that many many emotions surround this day and where one family smiles another might cry. It’s important to empathize and take a moment to think about the true weight of this day. I find it allows me to appreciate what I have that much more. I’m beyond thankful to be filled with so much love.
I love you, Mom.
I’m no stranger to crying. I cry during ASPCA commercials. I cried at the end of the newest Cinderella movie. I cry when they name the winner of The Voice. Rarely, however, does poetry make me cry. Bet you didn’t see that one coming.
I usually write poetry as a response to crying whereas few poems have truly moved me to tears. Today as I was sitting at my desk, listening to Pandora like any other Monday at the office, Tom Petty’s song Free Fallin came on and I needed to write this poem, didn’t have a choice.
I reread what I wrote, and suddenly, my throat started tightening. Something about this poem makes me cry, even as I look at it now. I guess it’s because this poem is my heart.