The random ramblings of a mad woman.

Sunset

Lipstick and smiles

hide

the weary bones

and broken heart

that lay beneath

not fallen apart

but

coming undone

like stitches sewn

years ago

exposing the pale pink

that still bleeds

I do no cry out

I do not scream

I wait here quietly

counting

the sunsets

J.P.M.

I would run

liquid hell

through my veins

if I thought it

would rid me

of all of

you

Bordeline Personality

I’ve got a bag full of jelly beans and bullshit

and I’m heading out for work.

I don’t really have a job,

my job is finding a job.

N.A.S.A. won’t hire me

simply because I love the moon.

I got fired from the diner

for painting the walls pink,

and once, I forgot to come

back from lunch.

I’d like to sell puppies

so I could take home the

extras

or be a movie star

but what movie would star me?

I dress like a movie star so

people won’t know that

I carry jelly beans

and bullshit

Soul Bound (For T.M.H.)

Before we ever saw the first light

of this world

we were bound together

chosen and paired

by something bigger

than us

and so

I must thank each person

I’ve encountered

each man who has broken my heart

I must embrace every moment

I must love every ending

and every change

I must celebrate every tear

I’ve ever cried

and each day

shadowed in sorrow

because all of it

was the map

that lead me

to you

immortalsword asked: i've only just discovered your tumblr, but i'm glad i did before you left. good luck and i'll patiently scour your archives for more to read until i can read more. thank you!

No, thank you! God’s speed in the archives, I was never good at cleaning out closets.

descendingascension asked: You're leaving? I've only just met you

Just for a bit. Otherwise, I’ll never finish my book. I’ll be back. :)

See ya later

I’m always saddened when someone I follow disappears or deacitvates, so out of courtesy, to those who read my nonsense: I am taking an indefinate break. I’m going to finish my book, proposal package and suffer the repetitive submission process. I enjoyed reading everyone’s art and especially loved the owls. Creepy bastards.

Later,

Stacia Elizabeth

mewritingdaily:

Nothing beautiful, beautiful,

magic or perfect: just a heart beat

behind an iron curtain.

Ceramic and breakable

angels of burden.

Oh holy ghost, oh heavy sermons.

Capture and release

nothing beautiful, beautiful?

Take and receive of

beautiful, beautiful.

Nothing to see,

just rueful, truthful.

Ceramic and breakable,

perfect and forsakable,

these angels of burden.

Nothing beautiful, beautiful.

The ugly truth

Ten years ago I didn’t have the time, and really, who can write a book without it? I learned that I did have it, it just wasn’t it plain sight. Some was stuck between midnight and dawn, some hidden in Sundays and a lot of it was idle. Then, I decided, work hindered my creativity. I yielded to the monotony until the writer retracted to a damp corner, mostly unused. Soon, haircuts became short stories and customers became characters. The writer would not be still. While color processed, words curtsied as if in an interview. Only the most divine made the cut.

Still, I had no title. Honestly, I had more than twenty, but not the one to rule them all. Who can write a book without one? Some were good, very good, but lacked entirety. This book was not a book, but a memoir, even though I didn’t label it such. The title had to encompass that, to be all telling in a few strong, honest words. There were many Mondays when I called in to peruse a local bookstore. With dark glasses, I stalked innocent readers to see what they were reading. I was the weirdo at the corner table with the large latte and a stack of best sellers. I took notes and had just begun to interview patrons when the manager nodded me over.

“Are you going to buy something?” He asked.

“I did. A latte. I just like to sit and enjoy the atmosphere.” I answered.

“This is not a library. You come in here twice a week and read the best sellers, and  now you’re bothering people. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Foiled. I ducked out of the store and returned to my place in the world where the only words that mattered were the ones in fine print on the coupons I took.  

For no particular reason, it occurred to me while straightening the Roma tomatoes that my book was not about a specific event in my life. It was about a girl growing up with abusive parents who parted company, leaving the girl with a psychotic mother. It was about a girl going out into the world, with only the values and morals she taught herself. It was about a life of violence, abuse, mental illness, poverty and a skewed justice system. It was about finding a place in society and overcoming the aftermath of domestic violence while raising children. My book was about me.

I nearly squashed a handful of Romas in delight of my epiphany. Now, I had the time and a title. The rest was cake, or at least sweet bread. I wrote in the night while everyone slept, tiptoeing to the kitchen for another cup of coffee. I wrote in the lunchroom at work, ignoring chatter from the mother hens who swapped recipes for dinner and tricks to conceal age spots.

Hours became days and then weeks. Soon, years collected around this book. An invisible layer of doubt settled over my keyboard, rendering it useless. Who am I to write a book? Who will want to read this crap? It’s on every talk show, not to mention the cheesy movies on the women’s channel. In fact, I’m not even sure I can write. During a late night barbecue of shish kabobs and shrimp, I reduced four hundred pages to ash. 

I set out to determine if I could write. People that knew me gushed over my work, but that to me is the same as a mother telling an ugly child, ‘you’re beautiful in you’re own way.’ I entered an online poetry contest. Not only did I win, but I won poet of the year, and received a very valid looking award. Poet of the year! I framed it and put it near my desk, a reminder of my talent. It wasn’t long before I discovered that it was a sham, and that every entrant to this contest is a winner and a poet of the year.

Thank God no one saw that award, I thought as I took it down. I bought Writer’s Market, and read it cover to cover. With my free money usually used for coffees, Chinese take out and spiced rum, I bought submission supplies. My boyfriend shook his head as I nervously prepared each submission with gloved hands and tongs. These editors were particular, I told him. One dog-eared or coffee stained page is all it takes to end up in the slush pile. I did this for a while, heeding the words that each rejection slip was closer to a yes. I hung them over my desk and persevered.

One fine day in June, there was a thick envelope in my mailbox. It was a chapbook of poetry. It was a chapbook of poetry that featured not one, but three of my poems! Oh, lord. Now, I was a writer. I ran up the driveway and re-read each poem, wondering what people would think when they read them.  For five days the euphoria lasted, and then I remembered my book. I had been writing poetry since the first grade, and while it was fair, it wasn’t where I shined. It was my voice when I didn’t have one, my way of telling people to fuck off. Three poems cannot compare to a memoir. For each of the three poems that were selected, I had a few hundred I knew would never be seen.

Disheartened, I fell back into another nine to five routine of dealing with people I secretly wanted to kill. I continued to write, but called it journaling. Hundreds of journals filled with poetry, unfinished short stories and quotes are stacked throughout the house. I read reference books, magazines, old books and articles. Occasionally, an article I wrote was published. Better than the mediocre check I received was the thrill I felt when I came across one online. I decided, I could write sufficiently, but was that enough?

My book still sits not ten feet away as I type this. I could have finished it three times over in the amount of time I’ve spent spewing the nonsense that’s on this blog. I know that, and still I’m here. 

The truth is, that book is the sum total of my life, and who I am. Writing it is hard. There are no little hearts to let me know someone likes it. There is no ask box. There is only the cold, metal typewriter and sheets of paper in wait. The sun doesn’t fall beautifully over my desk in puddles of delight, illuminating lovely cups of tea. There are stacks of books for reference, tilted piles of re-written words and sticky spots of spilled coffee. My muse has M.P.D. and from the cusp of my own borderline personality, I can rarely find him. 

It breaks my heart when people ask, ‘How’s the book coming?’ It breaks it more when the kids say, ‘You should finish your book, mom.’ I wake up in the night with a tight chest and short of breath. The book calls out to me, but my mother’s words echo from far away. ‘This is not writing. It’s drivel. You should have completed your courses and done something with yourself.’ I did, I yell silently. I got the kids away from that monster, I kept them safe under a park bench when you were too busy to help. I built a life and a fortress around it and stood alone in front of a judge to plead my case. I have taught these kids honesty, compassion, and love. They are kind, fair people who know my only expectation of them is that they are happy. If I do nothing else, I have prevailed.

I am afraid that if I don’t finish this book, I will disappear.