written words

January 21 2015

I started writing a poetry series near the end of last year. It's meant to capture anything that I was feeling in those dark hours before falling asleep, while lying in bed on my phone. They aren't titled, instead I decided to timestamp them depending on what time of night I started writing them. 

Poetry and other forms of writing are the only ways I know of dealing with and exploring what I'm feeling. 

So, here it is:

NIGHT TERRORS 

2:28 am

It's 2:28 am and I still miss you.

But, I have no right to.

Maybe I miss what never was

But what could have been.

If you just opened your fucking eyes 

You would have known.

Battling my own mind

Late at night

I try to convince myself that it was plausible.

That you

Could like

Me.

My mind always wins.

I miss you.

But, I know I have no right to. 

---

6:24 am 

Vomit-lined walkways

Alcohol stench

Easy prey

Pretty girl or

Stuck-up bitch?

Depends on wether she returns your interest, right? 

You're just a nice guy, right?

I mean, the least she could do is agree to let you fuck her, right? 

She owes it to you, right?

She's only here for your pleasure, right?

She's only a spectacle, right?

Pretty girl or

Stuck-up bitch?

You'll let me know after she bruises your fragile ego...

Right. 

---

2:30 am

Blink twice and you'll miss her.

She hangs on the fringes of life,

Gripping.

She's attuned to hiding

needs 

desires

suffering

self

Blink twice and you'll miss it.

The suspended moment when she lets the pain show.

Then:

A happy face; always a smile

But never in her eyes.

Blink twice and you'll miss her.

But, she is within you.

She's the tormented monster you try to keep at bay.

You suffocate her.

You bury her.

And in return, she'll pull you in deeper,

Until you can't recognize yourself. 

---

5:40 am

that split second 

realization

that you were a pawn

played 

strung along

tears swell

too precious to fall

not over him

not over them

deep breath

the deep ache turns to numbness

guarded

hiding

it only takes one time

to break down

to lose faith

calamity inside the mind

it only takes one boy.

~~~~~~~

June 16 2014 

this a short excerpt from the novel i'm working on...

II

I stopped discreetly hiding my tampons at the bottom of my bag when I turned 19. I realised the entire post-pubescent world knows what the fuck a period is and yes, every month I drip like a leaky faucet for a few days so there’s no point in acting like it doesn’t happen. Apparently my indiscretion isn’t lady-like. Whatever. If my bag’s left open, most of the time anyone can have the oh-so horrifying chance of seeing that floral paper that makes it seem like periods are fun and flirty. First, I’d like to call bullshit on that whole idea and second, if you see it, you see it; your eyes aren’t going to burn off.

It’s not like you’re seeing the actual, gory, clotty, blood itself. Just the neat packaging.

People need to relax.

Anyway, nineteen was a year full of such epiphanies. It’s also the year my grandfather passed away.

Passed away. It sounds so peaceful. So nice. So idealistic. In reality we rot in the ground, but our souls, maybe our souls they really do go to heaven. If we’re worthy. I learned things about myself after his death that I rather not have known. Feelings of apathy and indifference consumed me, a numbness that I rather not think about.

I didn’t know him all that well. I didn’t cry at the funeral. I didn’t cry at all.

People told me it wasn’t that terrible, but their eyes betrayed them.

I knew what they must have thought, “But you cry at everything: movies, books, cute babies in strollers. How dare you not cry at your own grandfather’s funeral, you apathetic, emotionless zombie?”

Or maybe not.

~~~~~~~

Celebrity Culture 

(note: when I refer to the "media" in this piece, I am obviously referring to tabloids such as TMZ and the like)

The human mind seems to be easily obsessed by trivial things. As a race, it is never the truly fascinating that encompasses our thoughts but rather very basic, every day things such as gossip and appearances. When we first see someone we don’t think, “I wonder what their views on the Syrian revolution are”, instead we tend to focus on things like, “Why would they choose that colour shirt” or “Their eyes are so pretty”. It is this way of reacting to our fellow beings that makes us so susceptible to celebrity worship. 

We’ve become obsessed with this supernova force known as the celebrity, an obsession we can’t seem to control. It’s deep rooted somewhere in our psyche and we just can’t let it go. The powerhouse media that builds and destroys these god-like humans manipulates how susceptible we are to the trivial things and keeps us hooked. 

Why are we so enthralled by these people, who popped out of their mothers the same way we did? The reasoning is because they are put up on pedestals and appear to live lives of grandeur and opulence, the lives we common folk only dream of having. As we feed our obsession we want to see more and more of the celebrity and here is where things get dangerous. We want all of them, it’s not enough just to see them on the screen, we must know every infinitesimal detail of their lives, the media needs this, they thrive off it. They turn the lives of these actors and performers into daily sitcoms and dramas for us to check in on, blurring the lines here and there to sell their story. 

They go to great lengths to keep us entertained, even jeopardising the celebrity’s integrity and privacy. In Jodie Foster’s commentary she stated, “If I had to grow up in this media culture, I don’t think I could survive it emotionally.” This shows us how drastic things have become, young actors are facing paparazzi, online harassment and public embarrassment on a daily basis, just so we can get our fix. 

The media could very well provide a truthful documentation of the reality of the lives of celebrities, but quite frankly, most people wouldn’t be as interested. And so to deter bad business, they concoct lies and stories, and sometimes they are even in cahoots with the celebrities themselves. 

As a media based culture, we are strongly controlled and influenced by what the media produces but they need us as well. If we weren’t so interested by the suspect marriage of Tom and Kate, than years of cover stories never would have existed. In the New York Times article about the strange TomKat relationship, written by Benjamin Wallace, there is a section where he asks the reader to try and name Julia Roberts’ kids or describe what Blue Ivy Carter looks like, and you can’t because these kid are not in the spot light. Then you have the kids, like Suri Cruise, who are in the tabloids every other week and it gets to the point where none of it could even be remotely real or candid and you wonder if it’s all staged by the public relations mavens of the world.

© Kelsey Adams 2013