My Home and My suitcase

I'm visiting home right now. But I'm home only in the sense that "home" is place where I grew up or where my parents are. However, having moved around for the last three years and having grown to love and feel at home in places even after only a few days, I've decided there must be an explanation for this phenomenon: I have started carrying home in my suitcase. Somewhere among the underwear, the toiletries, and too many pairs of shoes, I packed the feeling of my own bed, my mother's warmth, my father's humor, and the tendency to be just a little more accepting and comfortable within the four walls of my own home where I'm not distracted trying to fit in or feel at home. This explains why I love Istanbul as much as Laie and how I slept just as soundly in Jerusalem as I do Oracle. And you know, I'm going to tell that to the next airline person that weighs my bag. "Of course it's over 50 pounds! Have you ever tried to take home with you from Hawaii to Arizona to Utah to Israel and back again? Of course it's heavy!" I just hope I remember to restock on some things while I actually am "home home". I can't forget mom band-aids that make any ow-ie better whether it's a scraped knee or wounded pride, or my dad's advice that always takes up a lot of room but tends to hold to answers to all of my problems, or the faith and strength found in the creaky floor boards of our trailer that are a testament of the life and love constantly happening in our home. And even though sometimes I'm not sure if I can fit it all in, I'm learning that packing "home" will always be worth the extra weight. Because then, even when I'm far away, home will never be farther than a zip and open away.

Feminine Cliches

You and I are both cliches
You with your girlish wit and obsession with everything masculine
And me
With my wounded feminist heart
distrusting every man no matter his professed honor and respect of the feminine
I can't help but get mad at you
and you can't help but feel sorry for me
You think I'm deprived
And I know your depraved
I just hope you finally learn your lesson
when your heart has been shattered
and your "girlish wit" taken advantage of
But really I don't
That would be too tragic and unfair
I just want you to stop talking
and spreading your false reality to all too eager ears
And interrupting this class I liked until you walked in
At least you're better than the men in here
hanging on your every word

I'm Caught Between Two Worlds

I'm caught between two worlds where I don't know if I'm supposed to scribble in my journal or type furiously away at my blog when I can't sleep at night. I'm caught between two worlds where my parents would disapprove of the life I'm living, but I have never been happier or more sure of my choices. I'm caught between two worlds where the people who taught me how to be compassionate no longer understand my thoughts and desires to lessen the struggles of others because they don't follow the orthodox pattern. I am caught between two worlds where I catch myself hating what my body looks like but loving to no longer obsess over what I eat and how many sit ups I do. I'm caught between two worlds where I love a man and I trust him with all that I am yet I still worry I want to marry him more than he wants to marry me. I'm caught between two worlds where I feel my "wrong" actions and thoughts and desires are an extension and improvement of my old self yet everyone says they're just young and silly and I'm sure to change once I decide to grow up and get married and finally have a child and responsibilities to tailor myself to. And I will change. I hope to. That's why I don't understand why it's bad that I'm changing now. Aren't we supposed to grow and evolve and be different rather than a copy of expectations? I guess this feeling "caught" is really just me growing up. That these feelings will just disappear the moment I turn 25 and all my neurons are in place (like my mother says) and I'll see everyone else had it right all along. Or, maybe, I'll realize that everyone has this moment where they realize their life will not be like any before it and all this dissonance  and "caughtness" will disappear. Or maybe it's just late and I can't sleep. Either way, I'm caught between two worlds. And I still feel guilty for not writing this in pen in my journal. Maybe I'm just experiencing writer's guilt for cheating on my journals with my blog. That's it. I should go scribble something in my poetry journal and maybe I'll realize my world has been around me this whole time and everyone still loves me even though I've changed. Everything feels better when it's written on paper, don't you think?

A poem by Keed Kersey: They Ask Me if I Still Love You

Read this poem.

It's not applicable to me right now.

But the beautiful thing about poetry is you can take it in and experience no matter what part of your life you are in.

I'm just thankful I haven't written a sad poem in a long time.

They ask me if I still love you.

I blush, grin and say;

of course.

Why?

Because your eyes are of the most utter ocean blue,

but other days they're the currents of the stormy grey sea.

I see a current of salty water, deep, once blue, but now a faded grey.

I see a bundle of darkened grey clouds in the distance,

and the thunder rumbles from your irises,

and I hear it pound in the back of my mind.

I wonder if you knew.

I see a spark of lightening flash, only once in a while,

while you look at her.

My throat corrodes with bile.

She says she sees green demons lurking in the depth of my own ocean currents,

and I shrug.

What am I supposed to say?

I know you think about her.

Night and day.

The hardest part,

is a generic, old saying.

If you love them,

you let them go.

If they love you enough to stay,

or to come back,

you never let go.

But you haven't come back.

The Nicest Place on the Internet.

If you want to be happy and smile and feel better....click on the link below:

http://thenicestplaceontheinter.net/

What I love about this, is that everyone looks beautiful.

Moral of the story: giving love enhances your beauty.

Have you given someone a hug today?

What to do with old letters?

Lately I have realized that I have a lot of letters from ex-boyfriends that I don't know what to do with. Granted, not all of the memories associated with them are bad....but they (the letters) don't make me particularly happy so....is it alright to just throw them away? I think I found a poem that helps me answer this question......

I Did Not Keep Your Letters

I read them,

and then I threw them in the trash,

but make no mistake, I read them.

I swallowed them whole.

I filled my eyes with every word,

I sewed them in patterns

into my flesh of my body,

at night I wake to entertain the ghosts

lounging in my bedroom

with impromptu recitations

of your letters, of your thoughts,

of the shape of you in words

but I could not keep your letters.

I could not let them languish

in a dusty box, fermenting

into poisons in the closet dark.

I could not let them lie in wait,

like coiled paper vipers

ready to strike the hand that strays

too far and stirs the den.

An Original Poem

Rag Doll by Brianne Ramsay

I want you to know:
You don't matter.
I just loved you.
But like a little girl
Loves her rag doll
Foolishly dragging it
Everywhere
Thinking it loves her back

You comforted me
Played your role in my life.
But only when I held you there
Like my rag doll
Squeezing too tight
Never wanting to grow up
Or let go.

You became a crutch
Dragging along
Becoming worn.
Holes from misplaced love
And dependency.

I've out grown you.
Put you away in a box.
That doesn't mean
I didn't love you.
You were my world,
My everything.

But that love
Was the love of a little girl.
Innocent and naive
Nothing special or real.
Just enough for a useless rag doll.
To outgrow
And forget.