sitting

procrastinating. i have laundry to finish washing and folding. ugh
i cleaned most of the house - feel so much like a maid. i hate that - but i also hate
waiting for the blink contest to end...

feel like writing.
feel like fucking.
what's the difference?

feel like something else is runnin' my insides cold.
like my emotions arent my own.
sometimes -- they aren't and i lash out.
find soft flesh to feel the wrath of this inexplicable

love the uneasiness - its sexy when i least expect to be beautiful
i dont notice it til someone points it out - after i watch a reality show - read a bad poem - receive an ugly email - laugh at an asinine blog comment... that's when i feel it.

that's when i feel conflict
they say i react most under those circumstances
i say that's how i was raised

@ 16 i fought a drug dealer, a couple of crack heads and lost my mother -- what do you expect?

my students read this. so i should watch what i say, no??
then that would just be a facade. and i have too many of those already.
i want them to see this human shield.
this pain
this unknowning
this life
i want them to feel like its ok to have a hard day
its ok to be at the edge
as long as you see the beauty in stepping away from the crumbling rock with your dignity
your sanity
your life
bundled at your feet. a heavy, lovely mess
but it's yours to figure out
to straighten with tedious filanges
to feel the strain of pressure
drain it with each tug
fill it back
feel the life - torn of something real