Silly Little Girls

I’ve been wanting to use this blog for more than just a place to spill all of my thoughts out. I’ve been wanting to also use it as a way to share some of my writing in an attempt to become more comfortable with people other than myself reading it.

I will never claim to be a poet. In fact, I’m already dreading any future poetry classes I’ll need to take for my degree, and those are quite a ways off. I’m much more comfortable writing in essay form or even short stories. Poetry is probably my least favorite of all writing styles for me. I love reading works by others, but it’s not something I enjoy doing for myself.

But I’m trying. I’m making an effort and branching out. Experimenting with other mediums is what creating art is all about.

This is part of a collection I’ve been working on for over a year. Mostly inspired by my experiences, some just inspired by observation, I want it to eventually be a solid representation of the counterculture I had the privilege of being around the past thirteen months or so

Silly little girls.
You naive, pretty things.
One day, you’ll learn. One day, it won’t be all sugar and dancing anymore.

Silly little girls.
You who know almost nothing of true hardship and suffering.
You love things you’ve yet to understand.

You stand, you cheer, you shout praises for the man on the stage.
When he screams from the front of the room, it’s partially for the recognition, but most of all, it’s to expose his soul.
He shouts pain, for darkness and struggle are his prided muses.
He pleads for someone, anyone, to bring him the drugs, and your praise is deafening.
Your adoration is blind.

This is what he claims to want- this blind celebration.
Without it, his intentional anguish means nothing.
Without it, his self-inflicted torment is for naught.

Take heed. Be careful. Count yourself lucky for not knowing that pain.
For one day, the world could come crashing in.
Those easy days could turn into a long-forgotten fantasy.
Treasure the good, the calm, the innocent.
Take hold of your own soul.
You can’t know that you’re giving parts of your own self away until you’re running on empty.
At least then, when the word master weaves his web of tormented phrases on stage, you can feel at one with his words.
Just wait.
You’ll see.

listening to: Damien Rice