Saving Grace

Masks

10/11

21:17

Maintaining a blog is hard work so for all of you out there who insult this blog and me, please fuck off. I recently received a comment the other day that this blog isn't as interesting as I made it seem.

Well, hate to break it to you, but it's a teenager's blog. Do you expect every post to be well written full of intrigue? If you answered yes, you must be on something good and I kindly ask that you share because being sober sucks.

Yes. Like I'm sure I said earlier, I'm a pill popper. I like popping pain pills. I mean, I've been clean since like June. But that doesn't mean I don't miss it. Lemme tell ya, it's a struggle not to take the pain pills they give me like they're candy. No. Like a good girl, I only take them when I'm in a lot of pain.

Well, this post is mainly me bitching at you all for insulting me. News flash: if you don't like this blog, don't fucking read it!

10/13

03:00

It is exactly three in the morning which, as mentioned in earlier posts, is the time for the lovers, poets, artists, and (according to me) crazies.

I can't sleep (which is nothing new) and I've decided to share with you a poem written by Ed Bok Lee titled "Poetry Is a Sickness"

You write not what you want,

but what flaws flower from rust

You want to write about the universe,

how the stars are really tiny palpitating ancestor hearts

watching over us

and instead what you get on the page

is that car crash on Fourth and Broadway-

the wails of the girlfriend or widow,

her long lamentation so sensuous

in terrible harmony with sirens in the distance

Poetry is a sickness

You want to write about Adoration,

the glistening sweat on your honey's chest

in which you've tasted the sun's caress,

and instead what you get

is a poem about the first of four times

your mother and father split up

Want to write about the perfection of God

and end up with just another story

of a uniquely lonely childhood

If I had a dime for every happy poem I wrote

I'd be dead

Want to write about the war, oppression, injustice,

and look here, see, what got left behind

when all the sand and dust cleared

is the puke-green carpet in the Harbor Lights Salvation Army treatment center

A skinny Native girl no older than seventeen

braids the reddish hair

of her little four- or five-year-old Down's Syndrome daughter

Outside, no blinking stars

No holy kiss's approach

Only a vague antiseptic odor and Christian crest on the wall staring back at you