I was in what felt like prison. School work, No play, absolutely no time outside the house because my mother likes to have me around to shoot her bullets at, and I cursed and I swore and I stayed locked in my room recording whatever went on inside my head, puked it on paper or forced it down the throat of my cybertunnel. The faint light at the end of it being the day I'm released from that only escape to the world and unleash all that beauty onto the world while I'm taking it in (little did I know then of how little that would do for me).In the meantime, what helped me get a tighter, surer grip on my knees and a clearer vision of me stretching my limbs out as a woman once I made my way out of the cocoon was a little bit of Bukowski, and her:
http://writerigniter.wordpress.com/
I kept her a secret. You wouldn't find her linked on my blog, you wouldn't hear me going, hey did you read her last? And if you lived where I lived, you sure as hell wouldn't have stumbled upon her while you were busy listening to vH1 or reading the last book you heard of being made into a high budget movie. Because nofuckingONE deserved to be let into that part of the world, or let out to, cause whoever I was around wasn't worth it, not one of them. I felt selfish and I didn't give a shit.
It was a way of life and I didn't even realise that I have a life,that WAS some life- me, my bloody room and visions of sweaty workmen outside my window at summertime and other seemingly irrelevant things, my organs flowing right out of my fingers once I started feeling like her hair was my hair. I had been introduced to her when someone commented on one of my poems saying it has a similar tone to her writing, but after I read her I felt like it should've been an insult to her, really. I fought with my parents for the money to buy one of her books- things are expensive for us when they're measured in dollars and you're Indian and belong to my family and you aren't really employed to begin with, but now there's a give away. And I've never wanted anything this bad- that book, and her other books, except for maybe to let out my music but since that isn't happening, the book if it came to me would be the only thing that can get me out of this comatose state of MINDLESS EXISTENCE.
Last thing I said to myself which seemed to sound like me was- you can't write poetry when its kissing you in the neck, which may or may not be true but I'm not even sure of how I feel or what I believe anymore. Yes I wish to go into hibernation again with her book, and you would too if you read her. Go check her out and while you're at it, beg her to send the book my way.
http://writerigniter.wordpress.com/
I kept her a secret. You wouldn't find her linked on my blog, you wouldn't hear me going, hey did you read her last? And if you lived where I lived, you sure as hell wouldn't have stumbled upon her while you were busy listening to vH1 or reading the last book you heard of being made into a high budget movie. Because nofuckingONE deserved to be let into that part of the world, or let out to, cause whoever I was around wasn't worth it, not one of them. I felt selfish and I didn't give a shit.
It was a way of life and I didn't even realise that I have a life,that WAS some life- me, my bloody room and visions of sweaty workmen outside my window at summertime and other seemingly irrelevant things, my organs flowing right out of my fingers once I started feeling like her hair was my hair. I had been introduced to her when someone commented on one of my poems saying it has a similar tone to her writing, but after I read her I felt like it should've been an insult to her, really. I fought with my parents for the money to buy one of her books- things are expensive for us when they're measured in dollars and you're Indian and belong to my family and you aren't really employed to begin with, but now there's a give away. And I've never wanted anything this bad- that book, and her other books, except for maybe to let out my music but since that isn't happening, the book if it came to me would be the only thing that can get me out of this comatose state of MINDLESS EXISTENCE.
Last thing I said to myself which seemed to sound like me was- you can't write poetry when its kissing you in the neck, which may or may not be true but I'm not even sure of how I feel or what I believe anymore. Yes I wish to go into hibernation again with her book, and you would too if you read her. Go check her out and while you're at it, beg her to send the book my way.
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