There have been ups, but mostly downs

I'm not going to lie, I'm going to be perfectly honest when I say that this past week has been shit. It's a culmination of things. An amalgamation of stress, tiredness, and disappointment among other things. I've been writing more frequently--it's my way of meditation. I've written a few poems the last few days, not sure if I actually feel better because I just feel the need to write more. 

On another note, I have about eight weeks till graduation and I'm looking forward to it, immensely. I've lost most, if not all, motivation in regards to school. The days of being an overachiever may have passed and I'm okay with that. I feel burnt out. Rebellious. I don't want to read nor do anything I don't want to nor do I feel like being personable. 

I keep thinking about the meaning of things, the meaning of situations, events, meeting people, etc. People are disappointing me a lot lately. It's annoying and frustrating, but mainly disappointing. I'm tired of dishonesty and incongruency and I don't feel I have the time to waste. I guess I'm a believer in maximizing efficiency of time, in particular my time. Time feels fast to me. This feels difficult. 

Snowpocalypse

So I've been stuck inside for the last 72 hours during snowpocalypse. Did I ever mention I hate winter? I think I did so I'll just continue. I went outside for twenty minutes, almost slipped ten times, and while I was outside, pretending to be 'free,' all I wanted to do was go back inside. To alleviate the boredom, I read. I finished Octavia Butler's Dawn. Towards the end of the book, there was a ton of interspecies, between human and alien, sex. But I was so bored, it was boring and just plain awkward (crickets...). 

Here's a conversation I had with myself about the book:

Q. Was the book entertaining?  

A. It was a bit. 

Q. What type of not so hidden hidden messages were in the book?

A. Clearly the author is antiwar. She based the premise of the story on a completely disastrous war--so devastating aliens had to rescue the remaining humans from earth because they completely destroyed their environment and wouldn't stop killing each other. Butler is a feminist, says so in the back of the book, and her protagonist is a strong, black female who eventually becomes stronger, physically due to genetic engineering. I'm thinking she has a thing for Asian men since the protagonist ends up 'mating' with one. 

Q. What genre is the book?

A. Science fiction. 

Q. Would you recommend the book?

A. If you like sci-fi where the main character has a lot of interspecies sex. It's like a cross between Hunger Games and a book with aliens. 

Q. Why'd you read this book?

A. Because I had to. 

Q. Would you read the rest of the books in the series?

A. No. 

Attempt Numero Uno @ love/erotic poetry :/

Bloom

Standing in front of the mirror
I take my shiny chandelier earrings off 
when I see you leaning
against the door frame in tight white 
boxer briefs. I feel your eyes moving over my body--
my hair, my lips, my neck, my breasts, my waist, my legs, 
tracing my silhouette, licking and then biting your bottom lip, 
leaving it redder and swollen, 
as if the temptation was as strong 
and warm as the glow of your skin, 
smooth like melted caramel. 
I feel you behind me, your bare chest and arms 
against my shoulders. Holding me, 
under the glow of one dim fluorescent bulb, 
your hands feel my body's response to your touch. 
Each pressure point, like droplets of rain running
down the fleshy petals of a Hibiscus, 
opens my soul to you 
for you are the sun and soil and rain 
and I am your flower. 

Draft of Paradox of Binding (Poem)

Paradox of Binding

Weather dreary and grey

while thoughts thud through my head

heavy and useless bracket my existence.

Days like this—

waiting rooms where the magazines are three months old

with crinkled corners, creased and ripped

across his hot body and the sexiest sex moves

section torn out by ravenous fingers,

until you, interrupted by the calling of your name,

look and stand up to go home.

Life performs as a pattern, so predictable, made monotonous,

the mold only broken when presented with new experience—

breathing, climax, inevitable resolution.

Dramatic passion as pattern

played again, played over again.

Repetition binds

but does anything repeat, repeat exactly as before

as I dreamed it, as I thought it, as I said it

that day at that moment in that place?

Nothing new isn’t novel,

a novel isn’t novel

but it’s different every time

or I wouldn’t be told

that isn’t yours, that doesn’t belong to you.

Maybe it does if you believe

in rebirth and then it’s all mine
and I steal it from myself.

©AC 2014

I hate winter

I hope the title of my post made my feelings clear. I despise the cold, loathe the snow, abhor everything about winter…except, the clothes. I like the clothes (boots included). I'm feeling like I should have something really great to write, a poem of course, but nothing has come to fruition. Maybe it's because I'm writing it in my head first or maybe it's a lack of motivation. Hmm…I'm thinking it's because of the weather. I'll take the opportunity now, in this moment, on this line, to thank all my G+ follows. I appreciate it. Without you…I'd still be myself, but with less followers--no followers to be exact. I have no novel ideas, very very sad...

Just a poem

I'd like to preface this piece by stating that I normally don't post my poetry, here, or anywhere. Like most of me, I tend to keep it to myself. 

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Dealer

It's difficult for me to let go, but when I do, I lay all my cards on the table.  I feel it all over, over, over again, flush in the face. I write it out in letters, revealing myself to you, to you I spell it out in a million maroon liquid spades. I walk away and won't, while my heart folds, look back to see—the pieces collapse into a bloodied pool of chips—and I wait for you by making myself up, back up, not waiting at all. No tricks again. The card is yours to deal and you’ll place it in the palm of my hand open.

© AC 2013