Here you go, Taylor Swift. I wrote you some songs.

I never have an urge to write poems - and honestly, everyone is better off for that - unless....unless I have a guy problem. On the bright side, I have come to realize that the inspiration only comes when I am winding down in my distress and need one final blurt of emotion. Who knew, song writing is kind of cathartic. I wonder if any one else has ever realized that...


The latest edition to the "Woe is me" poetry collection:

Four weeks since you were nice to me
Laughed with me
Reached out for me
Made me feel
Like this was real
And we felt the same things

Week one
I didn't know
Missed you but
Couldn't show.
It might have been
All in my head
And the ache was made up on my own.

Week two
Tried to say 
'He's just a guy,
Doesn't realize
This silence makes me cry.
He'll be back and we'll be fine'
But knowing the whole while...

Week three
It hurt to think of you
I cried though I told myself
That wouldn't do
Anyone who'd make me feel this way
Wasn't worth the time of day.

Week four
I'm out of tears
Just anger when my thoughts get near
To still wishing that you'll appear
With apologies for me to hear.

I guess you think 
Not saying anything
Spares me pain and suffering.
But that's not true - 
It just spares you.

Thanks for all you put me through
To keep up the lie
You tell yourself when you think
You're still a nice guy.

____________________________________


2012's contribution:

The only type of love I've had is the unrequited kind
When I dreamt of my life, this wasn't what I had in mind
I knew that there'd be heartbreak
But I never thought it'd be all on one side.

Knowing the answer is 'no' but still hoping it could be 'yes'
Finding out that you'll be there and changing the way I dress.
Hope is supposed to get us through
But mine only gets me in a bigger mess.

So tired of hearing "he's out there"
"Don't look and you shall find."
"It's always when you least expect it"
And other cliche'd lines.

I'm not looking for a a fairy tale
Just someone whose story fits with mine

Reality Bites (or So I Hear)

When my grandmother passed away rather suddenly in March, I told myself that I would sit down and write a blog post about her. Even though my audience isn’t very large, I thought it would be cathartic to put some words down about her so the memories and feelings I have would be digital, and somewhat ‘ever-lasting.’

But I kept putting it off. I couldn’t get myself to sit down and write about my Bubby and what she meant to me and, most importantly, how much she taught – and is still teaching – me. And I think the reason I keep putting this blog entry off is that I kind of don’t accept the fact that she’s gone.

I’ve often tried to explain what it’s like living here in DC to other people by telling them about our delayed reality. Life in this area just is NOT like the rest of the world, or even like the world half an hour’s drive away. We work hard at relatively high-paying jobs and then we take our disposable income and play even harder. I can’t imagine that you’d find a lot of 32 year olds playing kickball on a Tuesday night in Omaha, then wandering to a bar to get plastered over a game of beer pong. While everyone here has at least two friends from ‘back home’ who got married at 24, the women I work with all get married between the ages of 30 and 36.  Then they have their first child, while our hometown pals are taking six-year-olds to recitals or soccer practice. I’ve so assimilated to the area that having a kid before turning 30 seems like such a crazy thing to do (irrespective of the fact that a lot would have to happen VERY quickly for it to be in the realm of possibility for me) and I am amazed that anyone in their early 20s could possibly take care of a baby. Because these delayed life milestones are the norm for our society, they appear to be THE norm. The DC Metro area is our own little bubble, and we only have to believe the truths that are right in front of our faces. It's everyone outside that appears skewed. We are a city of people who watch polls and don't understand their results because we aren't familiar with people who aren't exactly like us. 

Trying to come to terms with my Bubby’s death has shown me another component of this delayed reality: while my family all lives within a 4- to 75-minute drive from each other, I’m a three hour train ride away and don’t see anyone with real frequency. I would see my grandmother every time I came back to my hometown – so about every 6 weeks – but didn’t call very often. So, I have seen my Bubby exactly as many times since her memorial service as I would if she were alive today. I haven’t accepted the reality of her death because, like a true DC-denizen, I just don’t have to.

I am on my way home for the first time since I was there for her memorial – it’s Mother’s Day weekend and my nephew’s first birthday. It wasn’t until tonight on the train that I realized: this might be hard. These might be difficult milestones to get through, for my mother and my aunts even if it isn’t for me. And while I don’t want to be sad this weekend, and both of these occasions deserve to be properly celebrated, it would be nice to get a strong dose of reality. Then, hopefully, I will be able to tell you about what an amazing woman my Bubby was.