these poems are for the lonely, forgotten, the lost poets at three am, and everyone else in between cover credit: -sidjenkins

❝i've delicately chosen letters to form words and words to form sentences, each sentence a colorful paint stroke on the canvas of my mind.❞ [ #1 in poetry on 27/08/16 ]

poetry by a person that's afraid of people. 12/23/15- #1 in poetry

On Christmas Eve, around 1812, Pip, an orphan who is about six years old, encounters an escaped convict in the village churchyard while visiting the graves of his mother, father, and siblings. The convict scares Pip into stealing food and a file to grind away his shackles, from the home he shares with his abusive older sister and her kind, passive husband Joe Gargery, a blacksmith. The next day, soldiers recapture the convict while he is engaged in a fight with another convict; the two are returned to the prison ships from which they escaped...

You know exactly who you are, and you know exactly what you did. . . . Rankings: Highest Rank in Non-Fiction: #49 Highest Rank in #classmates: #19 Highest Rank in #letters: #167

I was the 6th-grade "slut." And I kept a diary. So I decided to create The UnSlut Project in the hopes that my own diary entries could provide some perspective to girls who currently feel trapped and ashamed. I am publishing these entries one at a time, without changing a single word except for the names of the people involved. My limited commentary, which is confined to brackets in each entry, is meant to provide the relief of my current perspective, fifteen years later. The UnSlut Project: Working to undo the dangerous slut shaming in our schools, communities, media, and culture by sharing knowledge and experiences.

Do you know anyone with a crippling, morbid fear of flying? Well, you do now. I have a theory: An event one spring day in the town cemetery at the dawn of my existence had everything to do with planting a stark view of life and death which led, eventually, to a profound mistrust of infernal contraptions that carried you up into the sky. Because of that profound mistrust, vast portions of my prime were spent (and misspent) on long journeys aboard trains. A trip that would have been a blip in time by plane was an entirely different deal on the train—days and nights, not hours. Veritable miniature eternities. This led to encounters, adventures, dilemmas and situations that could only happen on a train—and not merely because of the train’s comparative slowness, but because train people are an entirely different breed of human from airplane people (or bus people, for that matter, and that’s another story). Trains are so....well....so existential. This stark view of life and death, which also had plenty to do with me lobbying my mother (in vain) to get busy on building a fallout shelter in our basement, had some stiff opposition. To be an American child in the 50s was to open one’s innocent eyes on the post-WW2 decade, an era jumping with progress,plenitude, dazzling crazed optimism and fun. Nightmare glimpses of atrocities from that big bad war we missed by the skin of our teeth bobbed to the surface occasionally, sobering us and reminding us of our aberrant good luck, and in my case, whispering that innocence was but a thin, thin membrane, that this world I’d been born into was a seething, infinitely complicated place, and I’d better pay attention. But let’s have some fun! Here we go, with Bad Boys. What’s rock ‘n’ roll but the shot heard ‘round the world?