She Is Who She Is

Essence of crushed dreams sprinkle her aura like twinkling stars against a sheet of black hopelessness. She sits back on the bench in the bar, eyes closed, you could almost hear the thoughts wildly spinning in her head. There's an energy that emerges from her person, whipping you in the face- warm... too warm. Her eyes open and she speaks. She says things in rapid succession, you cannot follow everything. The nonsensical becomes a wavering, incoherent medley of sounds that you cannot enjoy or control. Berating listening ears with negativity wrapped tightly in insecurity. Pouring from her lips like liquid fire, her words burned in ways that no one could completely understand. A clusterfuck of self-destruction and malevolent intentions will her to a place unknown to some, relished by others, loathed by the rest. It's a place devoid of reason or reality, a diabolically personal manifestation of horror and disdain. Rapidly overtaking her body, threatening to unleash a fury of inexplicable, unsuspected proportions, alcohol coaxes this volatility with sweet mocking. Encouraging outrageous, perplexing behavior, the molten beverage succeeds in unleashing this incongruous person. Reeking of self-loathing and severe distress, the pungent odor of defeat stings the nostrils and burns as it enters your lungs and screams through your body. Being so close to such a strong energy depletes everyone around her. She is a walking vacuum, sucking positivity out of the air until it becomes stale and stagnant. She has been this way for as long as she can remember. With severe certainty she begins to lash out. She shrieks about her terrible life and her lack of love. She wails about the unfairness of humanity and colossal mistakes that riddle her life, inducing perpetual sadness. Then she begins projecting her insecurities onto others, images of morbid indecency lightly place themselves over the faces of others, altering their true selves, a distorted falsity that has become oh too real for her. Again she speaks with violent conviction, retorting coldly, rambling angrily, name-calling, accusing, belittling all in hopes of deceiving the pain and numbing herself. Of course, this never works and instead forces people to flee. Run away from her innumerable complexities that are divulged with overwhelming intensity when the liquor consumes her. She is someone we all know... maybe ourselves? Continuously struggling in this heartless, selfish society. She is who she is.


I'm out.

Missed Connections w4m, BLB

I'm about to admit something no sane person should admit. However, it's because of this inexplicable partiality I feel for this writer who has been serial-spamming craigslist with his writing. It hit me like a lightening bolt, tingling through me like electricity. Painful and illogical, but beautiful and precise. I'm not sure if it's sleep deprivation or this total stranger reawakened something within me I've almost forgotten- love, love for words, love for thought, love for the intangible, the ridiculous, the absurd.
Alright, here's my secret: I scroll through "missed connections" sometimes when I'm bored. It's become a habit born out of sheer curiosity and the hope that some guys could be true romantics. This leads right into why I wanted to write this post. There's a guy out there that puts up missed connections on craigslist, but instead of "looking for a blonde wearing a red jacket and black boots," he's writing profoundly insightful, heart wrenching poetry that has left me in a state of shock and awe. For months I have been terrified to write poetry on my blog. For weeks I have been putting off updating in hopes of discovering a topic I can write about freely, and then I find this guy's blog. He's like everything I aspire to be as a writer, fearless and unwavering. He writes in a way devoid of commercial, patronizing rhetoric. Instead he uses words with a biting, uncensored ferociousness. It's like he's fighting, constantly fighting. Fighting himself, fighting the words, fighting format and style, fighting conformity, fighting for his place, his rightful place in a world full of doubt and hopelessness, disrespect and sorrow. He shows no remorse in his words, his thoughts forming violent serenity, if you can call it that. That description makes sense when you read him, maybe it doesn't, but that's what is so appealing about writing, it's (in)comprehension. His writing is so poignant because he doesn't throw his intelligence mockingly in your face, but slips it into lines and phrases with stealth and careful thought. His name is Frankie Leone and he is Williamsburg, Borough of Lost Boys... or more affectionately, the "missed connections writer."

This is my very first post about another writer... It's fitting because of the New Year and all. A lot of firsts have been happening in these last few days, many interesting occurrences. This year really is going to be fantastic, I really can feel it.

I'm out.