Poetess at Twenty-four

Here,
In the darkness of an old front porch,
With the smell of wood and leaves,
And the coming spring,
With the soft amber glow of a kitchen window
Shining safety out
Into the wilderness
Behind me--
And I think about you,
Momma,
As the wind rises
Sending a silver chill down my spine
And I pull your afghan around me tight
Like the memory of your arms
Or a cradle-
Where everything was simple-
Before home vanished
And the wilderness
Took over.

-Me

P.S. Yeah, second post of the night, but I really like this. I think there may be an edit or two left to do, but I think this one has some real potential. Like, Norton's fifty-third edition potential.

Last Three Days...

Welp, in the last three days, I bombed the G.R.E. (970 out of 1600. Nicht so gut.), worked two double shifts at The Hut (that's not even me trying to be cool, that's what we're calling ourselves now. It's on our boxes and everything), made and spent (sort of) $245 in tips, seen the new Wolverine movie (and wanted desperately to be in the middle of a Wolverine/Gambit sandwich, but they don't exist and I'm not single), written three new poems, drank two bottles of champagne and half a fifth of vanilla rum (Whaler's), and tried not to think too much about that first one.

I eat salads like a fugitive when I'm at work because, according to policy, we're supposed to pay for (at least) half of everything we eat, meanwhile we waste enough food to feed (at least) two to three third world countries every day. My latest wish is that I could make interesting things happen to me so that I could write like Hunter S. Thompson, but I'm just not willing to do that many drugs at the same time. I can barely function on too much alcohol and a little bit of pot, and the last time I took L.S.D., I ended up hiding in the bathroom from the pizza delivery guy. No way could I drive around Las Vegas on acid, mescaline, ether, rum, AND coke. Seriously, how did this guy survive?

But he did, just long enough to get tired of it, shoot himself in the head (maybe, [insert government involved conspiracy theory here]), and get shot out of a canon by Johnny Depp.

Really, I think I just want to be beloved and crazy enough to request that my final remains get shot out of a cannon by the latest Hollywood It person (who portrayed me brilliantly in the movie, though, to his/her credit), and actually get it. Who could ask for more, really?