jesus fucking christ
another fucking haiku
i’m sick of this shit
cherry blossoms fall
at the speed of oh my god
no one fucking cares
write some poetry
about cool shit like bar fights
you goddamn wankers
I’ve never wanted to be a teacher.
I suppose it sounded okay in the abstract, being someone who inspires and educates. But that assumes one has any knowledge, or skill at imparting it. I lack in both departments.
So I scramble to find something like a curriculum, and I leave my classes shaking and sick at my stomach, painfully aware that these kids are receiving what is supposed to be the foundation for their academic careers from me and it is shit. I lie awake at night trying to figure out what to lecture on the next day, or the day after that, and nothing sounds right.
I don’t know what I want to do with my life. But I’m growing more and more certain that teaching isn’t it. I don’t think writing is, either.
My window to escape is closing rapidly, and the thought of doing this for three or four more years is… horrific.
n. a phenomenon in which you have an active social life but very few close friends—people who you can trust, who you can be yourself with, who can help flush out the weird psychological toxins that tend to accumulate over time—which is a form of acute social malnutrition in which even if you devour an entire buffet of chitchat, you’ll still feel pangs of hunger.
Selfish, they said, and murderous;
You wouldn’t be so flippant if. Give the child
A face, they said. Not some faceless foetus
Not some faceless fatal flushing
Red in the hospital nappy-pads, giddy
With the general an.
You’ve had a few faces, all of them
Mine and some of them his, and
We’ve all named you, absurd, sentimental
And once, for Light’s birthday-
You are, ghost, a joke.
(waving a cake-encrusted knife, Light),
That’s what we’ve done with you,
Kid. We made a joke of you.
Selfish, they said, and callous;
For the sake of arguments I shouldn’t
Have to have, you have had
Names and faces you did not earn;
I have tried to care
I have tried to mourn
I have tried to imagine
How I would have felt
Were you born.
Selfish, they tell me, selfish and immature;
I share my body for hours
Ticking off the clock, my secrets safe
From fingers, tongues,
You wanted it for months, your
Happy hiding cave; then years
Your feeding place, your climbing frame
Your carriage, your bodyguard.
I was never his. And I will never be yours.
Selfish, they said, because they do not know
Who my real children are.
Your siblings outclass you
Their faces outlast yours-
-these hands have made universes.
These lips speak legions, multitudes
Upon whom greater deeds than
A parent’s imaginings can be pinned
(your corkboard skull would take years
To fill and frame, doubtless, only
The least of thoughts).
- these hands are my creation
Not the uterine tyranny
Caught in cotton hospital pads.
Selfish, they said, and murderous.
Greater for never having been:
You are a goat.
And I am murderous, and selfish, and mean
And this poem will live longer
Than the fruit of their loins.
|—||Biro-Punctured Womb: Splatty’s Elegy - Delilah Des Anges (via jelenedra)|
bah ha ha ha ha
“misguided sexual rage” haha
almost my douchey trifecta! love this.
i briefly dated someone in college who literally fit all of these categories
I also dated this man, and other variations of him, several times. Sigh.
who are jealous of the colored revolution,
because for you, the rainbow has never been enuf,
this is for all you hurt straight white boys, so clenched straining
struggling for potency, oh all you straight white boys
i hear how hard it is for you.
i’ve heard all about your anger, the
|—||The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via redwagon)|