The Journals - Revisted

Oh, how I wish I could just throw them away. But Dan has convinced me that I will regret it, and I haven't fully committed to disagreeing with him, so I am slowly reading pages from the girl that I was. Not so much the journals, but I have a special book that that I collected all of my original "poetry" in-- poetry a la Alanis Morrissette. I think I am actually attached more to the book, than what is in it. It has a natural cork cover, and my father gave it to me as a gift. All the other books were the ugliest, special sale books from Barnes and Noble or that which someone received as an unwanted gift and I was willing to take. But this one...this one I don't think that I can't get rid of.

So I sifted through some of the pages. Turning them as they dried allowing the next few to have their chance at survival. And while many of these very sad (both literally and figuratively) poems have the same tone, there was one that I thought (after a few margaritas at dinner) I might just be willing to share. If I thought blogging about my father was wearing my heart on my sleeve (which I JUST admitted to someone today that I do not do), this is really laying it all out there. Ah, the blessing and curse of tequila.

So here goes:

How can you look at my like that,

With emotionless baby blues ?

Your beauty fails me right now in my mild state of hysteria,

which is slowly increasing.

I've wasted ink on you.

I've wasted energy and anger.

I've wasted tears, these tears

knowing you don't deserve them.

How can you ignore this?

How can you avoid my bloodshot eyes?

Waste a tear on me, a word, anything

in exchange

for the time I've wasted here with you.