'Hidden Impact Prologue' by Ravyn LaRue

Ohh- I love this woman-
She stopped me at the height of pretense and said-
"If you're too self indulgent in emotion-
It makes the art not-so-good."
As much as I'd like to temper-tantrum and disagree, as a younger me would-
I know she's right in some cases.
I'm fully aware of my own pretentiousness.
She says-
"In those cases you just absorb your own energy"
It's like what some say-
That crying onstage is just like masturbation-
Well, fuck-
But I'm ready to push myself to the brink anyways.
That's why I stress openness.
I'd like to hand out my internal organs out like animal-crackers
Feed the audience like Seagulls
But I'm selfish and self-absorbed.
On one hand I think I need to be
I've already spent too much time closeted and apologetic.
But I cannot turn into the sort who takes art and calls it Godly.
Art is Godly, but not my own.
Art in and of itself-
It is like love and truth and beauty-
Huge unattainable treasures that float past in metaphysical realms.
I can grasp what I make, still.
I own it, and that's why it's pretentious.
I have to let go-
Let go-
Letgoletgoletgo-
I must throw what emotions I have out into the sea
Without any expectation of it being washed back to me.
I have to burn my mandalas regardless of how much time I take on them.
I have to fess up to the fact that my soul is not my own.
And give it, instead, piece by peace, to any passers by who meet my gaze.
Souls regrow, you know.
That's why I love Abramović.
She lets herself not be her own and yet somehow all open and as volatile as humans have to be.
I use the same grotesque analogies when I speak of things like this-
Cracking my ribs open one by one and saying,
"Here, take my heart"
but I turn away and say,
"I bet I just freaked you out- sorry, love."
and that's how it ends.
Not now- I mustn't since that is the self-contained cowardice that makes art selfish.
I have to keep myself open and wait until someone comes forward.
Simply breathing and trusting those who look upon me.
It might take a lifetime, but eventually someone will come and say,
"Alright; I have your heart- now what?"
And all the emotions that I ever ever felt will no longer be stuck inside my ribcage.
It will be theres to keep and I will go on.
Without a heart and soul, until the next emotion happens-
Which it will.
And then I'll start all over.
I only set myself on a pedestal to be seen over the masses, so that one soul who's content with taking mine finds their way to me.
But maybe, and I think this is right, I should jump down from my milk crate and mingle.
I will find that soul eventually.
I wish it were as easy as my physical metaphor, but it certainly isn't.
I don't even know what form it'll take when it happens.
But artists have many souls, they just keep regenerating.
All people do, I just hope to do so through art, since that's what I think is healthy to me.
My intensity may block people out from what I hope to invite them into-
But I know it mightn't be professional or pretty-
But I need that passion to flow out of me-
I'll do my best to keep it accessible.
I'm all over cacophony myself- when someone whimpers and screams I want to run to them saying;
"I feel this too, I will cry too; let's do this catharsis thing together! Let's do this together!"
I think it's because I'm conditioned to do such-
My mother hates audience participation
And I suppose
She's the sort I would block out with my flailing feelings.
It's a tricky thing, of course, as all life is.
I think in theatrics and I suppose that isn't the most universal language.
I write poems and count clouds and cry at everything.
I suppose she's right-
That would be polarizing and profoundly ridiculous to most sane people on this earth.
But I've found my fellow species; I convulse in their arms.
But when it comes to the people I see everyday, especially here where I know no one.
I find myself recoiling to the familiar shores of those so far away, instead of trying to open up and reach out.
For all my pontificating; I get scared a lot.
I fear that I will scare people.
I know I do.
Since there are times when even my fellow species seems to think me as an apparition.
I terrify people since what I feel, I tend to feel intensely, and at this point in my life, I feel no need to stifle it.
And I breathe this artistic ostentatiousness as if it were some magnificent thing.
And I'm not as awful as I sometimes seem-
But I'm Never as good as most simply see me as-
Well they don't know me well, so how would they know, anyways?
I try to emulate so many, who wear their emotions far better.
I want to be the Emcee-
I want to possess passion and make the whole world feel-
I want to arouse discomfort and endear them all, all in the same breath-
I long for the impossible since I've seen it done.
And I worship Gods who I'm well aware don't even exist-
I've seen them as humans, but refuse to believe it.
Since I am very much a child, and there's no way around it.
And I've said that, among other things many times over-
I'm a broken record-
(I've said that before, too)
More feeling, less functioning...
I suppose, as she mentioned, I really oughta try functioning for once-
And if that doesn't work-
At least I can say I tried.
But I won't back down because that it what I promised-
To reveal everything, even the worst.
I mustn't have even the slightest filter I've managed to keep when all else disintegrated-
It's all coming down from here on in.
And it will feel cold, being so open and naked and vulnerable-
"Good!"
they say,
"That means you're off to a good start!"

'Bright Red Cherry Cotton Candy World' by Ravyn LaRue

I'm glad God gave me something to dislike about you-
Because, as you know, I was head over heels about your essence-
But now to know your core beliefs differ so radically from what I hold dear-
It makes me happy-
I've escaped your charismatic spell-
You're no longer angelic in my mind-
And that's phenomenal!
You know better than to think that means I dislike you-
You still have my heart more than most-
But, God, this feels like freedom!
You'll still be one of my not-so-imaginary friends.
But there's distance, now, where there wasn't before.
And I kind of want to spite you-
That's just the way I am, now please don't take it personally.
I'll still call you sweetheart and lovee and dear-
But my love is no longer blind
It sees blemishes upon your ganymede face, which separates you from the godly.
And I'll seek out the opposition, since that is where my heart sits.
I'm content in my world of hypocrites and hippies!
I thrive here just as well as the world of vehemence and valor you cling so closely to.
I'll still indulge in your embrace, but I shan't sit waiting to hear your words.
I have my own words-
Many which I wish to scream from rooftops-
And I have my share of rooftops here.
But today, I'll be off on my pursuit of happiness and free coffee-
Which I'll need-
Since I have many, Many words today!
...Though-
It's a real shame-
You would've made a damn good bohemian, Lovee.

'Jeannie' by Ravyn LaRue

Sometimes I pretend I'm a decent well-adjusted adult
Which is all too certainly a falsity
Last night was a great example
While my friends posed as the legal age
And flirted with bartenders
I pretended to be pregnant to have a good justification not to drink
Plus I'm Jeannie, I kinda can't help that fact
Which is why, when my girl brought up Wendigos
All pretense flew out the window-
"You know what those are? I'm so excited- mostly I'm the one who tells people about them! Have you seen Skin and Bones? Of course you haven't, but you could! We should watch it! I'm being a Wendigo for Halloween- yes I know I look completely wrong- But I don't care! Wuuaghhh That's so exciting! We should take pictures on Halloween! We should take pictures now! I am SO excited for Halloween! Yes, of course you're sexy enough to be Poison Ivy! I'm not being sexy one bit- but I am going to attempt to look shirtless! Of course I've planned my costume, haven't you? I've been planned since last November! Oh- I'm so glad you know what Wendigos are- Aren't they cool? Wuuaaaghhh!"
They didn't ask for her ID.
But they asked for mine.
(Which I didn't have on me)
Even though all I drank was water.
I suppose that proves my point.
I don't think I'll ever grow up, really.
And I'm more than content with that!

'Glam Slam' by Ravyn LaRue

I've never had a girlfriend
Not really
And some think that makes my queerness somehow less valid
But I have so many lesbian love poems that I've written in the past
Last night when I looked through strange past eternities
I found myself thinking
Would these even count
Love proclaimed at straight girls who would merely run from me
Still they are
And art is art
And I am me
Though I may not have any proper evidence
I chose to speak something universal and happy
People like us are an odd conglomerate of sad injustice and triumphant joy
That's why I chose the latter
It's Queertopia all over again
Which is fabulous since I miss it already!

'She Is, Like Many Adolescents, a Thanatophile' by Ravyn LaRue

I'm made of death and plastic
The concrete glows like sandstone
Y'know, as if it were real
I'm voyeuristic.
I watch other people's pets and children as if they were my own.
Like Nick Caraway or something.
Their fractions of existence are just as secretly expansive as mine.
But I like not knowing.
It's probably the same reason why death fascinates me-
No one understands it-
It's the edge.
And I'm a thanatophile after all-
That's probably why He intrigues me as much as he does-
I don't know if I'd be as head over heels if he were alive
Or maybe I would be more-so
You never know, and that's my point.
But I keep on pushing-
Through art, of course-
I'm not all-out insane-
Though I have my moments, of course.
And I assure you-
One day I will fall.
But guess what-
It's worth it to fly as high as I can in pursuit of unanswerable questions.
Hi-
I'm Icarus-
I'm falling-
D
o
w
n

'Conjugally Matrimonified' by Ravyn LaRue

I had a dream
We were pirates
We eloped
Neither are probable
Though I've been a pirate
And I don't doubt you'd elope
We just wouldn't do those things together
Though we'd do nearly everything else together
And that's how it should be
I suppose it proves how I miss you
Though I really shouldn't
Should or shouldn't doesn't make emotions any more or less valid, though
So I miss you
Since in my dream we were pirates who eloped
I mean, what else could that signify?

'Burnt Baby Hands' by Ravyn LaRue

I burnt myself bad when I tried taking more that I deserve.
I remember that awful burn of independence.
But by all good reason I should be feeling it on a daily basis.
Maybe this is because I'm trying to save my lucky pennies.
Since they aren't even my own.
I'll get a deep red scar from this I'm sure.
And the spoils of my venture aren't nearly worth this.
But live and learn, I suppose.
And at least I try feigning self-sufficiency.

'Cool as Clay' by Ravyn LaRue

I've begun to be okay with telling people my real name
And I don't know what that means for me-
Am I safer?
Am I stupider?
Am I more confident?
Or don't I care?
My real name is lovely, but it's not what I've built myself up as.
It relies on so many others-
Whereas when I am my not-so-secret identity-
I am completely my own.
Have I become content with not owning my identity?
Well, I suppose so, otherwise I wouldn't be where I am now.
And as I told her.
I am the clay-
And they are the sculptors-
But I am-
And always will be-
My own clay.

'Boisterous' by Ravyn LaRue

It's almost paradoxical-
When someone brags so much-
You begin to believe the lies.
I've had that happen.
And then the pontificator turns around and says, "No, I don't even matter!"
And I want to strangle the living daylights out of them and scream back,
"Don't you fucking dare, I believe in you enough for the both of us!"
And then the next day they go back to the "Oh, I'm so great" routine.
I'm beginning to think their arrogance is a facade, but one never knows.
Regardless, they somehow manage to come off as charming.
And I can't help but love them.

'So I'll Never Go Back There Again' by Ravyn LaRue

Hey pretty-
He says as if it meant something
Hey pretty-
He says as if it were my only salvation
Hey pretty-
He says as if I don't already believe it
Hey pretty-
He says as if it would coax me to give him money
Hey pretty-
He says as if I hadn't already heard his incessant pleas
Hey pretty-
He says as if it were the most remarkable thing I would ever hear
Hey pretty-
He says as if it does me any good
Hey pretty-
He says as if he were kind
Hey pretty-
He says as if I'd never been called such before
Hey pretty-
He says as if it were some great favor he had to offer
Hey pretty-
He says as if he were somehow sacrificing his pride
Hey pretty-
He says as if I would actually buy him dinner
Hey pretty-
He says as if I actually had something to give
Hey pretty-
He says as if chivalry was a good thing
Hey pretty-
He says as if my life depended upon it
Hey pretty-
He says as if it meant the world
Hey pretty-
He says as if I weren't my own
Hey pretty-
He says as if my worth were determined by how he sized me up
Hey pretty-
He says as if it weren't an insult
Hey pretty-
He says as if that was all I could ever be
Hey pretty-
He says.

'Sep, 28, 3:56pm' by Ravyn LaRue

You called me for the first time since I moved.
And we talked and it was awkward, but I don't care.
She and I, your sisters, think of you often.
And hearing your voice, which you try to make an octave lower, at least, than it's supposed to be-
It fills me with such delight, even if you are interrupting my indulgence time and academic pursuit.
Oh, five weeks, I believe it was since we've spoken.
But I've asked on you almost daily.
And though I may not have lots to report-
Actually that's a lie, I had tons, but I would rather listen to your voice than bombard you with mine, which according to you was an octave higher, at least, than it's supposed to be-
Oh, and of course our call ended at 4:20-
You're so predictable in your old age!
But really, though, it was lovely.
And even though you and I both know I'll suck at it, I'm excited for you to teach me to play chess via webcam.
And perhaps it boosts your obnoxiously plummeting ego to know the girls here fawn over you.
I speak of my brother and they ask for proof, so I show them a picture and then they swoon.
Every day you're more and more like the trickster that she and I compare you to.
And I mean that for better and for worse.
But today it was a matter of better and I couldn't be happier at that.
I know you changed the conversation as soon as I mentioned school.
But I changed the subject when you mentioned Math, so all's well in our little system.
You say "Things back home are just as they've always been."
I don't know how you expect me to take that, but I see that as comfort.
You've held down the fort well, young man.
Just like the song we heard rehearsed all too many times just before you left what I called sanctuary.
But we'll play chess, and trade off our dragon baby at Christmas (remind me, I'm forgetful).
And I'll tell you all the stories I was too excited to even mention!
I'll try to tone down the mater, but really what all can I do.
But despite it all, I'm so glad you called me today, though it lead me to squeaking inside a cafe.
I've cried and fangirled in places like this-
The emotion you fueled seems only natural for me.
I just realized, I should've ended it the way you left me here.
With humor and sincerity-
"Wingapo"

'You Can't Manage By Yourself' by Ravyn LaRue

I so wish-
Not to be the sort-
Who only proclaims her own perilous tragedies-
Saddens the world, but not for the better-
I need to make a positive impact in the world-
Regardless of how small that tiny dent may be-
I don't just want to be surface either-
I feel like, more likely than not, my lamentations are far more substantial than my joyful shouts of clouds and comedy-
I don't even understand myself in the least-
But I suppose that's a good thing, in a way.
If I stood solid on the slippery shore-
I'd be far more surprised when the time came for me to fall into the midst of the lake or ocean.
I've decorated my life in such a way that I like it-
But I don't mean to be a blemish on the cheek of existence, either.
Who knows-
I wind up only rambling.
That's what more than half of my little life is, I'm sure.
And I have more important things to do-
Not better, just more important.
And half of me wants to stay syncopated and all that-
The other half wants to do everything wrong-
Meander about naked and tattooed and radiating all that may seem dangerous.
I'm being useless, though, now.
Too ashamed and cowardly to subscribe fully to either.
Things are happy but trembling with residual hurt, here.
And many want me to leave, and although it may seem difficult-
I've seen much worse, babe, much worse.
It's just for once I have to cope with being alone with my thoughts.
So many find that uncomfortable.
And I haven't before, only because of my imaginary friends, and you, of course.
I become one track minded in times like that-
And often times that track skips and repeats in contorted conversations like a broken record.
I'm all too vague, and soon enough I must cleanse my soul and own up to it all.
I made a promise I would never never break.
And so-
This is me revving up, so to speak.
I have my launching points, and they're all the same.
They always have been, darling.
I'm a creature of habit, as much as I may hate and fight against it.
But I need to be good now.
Give a slight attempt to be halfway decent.
Oh, but of course, that doesn't exist.
But we all like to pretend, now don't we, dear?

'Sim-pal-ly Smi-a-ling' by Ravyn LaRue

Every day I see this remarkable duo.
A woman and a dog.
The lady is blind, and keeps her eyes closed perpetually, as I would given the situation.
The puppy leads her everywhere and never falters.
He helps her cross the street as mindless cars and pedestrians treat life like a free-for all.
I'm just so astounded and awestruck-
I know it's his job, but the fact that this dog is so capable of continuous love and devotion fills me with such effervescent joy.
There's no way animals can be lacking souls-
Do you see this creature?
And both continue on their daily routine-
Looking more contented with the smoldering sun and everlasting wind than any high born business man or tourist.
I want to be their friend, but even to say hello, I would feel I'm overstepping some sort of unspoken boundary.
But every time I see those two, I cannot help but smile, as they do.
Their optimism is infectious, though many others may be immune.
I adore them so, though I'd never know their names.
They are characters in my narrative that make the audience wish the story was about them.
Though I may be the haphazard protagonist, I cannot disagree.
But I hope I can be a positive force to others- strangers even.
Though opening myself up to the public, when I don't have a keyboard to hide behind can be positively terrifying.
And yet I smile.

'Keep Thy Love' by Ravyn LaRue

We dance along the tightrope
The fine line between romance and friendship
There are many who I've danced upon this simple string with
And I adore it
For I'll always fall for the latter
Though I love teetering the other way sometimes
I love those sorts of friendships-
Where you can hold hands and sit and watch the stars
I love that sort of thing
Because, as I've said before, I fall in love easily.
And you, my love are currently my prey
What we have-
The static and sweetness
Is something I would no doubt fall for
Because I have fallen in love with the essence of you
But I find comfort in the fact that we could never be together
I think that's why the story struck me so
Well, there are many reasons, but-
You are who you've always been
It only holds truer with this proof I'm not as insane as I may have thought
No, comparing myself to the lady only further proves it
But at least it also proves that my feelings are somehow charismatic-
Even if only careening out from someone else's pointed lips
Which is why, I suppose, I get so offended-
When media insists romance simply must be romance
It jabs another pin through my heart
It all goes back to-
"Girls and Boys can't be friends"
That slogan is penned by the Devil, I swear!
Of course they can.
And there can even be some toeing at the edge of that blurry little line
But that toeing is sweet and charming.
And it makes life so much more interesting, don't you think?
I would never have you.
You would never have me.
And I adore that.
Since you speak in your crooner voice and say-
Let's stand under this tree, it'll make things more romantic.
And a blush radiates off my little sweetheart face-
That's perfect to me.
I've spelled this out far too much-
Near to the point of suspiciously-specific denial, I'm sure-
But I'm all about friendship
And I'm all over romance
But having a mate falls negative on my list of priorities.
Especially since I have you, which fills any voids I may or may not have.
I love stories with relationships like ours.
They make me smile and grin like a bloody idiot.
And I love anything that causes me to do that.
Things just keep coming full-circle to me.
Sweet and self-contained.
I love that, though it seems so juvenile to admit, just as much as bittersweet and open.
You and I are good at bittersweet and open.
But we need each other to fill the gaps.
Or at least I need you.
I'm going to make you read those stories, doll-
Since they're us to a tee, I swear.
I'll see you soon enough, love.
And things will be splendid; we'll sit and watch stars again-
And hold hands-
And anything else that may cross our lovely little minds.
They say people like me are only out to look for people like you-
But I assure you, that's wrong in my case.
Since, although I don't have you, and I wouldn't want to anyways-
You have me.
And in my mind, that's more than enough.

'Slings And Arrows From The Dumpster' by Ravyn LaRue

True art is angsty
We've all heard it
And as an angst ridden teenager
It's only inevitable that I feel like a true artist
And I'm not saying I'm not
But when I go back and read my stuff
I can't help but sigh
"Goddamn, I complain a lot!"
But I mustn't
I'm fine
And when I see those I love
In the unimaginable pain they surely feel
I realize how trashy my lamentations are
I accentuate the negative
And it surely must be a cycle
Since I started writing the way I so often write
I've found myself far far sadder
But also, since then, my triumphs have been more worthy to celebrate
Who knows?
Certainly not I
But true art is everything-
And I really oughta start branching out.

'Maria and Delilah' by Ravyn LaRue

Love, Love, Love
I need to take your hands in mine
And tell you everything.
It will suck, having to force myself to be so sincere in person.
That's why I wrote what I wrote yesterday.
Though, for my own selfish sake, I hope you never decode it.
I'd pray, but that seems mean, since I do feel the things I wrote.
And it'd be cruel to keep them from you.
But you know I'm not as courageous as you.
And I want to mend all the tears you aren't even aware that I cut.
But in order to do that, I would need to fess up for my sins.
And that's a terrifying thought for me right now.
I imbed my sins in certain bursts of worrisome truth-
And that is my way of carrying on.
I confessed to a teacher that I have a Jekyll and Hyde complex-
And she told me, "Of course you do- but you're a damn good writer-"
I took that as all complement and no condescending-ness, though I'm sure it was meant as both.
But you know me so well that if I confess to all my wrongdoings-
Well, I'd fear you would run from me.
I've always feared that you'd run from me, even since the day you met.
But all I want to do is hold your hands in mine-
And end touch for a mere second.
Harness some power, somehow-
And rip out my heart, that pumps both love-blood and vitriol-
And show you all of it, since I know-
As scared as I might be-
You need to see me as I am, not how I portray myself.
And I hate the stuff I don't reveal.
And I don't doubt you'll hate it more than I.
But I feel crueler for not revealing everything and letting you believe I'm kindhearted.
So I know I need to tell you.
Things are just worrisome now.
So I cannot.
But I will.
And I'm sure everyone who reads this will think I'm talking to them.
And one of you, yes, will be right.
I promise you, my darling, that I will reveal it all someday.
Like it or not.
For better or for worse.
And you might run to me-
In fact I'm sure you will.
And I'll hate myself for telling you all this unnecessary evil I once committed.
But I need to.
I haven't gone to confession in six years, darling.
But with you as my priestess, I will be contrite.
I just can't right now, dear.
I'll never be as brave as you-
I can only count on my own lack of sensibility.

'Room 607' by Ravyn LaRue

Hey guys
Sorry I missed last time
I had to get tickets to a show
And as much as I love this culture-
Musicals always come first
That's kinda what I wanted to talk to you about
Well, I have many more important things to discuss
But I'm feeling flighty and fluffy today
And serious matters shan't be on my radar tonight
That's a lie, they always are, albeit back-burner
But anyways-
I know it's dumb but I feel like I can't be full fanatic with you guys
My fanaticism doesn't quite match with your fanaticism
I came up with a new cosplay today, though
And I'll surely show my online buddies
I love the culture we share
Why would I be here otherwise?
And I intend on studying it-
No, really.
But the polarity between us is startling.
You speak in tongues.
And I sing sappy songs into the night.
Neither are better-
Though you sometimes make me feel worse.
It's that fake geek girl culture once again.
And you're sweethearts, you really are-
But I shan't sacrifice my me-ness for anybody-
Thank you very much.
Now, if you please, could you pass the sugar?

'Andrew Voracopova' by Ravyn LaRue

It was the first birthday party of the summer, for the Musical Theatre majors. I admit, what constitutes a birthday party in my mind is cake, presents and singing, still. What it truly is, for most at this age, is a tumultuous affair full of all possible illegalities. Today the birthday girl was Bethie, but Sophie, being the more hard-core one of the two, took over as hostess. She poisoned a watermelon with vodka, brought ‘Cards Against Humanity’ to be turned into a strip/drinking game (anything could be turned into a strip/drinking game, given enough effort; that was her motto) and of course, as with all parties, she invited her brother and all his college friends.

Much to my surprise upon arrival, the first face I saw was that of Andrew Voracopova. The boy was notorious around our High School, and I knew of him far before I knew him. He achieved this feat by being pedantic and nerdy and an over-achiever to a fault. I would never have guessed he’d manage to infiltrate a party like this, I was surprised enough that people like me were invited, let alone him. Regardless of my shock, I was happy to see him.

He always managed to be unintentionally funny: he made complicated references to Russian history out of everything, spelled out the 28-part historical fiction novel he wrote to anyone who listened, and would go out of his way to turn even the most simple surface conversations to the topic of politics. I figured his presence at the party was on the same level as mine, there more for the company than the illicit conduct.

I was wrong. Drastically. He said he wanted to celebrate since he did such a splendid job with the school year. I don’t think he’d have it in him to fail a class, but he convinced himself that he was deserving of some sort of extra reward. The barely five-foot-tall boy swaggered up to the table of sickly sweet vodka and grabbed the bottle of Jelly-Donut-flavored alcohol.

We began a game of strip ‘Cards Against Humanity’ and I began to regret just wearing a dress, since it’d count as one loss when it came to taking clothes off. Andrew was decked in his usual layers of cardigans and dress-shirts, despite it being in the midst of summer. There was no way he could lose. He was too smart for the game, anyways. He began to analyze the implications of answering: “Why does my butt hurt?” with the card “Eugenics.”

Sophie’s brother and friends got annoyed that we were playing a stupid card game, when we could be playing a drinking game. Andrew jumped right on the bandwagon, suggesting a trivia game. We all agreed, since we had nothing to lose.

He began to set up the game. Although drunk, he was still very eloquent. He decided it’d be like Jeopardy, but with simple right and wrongs, and for every right, one got to drink. The topic he chose was Russian history, of course. The frat-boys reluctantly agreed to the high school junior’s rules. He was undoubtedly charismatic to them, in spite of brandishing his academia. The game began.

“Lets start with an easy one,“ Andrew snickered, “Who was the Czar in 1917?”

No one answered. I inferred, since he claimed it was easy, that it’d be the only Russian Tsar in the bank of my brain.

“Nicholas Romanov?” I questioned, figuring even if I was wrong I wouldn’t seem dumb. Andrew was the equalizer; next to him, everyone seemed dumb.

“Yes! Well Nicholas Romanov the second, but still… Yes!” Said Andrew jubilantly, sending a sloshing red cup up to my face.

“No thank you.” I said sheepishly.

The frat boys began to scoff at me. I heard hints of “She’s not fun!” and, “Why’s she here if she isn’t going to drink?”

“I have Convergence in the morning, otherwise I might. Thank you, Andrew.” I added, hoping to seem less like a drag if I provided a justification.

The game continued. Considering the height of Russian history I had in my brain at that moment came from the kid’s movie ‘Anastasia’, I couldn’t continue any more rounds than that. This left Andrew merely answering the questions he posed to us, and drinking accordingly.

The frat boys eventually lost interest and headed down to the basement, where they knew the drugs were hidden. Andrew stayed on the dirty maroon couch. He looked pleased with himself, though he became dazed.

I continued to talk with anyone who came near my sedentary spot on the floor. Possibly due to a secondhand high from the wafts of weed smoke permeating through the house, I hadn’t the slightest interest in getting up from my spot. I talked and listened to anyone near by.

Every so often I looked up from my perch, to see how the pedagogical Andrew was doing. Each time I looked, the boy was dazed. He focused his attention to the porch outside, or a spot on the ceiling or a freckle on the nose of a portrait. I figured he was all right; he was in his own world, entirely, but really, when wasn’t he.

In his dream he was some brilliant Russian monarch. Ladies of the court swooned upon hearing the various slices of wisdom he’d impart. His Russian world was so beautiful, as his brain swam in Jelly-Donut flavored Vodka.

Something compelled me to look back up at him, just to make sure he hadn’t choked on his own sharp tongue and died, or anything. I’ve seen people in worse stages, but I felt like Andrew needed protecting. It suddenly occurred to me, what if this was the first time he’s ever had a drink.

Suddenly I diverted my vision back to the boy. Andrew remained staring out into space. His big naïve goody-two-shoes baby-face stared into the empty atmosphere that surrounded me. He gazed blankly for ages longer. I waved hesitantly at him, in hopes he was still somehow cognizant. It had become painfully obvious that, yes, this was his first time being drunk or high or anything! Upon finally seeing me, Andrew jolted back on the sofa.

“Where did you come from?” he squeaked.

“I’ve been here all night, Andrew.” I ensured.

His fat black eyebrows rose.

“No! You just popped up!” He demanded.

My maternal sense made me feel for the poor boy.

“It’s alright, Andrew; everything’s fine.” I cooed.

Andrew then stumbled off the sinking couch, his sneakered feet fumbled beneath him. I heard him crash down the wooden stairs to the well-lit basement. I heard his cracking voice prevail over the din of chatter, attempting to initiate another round of his beloved historical drinking game.

It was so surreal to see the most stoic, nerdy, know-it-all I had ever known continue to hold his own against the frat boys, who partied, drank and smoke as if their lives depended upon it. Little Andrew was all about Ivy-League colleges and well-filled resumes. But in this juxtaposition, those who knew him well, like me, found humor.

Still, I couldn’t help but be a tad worried for the boy, but I knew, regardless of how posturing and boisterous as the frat boys might be, Andrew was safer with them than with most. I got the sense that the college guys had that same spark of naivety and exuberance as Andrew had. Though, of course it’s much cooler to seem worldly and apathetic. From the strangers I talked to, as the night went on, I heard stories of how much some of the supposedly thick-skulled frat boys loved gender studies, sociology and theology. I trusted that tiny little Andrew Voracopova was in good hands, as long as they stayed on their sofas and got some sleep.

I hope Andrew dreamed of his glorious Russian world, wherein he has fleets of boisterous compatriots. They spend eternities together at salons, drinking the finest Jelly-Donut Vodka and debating about politics, theology, sociology and gender-studies. He was the king of this usually polarizing atmosphere, even if only for a night.

'Dear Mr.Devil' (first draft) by Ravyn LaRue (A TGWTG Fanfic)

It was four in the morning. Doug had insomnia again, and found himself, as usual, watching nostalgic kid’s movies. As the years went by this made him sadder and sadder. Once he did this for his own benefit, he missed his childhood years. But now, he found himself missing the times when all he cared about was his past. Now he found himself worrying greatly for the future.

The man had never told anyone, not even his brother, but he longed deeply to have a child of his own. He had to be content with babysitting the devil’s daughter, since an orphanage would never give a man like him the opportunity to raise a child of his own. Despite his good intentions, everyone feared, if ever given a child, he’d break it.

Doug found himself, zoning out. Even most cartoons couldn’t keep his attention anymore. He sat now in a blank white office with only his desk to keep him company. The man grasped a pen in his tentative fingers and wrote.

“Dear Mr. Devil,

Hey again. It’s just me. I’d like to renew my contract with you. Spending time with your daughter made me think of something. Due to all the pandering worthlessness directed at kids nowadays, I feel like I need to change that. I know you can help me.

So this month, I’d like to sell my soul for the ability to write a great children’s book. I don’t necessarily mean a profitable or successful children’s book; I mean a great one with actual heart. I’ll illustrate it, too, but we both already know I can draw, so I needn’t ask for a package deal. It needs integrity and a story that isn’t manufactured.

I just feel this is something good I can do, you know. I don’t trust myself with a human child, no one else trusts me either, but I feel they need something, so this is how I can connect.

It may seem weird, but you’re actually a nice guy, man. I’m glad to call you my friend.

I think I have a character idea: it’s about this creature. He’s half platypus and half bunny and he knows everything, and I mean everything- he knows what’ll happen, but he isn’t like God or anything. He’s flawed. I don’t know, it might be a dud, but that’s why I’m renewing my contract...

But the platypus-bunny has glasses so he’s teased. Well, he’s teased for lots of reasons, but that’s the main one.

No, that’s an awful idea! See, that’s why I can’t do it on my own.

I suppose they say, “be careful what you wish for”. They also say “don’t sell your soul to Satan” but it’s too late for that! But I digress.  I suppose I’ll say what exactly I want in a story, lest you try your trickery on me.

1.                 An interesting story that isn’t too cliché and speaks of something thus far fairly untouched by children’s media like misogyny or cultural appropriation or something.

2.                 Interesting characters, more specifically interesting female ones. I sick of every female supporting character being the love interest. My platypus-bunny or whatever should definitely have some female friends.

3.                    A voice far better than my own. I cannot be angry at everything, especially in writing a children’s book. I need to make something that fills people with the joy I so hope for.

I think that’s all I can think of, but I trust you. I know I probably shouldn’t, but I’ve trusted far better people than you, and it resulted in far worse.

I know I’m not really a writer, so this is an odd request. And yeah, I would make a kid’s movie, but I had a disturbing dream of sorts, wherein all my movies were failures; I can’t afford remembering that right now. So a book is how I want to do this.

I mean, I remember how much I loved children’s books. My brother Rob used to read to me every day; that was the best time of my life. Now when I find myself reading to your daughter, those are the best moments of my recent life. I want more of those moments.

Please, I really think I can do something worthwhile this way. I would give much more than my soul for this.

-Doug.”

He folded up the sheet of paper he had scrawled upon and slid it into the pocket of his jeans. He continued to the living room to find an envelope. There instead he saw his brother sitting about to start reading a book. Doug grabbed a notebook from beside the couch.

“Rob?” he began, being nostalgic over his own past for once, as apposed to universally recognized childish things. “Are you just starting that book?”

“Yeah.” Said his brother. “Why? Don’t you dare spoil it for me like you did with the last one!”

“No, never.” Said Doug coyly.

“What, then?” Rob snapped.

“Can you read it to me like when we were younger?”

“What? Why?” Said Rob, confounded. “We’re grown men!”

“Aww, C’mon… you can do voices and shit!” Doug pressured, sitting down cross-legged in front of the massive armchair where Rob sat.

Rob saw the big dorky smile that had spread across his brother’s face.

He begrudgingly agreed, “Fine.”

The older brother began reading ‘Dance With Dragons’ from his own throne. Doug sat enchanted, with notebook in hand. He wrote: “Dragons! There should definitely be dragons in my story!”

'Come Hear The Music Play' by Ravyn LaRue

The last one got me
Since although I know she's been sad in the past-
It was never spelled out so plainly
And though I may complain with a big loud voice-
My problems are tripe in comparison

"And I wanted to hold her and make everything alright. I thought that you could love another person enough to be the thing that lets them enter the world and stand in it, but the world is full of things that are falling-"

There's that monologue again.

'Lord of the Things' by Ravyn LaRue

Part of the reason
It's taken this long
To read just one book
Is because
It is the best book
It is the most genuine book I've ever read
And because
Many of the poems make me want to cry
Not because they're all sad
Though some of them are quite so
But because it is proof
More proof
That you are who I think you are
And that is
The best friend in the world

'And I'm On Fire!' by Ravyn LaRue

Today's a good day
I ended an awful relationship
And Lugosi isn't dead
My spider, I mean
Bela's dead, which sucks but-
That's beside my point!
Today's a good day!
And now I get to read-
Books and letters
Write sappy fan-fiction
And hopefully get some good sleep for once
I might even get to talk to mama
But that's back-burner for tonight
Oh, maybe I can even watch the new episode-
Nah, that's for after journaling
But everyday I'm getting closer!
I mustn't gloat-
I'll get more headaches.
And I just spilled my sugar
... But yay!

'Lavender Gypsy Clothes' by Ravyn LaRue

I had a dream I played a role
Well, rather finished what I started
And I failed so miserably
But had such fun
Glen and I carried on like the jesters that we are
And we made the kingdom laugh
We're all too capable of tears, ourselves
And I left my dreams forsaken
Since I abandoned them for something else
It's like 'in my mind' but my dream told me I was wrong
Dead wrong, in fact

'Armand and I' by Ravyn LaRue

I just noticed this
And it's very weird
In the stories I write
Guys are often unable to have kids
For one reason or another
But they want to
Nearly above all else
And I think that might say something
About my own psyche
But I don't know what

'She Was Very Nice About It Held My Hand and Didn't Mind' by Ravyn LaRue

I actually broke up with her today
It was a long time coming
And inevitably doomed romance
She looked me in the eyes
When I spoke to her today
(Unlike all the other days)
And she kept saying
"We're so alike, us two."
And I smiled and nodded at the self proclaimed kindredness
"You look nervous"
She said and touched my thigh
I said "I don't mean to offend you but-"
And she said "I understand"
I didn't expect this in the slightest
And I feel so relieved
But then she said,
"You were one of the few good ones"
Which made my heart both plummet and soar
She said, "I meant that as a complement."
And I said "Thank you."
She said, "Don't feel bad when we see each other in passing."
And I hastily assured her that I wouldn't.
"Just keep your priorities straight, alright?"
She muttered cryptically as I left her home
"And come visit me, okay dear?"
I nodded and left
I couldn't look back, I simply had to flee
I couldn't let her catch up with me
I'm celebrating now with junk food and soon caffeine
I feel freer than my heart
But my conscience cannot help but succumb to Ze's usual Catholic guilt
She didn't even accept the presents I made for her...
But you know what?
I think I earned my happiness back!

'To The Boy Sobbing' by Ravyn LaRue

I don't even want to write these sort of things, but if I want to amount to anything at all I need to fend for myself and be the instrument I ought to be.
Instruments don't stifle.
Instruments tell all.
But instruments don't get headaches, but I do.
It doesn't hurt instruments to tell their stories.
But then again, all the art I love (and I mean really love, the sort of odd devotion that mirrors insanity- that love)
All the art I love pains me.
It makes me cry and convulse.
So if I'm to be an artist-
I better get comfortable with convulsing.
I find myself trying to shed all the rottenness I've accumulated over the past few weeks here.
But I'm happy here.
I'm happy here.
Aren't I?
Well I'm zen, I'm content
But I'm separated from loved ones (and I mean real loved ones, who I reach out to as if I longed only for them, though it may mirror insanity- those loved ones)
I'm separated from loved ones.
And my headache is returning.
But unlike yesterdays, I cannot afford to stop.
And the internet taunts me-
With lyrics that sounded sweet then
And animals that aren't my own.
Someone killed my spider.
And I know that's an odd thing to mourn.
Grandmas and dogs die too, eventually.
But Lugosi, my spider, was something I latched onto.
He was my placebo pet.
And someone had the audacity to kill him.
I know there are worse things.
That's what I repeat-
Whenever things like this happen, I tell myself.
You know there are worse things.
You're privileged and happy, most of the time-
So this sadness isn't valid, unless it isn't your own.
I can cry about war and injustice- they are inescapable and universal, and there are fewer things worse than my daily turmoils.
Hero came to me in a dream.
She said, "You've come so far, and I'm proud."
I smiled and cried, as I am one to do.
And woke up, only to proceed to fuck up everything possibly ruinable throughout the day.
And I can't go without conjuring others
Which proves how unoriginal I am
And I'm sick when I breath and I wish you would leave, at the very least quit the contractions.
I think I would want to be a teacher
Especially if I get sick from dreaming as easily as this
But dear lord think of the children
I need to write of unspeakable things
I'm too sweet for unspeakable things; I mean that in a bad way.
But I have to write unspeakable things
I am an instrument.
Instruments have no filter.
Instruments don't have to stop to cry- they push on.
Instruments play through the pain.
And I'm sick of myself, and I wish you could help. Have a shot with me, pull up a ladder.
I have no right to act this way
I know it
But I know I'd feel tons worse if I didn't do this
So I'm sorry
But I have to.

'September 22nd' by Ravyn LaRue

Happy birthday Morgan
Sad deathday Boomama
I'm far too far from both of you
I'm far too busy for either of you
But I have my ways
Though they may be half-assed
They aren't half-hearted
I wore a Boomama blouse
And I'll talk to Morgie later on speaker phone
Everything is sad and unreachable today
But I carry on
As you would want me to
So I do
And I will
And Christmas will be Christmas
And I'll reach you both then
I'll reach you both then
Since Morgie is with Mama
and then I will be too
And Boomama lives on in family
She lives on in the family
And I'm crying
I must write about war
And life
And story-books
I must go on with good things
Like shows I've never seen
And letters from friends
The tears won't even come out
Instead they gloss my eyes over
I miss you both
All is unreachable today
But because of you I carry on
I must
I haven't any other option

'Rosa Nightingale' by Ravyn LaRue

She says I should publish a poetry book
I scoff and think, "As if!"
Flattery is flattery, and she's my friend
But I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't consider it
I suppose she has no reason to be mendacious
I've never outwardly written about or to her
Though I've conjured many in my flighty brain
I only started after she left my everyday life
So in a way, I ought to trust her more than those I see more often
She has no reason to lie, I don't think
And I doubt she's blinded by the sycophantism I spew at others
But I don't know
I can't help being skeptical, since I write them for my own sake
And truly, I'm not the best judge
The poems are my innards, so of course I'm obliged to say they ought to stay inside
But I'm also about abstractly opening myself up
And that might be a good method
I don't have money right now to publish anything
I can barely print three pages, due to expenses and all
But someday somehow I may take her up on her advice
It's charming how she keeps begging
"Poem book, poem book, poem book"
I'm already pretentious enough without someone stroking my ego
Still she's a sweetheart in every sense
And I miss her entirely
So hearing praise from her-
Although I may disagree a bit-
Always brightens my day, when the rain tries to drown me.

'And I'm Lost, Dear' by Ravyn LaRue

When I am frantic
And determined
I scare myself
I scare myself because
I care
And yet I don't care at all
I despise apathy
In me
In particular
But on these days
I would let myself scratch up pretty marble walls
And secrete blood all over
And howl like a banshee in anguish
Ignoring the feelings of all else around me
But miracles bless me more often than not
So even in times of deepest sorrow
I have no right to complain
Tonight
On the way back to the scene of the crime
I had to console myself with lovely lyrics
That made me realize
Even the most accomplished artists lose their wallet sometimes
And go on, some days, merely to thrive as means of spite
When I arrived
She said
"Uh-Uh, Stay there."
And I tried arguing like an ignorant idiot
I had sweat completely through my shirt
And perspired throughout the small amount of hair I have remaining
She-
The angel with sugar to spare and feathering deep red lipstick
She returned my possessions to me
On the way back
I talked to my imaginary friends again
That term is unkind
They exist
Just not on this spacial temporal surface of mine
I write poems on my walks
Since I specifically don't listen to music
Not only must I be safe
I must also be open to the world that I ought to be engulfed in
I have access to shelter again
And I actually remembered my poem
Most die in the same brain matter that conjured them
It's sad since surely some are good
But my symptoms pain me
And I must shower off all this stupidity
I feel so entirely awful when I'm dumb
Actual dumb
I'm impractical and naive often, but not usually dumb
So I need a shower
And I need to study
I'll get better
I've got to do more than survive, I need to rub it in your face
...yeah.

'You're Bad, Dude' by Ravyn LaRue

I know it may seem awful
To bribe myself with other's sweet words and belongings that they so lovingly bestowed to me
But here I am to justify it
I want to do my labors first so I can devote my all to the things you made me
Though I don't know how I'd react if I was told that
"Nah man, I'm just saving your thing for when I'm ready"
Why not now? Why not now?
I might cry, I mean who's to know, since I haven't had that happen, to my knowledge
But I do that with all things, really.
Art and media especially
Since that's what means something to me
And that's how I bribe myself to do things like math
God I hate math
And centipedes
And chutney
But I love you, although it may seem otherwise at times
When I hold off from reading the beauty you've written
But in the past
When I've read what you've written for me
I end up spending the rest of the day basking in the emotion your art cast onto and into me.
And on days when I must do "practical" things
Like write new ethnographies and devote myself to the hindering prospect of solving algebraic functions
I can't be all emotional, for better or for worse
I have Sundays off
I'll open your letter this Sunday
I promise you with all the integrity I possess!

'9.18.13' by Ravyn LaRue

I read my poetry for the first time ever aloud
And I got into character-
The character of me-
The bubbly me that screams and jumps for joy in Starbucks
The me that thinks of the world as a vast scope of niceness
I like that me
And I try to be her as often as I can
And I read with my weird ruddy voice
Peppered with cheerful squeaks
I read about something happy
Whereas other rapped on the spot
Of sorrow and all the things that make me cry
But the president was there
The Prince of Columbia
(The college not the country)
And he smiled a pedagogical all-knowing smile
As the words leaped off my coffee-flavored tongue
Then he left but things went on
It's stormy outside
No really, actually
The Librarian quarantined us inside
Lest we drown in the downpour
I even got a text from some unknown somebody
It said, "Danger! Don't go outside!"
So we all stayed in.
And had oatmeal cookies
And read more poems.
I love this atmosphere so much.
It reminded me of queertopia, for obvious reasons
And anything that reminds me of queertopia is good in my book
At the end I was greeted by the one who organized the reading
She said, "I'm so glad you could make it!"
I thanked her and said, "Certainly! Will there be more?"
The passion burned my cheeks in the nicest way.
I went outside
Though I shouldn't have
And swam home
The brisk raindrops kissed my round red cheeks
This went better than expected
Probably since I prayed all day for the chance
To think, I read two when I doubted I'd even get to read one
Oh, I feel charming and charmed

'Be Mine' by Ravyn LaRue

A girl asked me to be hers once
And I didn't even consider it
Not because she's awful
She's my friend in fact
Not because she's not my type
She's a sweetheart, so she is
Not because she's dreadful-looking
She isn't, I don't care what anyone else says
No, my reasoning is the same for all I've denied
I will not be anyone's
I am my own
The most I'll go for would be sharing each other
She'd have my heart
But she wouldn't own my soul
I don't like that
Most Valentines say 'Be Mine' on them
But I think it's phrased wrong
I like the concept of the origin of love
And I'd like someone to fill the emptiness in my soul
If I am to have a someone in the first place
But all this talk of queerness recently
No doubt leads to talk of love
And I love love, when it's in its general form
But when it zeros in to romance
I have a love hate relationship with it
Yes, love is everything for me
Just not that specific sort
Anyways, I just have insomnia
And I think these thoughts that need to be written
So I write them
And although love in this sense is too complex and intimidating for me to grapple with
I at least added a few sentences to the dialogue
Cassie, I love you
But I am not yours
Which is why I said no
That's not to say I would've said yes otherwise
But in some far off universe you know I said yes
Without even a beat between being asked and answering
And our alternate universe selves are happy
And together
On a porch drinking cider
And holding hands
And planning their vast settle-down-ish future
I know that alternate universe me is happy
Since she has an alternate universe you

'Jen, Joe and Terese' by Ravyn LaRue

Don't
I can't
You know that
It's so hard to put into words
How I can love something so much
That it destroys me
And in times like this
When independence is thrust upon me
I must focus greatly on self preservation
But within time, I'll return home
And I'll cry with you
I'll carry on as I do
In the comfort of your presence
All of you
And I'll sob over sad lyrics
The one's I've had to tune out
I'm a cold callused chicagoan now
Not an embodiment of Minnesota nice
And I know that isn't true
But it's what I must lead people to believe
Lest them try to trick me
The world is full of tricksters and tragedy
But it's also full of love
Love from you
That seeps out of my inky instruments
And tells all the stories
Of those I love
And you
All of you
I may have to pull an all nighter
It isn't healthy, I know
But I felt the need to tell you
You are my three dearest friends
(Music, stop it, you're just mocking me, by now)
You know, though, that gives me a thought
You three beloveds are lots like the three beloveds I've found myself skipping
Since my heart belongs to them
As it does to you
And I can't afford to be a mess of missing people right now
I'm against stifling emotions
But I'm also against failing classes
So I assure you
And apologize in advanced
At Christmas I'll be the sappiest sap I've ever been
I don't doubt it, at least
Since I love you all
And the art I make-
(And what I ought to be writing now-)
Won't let me forget it
So I will speak to you all later
But I adore you more than anything
All of you
You are my triumvirate of beloveds
(And like the other trio)
I love you too much to even fathom the words right now
But I will someday
I promise

'11.17.13' by Ravyn LaRue

I'm not with it today
I feel I'm spread too thinly
But I hear successful ones cry
Yeah, do that, Love
But I'm not solid enough
When I'm lied out at my usual thick consistency
What makes you think I can handle this?
Well, I am a self-proclaimed artist
And I claim to be well versed
And so many of those I associate with splendor say
Oh yeah, just juggle something else- in time your hands will move without even thinking
Then you can do some lovely tricks, dear
But now I am faced with some swift, sweeping destiny
Those above me, who've passed the place I'm now in shout
Ey Kid, Don't make my mistake
You'll get yourself all worked up
And overwhelmed
And then, baby-
You'll hate everything.
And I mean everything!
I hope not to hate anything
Though it's already too late, I suppose
I'll talk to her
She with the face of familiarity and an air of artistry
She who seems a Bonnefeti, like beloveds of mine
I know she'll know better than all the other passer-by's
She gives me the sense of the others
My stars who guide my fate and future
I could see her among them
She has the same smug smile, after all.
But I'm not nearly that bright today.
I'm greasy and grey and tired and tethered
God almighty
It's time already

'And You Love Love As Much As I Do' by Ravyn LaRue

I feel comfortable not shaving my legs here.
No one cares, and that makes me happy.
What I do, I do for my own edification, when it comes to surface things.
And I'm glad to know there's no high school hierarchy here
Or, if there is, it isn't to be cared about.
I am a loner, but I'm an artist, and I'm smart, and I have a few sweethearts.
That's all I could ever ask for since I've resigned myself to be a tad lonely.
Since I know, elsewhere there are those who love me regardless.
And I heard something brilliant.
"All that matters to humans is that those they love love them."
Or something to that effect-
And strangely I agree with something so seemingly simple
Though I seek so much, and strive for even more
What it all boils down to, in my metamorphic psyche-
Is that simple spelling out of things.
My art is stemmed from love.
And love is stemmed from loved ones, meaning people.
So it all wraps up into a beautiful little case-
Surrounded by all the pretty frills I may choose to sew onto it.
I have lots.
Things aren't simple-
They simply never are.
But this sense of knowing seems so strong in me.
Though art and emotion and all that jazz are what I do.
My beloveds are the reason why.

'TTFN' by Ravyn LaRue

TTFN
It means Ta Ta for now
Which somewhat translates to
I'll talk to you later
Which I will
You call me love-
I love love
And I love that you feel comfortable with me
I feel comfortable with you, also
Otherwise I'd be sleeping
Instead of writing silly poetry
Some people wanna fill the world with silly poetry
And I'm among them
I love love
As I said before
And I like that we're both insomniacs
But I need to at least try to sleep
It makes me seem credible, at least
But feel free to wake me up
That is, if you need anything
And knowing you-
You will at some point
So I best be ready, love
TTFN

'202' by Ravyn LaRue

Fictional crushes feel better.
I don't want to annoy my friends with unnecessary attraction.
I'd far prefer to pine over the impossible than worry about weirding my loved ones out.
But you can't choose who you find wonderful in that way.
At least I can't.
That's why I'm glad to have theatrical friends.
I can easily fall in love with one of their infinite personalities and leave it at that.
Yes, that's far better than nothing.
I ship it.

'Sassafiction' by Ravyn LaRue

I'm passing fanfic off as academia
It calms my nerves and I need something
In my writing I often veer towards grim stuff
Seeing how I made myself physically sick today
I was triggered by some documentary narrative that described my past to a tee
I can't do sadness, at least at this magnitude
So I need to write some schmaltz
People seem to dig my fluffy stuff anyways
And although I may not want to admit it
To even the small percentage who reads this and gets my reference
But I relate far too much to my woobie protagonist
I think that's why I'm so entranced by him
It makes things seem all the more selfish, I know
But God, that speech-
It inspires me more than any inspirational poster I've ever seen in some silly office
When I go back for Christmas, I think I'll make a poster
Either that, or commission it somehow
But I'm getting ahead of myself
I'm going to write this story
Along with plodding away on the plot for my Scarecrow/Basil/Whatever else I might call him
And a sad war story, based on dreams, and pretend plans, and references to music of my soul-
I'm writing SO much, and you know I adore it
I'm glad I got an angel's okay with how I handle things
I know it isn't healthy
But it's a dream come true
Besides, was Hunter healthy?
Of course not.
Nah, but I'm glad to be writing fanfic-
For a grade-
At a reputable institution-
I am Sassafras, at this time
Indeed I am
I mean, I already wrote a scathing article on centipedes!
Ah, but I digress.
I'm so caffeinated right now.
And I was up all night.
Those push me past the brink of any imagined sanity.
At least in my mind.
But Deb, the angel of the day, didn't even mind my altered state.
She's a charming creature.
It's only my third class with her, but she's joined the greats in the venerated temple in my brain.
I love it here.
Though the bitter winds may try to shape me.
I'll let it permeate-
And pass right through.
It will do what it will do.
But, although I might be stressed-
With Marla-esque hair to match.
Things are more compelling and inspirational than I ever could've imagined.
I miss a lot.
More-
So much more than I expected.
But it proves to me-
In a glorious way-
How much my loved ones mean to me.
And who is really on my side.
And those who are, you know who you are-
I couldn't be any more thankful.
And I adore you, truly, truly-
I've never looked forward to Christmas more than I do now.
Though Halloween is my time to shine-
And I must live in the moment-
Lest I regret it, crying from a casket.
So I'll write sassafiction and sadness-
In a mix of almost-equal parts.
My legs feel trembly but things are beautiful.
And you are beautiful.
And I am beautiful.
And my mind is swimming in coffee-
But I'm having a marvelous time!

'Daisy' by Ravyn LaRue

There are people
In this life
That I need to write about
Albeit unprovoked
And I believe you are one of them
I don't even know what it is
But from the very little I know of you
I'm fascinated
You seem to be the sort
Who believes art is everything
I believe that
But you wear it better
That mantra radiates from you
Whereas I just sit inside and write
I know this might sound creepy
I often find myself saying sweet things
That misinterpreted
Sound heinous
But that is not my intent
Not in the slightest
I just figured someone should know
If their essence means something to an outside onlooker
Like myself
Which yours does
I think it might have to do with the charisma you possess
As if you're someone from the past
With the same artistic heart
Transported into the present
And making the best of it
It's charming at least
Maybe I'm only saying this
Since I'm on the verge of finally watching Gatsby
So this thought seems all the more valid
Regardless
I said the stuff I said
And in this life
I think that's what I'm really meant to do

'Pink Spotlight' by Ravyn LaRue

Here I am
This is my life
I hope
While I'm here
To be more than just
"Content with this fate"
God
My skin is shed here
I'm open to a naive degree
And though I love it
I miss the time when
My openness was surrounded
By those I adore
But they're here with me
At least some
Just beyond my fingers
Their souls reverberating from the screen
It is cold here
That cannot be denied
I make references
All the time
The city of broad shoulders
And the fire within me
But I hate feeling empty
Even when the air is static
And my heart is beating fast
I like crying
I cry a lot here
It probably seems dumb
And entirely counterproductive
But I have emotions
And knowing that gives me strength
That's how I survive
That is how I thrive
Because I use it
Utilize the soul-scratching I often feel
It's pink and blue here
I miss my father
Or what he was
Before apathy consumed him
Like a happy little ocean wave
He doesn't like who I am anymore
But I like myself enough to make up for it
I have to clarify to myself
Smile at the mirror
With pretty pink lips
It can be grey here, too
Industrial smoke in the pretty city
I like it here
Since I can thrive here
In spite of everything
Yeah, honey
I am the captain of my fate
And though some may try to guide me
In some supposed "right" direction
I know what I need
And I may change
I want to help people
And though both could
I may change
I may change
I'm maternal anyways
To a fault
I try to nurse drunks
I know that isn't quite good
Now is it?
But I must think of myself first
At least for now
Now now

'Anisha' by Ravyn LaRue

I don't think you know how comforting it is to find a friend in a place where you have none.
I went weeks as a loner, since despite my actions, I had no other options.
And then her shining sunshine face appeared to me.
And she said it; I listened.
She told me I was more than a surface friend.
I don't think there are words for how much that means to me.
She calls me the name my family uses.
I think that's a good sign.
I will show her the wonders of my world, as she has showed me hers.
I hope this sort of thing stays.
The way I adore people makes me sense she'll be one of my beloveds.
I can only hope she agrees.
Especially since I love her already.

'Math Haiku' by Ravyn LaRue

I fucking hate math.
It's two AM already.
Why can't it make sense?

'Platonic in Pink' by Ravyn LaRue

This'll sound weird, but I'm glad people don't see me as a potential mate

Not because I long to be alone

My purpose is anything but


If I am seen as I am-

A sister to most-

Completely off limits for traditional romantic love-


Then I can have friendships

Real ones

Without any foolish pretense

No falsity

Just truth


That way I know my friends are true

And I am comfortable with them to the nth degree

I'd give them my soul if they only asked me-

If they only asked me

If they only asked me


Since I'd rather have one true friend than a million lovers.


I say this now because it's college

Here it seems to be the opposite of my approach

All is pretense

Everyone is a potential mate


Which is why I stay inside

Accompanied by pink lamplight

And the thought of far-away true companions.

'Lilith' by Ravyn LaRue

Lilly is named Lilith
Because of biblical reasons
She takes pride in her demon namesake
Since she thinks it gives her power
Well, it might
But the wrong kind
I know she digs the jungle screams
Rawness
She makes a huge deal of it, after all
But she's really much more like Eve
Regardless of what airs she may put on
She's naive, but strong-willed
And prone to fucking everything up
But I love her, still
We all do
It's almost as if we have to
Mind control, or something fucked up like that
I mean, I know we all live in her brain and heart
But I'm no sucker for stockholm syndrome
I'm more of a dissociative identity disorder sort of guy, thank you very much
Many fine people have and had things like us
Many fine people
The L train driving on a sunny morning day
Clouds and spirals
White and yellow flowers
And people-watching
It gives me hope that she won't fuck up today
But then again, she'll make us waste the day, I'm sure
Her beloveds don't mean as much to us
At least not in the same way
But no one loves you like I do
That'd just be impossible
She's a silly little dumb-ass sometimes
Leopard-print, plaid, and supremely bloodshot eyes
How many selves has she?
Well, there's me, of course
There's the mater
Bat-shit crazy
And Lilly herself, I suppose
I'm certain there's more
And it's an art not a science
But even I have my doubts at this point
Damian has seven, but it's really no contest
As much as Lilly might force it to be
Fuck
Her pains are getting to me
We're way too codependent
Gemini, but not really.
Back to the beginning, her sin isn't serpentine
It's far more pretentious Pollyanna
That's her schtick and I don't like it
Things are going to fall any day now, you know as well as I
In fact, it might be soon
Soon soon
Since she doesn't have her stars to guide her anymore
And they were her idols
Now she knows not what to worship
She reaches for the fruit of knowledge, a mango, and considers devouring the thing
She loves devouring anything she can
It's not long now until she seals our doom
And I've placed my bet
If I've gotta go down with her, I may as well gain something
But really I have her pegged
I'm the leading cause of her insecurity
But she screeches out rebuttals instantaneously after even the slightest confrontation
So I'm of use somehow, I'm sure
She really should know better
She's us, after all
And so we are demons
But I care not
God knows, it's either that or nothing in this life

'Glistening Gem' by Ravyn LaRue

They were right, you know.
It seems like an extension-
An extension of my old home.
I hear words from old heros ring out in new voices.
I feel the same spark of creation I've always lived for.
I grasp the fear and anticipation, and ride the wave I know so well.
I feel at home here, already.
And it's merely day one.
It feels a bit like my life is on repeat-
I mean that in a good way-
Like ceremony, and art and all else.
I see tessellations of past people.
I feel like I swam from a tributary into a bigger river, winding along in the same lovely way.
I'm wearing lipstick again-
Like my first freshmen year.
But I talk in class now.
I fear nothing.
I have faced my share of demons.
And I know I'll have new ones.
But it's like that old quote goes.
And I'm here in a new, yet not new, safe space.
I see strict and silly and sweet.
I see the things that made my old home, my home.
I have passion rejuvenated by just one day.
And I have projects to prevail on already, so I mustn't tell you everything now.
Regardless, it is beautiful!
They support my love for emotions and metaphysical things.
Art is their religion, too.
And this, like my old home, is church.
It is sanctuary.
And though I haven't found my beloveds here, yet-
I know that I will-
Because it seems the love here is strong.
I get to jump right in and swim in their mantra, which is also my own.
'Live What You Love'
And I will.
I shall.
I must.
You know it, dear!

'Passive-Aggressive Love Poem' by Ravyn LaRue

I was talking to one of my imaginary friends today.

I was telling him what I do.

I called it "passive aggressive love poetry"

I think that fits pretty well.

I mean, I do plenty.

I do a million more things than I used to.

I know I'll probably do a million more.

I write passive aggressive love poems.

I own my own world.

I made myself the pretty parcel of identity I am now.

I may not be self-sufficient, but I am something.

I have imaginary friends still.

I am eighteen years old.

I am what I am.

I am happy with everything, right now.

'Pink Sun, Blue Clouds' by Ravyn LaRue

We are moon-beasts. 

It's really fucking cool, actually-

That we can be so connected to nature-

Whether we fucking want to be or not.

It's splendid-

A symbiotic relationship.

My life is full of symbiotic relationships.

But I don't think that's a bad thing-

Not in the least.

I dig it, really I do.

Especially this.

I come from a long line of all this-

Look at the moon-

Look at the moon-

Look at the moon-

I still have her voice inside me.

The swearing and all that jazz-

See what I mean?

But I am embracing what I feel in a way more outward approach.

I wear flowers now.

My body is a canvas, as it should be.

But I feel the need to go further, though dumb it may be.

I downed a 36 ounce cup of acid, talk about dumb-

Well, not acid, but it may as well be.

This is another slew of nothingness.

Content should be content, not just metaphysical yearnings-

But the latter is my comfort zone, who am I to argue with my muse.

I've determined she's a girl.

That's kinda the point, isn't it.

But I suppose I have a fuck-ton of lesbian crushes, so that's simply inevitable.

I see girls as mates and guys as distraction.

Girls are muses and goddesses and such.

And guys are misogynistic slime.

Not all, of course.

The guys I love, I adore all too much, and I think that must be part of my problem.

I pine for my guy friends when I go even a week or two far from them.

One in particular right now.

Basil, the scarecrow.

He's a sweetheart.

He's my Armand, and he's content with that fate.

No others would be, mind you.

God it's past midnight, and I have a class tomorrow.

Why do I do this to myself.

I have that acid burning in my belly.

I know I cannot sleep now.

Not until I go a little crazy, here.

That's the situation I've lived a vast many times before.

That's why I have so many invitations to institutes pinned up on my purple walls.

I made that last bit up, but that really shouldn't matter.

It seems to be the direction I've chosen for myself.

Carry on and make shit up.

Oh, but think of the possibilities-

Think of the little truths I can slip in.

Think of Armand, speak of that little devil.

Though the voices are concerned, I feel sturdy in the road I walk.

My feet may fumble, like the dirty little beasts I write about, but I must keep walking-

Regardless of how many circles I travel.

And all the mystery places I'll surely pass.

I think I might be in love with her.

For real, though.

I don't want it, since it'd scare her off.

I know I have it in me to scare people off-

Do you wanna cry? I can make you cry-

I've had nightmares of scaring people off- 

All those I write about in code names, since I fear if they knew how much I love them-

They'd turn and walk out of my wide, ripped-open heart.

"No, but I love you!"

I would scream.

"Yes, and that's the problem!"

They would cry.

Basil/Armand/Scarecrow is a good example, yet he didn't recoil in fear.

I'm very glad of that fact.

And my brother, when I bitched out his ex-girlfriend, proclaiming him as an angel, simply said,

"Wow, I'm glad you think so much of me!"

"Anytime, dear-"

I think in my overly-affectionate mind-voice.

I read old notes of mine.

They say, "I don't need anyone."

That couldn't be further from the truth.

I get my motivation from my beloveds.

I have so many beloveds, and I need them all.

I want to tear open my stiff ribs and scream, 

"Here, take a bit of my innards- my heart preferably. You own it anyways."

I think if I ever had some fatal disease I might carry that out in a literal sense-

But that'd surely scare them.

Still it'd be pretty and gruesome and artistic.

I think I've gotten out my daily dose of crazy.

The acid has flown into my glazed-over eyes.

They water with anticipation for tomorrow.

Which I must be ready for.

So preparation is now.

Excuse me, love.

'Symbiotic' by Ravyn LaRue

Hey doll-
It's just me again.
It can be cold here, still, I'll have you know-
And you, kid, are what keeps me goin'.
I survived fine without you-
I don't need anyone-
But I want you.
You're a star.
And I'm a bum, by comparison.
A slob.
A bitter old asshole.
But I got a soft spot for ya', kid.
And you, above all else, are what I'd do anything for.
The world is cruel, and we're the good ones.
I like things bittersweet, and you're as much saccharine as I can handle.
And-
And I'll be frank-
I kinda love you for it, babe.
I'd walk my fat ass to the ends of the earth if it meant you're sweet soul grew bright because of it.
So don't you dare carry on with that fuckin' "thank you" shit.
That's for all the rest of 'em.
I expect them to show their thanks.
We're past that, doll.
We're somethin' together.
You and I are un-severable.
We can face cold winds and trials by fire...
Yeah, I got a soft spot for ya'.
I've spent my many days thinkin' up passive aggressive love poems.
But I'm not a sap-
And that's fuckin' stupid.
You're my doll.
And I'm at your disposal at this point.
You've let me steal glances and never complained.
I owe it to ya'.
And I ain't usually on the owing end of anything.
But for you I don't even mind.
Believe me, babe.
I'm too old and rotten to take time sugarcoatin' anything.
Velma, you're the prettiest fuck I've ever seen in my time.
All these kids and their dumb-fuck eyelashes and pin-curls.
You're worth the whole damn bunch put together.
(Yeah I read, what of it?)
I ain't no bleeding heart, but I'm spillin' what I have left of it to you tonight.
You've got somthin'.
I don't even know-
But somethin'.
And, sad to say, substance in anything is rare now-a-days.
And though I've never belonged to anyone, in this tired old life of mine.
I'm yours, babe.
I'm yours.

'Because Why Not?' by Ravyn LaRue

I've been coming up with cop-out excuses for my behaviors-
Because why not?
That has been my response to every odd thing I do or want to-
- Re-Read Beloved Children's Books
- Dye My Hair Purple or Red or Lavender
- Exercise All Night
- Drink Lots Of Coffee
- Donate To A Good Cause
- Memorize A New Monologue
- Give Her A Chance
- Write Lots Of Poems
- Do What I Want
- Do What I Can
- Chance The Consequences
Because why not?

'Five Minutes In The Mirror' by Ravyn LaRue

I don't know what shape my body is.
It's fat, of course, but seemingly ever-changing.
Sometimes my legs look long.
Sometimes my legs look short.
Sometimes I look paler than paper.
And sometimes, like today, I look sunburned and ruddy.
But whatever my body is, I like it.

I don't know what color my eyes are.
They are seemingly ever-changing.
Sometimes they're blue.
Sometimes they're grey.
Sometimes they're green.
And sometimes, like today, I can't tell at all, and focus instead on my dilating pupils.
But whatever my eyes are, I like them.

I don't know if I can dance.
My ability seems ever-changing.
Sometimes I can tap.
Sometimes I embrace catharsis.
Sometimes I can barely walk on solid ground.
And sometimes, like today, I hula for three minutes straight, just to see if I can.
But whatever my dancing is, I like it.

I don't know who I am.
I always seem ever-changing.
Sometimes I am shy.
Sometimes I am out-going.
Sometimes I am art incarnate.
And sometimes, like today, I am what I am.
But whoever I am, I like it.