'‘Cause I Don’t Feel Like A Fighter Lately' by Ravyn LaRue

I read many old poems I wrote before I realized here wasn't paradise
But the irony of it is-
My re-reading was for the sake of contributing to where I am
Because creatures adapt and change to their environment
And I need to thrive
I need to thrive because of the souls I so long for back home
I need to thrive because people triumphed over far more vicious circumstances
I need to thrive because I have faced awful pasts and made them step aside to let me pass
I need to thrive because I have no other choice
I want to spread myself out, though, thinly so I can make good art
Since that's what I think I've been placed on this dirt to do
So as long as I can do that, I'm succeeding
Happiness has become an afterthought by now-
Since happiness cannot exist in my environment, unless it's fleeting
And even then it is often only residual rekindled for what I feel for home
I never thought I cared about the idealistic prospect of home
But I care greatly for my loved ones, and that's what home is for me
They are my tribe
And it shakes my selfish spirit to have us all spread out throughout the world
I really don't know what I can do-
If you're asking if I'm happy- Are you asking me if I'm happy?
I had such high hopes, though I knew this would be growing foil
And now the growing pains only tear my vertebrae apart in a slow torturous way
I need to learn, though, and in spite of everything I think this is the best place for it
I love him, but my brother has become a cautionary tale by now
And we're all angry, though it is his choice
I just know that's a fate I fear myself
And I'm made of the same pedagogical book-dust as my ancestors
And I'm made of the same artistic stardust as my loved ones
And I need this
Because sometimes being broken is much more wondrous for the audience than comfy little creatures
I know I'm melodramatic
Things probably aren't as bad as I perceive them
I've learned lots already
But I've cried lots enough already
My heart has been broken lots, not for the better, already
I wanted to be Hunter, not Cliff
I wanted to write adventures, not tragedies
Though my pen is leaning towards the latter
Because art imitates life
And I liked this summer when I thought the people like the ones I'm now faced with only existed as straw antagonists and sparse evils.
I want to open my chest and let all the glitter glue bodily fluids fall out
I get it now, why those I love who are like me in this way flaunt this one attribute
When faced with misery like this, it's a defense mechanism
"Oh so you hate that quality that makes up my identity? Here it is uncompromised, choke on that, Babe!"
And I do that
I bare my diaphragmatic fat, for a costume but also for a point
I want to flaunt everything I'm hated for here
Now I'll be the one being thrown out of places, like I was with the dear friends I miss so
I want to stay home in January
I'm bad at math but the cost will be about the same
And I could get a job, or at least try to
But I think I need to refuel
I promise I'm not giving up
And I may be seen as a failure for it
But if I manage to pull these next eight weeks off-
I think I'll need rejuvenation
And I love my loved ones so
I just feel like I need this
My neutral is teary-eyed now a days
I just need a good cry
And I want to send them letters
But it would mean admitting defeat, in a way, if I am to be honest-
Which, of course, I must be
But some people read these brain-blossoms anyways
So I know they know
I'm listening to a song simply called, "new sad song"
And it has my heart because that's all I do now a days it seems
Write new sad poems
I'm not even back on the pills, but my mind is back to that state
Perhaps it's the thespian tyrant
Since she breaks me like an egg-shell
I'm less sure that I can defeat her
I have vitriol but it doesn't flow as fast
It manages to seep into and poison the glitter glue bodily fluids that I usually don't even care to show
Since before now it didn't matter
Not much since I attach myself to people anyways
I'm a parasitic pansexual
So no one ever needed to know
Unless it comes up in conversation
It's one of those things, you know?
But I'm just a mess of identity now a days and I vent through this
Since I have no other way
I talk to friends
But I cannot see their eyes meet mine
They cannot see their tears
I cannot feel their chest or feet lift off the floor when I hug them with gusto
My entire way of communication is compromised
And I know this is a useless thing
I'll look back at it like the old poetry of mine I read today
And think-
Ah, why was I ever that sad over something so small
But it isn't small
Dear future self, this isn't small
You may have figured out means to cope that I haven't yet
But it isn't small
At this point and time you've uprooted yourself for God's sake
Your blood is boiling
Your eyeballs drown in tears
Your abdomen wretches and shakes
And your brain doesn't know how to keep your soul from shattering
And your head darts around to make sure the roommates don't pop in to see you in this state
Though your hands that type know they wouldn't stop even if they did
"We are artists for God's sake" your conscience screams at the hypothetical intruders
"This is what we're supposed to do, and if you wish to look down on me for it-
Well-
You certainly wouldn't be the first one here..."
It's nearly one in the morning
And something that's not this is due tomorrow
But this is more important since I cannot cope unless I catharsis
Tears make my face itch
That's why I don't like makeup for myself
I've been doing a lot to myself that I don't really like
Like nodding along with vicious lies
Since "It isn't worth spoiling your grade for"
But I'm getting better
I'm setting out to do something stupid
Write a story that wallows in my deepest fears, regrets and sorrows
But it must be told, that's what I've learned in my short time here
Ribs must be ripped, but first hands must be held
And now as I hold my hands out
No one takes them
So I long to reach them further to where my beloveds reside
But my short fat arms barely reach a few feet
I'm becoming a corpse here
Tearing my chest open
Painting my face
Trudging along
And falling apart
I need to sew myself together
And tell myself one of the things I always do
"No such details will spoil my plan; that is the kind of girl I am"
But when all your body wants to let you do is sob, it gets hard to believe that mantra
And I've written eternities of nearly nothing right now
But I'm reaching out for the temporary closure catharsis usually grants me
Yet no beautiful bandage has fallen from the sky yet
Nothing to wrap my re-sewn cadaver with
While my soul bounces off the wall of my body cavity
A restless thing that knows not everything will be alright
Though the far away beauty that I speak with nightly claims it will be
And I know she's right since I have to prevail
Her and I faced the grey wind and flourished
But this is much harder
Because it was still home
And I was still knit tightly into the life and times of my loved ones
And here I'm just becoming a bitter old thing
I look for little sparkles that dart from certain dates
I want it to be Halloween, then my Birthday
I don't even care about Thanksgiving since I'll be entirely alone
And Christmas break, most of all.
All I can do with myself is compare what I am to gruesome things
It isn't self deprecation
It's just truth
With out my beloveds I am nothing
I am the soulless self portrait we admired in class
I have a glimmer of white light in my chest
But, like the one that baptized me, all it is is sadness shrouded in a layer of "everything's alright since it's supposed to be"
Literally all I've been able to do for the last hour is convulse
I nearly choked on my tears the other day
My appendages are cold
My blood has refused to flow
I think it demands happiness which, at this moment, I can't afford to muster
I suppose blood comes from the heart, which longs so deeply, that the blood won't leave it's beloved-
Since it knows how badly that affected my soul
And when the wizard gets to me, I'm asking for a smaller heart-
I emailed him about the situation, but I know he has more important children to care for
Since I know I am no longer a child
And my new year impending only cements that gruesome fact
I suppose I just don't know anymore
But trying is the point of life
So I must keep on trying

'You Say, "HOW IS CHICAGO" ' by Ravyn LaRue

I said I'd go to bed in the last poem I wrote you, but nope, my heart won't let me
I thought of something else that I've had yet to put into words
People said before I came here that it'd be too big for me
An expansive place of decadence that a small-town rodent like myself would shrivel up in
But I find it comfortable in a disconcerting way
I wanted change from what I perceived as the monotony of a little city
But this is too fathomable
I know it's unsafe, and I'm not as naive as some take me for
But despite my exploring I'm left shrugging it off
Yes it's big and pretty but it lacks the depth I'm accustom to
I hate emptiness more than a heart or city full of sorrows
And that's not to say I hate it
I just hoped to fall in love
But when the spirit that resonates tends to be full of vitriol for people like me
It's impossible to fall in love
And that's the thing
It took leaving to realize
I am utterly, irrevocably and completely in love
With the city
With the state
With the old school
With you
With everything
People chuckle, "Oh you're so overwhelmed with such the big world you've found yourself in!"
But it's not a big world
It's long but contentless
And I'd prefer a sentence with depth than a novel with nothing
And that's what it feels like at the moment
Perhaps I just need more exploring
But I want days of plenty
And this is a whole lot of apathy and homophobia and monotone and all the things I don't want myself to be
But I pride myself in being able to cope with things I'm not used to
And I stay and love the art in spite of it all
Because I think of you
And my other beloved muses and think
They think I can make something of myself here, and if they think that, it'd be cruel to prove them wrong
And I seem to be riding some wave of something, though the city may be trying to get me to return to shore
It's 4:14 in the morning and I'm probably just complaining
But I long for the city to be what it once was
I want the grit and grime and blood
The pavements may be pretty but they lack the intrigue they're praised for
I suppose that's all I have to say right now
One last thing-
I always thought of Minnesota as the sort of mother one must escape from
But now my other mother Chicago smiles her sickly sweet smile with no warmth behind her gleaming teeth
And all I want is Minnesota with all her frosty faults and cozy spaces
Well, at least I'm honest, as embarrassing as it might be

'Hometown Glory' by Ravyn LaRue

On that night when we cried together
On that night when you showed me that song
On that night when we hugged forever
I had no inkling I would miss it all so much
I had no inkling I would miss the environment so much
I had no inkling I would miss you so much
Which, as you should know, says a lot
Since I knew from the start that I'd miss you so
Since I love you dearly
Which should be obvious by now
The other day when I got your message that you liked the postcard I sent
The other day when I tried to write you that letter
The other day when my teacher said to write a character in your life who's worth living on the page
I'm not one for talking on the phone, but I tried it for you
I'm not one for some words, but I use them for you
I'm not one for patterns, but I'm doing it for you
So anyways, I'll type up that letter eventually
So anyways, I'll send you these silly poems, as well, even though my ribs are opened wider than is comfortable (because if you didn't take my heart, my entire self would shatter)
So anyways, songs I hear and stories I read undoubtably remind me of you
I miss everyone so much I feel I cannot function
I miss everyone so much it makes me wonder if I should've stayed home
I miss everyone so much it makes me realize the cruelty people other than you possess
But I continue here because you believe in me (which is such an honor I can't even begin to say)
But I continue here because you are my muse
But I continue here because the bitterness I may face will make our reunion twice as sweet
Joe, I should be asleep
Joe, It's 3:49 in the morning
Joe, I look as horrendous as we did when we camped out in the exercise room (although I surely look worse due to halloween makeup I practiced on myself)
Affectionate is what you are
Affectionate is what I wish to be
Affectionate is what you make me be
Thank you for being my friend
Thank you for supporting me through everything (I don't think you could ever even fathom how much your kindness means to me)
Thank you for everything
At Christmas I'll see you
At Christmas I'll be unconditionally happy again
At Christmas I'll be with my beloveds (meaning you)
Minnesota means I don't have to fear rampant homophobia
Minnesota means I'll feel at home without fearing the underlying vitriol that lingers where I am now
Minnesota means I'll return to the arms I hugged for hours
I should really end this poem
I should really attempt to get some sleep
I should really stop pining over seeing you again, but you're one of my muses, so, of course that cannot happen
Regardless, you know I love you
Regardless, you know I miss you
Regardless, you are one of the best friends I've ever had (I knew that before, but absence makes the heart grow fonder, and this really proves it, love)

‘Twitterfeather’ as a Folk-Tale by Ravyn LaRue

A few years back there was a young girl named Sierra. She, like many children, liked to pretend there was nothing in this whole wide world that could possibly scare her. Of course, that was just pretend. She couldn’t keep that game of pretend going, especially after what she came across one summer when she was six years old.

Sierra always listened to Grandfather’s ghost stories, and unlike her cousins, she believed them all. She knew better than to think Grandfather would lie to them. One night, as she by Grandfather’s rocking chair by the fireplace, Grandfather told the most terrifying story Sierra had ever heard.

“Sierra, are you sure you want to hear this story- I told it to your cousins when they were eight and ten and they were frightened even then!” Grandfather questioned in his low voice that rolled like thunder.

“Ha! Grandfather, I’m not scared of anything! You know that!” Sierra pontificated.

“Alright.” Grandfather took a breath, readying himself. He knew this tale, unlike many he had told in the past was, for a fact, true.

“There are spirits in this world that mean nothing but harm to all those who may cross their path. One such spirit is that of the Wendigo- It’s a voracious demon of emptiness that takes hold of creatures when they are at their weakest and makes them do unspeakable things. It feeds off of rage and distorts the longing for self-preservation into something evil, demonic. It makes those it possesses devour their own kind and leaves them hungry, until their insatiable appetite eats away at any soul that may have remained. Wendigos are manipulative- they claim to hold salvation but cause you to consume yourself until none of you is left and only the Wendigo remains. The spirit remains dormant in the winds, but rises every seven years, stronger and stronger each time. They move swiftly and silently through time and space to whatever feeble, foolish victim that appeals to their taste. Its voice is a sharp desperate howl that has the power to permeate into people’s souls, especially that of children’s. “

At that moment Grandfather’s sunken brown eyes darted to meet Sierra’s widened amber ones.

He continued, “They feed on any anger that is felt, even that of little girls who get mad with their grandparents for making them play inside on stormy days and go to bed at eight thirty in the evening. Wendigo is the devil himself and mustn’t be trifled with under any circumstance.”

Sierra feared, but of course didn’t want to show it.

She needed to assure her safety, though, so she asked, “Grandfather, how would one defeat a Wendigo if faced with one?”

Grandfather didn’t know how to answer, so he said the first thing that came to mind, which seemed like a good enough answer anyways, “Well, Sierra, you pray. Then God’s grace and tranquility with thrive in you and drive the Wendigo spirit out. That’s what you do, Sierra.”

This new knowledge made Sierra feel empowered. She went to bed at eight thirty, and when Grandmother prayed with her, she felt triumphant.

“Ha!” she thought, “The Wendigo can’t get me now!”

The next morning, Sierra woke up, ate breakfast with her grandparents and got herself ready to play outside.

“Where do you think you’re going, dear?” Grandmother cooed.

“I’m going out to play with the bird I befriended.” Sierra chirped.

“Not in this weather, dear.” Grandmother sighed, wishing it were bright and sunny so her granddaughter could frolic outside, as she so wanted.

Sierra broke down and sobbed.

“Oh dear me,” Grandmother began, “Grandfather come into the kitchen, Sierra needs you.”

Grandfather did just that.

“You told her she couldn’t go out due to the wind, didn’t you?”

Grandmother nodded.

Grandfather echoed the rumblings that came from outside, “Sierra I know you’ve made friends with that bird, and want to visit him again, but this weather is not one bit conducive. If you would like, we can check on the Raspberry bushes together after breakfast, but that will be it.”

Sierra was a trickster and agreed, knowing she could bamboozle him into getting her way. She needed to see her bird come hell or high water. He was the only creature in all the world that didn’t seem to mind her bright, nasal singing voice when they sang together.

Sierra donned her turquoise rain-jacket and took Grandfather’s old wrinkled hand. They stepped out the back door and followed the slope of the earth towards the raspberry patch. She held his hand until the moment was hers; she plucked just a few more raspberries from the thorny bush, let go of grandfather’s hand and then ran towards the wilderness beyond the sparse trees of the backyard.

Sierra ran into the wilderness. The frosty fog kissed her rounded face.

“Sierra, you mustn’t be foolish like this!” Grandfather cried as he hobbled after her.

Sierra felt liberated as the moisture from the cold dewy grass seeped into her sneakers. She kicked off her shoes, but she didn’t slow down. Sierra came to the clearing where the bird always resided. She looked around for her friend, but he was nowhere to be found.

She thought, “Maybe he’s staying inside, too… Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

Then she saw him. His little frail body was contorted and lying upon a tree-stump. He sang in a voice, beautiful as always, but deteriorating.

“My death is a finale: a calm, yet tragic end. Don’t cry for me, my darling. Don’t weep for me, my friend. Life is but a dream, wherein you simply stay, though I cannot continue- this is my dying day. Leave or I’ll be doomed forever, as these mortal ties I must now sever.”

Sierra understood but didn’t listen. She grabbed some raspberries from her pocket.

“Here.” She said simply, “These will give you life.”

Sierra attempted to mush up the over-ripe berries and run their juices into the bird’s beak. He convulsed and coughed, and said in a whimpered voice, so different from his singing, “Please child. Leave me to die in peace.”

“No!” Sierra yelled with authority, lifting the bird’s skeletal frame. “I can’t let you die! You are my friend!”

“No, child.” The bird whispered. “No.”

Sierra heard the wind whisper through the trees. There was a sharpness to its tone that made her uneasy. The sound was a voice she could not understand.

Suddenly the bird began to move from its lethargic perch. He jolted to his feet in a cracked, angular way, and began to sing again, this time in an unnerving, drawn-out whisper.

“For the sun dies down each and every night, And in the morn it brings new light, As long as it’s kept far away from the crow, who cries out, “I am Wihtikow ””

Sierra heard the wind soar through the trees more violently. It became a deafening cry. The noise made her feel hollow inside and entirely alone. She looked up to see a blackbird swooping down towards her; it’s black talons stretching out at her eyes as it descended. Sierra cowered. The crow landed beside her, only to rush over and wrap its expansive wings around the trembling songbird. She saw the crow take hold of her friend’s chest and rip it directly off.

“Sierra-“ The birds whispered in an anguished unison, “You- did- thisss-“

“No!” she cried, pulling her hands towards her own chest.

Sierra heaved, unable to cope with seeing her beloved bird destroyed. She gasped, barely catching her breath and decided to try to be as brave as she pretended to be.

“Who are you to think you have the right to break him like that?” her voice was weaker than it had ever been, and tears welled up in her clenched eyelids.

The crow smiled, revealing blazing white teeth, and, for the first time, opened its fiery blue eyes.

“I- am- Wihtikow-“ it whispered deafeningly.

The sky grew darker, just as the songbird had foretold.

The voice slithered through Sierra’s ears and rang against the walls of her skull. She felt the voice driving her mad. She felt desperate and furious. She pounced at the crow without thinking.

Sierra could hear a depraved winded laugh surround her as she felt herself consumed. Her convulsing ribs felt heavy, and her heart, stifled and cold. Her fingers itched and burned and scratched away at the icy whisper that burrowed into her brain and in her chest. Sierra felt worse than she had ever ever felt before. She felt sick and hungry, weak and cold. A sharp desperate howl cried plaintively from the depths of her. It was then when she realized she knew how to stop it.

She began singing in the off-key voice of her soul, as loudly as she could muster, “When through the woods, and forest glades I wander, and hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees. When I look down, from lofty mountain grandeur and see the brook, and feel the gentle breeze, then sings my soul, My Savior God, to Thee, How great Thou art, how great Thou art.”

It was the only prayer she could think of at the time. Her eyes burned. Her heart beat like a frightened animal.

The moment she felt the spirit free her, she ran faster than she had ever run before. Her bare feet burned against the frosty ground. She snuck swiftly and silently in through the back door, and slipped under the cozy covers of her bed. Nothing before had ever been able to get at her through Grandmother’s homemade quilt, and most likely, nothing ever could. She closed her painful eyes only to see the image of her friend’s limp body mangled more and more by the wrath of the hellish demon. She saw the songbird’s disintegrating body hover over her, innards falling from his chest.

Sierra screamed louder than ever before. Grandmother came running in.

“Sierra, what’s wrong?” Grandmother asked, stifling her urge to scold Sierra for running off.

Sierra couldn’t speak. Despite her blindness, Grandmother could see a small brown smudge at the foot of the bed. She lifted up the carcass of the songbird and brought it close to her eyes to inspect.

“Oh, dear me!” she cried, upon realization of what the smudge was. She ran to the sink to clean her hands.

“Oh, Sierra, I’m sorry. It’s just that old tabby cat of ours. He tends to leave us “presents” and as gruesome as it may be, he means no harm by it. I’m sorry it disturbed your nap, dear.”

Sierra peaked from beneath the covers, and opened her eyes.

“Dear me!” said Grandmother, “Sierra, let me look at you!”

Grandmother approached Sierra’s face to inspect her.

“Oh, dear me!” Grandmother gasped, shocked by what her dim eyes had seen. “Sierra, look!” Grandmother scooped Sierra from her bed and brought her to the bathroom mirror.

Sierra screamed upon seeing her own reflection. Her chest and face were all scratched up, and her once amber eyes now burned as blue as Wihtikow’s.

“Grandfather!” cried Grandmother. “You must come see what happened to Sierra.”

Grandfather hobbled to meet them. He looked up and saw Sierra’s eyes.

He took a solemn deep breath, and said all-knowingly, “You are a very foolish child.”

His deep voice resonated in Sierra’s chest. It made her heart feel warm again, though the guilt she felt from disappointing grandfather was nearly unbearable.

“You must never disobey me again.” Grandfather said authoritatively.

“I know,” wept Sierra.

After a somber pause, Sierra brought her Grandparents back to her room.

“This bird was the one you befriended, wasn’t it?” Grandfather questioned grimly.

Sierra nodded.

Grandmother took her handkerchief and carefully picked the bird up.

“We can bury it in the back yard”, said Grandfather, offering out his hand.

Sierra took it and felt her hand clutched tighter than Grandfather’s arthritic hands had ever clutched before. They buried him beneath the raspberry bushes and prayed over the grave. They returned to the cabin.

Sierra, still uneasy, asked Grandfather to tell her another story. He responded with a stern look.

“Not a scary story!” She added, “A sweet one about a little brown bird with the voice of an angel.”

Grandfather told her that story.

'Scratch-Offs' by Ravyn LaRue

I'm turning into a scratch-off
Daddy's girl and all that.
I see blemishes and tear them off
I peel at rips
I bite my lips
And it's causing me to be just as unlucky as him

'Complete Closeness' by Ravyn LaRue

Ribs intwined through skin
Two hearts in one
May as well have been making love
That's what it seemed like anyways
Though much more beautiful than even that
In that moment there was one blended soul
It was love's physicality
Miraculous

'Can I Show Dad Your Story?' by Ravyn LaRue

He recognizes bad, not sad.
He sees the movie villains, politicians and nazis and thinks-
"Oh no!" and "Good riddance!"
He sees dying creatures and broken families and loved ones leaving-
He knows not what to feel
Since he is immune to sadness, being a man after all
Though his father and blood brothers were capable of crying.
He cannot read fiction.
Because fiction relies on emotional investment.
And he is just as frugal with feelings as he is with pennies.
"I just need to cry, that's all."
I say as I sit beside him.
He is stone faced.
That same white light was shown to him, but he rejected it.
"C'est la guerre." He sighs.
I cried the car-ride home that night, and he just sneered-
"What did you expect to happen?"
Sure, you can show him my story-
But judging from the past, I doubt he'll care.

'I've Never Felt More Alone It Feels So Scary Getting Old' by Ravyn LaRue

Sometimes I question whether I actually like things as they are
Or whether I'm just setting myself up for adversity
So when I scale the mountains I made I can shout
"Ha- so there!"
The fact that I can be this lethargic
At this young an age
And entirely dash the things I must do
I don't know what to make of it
Other than that it isn't that good
They say-
"Only losers miss high-school-"
And I am and I do
But it isn't just that
I have a habit of missing all that's vast and un-holdable
So it's impossible to ever possess those moments in the same way ever again
I'm certain I've already had eight or twenty midlife crisises already
Perhaps that's why I can relate
I have to tune out music that makes me miss people
With music that just makes me sad
In an odd triumphant way
Since I like that
I'm cool with that
Sadness in a triumphant way
I'm certain I'm good at making life much more difficult
But I go on
I must go on
And that's why I don't mind it
I suppose if I had stayed I would be angry at myself for not trying
It's a double edged sword
Really, I suppose it'd be asking too much to expect I'd thrive anywhere
But I don't falter either
And I'm closer to triumph than falling
Thankfully... I think
This is just drabble
But I was on the verge of breakthrough once
That was back then
That was when I was home
That was when I was young
And now I feel so out of touch and old
My comrades sneer and scoff at childish things
And I just want to swim in them
These artists, as they claim to be, shun imagination and ambiguity
I want my people to cling to
Since here I have no one real
And all I want is to make art and sleep all day
And I love when I can
But the times when I must stretch myself
And fit a mold I was never before forced into
I can't help but gag at the thought of it all
Give me my friends again
I need them in the flesh
Warmth from computers is not the same as hugs
A muffled voice contorted into skype means nothing when I used to hear her sing every day
Typed words were only a fraction and now it's what I must survive on
He says, from far away I can tug on his heartstrings
And I say
"Dear, just you wait until I try to. You'll cry, I'm sure. And that trademark apathy will melt away. We were children together and that's what I need again. I think you need it too."
Anyways.
I'm a child again, but no one wants to be young with me.
And a child left alone is bound to get scared and sad.
She's right you know, the older you get the further away you stay from growing up.
I probably sound stupid, by now.
I need to walk home in the dark anyways
Past the halloween decorations and hiding wendigos (of course)
I can do homework at home
And this place is only making me miss it all worse
I care about physicality
I took three pages of notes, just for the sake of my halloween costume
But that's the point I mean to make
She's right-
Here it's all so surface
Back home I have something to touch
Our love is fathomable
And people aren't as hateful
But I'm subjecting myself to this nevertheless
On the small assumption that I might be able to make it somehow

Rampant Homophobia in Acting Class

I'm making no bones about it; Columbia is lots more homophobic in general than I had hoped or expected it to be. I think it might be Chicago, as a whole, as well, but I've only been here for two-or-so months, so I wouldn't be that hasty to generalize. But Columbia is definitely more homophobic than SPCPA, where I went to high school. They're both art schools so I figured the level of acceptance would be somewhat similar. I, of course, was wrong.

I mentioned one instance before, but that was just the beginning. Despite that one girl's closed-mindedness, the hotbed of homophobia seems to be my acting class.

The fact that the atmosphere of my acting class is so stifling completely breaks my heart. Acting and performing is how I met the queer people I know now, and how I became comfortable with my own queerness.

When I speak of queerness I don't simply mean romantic love for the same sex, I also am referring to the simple fact that gender is not black and white. There is a spectrum between the terms "male" and "female" and I am happy to not have to conform to being the absolute definition of feminine. If I were to do that, I would be stifling my true self.

The thing that pushed me to the brink of venting right now is that my acting teacher announced that we weren't aloud to play genders other than our own. Yes, it's a basic acting class, but what she considers male is 100% what society considers masculine and female as 100% what society considers feminine. She says anything else "isn't authentic". Hence, if I were to get up on stage and act exactly as I do in real life, I "would not be an authentic female character".

I am so peeved with this notion, I can barely even fathom my thoughts into intelligent sentences.

My teacher is nice, but the sort of nice that grandparents and older relatives are; they mean well, but have such old-world ideas that sometimes they accidentally say horrible, hurtful things without meaning it.

When male students go up onstage and play feminine men I think of how much the portrayal reminds me of my own beloved friends. The same goes for when female students play masculine females. Yet my teacher has the audacity to say, "No one acts like that in real life unless they are a clown!"

I'm having an actually really hard time with this. This class centered around performing leaves me feeling drained, whereas performing in my past experiences has always been a source of energy and rejuvenation.

I honestly don't understand how my acting teacher has gotten as much work in the theatre as she claims to have. Everyone I've ever been lucky enough to work with has been either an ally or queer themselves. I don't know how anyone as narrow-minded and ignorant could make a living in a profession/art so notoriously fueled by queer people.

Perhaps I'm just expecting too much of my current teacher since I've had such wonderful teachers in the past. Even so, I'm surprised that the student's aren't calling her out for it!

I haven't been courageous enough to do so myself, but that's partially because the students are even more judgmental.

In a scene where I tried to initiate the relationship of our characters being exes, my partner shouted in dismay, "BUT WE'RE GIRLS!?!?!" and another scene partner of mine, as we tried to determine our characters's relationship screamed out, "PLEASE DON'T MAKE THIS A SEX SCENE!!!" ...Calm down, I'm pansexual, not a nymphomaniac. The latter situation goes back to the "all queer people are inherently promiscuous" trope, which, of course, is not true.

I suppose this is just my late introduction to "the real world" but in the context of performing arts, and the arts in general, it seems like no place whatsoever for such egregious homophobia. No where should be a place of egregious homophobia, but this just catches me off guard.

If this is how the acting teachers are at Columbia, then it's a Godsend that I decided to switch my minor from theatre to teaching. Still, in my one solid space to indulge in the performing arts I so adore, I should have the comfort of being free to be myself without people crying out how perverse and inauthentic I am for existing, as well as the freedom to play characters that are authentic because queer and gender-fluid people DO exist!

And on this, Spirit Day, of all days.

I'm sorry, but that's just pathetic.

'Epilogue Reflection' by Ravyn LaRue

I'd rather be a character
Some of myself deeply embedded
Or I'd rather be a caricature
With parts of me exaggerated for comedic effect
But you see that thing I did
The other day
When I stood trembling like a dying trout
That was what I'm terrified by
But it is also that luminous white light I mentioned
Though I felt as though I might not be able to go on
The fact that I did
And had that exchange of eye contact
On that last line of poignancy
It was what I needed to tell me,
"Yes, this is what you must keep doing
It'll be petrifying at first
But so was acting
Do you remember that time?
This is your chance to evolve again
You've grown to the point where you don't need Ms.Hart to hold you up
And even if you do sometimes
Facebook exists
And she "liked" your poem-status
So that's a good sign
You feel that red warmth in your ruddy cheeks?
You feel your knee-caps barely keeping intact like when you auditioned for Ruth?
Those are good signs and you know it!
Keep going.
Trembling is just part of the process-
Like a child learning to walk.
If you don't let this fear fuel you and grow with it-
You'll need to triumph against that self who holds you back.
Come on, dear, you can do this.
You don't need to be a caricature of yourself
Your you-ness is phenomenal
Think of all your idols.
They own up to their they-ness.
And you know they had to tremble, too.
Don't be fazed-"
(I mustn't be fazed.)
"You held people's hands at that point
And they told you they took your heart.
It may have been gory, but the first time always is.
You got to that edge and dove.
You may have feared oblivion.
But you jumped anyways.
And that's what matters.
That white light can be you, after all, if only you show it.
And you showed a slight glimmer.
That's something, love.
That's something."

'Muscle Memory' by Ravyn LaRue

I'm so glad of my experiences
So thankful for each and every one
But I have a habit of indulging myself after the fact
I cannot forget the past, and why should I?
I am Gatsby, but I am fine
So here I am at a cafe
Listening to songs and dialogue I once knew by heart
I root for my character, despite her faults
"Screw you, Fredric, she's gorgeous!"
And I find myself possessed
Compelled to move about in my seat
With the same breathing patterns
Same expressions
Same mindset
And I catch myself
It is the weirdest thing since I wasn't even trying
But the character is so deeply rooted in me
That I cannot hear her lines without the her inside me wanting to say them
Which is not societally acceptable in a quiet evening cafe
But I like this possession
It makes me feel accomplished
I have been told that I'm productive.
Recently?
No, years and years ago!
But like my beloved character, that's good enough for me!

'Hidden Impact Epilogue' by Ravyn LaRue

I don't want to leave this
I know I'm writing chronologically other than this little statement
But I don't want to leave this
I must keep exploring, even if I alone care about the results
I care lots more about this than my usual poetry
With that I fling it out into the ocean without any fish to bite my bate
This I care
I care not to catch the sea-life
I just want them to see my lure and think it half-way appetizing
But if I do catch something
I'll pluck it from the hook it got grappled by
Gently tuck it into some slab of water
And I'll keep on exploring, while I swim with it.
I know I said I would go chronologically, but look, I had a lot to say already.
And it's weird-
I usually don't care about what I look like
But on Tuesday when I speak
I want to dress neatly
I want to be a good presenter, so the people focus not on the tangles in my hair,
Or whatever other petty details might distract them
I just want them to see what I do, and not me and all my faults.
That's something I've found with all this talk of identity.
I don't care to be beautiful or beloved (aside from by the few I know do)
But I want my art to be- not by all, that'd be ridiculous, but I want the same small and intense love as I'm so charitably given-
I want that for the things I make.
And I'd rather have it go to that than to me, if I had to choose, since my self self sometimes feels so false-
But the things I make never are; they may be allegorical or hyperbolic, but the truth is always there, imbedded.
And I need that to keep going-
Even if I sometimes recoil back into my physical self.
Art can be fearless; I cannot.
This isn't even helpful, or a real epilogue, but it will be soon enough.

Well I'm finished, I suppose
I'll be bound to want to keep on going
But it's due Tuesday
And as of eighteen minutes ago, it's already Monday
And I have laundry and non-artsy things to do
I think I just annoyed my best friend, over chat, accidentally
Since I'm pretentious
And she's down to earth
But she still reads my poems
And she knows me better than most
So she's aware of my faults
So when I tell her what she already knows
Which sometimes is so far from her own beliefs
There's a bit of "WELL, OBVIOUSLY!"
That comes back to me from the other side of Facebook
But in this state I'm content with my pretentiousness, that is, if it fuels me to make good art
That is my goal, after all-
This is shaping up to be a horrendous epilogue
Here, I'll try again-

It's kind of impossible
To be fully open, that is
But that doesn't mean I'll stop pushing
The thing about it is that
Though I may never be able to reveal all
Since that's how people burn out
And one who surpassed the edge said,
 "It's better to burn out than fade away."
But anyways,
What I'm saying is that I want to reveal as much as I can
As scary as that might be
But what will keep me from plummeting off that beautiful edge
Is the hope that someone will take your hand when you offer it
And so what's needed is to offer it
If someone takes it, that is your salvation-
If no one does, you must keep going
Don't be phased-
I mustn't be phased
I can rip my ribcage all I want-
But what's needed is for me to take my hand
Before I try forcing my heart onto someone
It's the eye contact before the daisy is exchanged
It is the art of asking
Forceful fervor is what keeps the energy, emotion and art, only to be sponged back into my veins
I don't want that
That is selfish
I need a dear reader
So I can take their hand and guide them through the darkness that is life
Even if I submerge them deeper-
At least they have my hand, and eventually my heart, which can be their consolation
I need to keep trying
My heart was broken for the better because I took his hand and took hold of his heart
And the white light of creation washed over me and baptized me
It told me,
"This is what you have to do until your dying day; you cannot give up; someday you might have the power to make someone feel as deeply as you do now; just keep trying!"
And that white light of creation has returned to grant me this epiphany
You can't expel your heart to someone unless they've taken your hand
It seems simple
But it just occurred to me
Maybe I'm a slow learner
But I know the truth now, which means I can continue, instead of pushing forcefully against a barricade that could never move
This revelation tunneled beneath and now I am on the other side
I am guided closer to that moment when my art does something moving
It needs to happen, even if I doom myself
And I asked if this was healthy.
The answer I got was: No! Of course not! But you need to do it regardless, since it is the only way you can survive, my dear.
So I listen
For I must.
This is an epilogue-
Since I am about to start another story.
Please listen, dear reader
The world is dark, and light is precious
I have a slight glimmer of white light burning from my chest
May I show you?
Please, dear reader-
It means the world to me.

'Baby Mine' by Ravyn LaRue

Since I am pedantic about things like this-
I decided to write one more poem before the epilogue-
Since that way the number of poems will be a significant number-
So I thought I should listen to another song that I hide instead of cope with-
This one is chosen, since I've been stifling my sadness for it all my life-
'Baby Mine' from Dumbo

I already miss mama, so this'll be harder than usual
Even the charming, oboe and lilts of the music lead up to sadness I know I'm not prepared to feel
I've been conditioned to cry at this since mama always cried at this
And that's kind of the point
I'm so glad they had this version on i-tunes
I try to explain to my friends who scoff at me just how sad this is
Someone is kept from a loved one
That is torture
And she's kept imprisoned from trying to save him
Mama sang this to me when we'd watch this together
And it meant lots since I was teased for things out of my control
Most kids are
But this never fails to make me cry
Since I'm so close to my mum
And there have been times when she was all I had
And I was all she had
She'd already lost John
And in a way I never really had dad
So we were all we had for each other
And I know it's inevitable that we would have to go our separate ways
It's part of growing up
And on a daily basis I don't really miss her all that much
But times like this
When I'm alone in my dorm-room
And this song is playing
I'm allowed to miss her
It's not like when my weekend phone-calls with her are under surveillance by the roommates and all their friends
I can miss her when I'm in this state
Because I've lost people for real
And this is just a rehearsal
And I want children of my own
I'm maternal to people my age and older, already-
And I couldn't think of anything more horrific than being separated from your child
Your own child when they are still a child
And I know I'm sobbing over disney movies, but that's nothing new
Bambi's mom never left much of an impact
It was this
Because they are both alive but kept apart
With death I at least find comfort in my hodgepodge spirituality to think that there is some closure
With being apart from loved ones there's just sorrow
When I said last year that my greatest fear was losing loved ones
I wasn't referring to death or family
I meant being parted, through no fault of your own from those you care about
People just like short cuts and think loss means death and loved-ones means family
I have nothing to grieve over
I just need to work through missing her
Since I know she misses me
She goes out of her way quite enough to tell me
But I'm glad of that
Since when I can't contact my other beloveds at home
And my own father doesn't hug me goodbye
It's nice to know that someone cares enough to miss you
Especially someone you miss equally
But Christmas will come soon enough
I can't think of the time I longed so much for christmas
It isn't Halloween and that's my usual top priority
And I adore it here
I just wish it was as easy as meeting her at Giordano's or something
I have so much to tell her that isn't fit for the voyeuristic crowd's ears
I have so much to show her that can't simply be attached by email
Christmas will be wonderful; it'll be the best Christmas ever!
Especially since she's already given me the best present ever, of helping me be here!

'Little Girl in the Big City' by Ravyn LaRue

I was practicing what I'll say when I return
Since I ought to be the prodigal daughter
They told me I would fail
But I need to tell them that I thrived
But what I'll say is this
"No I'm not sadder here.
But I'm not happier either.
My emotions are at the level they've always been-
Though my surroundings and experiences are different."
So many hope for me to come back crawling
Yet others want me to come back draped in success
I know neither will be entirely true
But I'm proud of how I'm doing
And I think that should be all that matters

'Paw and Elisa' by Ravyn LaRue

I am so giddy and happy
For strangers
But beautiful strangers in love
I know they say don't get too attached to celebrities
But I can't help it
I'm invested emotionally beyond all reason
And I blame you both
In the best possible way
You both are so sweet and cute and kind
And the fandom wishes you the best
We plan parties with cake and fangirling
But you guys were the first couple my heart melted for in a while
The last was Fraulein Schneider and Herr Schultz
And you guys are musical people, so you know how depressingly that turned out.
And before that and forever more was Jack and Sally
And I hope you two are like the latter
Because you're simply meant to be
You make our fangirl hearts flutter about
Because it's the joy when people you love love each other
Like Sondheim and Hammerstein
Burton and Depp
Palmer and Gaiman
It's as perfect as perfect can be
You make me believe that schmaltzy romance can exist in real life
Love at first sight may be silly
But you of all people show that silly is wonderful and needed in this world
Ahh, you guys
You're turning me into my alter ego
When I ought to focus on things
But you both are wonderful, and you deserve each other so much
As Tesla says,
I'm a clusterfuck of happy emotions for a couple I've never met who are having a wedding I was not invited to, but it is SO LOVELY.
And it is.
You two are so lovely!
And for me, it insures that loveliness like what you share still exists.
And that is sweeter than all the vampire wedding cake in the world.

'Positivities' by Ravyn LaRue

On the way here
Since I was sad
I made a conscious effort to notice good things
This is what I saw
A girl reading 'Rainbow Fish' to a child
A guy played electric guitar on the street corner
A cute family jokingly bickered about laundry as they prepared for a night on the town
An older brother protected his baby sister with a power rangers sword
There were lots of Halloween decorations
The wanna-be phelps family weren't vocal today
But the sweet friar tuck-esque corner preacher was singing again
I found a comfortable seat at a busy Starbucks
They filled coffee to the brim of my cup and I didn't manage to spill it
They're playing good music
I got here before six o'clock
Splendid.

'But You See It's More Productive Than If I Were To Be Happy' by Ravyn LaRue

I'll be honest
That simple statement I made earlier-
"I wrote some damn good poetry at that time-
But that's really not much of a consolation"
That's kind of a lie
I like the feeling of thinking my art is actually good
I'm so much more critical now
And without the people I used to collaborate with
That feeling is basically gone
And if what it takes is sadness-
To push me into making something I find good, again
Maybe that's what I need-
Because the art I love supports me when I'm in that state
And people tell me I'm too happy anyways-
But I don't know, man
I don't know.

'I am a Spider' by Ravyn LaRue

Who am I kidding?
Seeing the bad in people only makes me like them more-
It makes them a cohesive whole, more complex, and me more enamored.
It's back to that old mantra of kiss or kill-
I like people when I would long to do both
Though, that says horrid things about me-
Now doesn't it, love?
Fatale attraction, in a way- that sort of thing, you know?
Hey honey, picture this; they're gonna love this one, they're gonna eat it up.

'Cathleen' by Ravyn LaRue

I met her in a Starbucks
She was obviously homeless
She counted her pennies on the table we shared, just as I did earlier to make sure I had enough for a coffee
Her goal is to have a hotel tonight, she said she made 48 dollars
"Twelve more", she said, "And I can get a hotel room tonight."
I told her the truth, that I didn't have twelve dollars and she said, "Oh I wasn't asking you- people are generous tonight!"
I nodded and she asked me my name, so I told her.
She told me her son is a tutor and asked me if I go to school; I told her that and my ambitions and she said,
"Good get 'em while they're young!" and "I hope you graduate and do well!"
She said she never panhandles during the day since she doesn't want to embarrass her son
She said it so matter-of-factly, as if it weren't even sad, though it is.
She said, "He's smart, very smart." took a breath and said, "I'll let you get back to your studies, dear."
She began texting on a phone a million times nicer than mine.
My parents would berate her.
She says, "I'm texting my other son, he's in Minnesota with his foster parents, and the other is in California; they're all honor students, so I got it great!"
I tell her I'm from Minnesota and she smiles.
We both go back to our tasks.
I like this kindredness.
She says, "My phone's charged, so I have to go."
She begins to get up and adds,
"You know I saw a girl earlier, she gave me $3 and said that I don't look homeless, I asked, "What does homeless look like?" and she said, "Dirty and pissy..." and I told her that I know there's all sorts of shelters that give you showers. And I'm not going to get scabies or lice just so more people give me money."
I told her that was smart.
She shook my hand again, wished me luck on my term paper and left.
Another homeless person scampered for her spot, but I drove him away somehow.

'I Must Go On Standing' by Ravyn LaRue

I'm really not good at hiding emotions, in a physical sense-
People know when I've been crying, and they make me hug them
I'd like to think this isn't a bad thing
But truthfully, I don't want it.
I may have to go back on the pills that make me miserable
I suppose I've had depression in a chemical way-
And now they want it to commence again
I wrote some damn good poetry at that time-
But that's really not much of a consolation
But I need to cry now
I'll walk the city streets with tears in my eyes, even though people don't like that
I'll get stopped with shrieks of,
"Cheer up, Bitch!"
But I just want coffee so I can do homework and take my mind off those pills.
No, I can't do this now
I just need to cry
Just a few songs, that's all I need
Straight and Thirty Whacks
It was good back then
I had a cast of characters to grieve with me
And an antagonistic figure I could blame all my sorrows on
Here I'm surrounded with smiling faces
And my beloved broken bird is gone for the time
But my homework is due at 11:55
So I better hurry up and feel this
So I can purge it from my system and carry on with homework without crying.
No wonder my eyes hurt this week- they were bracing themselves.
Even the sadness isn't right; it should be right.
And the sun is setting; I'm warned not to walk alone at night in this city.
I've pulled all nighters in saint paul, but that's different.
"Don't give up now, make friends instead of going out, go home instead of getting dressed, go back to bed-"
I suppose my study needed some realism-
This is miserable-
Method acting is good and all, but this hurts.
"You're going to die either way", she says,
"But this way of dying is far healthier for you-"
I can't think when she speaks like that
I lose my keys and smear the lipstick that hides my cracked lips.
And Jon comes in thinking I'm the suicidal loner
This is the proof he needs to show that I am what he pegged me as-
And it's selfish, I suppose, but I'm so glad my beloved artists can share the feelings I have now-
Or at least play them well enough to trick me.
After these last two minutes or so I've resigned myself to leave.
Emotions beget emotions, and although I love art, I need to stifle for now-
It isn't stopping this, it's saving this for when I have time-
And I know I'm in denial, but truly I cannot fail at my schoolwork
It was hard enough for me to make it here, I can't dash my dreams for depression.
That would be an awful choice.
And I'll cry in the streets and I'll make it somewhere, and I'll make it someday-
That's what I take from it all-
"I may tire myself out from struggling and drown, but I will not sink."

'Melancholic Temperament' by Ravyn LaRue

I want to limit my blabbering-
But then new things come up-
And as Greta mentioned to me-
All the best artists show all, or at least come close.
And I'm enamored by many-
And with those many, that holds true.
Hunter and Kate and Tim and Doug
And KanderAndEbb and Stephen
And Hart and Joey and Briggle
And all the nameless ones that my brain fails to fathom-
Since it's their art that matters, not them-
At least that how I think, about my own stuff, I mean
I use a pen name, for a multitude of reasons
And the writer that made me write is adverse to that prospect
But it helps me to let go of the tides that bind
Without my real surname I can fuck around with emotions that my family would scorn for being immature
But this isn't about pen-names-
I just find it difficult but exciting to fathom that the artists I so love are as open as they are-
And although they may have hid and are hiding universes of feelings
Each of them has exposed themselves and let the beautiful blazing light of art sear into their open souls
The light rejuvenates and compels them to go on-
Well... some of them, at least...
And that goes on to something else-
So many things, actually that I don't have the eons it will take to write it all
But firstly, I still mourn Hunter: it's been eight bloody years, but never have I known of an artist I so loved who chose to leave.
It was a Hedda Gabler thing, I'm sure- Art is everything after all.
And although I believe that; occasions like this makes me not want to.
But that white light I speak of-
I feel it as an audience member-
Seeing and reading and hearing is not a passive thing; it is art in itself!
But that invigorating heartbreaking-for-the-better feeling I cry and cling to-
I just want to return the favor, in a way, as simple as that.
Life is give and take and I need to give since I've received such beauty in my time on this dirt.
And although it might not be practical-
I'm not a practical person-
It comes down to yet another quote
(I like quotes since they make me feel less alone)
"Our songs will all be silenced, but what of it? Go on singing."
It comes down to coping-
And though this might be hard- catharsis is harder than ignoring the problem; I've learned that the hard way-
Still, I need it.
If I didn't long for this openness and art of myself, who knows-
I may have ended up in the same state of being as the ones I mourn
But I must keep going, and it is my way to deal-
It might not be right to be this pretentious, but it is what I cling to.
And I might not ever have the guts to reveal myself entirely-
Since that, in and of itself might be my downfall-
But what I need-
Actually need is to keep pushing for catharsis and openness-
It might be the most difficult thing, but I truly count on it for survival.
Truly, dear.

'Redfur' by Ravyn LaRue

Mama unintentionally pointed it out to me, while I got verklempt on the phone
Since she and I had never been apart this long
And though I don't mind it
When she tells me twelve times that she misses me lots and lots, I get verklempt
And then she says, "How's Redfur?"
I chuckle and repeat her question
I say, "Well, he's fine, sitting on the bookshelf, as usual"
I tell her about the FYS identity photo he's featured in, and she says-
"I'm looking at his twin, and he's holding out his heart saying,
"Oh, I miss my girl!"
But he's holding his heart out, saying,
"Go for it, girl!"
And it occurs to me that that's where I get it
He holds his heart out, both of them-
And though their threads are shredded and their fabric faded-
Their hearts are still in their hands for all the world to see
Yes, I know I'm analyzing teddy-bears
And my analogy seems so much gorier
But that's where I get it, I'm sure.
I'm conditioned to want to be this way
And even if it's pretentious and selfish
Mama supports me in this effort-
Though, I think she'd support me in any effort, since she is my mother, after all

'Artists are Masochists' by Ravyn LaRue

I've spoken of this in things I've written before
And though repetition and monotony don't seem all that wonderful
This seems valid enough to continue on with in this state
Is art, and my art better when the artist, and I, are feeling awful
Because studies conducted by fancy people with fancy titles
That yes, indeed, true art is sorrow-driven
And it makes me wonder and contemplate
God, I know it's awful, but I've almost relapsed with many things just for the sake that-
"Maybe it'll provoke some good art!"
But that's hideous and unhealthy
Still the thought occurs, and I've nearly taken my muse up on that dangerous offer
She's trying to kill me, I'm sure-
But what'll you do; destroy for art, am I right?
I suppose if I'm so intent on ripping my ribcage open-
I better be up for a share or two of pain, huh?

'Ruth, Doug and Jane' by Ravyn LaRue

Terese, my best friend, thinks that I am most of my characters
"So you were playing yourself?"
I'm lovesick and old- she is me
He's sad and longing to make good- he is me.
I'm pretentious and naive- she is me.
I get all defensive and think, "No I'm not like that!"
But she knows me a million times better than most
So, she, of all people would know
And she's not me, so she would know
In another class we were thinking of what we put out to the world
And I thought, "Damn-she's the only one who took my heart when I offered it"
She reads all the oddities I write
And this means the world, really it does.
And maybe that's an integral part of why I love her so much-
I'm comfortable enough to rip my ribcage open to her
So when she sees glimmers of what was revealed in other things I do, she says
"Hey look, It's you!"
Even when I wasn't aware that it was me, at all.
It certainly doesn't help my case that I find Fredrick's drunk texts as charming as I do.

'Feet Don't Waltz When the Roof Caves In' by Ravyn LaRue

Oh, I knew this was impending
It came to mind the second I doomed myself
And I will willingly let it deafen me
It's way too worth it
I loathe apathy
You know that, dear, though as time goes by, I find myself an avid subscriber
It's probably the thing I hate most about myself
And although I like myself a whole hell of a lot more than most outside influences-
This annoys me- I annoy me
See, and that nails it
In life there are "much better things to worry about" than emotion
I come from a long line of-
"Stop crying, people are looking at you."
and
"Don't ever write about your living situation!"
My lymph nodes burn at each utterance
And then the metaphysical master of ceremonies goes out of his way to shout at me
But this is why I do this
In times like this, when carelessness prevails-
People need sadness to slowly possess them so that they can cry
I'd spend all my potential riches on guaranteed catharsis
Since without it, people become empty
And, to me, there is nothing worse than emptiness
Which is why I sell my soul so easily
Though I haven't the guts yet-
One day I will do, since I shan't give up.
I'm being pretentious again
I think my gradual gaining of self-awareness is a bit counterproductive
Bitching is beginning to lose its fun
My mind instead conjures logos and says,
"Think of the horrors you aren't caught up in- that's proof you shouldn't be sad"
And then that causes stifling and apathy
And it's awful
And I hate it
And I feel bad for hating it and all else that angers or saddens me
Since I'm currently in a slew of spirits telling me my emotions aren't valid because I'm privileged and am pretentious to moan over tiny trivial things
But back to the content
Without any history attached, the emotions of the soul of the art is still heartbreaking
And in a way, all technicalities of me don't matter since it oughtn't be about me
It should be about art
And souls
Which possess everything and are allowed to feel all
So I need to push through
I am all over moral ambiguity
And if I'm greedy and pretentious and awful-
Then I am, and must be those things
If I can feel truthfully and be open to all- for them to see my greed and pretense and bile
It makes it all worth it
I'd rather be a conglomerate of disgusting innards than a pretty empty shell
I think that's what it all comes down to-
Vile and sincere beats gorgeous and empty any day, for me.

'Happy Birthday Sheila' by Ravyn LaRue

I didn't realize it was your birthday
So I'm sorry for that
But I hope you had a good one
And although I don't know you well-
Though it's probably inevitable that I will eventually-
I know now that you are a sweetheart
So I feel bad not to do anything for your birthday
So here's a poem
And I know it really isn't much
Especially compared to the cacophonous roar I just heard
But you are a lovely person
And I wish you only the best
We're neighbors and I know you better than most
So really this is the least I can do!
I'd be able to write a better poem if I knew more about you-
But that will happen with time
As I said before
And then I can write a multitude of good poems
As opposed to awful vagueness
Regardless, I wish you the best!
I know you well enough to know you deserve it!

'Clouds' by Ravyn LaRue

Oh this is certainly the prime choice for the role I set out for it to be
Since I never listened to it in its entirety since I know the backstory
I know his best friend
I saw her cry on that day
And I know, like most, this sounds too happy
I remember her feet dancing on the plywood stage as she prayed he wouldn't end up being a hero
Since heros sacrifice themselves
And he did, but she was left
He says, "It would be ripped right out of his hands"
It hurts that he's so obvious about what he's talking about
It's easier to substitute hypothetical than know the truth
Ah- I got to it- I'm crying
Because she is an angel and I think, I know he loved her
And I know she loved him, because I saw her that day at school
When she sobbed in class
And we all knew
And nothing you can sat could ever possibly lessen the blow
So I said nothing
But I thought a world of words
And I wish I could've said something
It would've been useless, but it would've been something
God, these lyrics-
I need to read her book
And keep in touch
And hug her when I visit home
I know she has him still
Well, I don't know, but I believe
And I need to fess up to these things-
I can't just say-
"Oh spirits exist and he has her still"
Though I may believe
I can't just wash away the tragedy like that
All the dumb phrases of-
"Bad things happen to good people"
Well, of course
Bad things happen to everyone
But then this happens
And she of all people to lose such love
The lights went out in my place of writing
And I am terribly superstitious
Of course during the sadness of the bridge
I need to show her this
It could be the something that my stupid self couldn't dare say since I was too selfish thinking I'd say something wrong.
I'll continue writing in the dark
I don't care
He speaks of the Lazarus pit
The same space I cried over to a friend who still exists in the flesh
I have no right to complain
When she in all her beauty still smiles her gorgeous smile and dances across the pretty plywood stage
It's ironic, really, since it happened on the day when I sang and sobbed over my own dead daughter
And though I have my own Beths and Zachs
She is the one who deserves the catharsis, not I
But I'll listen to the song until I've said all I need to
And it may be all night
It may be all year
It may be all my life
But I'll quote my own character
"This has got to mean something, most of all when a life has been so brief-"
I almost had the guts-
Almost-
To tell her at prom that I sang that part for her
Yes, for my family
Yes, for myself
Yes, for all of everything
But most of all, for her
Even when I knew she was, as she should be, doing what she needed to do to cope, not seeing some show put on for pity
But I wanted to tell her the things I had to say
The script spoke truth, though I stayed away
And I hate the feeling of not being able to help- but I bloody-well should've tried-
Since she tried and succeeded in helping me more than I ever told her
And I know he was her friend
So I know he was kind
And it breaks my heart-
Maybe that dumb old phrase is right-
Bad things happen to good people
But she is strong
And I know she loves gutsy tragic roles
And is given comic relief
(I know so many souls like that)
But in the truth of life, mine at least, she is both
And she thrives
Which is so much more than could be said of me if that happened
And I know I should think of him
But all I know is this voice flowing through my headphones
But I believe in ghosts and spirits, and I feel goodness radiating
And this song proves more good than bad
Even if I cry over things I don't have the right to claim as my own sorrows
When I see her at Christmas I will tell her
In my usual in-articulation, praying not to shove my foot down my throat
But I will say something
And do that dumb allegory I speak of-
I'll try handing her my heart, though sloppy and stupid it might be-
She deserves any and all I could give, since so much has been taken from her-
She's worth a whole lot more than the whole sweep of those damn constellations.

'I Am Not Comfortable With My Own Locked Door' by Ravyn LaRue

I think what upsets me most about myself in this effort is how I claim and long to have no filter whatsoever when it only becomes clearer and clearer that I do indeed have one.
I want to be like Joe and Briggle and all the rest who fascinate me in that way-
Because although holding back isn't all bad, though I may be biassed, it is inherently compromising one's self.
It all goes back to how much of one's self is safe to show.
I know I'm dumb and possibly my efforts will be fruitless but I want to be open entirely in the art that I make.
I know there are gross things festering within my soul, but I don't think it's right to show the glimmering wonders if I don't reveal the bad.
There needs to be balance, and I need moral ambiguity in myself.
I'm all too sick of polarizing parts of angelic and demonic-
I am the thing between the two, and that's how it ought to stay.
Since everyone has badness and goodness to them, I strive to be both courageous and idiotic enough to let both of my extremes to be shown in a soup of equal parts.
Though it may be an impossible goal, and humans, as they are fear the darkness.
I can't help but have the concepts swimming in my brain, that if you expose the sin and sick it will no doubt be fueled and consume you-
That's why horror exists as it's own thing, that simple little concept-
And it frightens me, but I'm not turned off-
I see the Wendigo and say- "Yes show me more!"
Maybe that's just more conditioning, I saw the monster and thought- "Oh poor dear, he has sweetness, I'm sure!"
And that's stupid, in a way, though it goes fluidly in both directions-
People always sigh, "There's a little bit of good in everyone" and encourage that good to be indulged upon
Whereas I see letting the anguish and vitriol simmer inside for no one to see would let the acid burn away at the good one may still have hiding-
Which is why I let mine out in increments under odd identities online
I'm good with sadness- I do it, so to speak-
I am comfortable crying in front of the masses, but sadness is oft considered one of the bad things.
But I feel powerful, as odd as it may seem, after convulsing about and shedding some tears
Since I always feel cleansed and filled with some beautiful nutritious light-
The ruddy cheeks, reddened eyes and weak eyelids are, to me, the only beauty I need.
And though I may be crying over nothing, as some seem to think-
I'm a self-aware sap and I'm rejuvenated by it.
Which is why I have to keep getting more and more comfortable with it-
The thought of other humans deeming me as lesser due to it is causing me to go back to stoic stiff-upper-lip
Which is awful for me-
It's awful for me-
When I feel I'm broken and revealing too many of my cracks, I end up gaining the most.
So, although this may not be what humans should do in order to function in our pedantic society-
I'm content with being a non-functioning creature if it means my odd intensity binds me to others
As, thus far, it has most definitely done.
An instance I recall truly made miracles happen-
And it was one of the most beautiful moments in my life-
My friend held my heart with all its pumping juice flowing all over-
And he wasn't afraid, we were more comfortable with each other in that precise moment than anyone ever before, I feel.
That was beauty and I seek out beauty-
If I can replicate that feeling in the slightest by revealing more and more and more-
Then it isn't a matter of if; it's a matter of when.
And it will happen someday, when I'm dumb and brave enough to reveal it all, in all I do.
It will happen-
I need it to survive.

'Bitter Ex-Catholic' by Ravyn LaRue

I've been having these nightmares-
Worse & Worse & Worse each time it's repeated-
It proves to me that evil does exist, and it lingers in that school-
I have these dreams-
Where I am assaulted-
And I haven't got it in me to spit "Mea Culpas" over someone else's cruelty-
So I never speak of the dream-
But when I was put down for surgery-
And began "crying over nothing"
I think this might be the nothing that my brain tried blocking out-
Why else, then, since the surgery, would I be dreaming this-
Over & Over & Over & Over & Over & Over & Over & Over &Over & Over & Over & Over & Over-
Worse & Worse each and every time.
It really would explain everything if it were true-
And if it is-
My desire to burn the school to the ground, along with the cursed church will not only be justified-
It will be Saintly.

'Supreme Creep' by Ravyn LaRue

I know I claim to not give a damn of what others think of me-
I say it so much that it turns into a suspiciously specific denial.
"No, I like myself no none else matters-"
And yet I'm terrified by scaring people.
When I send people the love poems I preface it with an apology.
"Sorry if this seems creepy or sycophantic..."
And so they have it in their mind that it will be.
Yet the thing is-
I just want to express love-
I'm all too fearful that those will run from my affection.
I suppose it comes down to all too obvious worries of rejection.
Cliché, isn't it?
Yet I have to go and tell people how I feel anyways.
Since I love almost everyone
And they need to know it
I'm all about that life-
I believe in love, I believe in love, I believe in love, I do believe-
I'm quoting lyrics again, to sugarcoat the things I feel
I ought to calm down with that
But I suppose you get my gist-
I think that's why my open-ribcage idea appeals to me as much as it does-
It'd freak people out
And I have to be content with freaking people out
All my beloveds enjoy scaring the squares so I must suit up and step up
If they run from me, instead of turning back and wallowing in self pity-
I'll find another audience victim to show my full and disturbing truth to.
Because it is truth-
And through art, I need to give the truth.
Need to,
Gory heart, over-affection and all-
And I mean ALL.

'Post-It Poem 1' by Ravyn LaRue

Hunter, you fucking asshole-
(I mean that with the utmost respect)
I'd be lots more forgiving if you just let the drugs take you-
But you had to take the initiative-
Didn't you, dear?

'Post-It Poem 2' by Ravyn LaRue

It's easier to claim that no one understands or loves you, than to admit that you think the amount that do are too few.

'Room to Connect' by Ravyn LaRue

Alright, so-
I think I might get it
But if I am wrong, I'll just have to keep searching
I'll keep on searching, since that's what I must do
But I suppose in a way, I get it
Since catharsis takes work-
One must empathize before they can feel
So the artist needs to trick the audience into connecting with the characters
So that once the character or art has compelled and lulled the audience into a sense of security
The art will grab on to the audience and say,
"Thank you for lending me your heart, now here's mine to keep!"
I get that, especially since so many of the tragedies I love indulging in seem like such happy schmaltz from the outside
I think that kind of relates, since if I knew the art I love would've broken my heart, even for the better-
I may not have been comfortable giving myself to it as I sat in the theatre, or sat reading or sat listening
But instead as audience I was not me- I was up there, in there, around there with the characters,
And in this, I suppose I am the character that must be calm enough to grab the reader's hand before I can start my manic descent
These tragedies I adore seem so simple
And I think I may be too focussed on trying to seem complex
The book that makes me cry the most is aimed at children
And to be aimed at children, it must guide the onlooker through the darkness, not just shove them into a pit expecting them to be content there
I think the room to connect, in a way, is the hand reaching out-
The stillness before I decide to dissect myself in front of the masses
The eye contact that says,
"Come closer, dear reader. You must trust me. I am telling you a story."
It is that vulnerability and dependence upon the audience, I think that makes those stories mean something.
It is why I write, and so that's the step I must bring about into what I do-
I need to hold out my hand and say those words-
Thank you, dear reader, for listening.

I'm Offended That She's Offended:

Alright, so this is probably going to end up as more of a diary entry than a blog post, but I feel compelled to write it anyways for the public, because although it isn't a huge quandary it caught me completely off guard so I'm still a tad in shock.

Sometimes I forget homophobia exists; I've been lucky enough to be surrounded by a stunning amount of queer people and allies for the last five years. I'm perfectly comfortable without having to change the pronouns in my poems, and when I play lesbians and the likes I would never expect jeers.

Now I'm at college, an art college. One would think that the transition would be seamless, the same sort of queers and allies would rally around each other, and although I know some, since it's only inevitable, the diversity means there are bound to be some antagonists, unfortunately.

Today was the most blatant incident. We spoke in class of the cultural dynamics of marriage and were paired up to discuss the attributes we wanted for a hypothetical marriage. Simple enough. I sat beside the girl I'm closest to; I barely know her, but I feel comfortable small-talking with her. The teacher went around and assigned us partners. I was put with her.

I thought, "Oh, good; thank God it's someone I know a tad, this'll make it much more fun!" The professor asked us whether or not this partnership was alright. Before I could say, "Oh, of course!" my partner objected saying, "No!"

I thought she was joking, and let a chuckle fall from my lips, but she continued. "No! No! No!" Alright, fine. It's her decision, and I'm pretty compatible with others, albeit introverted in this atmosphere. My former partner kept going, though, "No! Eww, that's just- Eww! No! No! No!" I didn't expect this. She kept kevetching until the professor put a stop to her complaints.

I was awestruck, though it may seem little in comparison, while terrorists slaughter same-sex couples world-wide everyday. This just hit surprisingly close to home. It was a simple little exercise not an engagement, and the fact that the prospect of pretending to be a lesbian for five minutes brought the girl into a full-fledged panic saddens me a great deal.

I'm all over moral ambiguity, and, especially since I liked her before now, this incident doesn't deem the girl as evil. It just hurts me that someone I was comparatively close to, who infiltrated my heart a bit, can so easily utter such destain for people like me. Usual instances of my beloveds being homophobic tend to be misunderstanding and unfortunate choices of words. Though this might just be the latter, it seems so much more venomous than anything I've experienced first hand from someone I care about. I've faced sweeps of homophobic remarks from strangers, but that's different.

Anyways, this doesn't really have a moral or thesis; I'm writing it in the Cafeteria after class, and have real things to write, but still I needed to vent since the visceral response of that girl's words and actions still haven't left me. I write what I feel, so this needed to be done.

P.S. I was also surprised to be called: extreme and progressive for insisting that in the fake wedding my actual partner and I planned, my bride's maids would be both bridesmaids and bridesmen since I love my guy friends and it seems stupid to be so pedantic and restrictive about the gender of my loved ones when the whole point of the ceremony is love.