sense of belonging

go, go, never stop,
like the river rushing.
i am the river;
passing through
Hard hands and
Clenched fists.
please help me belong,
somewhere safe
and where there is no wrong.
i whisper:
i’m okay, i’m okay,
there’s a warm blooded creature,
a caring teacher
who calls me honey
and feeds me words of kindness.
I know I'm loved
But I now must go.
Too hurried to stay
And too young to say no.

1984.

When they caught her they found this poem crumpled up in her tightened fist:

I want to be there with only the sun to watch over us

With our backs to its warm gaze

Where we can grow our hair to be a million feet long

And adorn it with a million more flowers

Where we can smile til our cheeks hurt

Where there is always a hand to hold

Where we can dress up or dress down

No matter the day

Where we can buy every shade of pink lipstick

Or read every real, unchanged, book as it were

No one to tell us no or where to be

We just would.

That’s my dream.

imaginary diary

Two years ago

A quiet country tune drifts softly through our open windows. Sleepy eyed, he is driving. It is a quiet college town. We've been driving for what feels like hours. We ate peanut butter on slices of white bread. We've decided to travel south. No plans. Just people searching for a place to use their potential.

It is the first day since escaping.

Present day -- my birthday

We’ve been on the road for two years now. Two years pass and now I’m fourteen. We are still on the read. From mobile home, to moving cars, they drift endlessly, wherever the wind blows, whenever the mood strikes. Like birds catching air currents, not looking for an end but a means: The means to eat, sleep, go.

I'm afraid i'm losing myself, my fighting spirit, my ability to hate. In 1984, Winston allowed his spirit to be crushed he learned to love the very thing he hated. Don't let that be me. Please God, don't let that be me.

This diary is my salvation. Without it I'm afraid I will lose myself, I will lose my strength, my rebellious spirit.

Everyday it becomes harder and harder to be. I try to quell my longing for friends, for people to understand my feelings. But everyday it becomes harder. I feel the fire of anger so much it hurts my stomach like I just want to let it out kicking and screaming. I know it isn't a physical fight but an inner struggle to be free. Free to bs..free to be a part of life.  I'm watching it from the other side, like one watches a movie, alone but wanting to think it exist. I believe that is why I love movies. I know they are a fake escape but they are an escape nonetheless.

I'm a collector.

I collect nature magazines.

I cut out all the pictures of birds and fold them in my bag. When I'm not okay I just take them out and look at them. They empower me. I know it sounds silly but they do. I have a little mantra: "I'm a bird, always transpiring, never satisfied, never settling." I always have to repeat it to myself because I'm so afraid I will wake up one day and will be too tired to fight anymore.

The endless drives are driving me crazy. They bring no stability, only shaky ground.

The monsters come at night. Like death taking warm souls.

It is so easy to accept, to love, to give in. Once you give them your love they take your spirit and crush it.

Remember your anger, remember what you're fighting against.

Don't they understand u don't want food. Not physical food but food for the soul. The ability to not just exist but explore and create.

I would live on oatmeal and raisins for the rest of my days if it meant I could be a part of life. What is the point of food if none of its energy is being used for good?

Im saved by my battered but precious  purple CD player. When things become so hard, I don't believe I can endure it,  I just put on a song and it washes me with newfound hope, the hope that I can last one more minute, one more hour, one more day. I love my Broadway CD.

I'm so afraid I will forget these feelings of loneliness and captivity that I wish to document them.

Tangled hair

Deathly anxious and angry

still hurting.

why is it considered the person who fights against their environment, either through words or actions, is consider the horrible person? But the person who submits to it is considered the nice one? Oh i don't understand don't understand don't understand

nobody cares about what you could've done. It is only about the things you did do that count.

I am not a lazy person.

woman of no importance.

"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, Harry." - Prof. D.

What does that mean anyway?

I am very shy and embarrassed when people ask me what I want to do with my life. I'm nervous because saying things like "oh, I want to be a writer" or "I want to be a blogger" are daunting and I'm afraid people will put them down. They will say things like "but how?" "do you even have any ideas?" "what makes you different than all the other writers and bloggers?" Am I just indulging in false fantasies and not acting upon them? Should I stick with "safe" jobs, like school teachers and receptionists? Jobs that have been around for years. What if I fail.. at life?

I just don't know.

Floridian

The land of boiled peanuts, unwavering heat, breakfast grits, alligators, palm trees, oceanic air, bikinis, lemonade, sunnies, sandals, burnt skin, ice cream, confederate flags, ranches, barbacoa.. Oh and lizards -- lots of them: Underfoot, overhead, in the shade, in the sun, under rocks, on top of rock

All day, every day.

24/7, 365 days a year.

And I love it.

the importance of friendship

"Men come together in cities in order to live; but they remain together in order to live the good life." -Aristotle