Friday, July 23, 2010

Venting Adorned in Poetical Face Paint...

I feel like everrryone can relate to this to an extent...that's the funny part. We're all so connected in our forms and manners of disconnection in hopes of self-understanding. But well, sometimes you don't need anyone to relate to you, you just need to be need to be able to SCREAM and be left completely alone. You may want the whole world to HEAR you and could really give less of a fuck if anyone actually LISTENS...just as long as you weren't told..."Hey, stop shouting"...when in actuality you're just breathing...LOUDLY.

This is not poetry...this is me venting...this is me telling you, Hey! how ya doing...actually, no 'how ya doing,' just me telling you how I feel. This is what's driving me insane at the current moment...this is what's making me feel like me yesterday made more sense than me today and me tomorrow is my only hope for today...this is what's making it excruciating to have a conversation of substance with 99% of the population 99% of the time. This is why I smoke...regularly...this is why I cry in the name of joy and laugh in moments of suffering. This is why I'm me and you're you and we vibe AMAZINGLY or (despite what you may think). This is not a cry for help, it is a testimonial of what is...I'm not requesting pity, nor understanding...I don't want a follow-up conversation...that's why I'm writing this as opposed to speaking this...although...This is not poetry.

This is the way my hand holds my heart, my fingers yell, my pen screams, my notepad processes and my ink bleeds...for the name of MY understanding. This is venting. This is not a letter...there is no 'Dear so-and-so'...or 'To Whom It May Concern' may concern no one. I'm fine with that. Actually I prefer it that way, because if you're concerned, you shouldn't be and having to UN-concern you would only deplete me of more energy which has already seeped and drained through my...vents...pun intended. This is not poetry.

If I wanted pity and/or attention I would have let myself cry in front of all of you a long time ago...I'll cry later...Otherwise, I wouldn't have gotten so good at smiling...all the time. I would've made you feel lucky...or hate yourself...or hate me...for complaining so much, about the most insignificant matters of life...of your life...because those matters don't really matter to anyone but yourself, let alone hold any matter of weight in life...pun intended. But...I listen...I smile, laugh, bitch...about the stupid shit, so you'll never really know what I'm venting wouldn't understand anyway...there is no room for interpretation...This is not poetry.

This is not a rant...well, maybe a little...this is me venting. Pumping air out of my lungs, my words escaping breath, seeking refuge from ears, so they can fall and plummet into an abyss that lies somewhere between Pg. 0 and infinite...absorbed and eternally embraced... and only This is me figuring out where my loyalties lie...where my words' best interests are the topic of non-discussion...where they resonate past your perception and are silently heard. This is me telling you I know what's best for me without telling you a damn thing...not to mention, I refuse to take advice from someone just as, if not more emotionally and mentally challenged than thank critiques necessary...
This is not poetry.

- © 2010 by Jessica Freites