Tag Archives: disappointment

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Resolution

Categories: Journal, Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Resolution

I’m going to be a bitch. Serious. I’m done with sensitivity. Open arms. Helping others when I sit here broken and sick. I’m going to be a selfish speck. A cheerleader for my own opinions and needs. I’m not going to ask people how they are, unless they ask first. And then whatever they say I’ll respond with “it could be worse” (because that’s an ignorant and insensitive thing to say).

I’m going to take a lover and require his total devotion (at least sexually). I’m going to be reckless but not in a violent or conspicuous way. I’m going to fucking smile even though my teeth are imperfect. I’m going to go out dancing again when my back allows and I’ll dance all fucking night- even on tables and I may even flash my scarred little breasts. Suck this, Motherfuckers.

I’m going to call people out on their bullshit, rather than hold it in and let it produce another panic attack. I’m going to say outright: “You know what? You’re really an obvious asshole! You should wear your underwear on your head, because all that comes out of it is SHIT and offensive noise!” Then an argument will ensue probably but that’s okay because I’m going to get someone to build me a Waldenish portable cabin that I can take anywhere when it gets so thick you need to wear boots.

And music! Man, I’m going to play it often and LOUD. From Sinatra to Eminem to Pavarotti, motherfuckers! And I’ll even spit out some Waylon Jennings in the inner city! Hah!

I give myself full permission this year to go crazy and be somewhat satisfied. No more moving along the edges of MY OWN LIFE! You got that? It’s MY life! So go suck an egg or if you’re nice (like truly nice, not the fake nice) fill out an application to be my lover or just buy me a double-shot mocha.

Happy Damn New Year

-Heather Lenz

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Dismissing Spring

Categories: Poems, Tags: , , , ,

274/365 - Storm's Brewing

These days, not much to be heard
But sighing. Paint dries in tubes, the blank

canvas quickens with dust. Does not even echo
a name, or ask for light to dance.

Here is a handful of weariness-
I can’t even find a moment
to plan its demise.

Too much reality, too
out of focus to even cry.

And who gives a damn
how many sunsets burn my
retinas,

Or stone-death frail trembling
arms. Neruda is dead and smoke is
curling

around my head,

Broken halo.

~Heather Lenz

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