Willow

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It seems our agreement shifted. And if I wanted to I would. If I believed anything other than the past would repeat itself, I’d behave differently. If I had it in me, I’d be right back on board. But,

I don’t have it in me. I don’t believe anything other than the past will repeat itself. In my deepest depths, recesses of my heart and mind, all my hidden coves, I know that nothing will change. I know that I will go through this over and over until I’m completely destroyed. Angry. Hateful. Resentful. Incapable.

And that’s not who I want to be. Not who I am. Not a person I’m willing to become.

I believe in goodness, in love. I believe in awareness, in knowing when you’re done, in trusting to know when we’ve reached an impasse.

It’s not that your aren’t worth it. You are my greatest love. You are everything I hoped and ever wanted. You are a kaleidoscope.

But I have scar tissue built up around my ability to go back. It’s marbled, knobby, held fast. I can see no, feel no, believe no other way.

The distance stretched too far this time. My heart is hardened. My hope proved insufficient. Asking for work, effort, belief, is out of the question. I’m tired. And I can’t.

I won’t.

i think i’m the worst sort of person. when is it okay to hurt someone else? when is it okay to say i can’t do this? only the worst sort would consider it. a person who thinks they deserve more than what they’ve got. that it could be better somewhere else. that constant waiting for the other shoe to drop will leave. the ebb and flow no longer dictated by desire or addiction. just ebb. ebb and ebb and ebb. til it’s gone.

but it’s never gone. even if you flush it out. chase it away. cut it from your heart. it’s still there. always hidden in the unsuspected. no matter the precautions taken. no matter the questions. no matter the reservations. always there. always ready to show me i’m wrong.

i am the worst sort of person
for wanting more than what i’ve got.

Poem 3

For your unfettered consideration
and undoubtedly refined thought,
tell me how you interpret
all of these changes

that have come unexpected,
unannounced, and unwanted
into the lives of everyone
who manages to pay attention

and notice what wrongs have
been done, ignored, and
tragically encouraged with
the enthusiasm of

a two year-old child
and the recklessness of one
who knows nothing of struggle,
heartache, and loss.

Mighty 5 … in fifty minutes Workshop Margaret Pettis Poem 3: Goal to write on sentence (about 20 lines) that is one perfect sentence. Showing that I can control language syntactically, grammatically, logically. with 5 words per line.

Linda Pastan The New Dog that is one sentence that is grammatically perfect. See below.

The New Dog
Linda Pastan

Into the gravity of my life,
the serious ceremonies
of polish and paper
and pen, has come

this manic animal
whose innocent disruptions
make nonsense
of my old simplicities--

as if I needed him
to prove again that after
all the careful planning,
anything can happen.

An off topic bitch fest brought to you by me.
Being told to give a survey to my students to find out how to make my class more fun is really just absolutely fucking ridiculous. Never mind that 12 year-old kids have no idea what they should do. They only know what they want. They want to be on their phones and they want to play mindless video games and get constant positive feedback for no effort.
Sure, give them a survey. Make it more fun. The only focus for teacher’s for the several years has been us to make everything more fun. Easier. Bullet points and no reading. And certainly no homework. They’re too busy for homework. Too busy.
Did you study? No, but I played Call of Duty for 10 hours.
You play Call of Duty? Your parents let you play Call of Duty?
Obviously, the problem lies with me. I’m not fun enough.

Now, I’m bored of complaining. It’s always the same. Poor performance and blame the teacher. Nothing to do with parenting. Nothing to do with screens. Nothing to do with kids being exposed to violence earlier and earlier in their lives. Nothing to do with any of that. Just me and my boring hands-on, lab filled, inquiry-based, interactive class.

Sweetie Pie

Can you believe it? A perfect little fluff ball all curled up, purring in my lap.

She’s the most wonderful, soft, cuddly, tiny sweetheart ever.

Such a good Kitty.

Hey, let me see her! It’s my turn!

No, stop. Let go!

Ow! Bad Kitty! Mom!

Girls. Calm down. Kitties can be both. Good and bad do exist. Even in something precious.

3rd edition
Word count: 61

First Haiku-2