A poetic tantrum

Fuck. I’ve caught up. No more travel stories. No more muddy pant legs or sweaty scarves or damaged cameras. It’s all over. I’ve got a lease in my hand and a pen that is about to sign my life back into normal-dom. And I don’t wannaaaaaaaa. Somewhere along the way, I got the idea that staying put and having a job and having pets and being ‘normal’ was horrific. So, this pen represents for me a life that I don’t want to live. Ah! What should I do? I was just frolicking among the rubber trees in Laos and now I'm in a sterile cubicle. My synapses are protesting. I'm pounding my feet into the warm Santa Monica ground and screaming and wailing and tantruming more than I did when I was fourteen and calling my mom a bitch. I am in a perfect state of confused chaotic panic that I secretly love because it can only mean a new beginning. In times like these, I can only write a poem, which is weird because I'm not really a poetry kind of girl. Something is seriously amiss.

I saw the world

I wrote a blog

I ate a lot

I pet some hogs

I sweat on trains

I puked up peas

I chased the rains

I switched to teas

I met new friends

I donned new clothes

I gave kids pens

I took some blows

I pet a fish

Saw skirts on men

Some made of pigs

Some made of hens

I had this thing

It defined who I am

Now, very over

And I question again

Back to life

Back to reality

Searching for a word

That rhymes with reality

Back to work

Back to before

This time it’s different

I'm so much more