Writing has always been cathartic to me. Arguably, my “best” stuff oozed from poetic angst (By “best,” I mean most over-emotional and eye-rolling) .
My early college years were incredibly difficult. On a track scholarship at a very expensive private school, I struggled to make friends, didn’t really like my classes, didn’t have a clue what I wanted to major in, didn’t wear the right clothes and didn’t have any money. I had a couple boyfriends who were, well, boys. They broke my ohsotender heart, and I wrote volumes about it.
As silly as most of my poems are, they gave the young me a sense of control and peace, a voice when I felt no one listened. Purpose.
Today they give me smiles, memories, thankfulness that I got through that very long phase, and motivation to encourage my students to cathartically “dump their brains on the paper” to find their own voices and take the edge off their emotions.
My favorite poem from my youth slimes sentimental angst. And that’s okay.
(Apologies to my husband and men everywhere):
Men are Slime
Enticing us with their tantalizing lies
they take hold of our hearts with
crushing grips
and squeeze out every ounce of life.
Leaving us dangling limply in the cold,
they proceed to burrow deep
under our skin
and through our innards
like maggots,
taking advantage of our still warm bodies
to prolong their own
twisted lives.
When the nourishment for their
bloated egos is depleted
they become beautifully sculpted
once again
to snare another trusting female.
Men are slime.
