For the past week I’ve been doing some serious cleaning. In my family we have what I affectionately refer to as packratitis. If I don’t do seasonal cleaning in my apartment I swear I’ll end up being buried beneath a stack of only Goddess knows what. 🙂
During the course of rooting through the closet from Hell, I came across a box of odds and ends. Among those bits of the past I found a great number of things including some small journals. For as long as I can remember I’ve kept some type of journal or diary. The first journal I clearly remember was a small red diary with a lock and a tiny gold key. I was in the third grade and the extent of it was about how much I hated my younger brother, who was a huge butt munch, and how much of a crush I had on Tim Ceplina. Of course the butt munch brother found my diary, broke the lock, and proceeded to tell everyone at school that I was crushing on said boy. I wailed and screamed about how my life was over and I would never be able to show my face at school again.
Oh, for the good old days when my biggest concern was how to get even with the butt munch for ruining my 9 year old life.
As I got older the subject matter didn’t change much other than to become more soaked with teen angst. I was still crushing on Tim Ceplina and wishing I was dead. The dead part mainly because Tim didn’t even know I was alive. LOL
Entering into my twenties I’d started a new life in a new city and the journals which had once been rife with angst over why my latest crush ignored me transformed. No longer did I ramble on for pages about how I should just jump off a cliff because no one would notice anyway. Instead I decided to become a poet. Yes, a poet. *head desk*
Now there were volumes of dark, broody poems that involved darkness, blood, moonlight, yada, yada, etc. A few years ago I would have been embarrassed to admit this much less allow anyone to see it. Last night as I sat flipping through these small journals of “poetry” I thought about how much I’d grown in the past twenty years. I also realized that I had always written even if I hadn’t realized it.
So despite my horror at doing so (somewhere deep inside the 21 year old version of me is screaming bloody murder at my betrayal) I’ve decided to give you a peek into a young writer. Below is a sample of the broody poetry that eventually led to story writing and becoming a published writer. Yes, I’m blushing as I type this, but that’s okay. As they used to say in those old Virginia Slim cigarette ads “You’ve come a long way, Baby.”
On gossamer wings they come
Dancing on tiny inhuman feet
Tiny voices to enthrall
Calling to us–children all
From beyond swirling forms
Through the veil they cross
Full moon rising
To come to them is forbidden
Yet what sweet music they sing
Okay, let the laughing commence. 😉