- Best Mistake – Ariana Grande and Big Sean
- Congratulations – Post Malone
- EAT – Young M.A
- Hot Sauce – Young M.A
- Get This Money – Young M.A
pffff….I don’t have a crush on M.A…….
- Come Up – Innocent and Montana of 300
- Gold – Kiiara
- Ice Melts – Drake and Young Thug
- Without You – Ben Rector
- When You Sleep – Mary Lambert
- Sailboat – Ben Rector
- Too Many – Russ
- What They Want – Russ
- 1st Position – Kehlani
- Donald Trump – Mac MIller
DISCLAIMER: Hiya guys… So this post is a little different. If you’ve perused my whole blog, read a certain post pertaining to this topic, or are close to me in the real world, you have a brief idea of how anxious of a person I am or you kind of know how genuinely scary my anxiety attacks can be.you’ll kind of understand this. I typed this post out last night in the midst of a severe panic episode. I’ve read through it, and I’ve decided to keep it because its’s authentic and the internet is a place where not a lot is taboo. I realize some of what’s written below doesn’t make sense…sorry. And to whom it may be concerning (probably no one), I didn’t black out. I was entirely safe and there were several people capable of helping me nearby. Things discussed below are my norm. I’ve almost never attempted to put it into words though, and honestly the memory is so milky I don’t remember my logic of doing it, so this is a first.
~Comment if you know what the title of this post symbolizes.
Sometimes my hands shake. And my heart feels like a guilty child. Sometimes I can’t think straight. In this moment I’m having an anxiety attack. I feel like this could be a black-out. Sometimes I panic so severely, that my mind literally takes my physical self places I don’t remember. If I were to let myself go right now, I’d probably wake up in a couple hours and not remember what happened. No worries though, this is normal.
I don’t know why this is happening right now. Nothing bad happened; today was pretty relaxed
Actually I think it was a song
I can listen to a song and a two-word phrase can dust off memories that I don’t want to see, or feel.
What memory this time, though? I don’t know.
I don’t think there is one..I just feel
I know I have a severe panic disorder and I know I have Anankastic Personality Disorder
It literally feels like one of the halves of me is just fighting to leave. I have a grip on my own hand..but she’s tugging and begging for me to just let go, the other half will slip in place…I’ll black out, and life will be different tomorrow.
It’s episodes like these where 75% of my poems are written.
Do bruises make me a victim or a hero?
A free spirit or a sinner?
Black, blue, or emotional stains
They’re all the same.
5 things I can see
4 I can hear
3 I can feel
2 I can smell
1 I can taste
The hair dye on my hands, the tipped over kitchen chair, there’s 2 pillows at the left end of the couch and 1 at the right (the one on the right is identical to one of the 2 on the left), the key hanger is crooked, the window is divided into 25 small squares
Congratulations by Post Malone, whoever’s in the bedroom on my right is listening to This Could be Us by Rae Sremmurd, the air conditioner, she just laughed
My fingertips feel like they have little heartbeats, when the fan swivels this way my hair brushes my eyebrow, my feet are cold
It just smells like..this house. The girl I was with earlier had this weird lotion kit that she found online, she made a lotion that smelled like oranges and birthday cake; I guess I can smell that if I really focus
Blueberries, I ate those for dinner.
Types of people in this world.
Keep the fast food napkins,
So I looked at my “About Me” section of this blog last night. And honestly, it was quite amusing. I realized immediately that I am not the girl I wrote about then. Back when we started blogs for English class, I wasn’t sure how serious I was going to take it. Several months later, though, I love it. But back then I submitted a very generic description of myself. I’d like to think everything here on this blog is the furthest thing from generic. My original “About Me” gave the basic “I’m in 11th grade at XYZ, love my siblings, blah blah blah.” While I am a current 11th grader, and I do indeed love my siblings. That’s not what I want people to mold me by. So I think I will stop blabbering and write my new-and improved, About Me.
How does one begin a bragging session? Well, let’s keep it simple for now. I’m 16. Uhm…What else am I? I…Scratch that. This blog Green Tea Tuesdays, mainly poetry. My own poetry. Besides poems, both long and short poems, the occasional rant/expressional about life with anxiety, severe panic attacks and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
So that’s a brief summary of this blog’s content, now I will try to give you a bit about the author, Yours Truly.
There’s really no other way to say this without bluntly stating things about myself.
So bear with me.
Like I said I’m 16. Pretty short. Pretty loud. Pretty gay, and no I’m not using that as a synonym for happy. Contrary to what my old About Me said, I do not identify as a Christian, anymore. To each their own, and I simply realized that lifestyle was absolutely not for me. I don’t have any beliefs, in other words, I don’t believe in anything “bigger than me”. I’m extremely liberal. Yes, I do
hate strongly dislike Trump. I think poetically, hence the million poems found on this site. I’m fluent in American Sign Language. If you don’t already know me in person, I’m on wheels. Interpret that how you wish, and do not ask me why or what’s “wrong” with me, because my way of responding is not kind. You walk, I roll. Leave it at that.
So there’s me, edited.
Nice to meet you.
Worrying about what other eyes see.
Looking in the mirror and
Hi, how are you? Now that I’ve spit out the attention- grabber, you’re here. You. Are. Here. Take a moment to tell me, what are you looking at, right now?
Ya see, I’m writing this poem in the mirror.
I am you. And you are me.
Hi, how are you?
I am free.
Free to live
Free to be.
I am free to be
So why aren’t you?
I see fear.
And I’m realizing that you can’t see that those scars are your arms spell better poems than your mind will ever muster
When was the last time you smiled, at me?
What were you thinking about?
Who were you with?
What did it mean?
Hi, how are you?
I am sad.
Because I’m sorry it’s taken me so long.
I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to tell you
It is so, nice…to meet you.
It’s just that every time we’ve crossed paths,
I’ve seen something in you that I cannot find in me.
I am you and you are me,
And I am honest
When I say that you,
A soul with a body,
Not the other way around,
Together we are free.
I am free.
Free to live
Free to be.
So last week I decided to post one of the pieces I wrote at the annual Power of the Pen competiton. The narrative didn’t nearly as much feedback as my weekly poetry usually does, but that’s okay. One comment I did get was my English teacher persuading me to post my other 2 pieces from the event. And I figure, why not.
This week I think I’ll share my 3rd piece of writing. The prompt for this one was:
“The flaw”–Write about one in your narrative
My immediate thoughts went to life with OCD. Something I know a heck of a lot about.
In a world where time never stops and atoms never cease to move, it may seem easy to overlook things. Neena lived in this world, and she, unlike others, could not overlook things. She noticed things people usually don’t. She was not over, and would never get over the fact that her named just wasn’t spelled as the average person would guess. This was forever her flaw. The blonde that turns left off her street every morning at 6:37am has a flaw. Her left rear-view mirror is always crooked. Emma in third period taps her desk with the eraser-side of her pencil 2 times before beginning the daily writing prompt. That’s a flaw, because for Neena, if she doesn’t count one-two, or if Emma’s hand slips one-two-three then Neena’s thoughtsgrowjumbledand her routine, flawed.
People don’t know she counts, people don’t know she remembers. She counts and she remembers, flaws.
Every member of her family, every friend, every stranger has a flaw. This knowledge has eaten at Neena her whole life. She counts, she remembers, flaws. If she miscounts, if she doesn’t note, ignores, a flaw, she, Neena, is a flaw. You cannot reverse flaws, that’s what makes them what they are. Permanent and unforgivable, flaws. So the day that the retired CPS worker was a sub in Government class and wrote “Nina” on her attendance roster, she was a flaw. That Thursday morning 2 years ago when the blonde drove by and Neena didn’t glance over to count 6:35…one…two…6:37 to see the pathetic left mirror, she was a flaw. Back in spring when Neena arrived to 3rd period 1 minute and 38 seconds after the bell, after the prompt had been given, thus missing the one-two of Emma’s nervousness. She then, was a flaw. You cannot reverse flaws, that’s what makes them what they are. Permanent and unforgivable, flaws.