About Me: 2.0

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.

Welcome to Hell

Somewhere dark
Somewhere sinking.
My dreams are black,
Then blue,
And somewhere milky inbetween.
God it hurts, what is that?
A parade of pleads in my head…
From
“Mom please come home”
To
“Baby please don’t leave”
There’s tears and and there’s blood
Tears so hot, so breathtaking
And blood so shy, it is I who ever sees it.
So warm, why is it so warm?
Choking, gagging, grasping and thrashing
For a hand.
A hand to hold me
To heal me.
I don’t know where I am
I don’t know who I am.

Hi, How Are You?

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?
Free
I am free.
Free to live
Thrive
Free to be.
I am free to be
Me.
So why aren’t you?
Fear,
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
And
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?
Sad
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.
Beauty.
You
Are
Beautiful.
I am you and you are me,
And I am honest
When I say that you,
Are beautiful.
And together,
A soul with a body,
Not the other way around,
Together we are free.
I am free.
Free to live
Thrive
Free to be.
Me.
Just me.

Unforgivable. (Power of the Pen 2017)

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.