Kissing a Fool

How lost must I be that you have me going back to the one thing I swore I would repress form my lips and mind entirely

Maybe it’s better to stay in a dry spill than go back to the torturous task of an art that has been so played out.

I mean it was played out when it was written out 154 times

Yet here I am trying to reiterate what has always been stated in iambic pentameter

In rhyme

In kids poems

In erotic literature

There’s just nothing new to say about the time consuming, death eating, fucking plain messed feeling up that builds up inside me when I see you, when I think about you, when you hold my hand and kiss my neck

Because it’s all been said before

It’s not new to want to rip apart every memory because so help me God even the happy ones make me feel like there’s nothing to hold on to

Because they’re an echo of doubt

They’re a sad excuse of a deranged version of a fairy tail that I can’t help but find in every book I read, every song I hear and every insignificant sentence that simply mean so much to me

Not knowing if you can read between my lines or there’s a subtext in the way you nonchalantly glace at your side when I’ve drifted off into my non-sense once again

And then there’s your confusion

Which confuses me

And confuses you

And then it’s back to me

And then I end up being completely honest about something that I don’t even know if I’m saying correctly because there tends to be a third party nagging at my brain to mix fictional feelings with uncertain truth and makes me bombard the wall you’ve build up to high because you can’t have me being right

At all

Not even about this

The irony being that you’re the one who supposedly feels so sure about himself

You can’t answer the question of what is it you want

Your coward sense of humor and chivalry surpasses your logic

And yet I’m the one who’s complicated

When I’ve managed to put aside my pride and wait for something that you want but doesn’t convince you

Knowing all the same that if the tables were turned you wouldn’t wait for me

Maybe I am crazy

Or just plainly stupid

But I guess you must have been kissing a fool

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Sexual Frustration

Oh sexual frustration what have you done to me. Why have you overcome me? Does it have anything to do with the fact I haven’t actually been with anyone for about a year? Cause I mean, I don’t count the last I was sort of with simply because he was a pathetic case of innocence dabbling with a dangerous dose of egocentric arrogance who acted more like a prude than what he talked up to be.

It’s funny how women think it’s degrading to talk about their sexual frustration. I think it’s refreshing, letting it all out there. God knows I’m not masturbating, so why not simply write about it? It’s a way to deal with it at least.

I think the most frustrating part about dealing with sexual frustration is knowing that if you act upon it you probably won’t make the most respectable decisions. I mean if a woman is really desperate she might – scratch that – she will make really dumb judgement calls and sleep with anybody, or sext with anybody for that matter. Side note: In regards to the matter of sexting, I don’t find it sad, per se, it’s a really good realising method, there just comes a point when you realize that sexting a total stranger is not really worth it cause you’re just constantly turned on. Regardless of your sexter’s his hot swimmer’s body, sexy glasses and fuckable attitude and mind (there is nothing better with a guy that has a fuckable attitude and mind by the way) it just doesn’t really fill you up.

Many females deal with their frustration in different ways, most indulge in chocolate, or shopping – my personal favourite – some even do exercise, like if it were a substitute for the real physical challenge. God forgive any of us actually go out and try to sleep with a man cause that would just be a loss of complete self respect and the word “easy” will be forever tattooed on our foreheads for believing in casual sex. And just clarifying, when I say “casual sex” I don’t mean sleeping around all the time and every weekend, I mean it literally; casual sex once in a while with no romantic entanglements just to quiet the urges. A man believes in casual sex and it’s completely normal; he can get away with hooking up with the girl from the bar. But that girl form the bar will be cataloged as a thirsty slut in that guy’s mind without him giving a second thought to the label. Could it have been that she was looking for the same thing he had? I mean, a slut is defined to be a woman with the morals of a man, so I guess it’s accurate.

Wait, so does that make me a slut for believing that there is nothing wrong with casual fornication? It is a manly moral to have, therefore I fit the definition. Most people would say I’m not, because I don’t whore around. But most people don’t realize the technical difference between a slut and a whore. A slut has self respect and self worth, she uses sex as her weapon and as her means of power, like any man. A man uses having sex as showing power, a slut uses having sex as controlling her power. Pretty eye opening technicalities if you ask me. A whore on the other hand, she uses sex to feel better about herself or himself. They sleep around all the time thinking that they overcome sex, but it in fact has overcome them. It has overcome them to such a point where morality is out the window and it has become a necessity by any means possible.

Under that logic, I really don’t mind being called a slut. I don’t sleep around, I believe in a casual fling once in a blue moon. I’ve made bad judgement calls I know, but I’m not going to let those define me any longer.

I’m a sexually frustrated 17 year old girl; fell free to judge me because I honestly won’t give a fuck.

One Way Ticket

This is an assignment I worked on that I ended up loving. It’s a remix of one of the great Langton Hughes poem ‘One Way Ticket’

I pick up my life,

And take it with me,

And put it in a jar of

Insecurities, Innocence

Hopeless romance,

Next to ingenuity

And no confidence

I pick up my life

And take it on a journey

To the corner of 39th and 9th

To the booth where your lips touched mine.

A place that distance is nothing

I am fed up with the laws of logic

People who think

Yet do not ponder

Who are scared of walking backwards

And leave the romantics out to dry

I pick up my dignity

And take it away

On a one-way-ticket

Gone up into the stars

Gone out into nothingness

Gone, just gone