You Never Happened

I couldn’t care less what you have to say,

it would all just be empty words to me anyway.

What did I expect, a prince in shining armor?

You wore Spider-man converse, drove a cube car.

I don’t understand those who prefer to wear a mask,

but your true self has been revealed to me at last.

Good bye. Good luck. I’ll never speak of you again.

I’ve already forgotten- it’s like you never happened.

© Katie Thompson, 2016

Empty

empty-chest

I’ll marinade my liver in Captain Morgan each night,

and drown the naive girl inside of me while I’m at it.

No soda- I chase nothing. The liquid comfort will burn

as it slides down my throat and resentment will churn

in my gut until I froth at the mouth, spit fire

at any who dare approach me. Dragon lady. Bitch.

Call me what you will, but find another lover’s heart to invade,

the quest to possess mine is fruitless. Even if you suffer

through Dante’s seven rings of inferno, you will find

nothing more than an empty chest for bounty.

©Katie Thompson, 2016

The Person I Used to Be

I might as well have sent you a loaded gun,

with a note that read: Go ahead.

Look in the mirror and pull the trigger.

I know the thought has crossed your mind.

 

If only you could know me as I am now,

a woman humbled by bad decisions and worse men.

If we’d only said what needed to be said, nothing more,

I wonder what the outcome would be.

 

That poem I wrote to hurt you so many years ago

revealed more about the poet

-the person I used to be-

than it did about the boy who wronged her.

 

Time and distance have shattered the illusion

that the person I was, is all I’ll ever be.

Thank God, thank the universe, there’s hope for us both!

The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

 

 

 

©Katie Thompson, 2016

An Oldie

Fire

blue_fire_eye_by_nithilien

I have an insatiable fire inside of me,

it burns blue and boils my blood,

hungers for fuel: answers, explanations.

The flames flicker up, licking the edges

of books, lectures, poems- engulfing them whole.

Then they smolder in a state of exhaustion.

The fire is omnipresent, never satiated,

just when I think it is being smothered, it rises

from the ash like an immortal Pheonix.

The fire is a gift and a burden,

which I am not sure I can shoulder.

Still, it burns me from the inside.

Until one day, I fear:

there will be nothing left

to burn.

 

 

©Katie Thompson, 2014

Pity (1st draft)

Heed the man who keep crazy company.

Perhaps they did not arrive in that state.

Please, do not waste your cheap pity on me.

 

Go ahead, sleep with me again tonight,

break me down to nothing- it’s what I want.

What’s one more chip in my marble façade?

 

I’ll remember you as you were to me,

not the likeness she painted in venom.

Please, do not waste your cheap pity on me.

 

walk away, pour salt in the open wound.

If it burns like hell, I’ll know it was love.

What’s one more crack in my marble façade?

 

Don’t mourn what’s passed, celebrate what’s to come.

Lay your baggage to rest at the door

and please, do not waste your pity on me.

 

Do not worry where I will go from here,

but of the work you have ahead, my dear.

Please, do not waste all your pity on me.

What’s one more crack in my marble façade?

Don’t Quit Your Day Dream

Dont Quit Your Day Dream

In the spirit of my blog name, I figured I would impart some knowledge of negligence and all things improper. If you’re wondering, I am in fact an expert in all things that should not be done, specifically those which are illegal- but I digress.

The first words of advice for the night are: don’t let things slide! I am the numero uno offender of this rule. Case in point: a few weeks back, I wrote a piece about a comedy showcase for the newspaper I work at. (I’m only a freelance writer and a part-time legals clerk). I sent my piece in after reworking it all day and received no response from the editor. I know I shouldn’t have, but I let it go. I went to work and didn’t bother going to the editor’s office to ask him about it right away. Long story short, my writing did not suck horribly and I am still getting paid despite the fact it was not published, because I spent time out of work attending the event, interviewing people, and writing.

All I had to do was ask, but I avoided it, because I was afraid. Not only that, but when I finally did mention the first piece, I was offered a second go-round and now have a half-page article that is being published in this week’s paper. It pays to be proactive- literally.

The second sage wisdom I will leave anyone reading this with is to not give up. As I shared in my last blog post, I was close to packing up my notebooks and bowing my head from the writing ring. Don’t quit your daydream. Even if you write some pretty awful stuff, stuff probably deserving of being burned, don’t stop working. A wise poet and professor once told me: “Sometimes you have to write four shitty poems to write one good one.” I have plenty of shitty poems and (if I can say so without sounding conceded) a few good poems that prove this statement to be true.

The final piece of advice I will gift any of you whom are still reading is this: don’t burn your shitty poems/songs/writing/art/etc. Not only do they provide for great entertainment later on, they also may come in useful. Maybe you have one decent image or line, one decent moment in an otherwise shit poem. It is okay to recycle from old to create new, it is okay to create something shitty, but however ill-formed, it is still something you have created. Even the idea of creating something horrible can be turned into art. Don’t believe me? Read Anne Bradstreet’s poem “The Author to Her Book,” an incredible poem about a not-so-incredible book she wrote.

Well, that’s all I have to leave you with today bloggers. Hope you gained at least one useful tip out of reading this and write-on! Until next time.

 

Right Back at it Again

So another unplanned hiatus from WordPress. In part, because I was up in the middle of no where Maine with no wifi or TV (it was glorious). The other part was this temporary time in which I thought I might give up writing. After considering my options, I’ve decided that I’ll never stop writing, because I simply must write. It is not something I chose, because of royalties or fame, but something that just naturally flows from me. Instead, I plan to really focus on writing. I’m currently working on a chapbook of poetry, for which I have about fifteen poems written so far.

Although the book is mainly about the perils of drug addiction and ultimately about finding the true self, I think I may include a poem that serves as a preface to the book. If I do, here’s the poem I would choose, because I think it demonstrates the greatest demon that everyone houses- self doubt. That tiny over-critical voice in the back of any artist’s head, or any person’s head, that tells them they aren’t good enough. Shut it off, just for a day believe in yourself. Hope you enjoy:

A Poem a Day

I want to write a poem every day,

make a tiny desk calendar of poems-

string them around my room like Tibetan prayer sheets.

I’m going to wallpaper my bathroom in congratulatory print-

premonitions of publication that dot the wall

like dandelion seeds, spreading over every inch of sky

blue paint, until they suffocate the mirror

and I can no longer stare into the crystalline surface

to ask myself: What do I have worth saying to the world?