journal two - dipping into the slam poem

Hi, I wrote a slam poem today.

I call it a slam poem because I could imagine rapping it, totally hammered. But sober? Not so much. My friends and I always rap when we're drunk, we just put on a beat and go for the gold. I'm really bad at it. I usually end up making a fool out of myself, blah blah-- but there are some kids in our little misfit collective that really have this dope gift of rhymes. I wish some of the talent would rub off.

Anyway, I'm writing this journal entry in light of this poem. Whenever I write poetry (and usually when I write in general) I make farfetched metaphors and insane imagery that wouldn't make sense to the normal being. It's been known to confuse readers, which is completely understandable. For some reason, things just make sense in my head and turn out to be some psycho-babble-bullshit in the real world. Naturally.

I'm struggling a lot right now; nothing unheard of or untouched, of course. I try to allude to my issues through the poem. I plan too much, fear my death, am alone. My family is running into a lot of money problems, and I learned tonight that my model family of three may be breaking up because my father is dipping too often into my mother's bank account, due to his failing business. When she told me she's planning on getting a divorce, she spoke cyclically (like most drunk people do) and kept changing her story. It's weird when you finally realize so few people in your life embrace any sort of credibility. I couldn't tell if she was serious about her plans, or if she was trying to manipulate and ascertain some sort of emotional control over me-- I'd rather not think about it. I was always closer to my dad. And I'm not helping at all through these financial issues with college, being an average student, meaning only a bit of it is paid for. A bit is certainly not enough. Nothing is enough, in this day and age.

I'm always throwing parties for my best friends, only because I never really anyone to do that for me. It's nice to feel important to someone, so I attempt to make my friends feel that way at least once a year. I don't deserve them. They put up with me. I'd punch myself in the face if I had to go through that. Either way, I planned on hosting a party for one of my best friends-- mind you, she is an ex of mine-- and of course, the mother thinks I'm some crazy sex fiend because that's what homosexuals are. I'm not homosexual. And being homosexual doesn't define you as a sex fiend. I never said I wasn't a sex fiend.

Anyway, these are things I touch on in my poem. I wanted to write it out in case my inability to write poetry hindered your opportunity to know the story. Here it is. I am a very interesting human being.