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poetry, Uncategorized

Give My Regards to the Dead

I have done a shit job of integrating my two personalities as I meander between sick and well.  Interestingly, as a bipolar person, I also have dual sets of interests that don’t really go together.  I grew up very attached to loud variants of rock music and wrote a lot of poetry while hanging out in coffeehouses, attending plays, and doing the high school-college thing.  After suffering years of bipolar episodes, I struggled to re-discover what was left of me and became interested in fashion, makeup, jewelry, and DIY crafts.  I even started an ETSY store after I stopped working amongst the masses.  I never thought I would write poetry again and yet tonight, I wrote an entire poem that feverishly spilled out of me in record time.  Who is this person who spends an immense amount of time staging ETSY photos with fresh fruits and flowers?  What does she know about poetry?  She watches America’s Next Top Model and subscribes to IPSY.  How will she ever put these halves together in a harmonious way?  Stay tuned to find out.


But first, the poem.

Gentle Realization, 10.26.16

Download your sadness

like a fresh book,

no hurry, the machine will work

while you wait.

Open your memories and

click back to who you were before

the fishes died and the earth grew hot.

Mark the pages for the next time

you feel like fucking nostalgia.

Draw some black rainbow hearts or some shit

that is popular nowadays.

Take a picture of your sorrow and upload

to your Facebook account.

Unfriend a few fucks who post

douchy trendy political memes.

Hold tight to that fleeting power.

Close the weak side

of the beautiful fragile mind

and no worry, if you can’t

the computer will.


Just play some Korn and look at this picture and you will understand everything.

Do I really have to be on the verge of a complete suicidal breakdown to be the best creative person I can be?  What is it about the weight of mortality that sticks so hard?

In terms of writing, I used to eat, breathe, play, and work my poetry almost daily.  It was just an extension of my soul and there is nothing particularly dramatic to me about that.  It’s not cool or hip or the shit.  I have always believed very truly that anyone can write poetry.  It’s a skill.  If you can read, you’re halfway there.


Word.  I was cool even in the 70s hanging in my crib.  Thanks for the hat, Dad.

In terms of the poem’s content above, I think there has been a shift in the way we perceive each other beause of our addiction to technology.  To break it down, we are shitty to each other frequently and without much regret.  It seems easy to compartmentalize our emotions and sweep the rest away.  I think things are changing too–our planet and unlike our memories, we aren’t going to be able to get some things back like the things we say.

It’s too easy to say shit, yo.  I mean, look, I have this free blog and I’m saying shit and you might comment and say shit.  We will continue into the night to say shit.  And it will all be logged so we can look back at it and maybe say some more shit later.  Maddening.

I say, say all the shit you want but make it intelligent.

In terms of merging my various identities, it’s half managing my extracurriculars and the other half accepting myself as not fractured but incredibly diverse and unique as a person.  There is too much pressure to be a fashionista or a punk or a diva or whatever.  I can wear designer shit and listen to Korn.  I can make my own beeswax moisturizer and write confessional poetry.  Break all the damn rules.

So, tonight as I use my handmade strawberry lip balm, I will listen to Reverend Horton Heat and celebrate my first poem of 2016.

If you want more poems, stupid pictures, and wisdom in your e-mail box, follow this blog.  I will be happy to indulge.  Toodles.

About missyrogers

Lifelong Michigander, early 40s, craft addict, chihuahua collector, coffee drinker, recovering human being, bipolar I, electronic music lover, bullshit caller, 5' tall, my blood is organic, and I refuse to be anything else. I will write until I die.


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