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Posted: Wed Sep 26, 2012 7:24 pm
irony is best served late and frozen: (or: a rant about my hatred of poetry in the form of a free-verse(?) poem.)
You see, I don't like
Poetry.
And in this "European society"
(which you have kindly dubbed it with a tone that could only be described as pure annoyance)
I choose to not create what we call "poetry."
And seem to think that because
Of my "loathing"
(you're right, i hate poetry- I can't rhyme a thing and sonnets send me into a spinning headache )
For poetry, I am not
"artistic or creative"
(although that's not why I laughed at you, honest.)
Last time I checked, I draw.
I am not good at it. But I do. I write stories, chapters, replies, characters, with my fingers flying and my pencil scratching and my fingers tapping i will create and record the worlds in my head, the stories, the people, and i will tell what will happen to each and every one of them if i have the time even if my hand will start to hurt and i have ran out of pages.
I sing along to the music around me entirely off key and with a voice that sounds like something that you would expect from the token "non-talented" you see in shows about those "artsy" children but some people seem to think is pretty and tap my fingers, hum, and click-click-click my tongue,
dance around until i have pressed my feet to the floor to many times or until my lungs start to hurt
(although i have as much knowledge about dance as does a giraffe does about how to play a guitar so i will twirl and spin and strike funny poses and stomp my feet and clap my hands and "it's-time-to-begin-isn't-it" off-key singing and happiness without a care in the world),
I play the cello, with my hands to the wire strings, and a bow strumming across creating pitched vibrations that weave themselves into organized, beautiful noise- even if it is as monotonous as pachelbel's cannon.
You,
Sir,
And your look of annoyance staring straight ahead at my unblinking,
Unimpressed,
No-reaction showing,
"I've heard it before"
(I have, trust me)
Face,
With your eyes bugging out and an odd smirk on your face,
Will not convince me that I am not
"artistic."
Because to you:
I have to get up in front of people,
Anxiety blazing, adrenaline-pumping, stuttering mess that I am,
And perform
A rhyming, head-spinning sonnet-like thing of my own creation
(with movements)
To be "artistic."
And to that, I will say
"no."
From the rooftops, the tops of the mountains, through a megaphone on a baseball field,
I will say
"no."
(and screaming at the top of my lungs too,
Until my eyes water and fill with tears from the ever-growing anxiety and the panic,
And until my lungs hurt- i will scream.)
and we'll repeat it again,
you and I,
the staring,
I, unimpressed, non-responsive to your lectures,
and you,
trying to get me to write poetry and stand up there
(Anxiety blazing, adrenaline-pumping, stuttering mess that I am),
And perform
A rhyming, head-spinning sonnet-like thing of my own creation
(with movements)
To be "artistic."
And to that, I will say
No.
And although this is late,
(and this is nowhere near what it should be about,)
I will sit there
With my unamused, marvel villan worthy stone-cold silence, slouch, crossed arms, and glare,
And refuse
To get up there.
Instead,
I will sit with my cello,
With my notebook,
My paper and pencil,
And show you
That I do not have to be on display
(Anxiety blazing, adrenaline-pumping, stuttering mess that I am)
to be
"artistic."
I will play a song with my bow to the strings and my fingers flying to create notes that will create a tune if strung together like beads on a necklace and blends in with the other instruments to create something amazing,
Write a story until the pencil is a stub even if it's terrible and the characters are flat- but oh, those descriptions are like flowers and weeds, growing and twisting and surrounding- but still flat, still needing so much work,
Sing and dance in my room to the music coming from the cd player, clapping and stomping to the "it's-time-to-begin-isn't-it" rhythm and claps and strike a pose and sing and click-click-click my tongue and clap my hands until i collapse with laughter because my voice sucks and i am a terrible dancer but i am happy with my troubles gone for a brief, shining thirty minutes and i sing and dance like a loon,
And draw until my hands grow sore and my inspiration has run out and i have ran out of paper to fill and my hands ache from stroke after sketchy stroke to show what words cannot explain, to show the stories in my head that will never be able to be described in letters or when language falls thin and flat
(like it does oh so many times).
To show you that I,
(Anxiety blazing, adrenaline-pumping, stuttering mess that I am)
Do not have to stand up and perform
to be
"artistic."
loonaboots
Shady Zapper
Offline
loonaboots
Shady Zapper
Offline
Posted: Tue Oct 02, 2012 7:37 pm
about pages: (i will soon be editing it and this will be the "about me" section)
claire, female (more or less). intp.
highschooler with sarcasm, snark, pessimistic, and "fed-up-with-the-world" streaks.
wants more than what the world can give, little to no motivation, and has a few hopes for the future.
is a mood-swinging, antisocial, word-manipulating, lying, fast-talking, somewhat cheerful nutjob.
