More than Simply Shaking it Off – a post that isn’t mine (which is why there are capital letters in the title)

dearest blog followers,

in the spirit of breaking the fourth wall, i wanted to share a blog i recently discovered.

and by ‘recently discovered’ i mean ‘i saw one of my former students tweet a link to her new blog.’

as an english teacher, one of my biggest ‘things’ was the mantra that ‘your voice matters.’ that everyone has a story to tell that’s worth telling – the hardest part is convincing ourselves that what we have to say matters.

the blog is prose, the first topic taylor swift (ok, maybe half the reason i’m supporting this is because i like taylor, too, maybe), and it has a message that i think matters – a message that requires courage to put into print, much less from a junior in college.

what’s so fun about writing about the human heart is that the topic doesn’t matter; it’s the message behind it.

no spoilers, because i’m hoping you’ll click the link and follow her blog.

(lauren, i hope you update this thing every once in a while and keep making me look good by proxy.

. . . no pressure or anything)

link below:

More than Simply Shaking it Off.

ps: if any other former students have blogs or writing and y’alls are like ‘dude, gimme some free press’ i’ll be all like ‘sure, lemme see what ya got.’

man who once cared now questioning

man who once cared now questioning 

alright so here’s the thing, he said pacing the room and gesturing to the walls
i was starting to worry i’d lost myself, he said
that something inside me was broken and changed

he paused his pacing
took a sharp breath in
through his nostrils
his eyes blue and looking at the fridge

i wasn’t sure if i was incomplete, he began, nodding to himself
his eye contact with the fridge replaced by introspection
or if i was just becoming used to a new normalcy

and it can be scary, you see, he said
hands open and palms up, his eyes shifting
from one hand to the other
weight on the balls of his feet mirroring

it can be scary, he continued
unsure if i am cracked or simply different
so i’m really glad to know
it wasn’t me, it was baseball season.

shyly, he sings

his voice echoed off 
hardwood and sheetrock
carried up the stairs
through the walls themselves
well past the mailbox
whose door refuses to remain entirely shut.

she said nothing at his side
and linked her left arm around his right 
as he played, carefully, though
so as not to break his focus
as if his entire focus
were not already her. 

to my love

i thought you’d gone out, she said mostly into her pillow.

no, darling, i was just downstairs. 

what were you doing, she asked, her voice soft in summer dark.

just straightening the kitchen, dear.

she adjusted for comfort beneath their blanket as he leaned against the doorframe,
waiting for his eyes to adjust.

are you coming to bed, she asked, her words thick and sweet.

yes, my love, i just need to write you a poem, first.