This list is mostly for my own self reference, so I can come back and remind myself and hold myself accountable. I find I do...
At Leakycon we don’t say “I love you” we say “WE’RE WIZARDS WE’LL PARTY FOREVER TURN AROUND BRIGHT EYES HARRY I’M COMING HOME I...
You always loved the stars.
The night we fell in love,
You wooed my by naming those pinpricks in the sky,
Pointing out pictures of warriors and animals and lovers.
Your eyes were so excited and you looked so happy,
I pretended I could see them too.
We were once the aurora borealis,
Shimmering above the night sky,
Our bodies intermingling, our colors blending.
You were the purples, I was the oranges,
And together, we made fire.
But you took the purples away,
The flames too hot and the tundra too cold,
Too much all at once.
Without you I only burn,
Obliterating everything I touch.
I need someone to slow me to embers.
I thought we were the northern lights,
But I was just a spotlight in the night,
And you were just smoke.
i feel our potential energy in my bones.
you are a hypnic jerk,
a falling sensation.
you are the paint
i use to plaster on a smile,
and the reason
i don’t always need it.
pull the parts i hide
from my chest,
hold them in your palms,
and tell me you are home.
A thousand layers come between us,
And no matter how many hours I spend peeling them off,
You’re always bundled up again in the morning.
You tell me you need retouching,
Blurring yourself so profoundly
That I don’t always recognize you in a crowd.
Your saturation is high, beaming reds and yellows,
Your curves to die for,
But you can’t see it, even when it’s magnified.
I wish I could erase your background,
Render you a new one where you’ve always been loved,
Without the heaviness, one not confined to greyscale.
But all I can do is hold you while you shake,
Bake you sugar cookies and let you dictate the Netflix queue,
And hope that maybe I can add some hue for a while,
Some pinks (#F52887) or greens (#57E964) for a change.
A thousand layers come between us,
But when you shed them,
You are radiant.
You are chocolate-covered espresso beans,
And pages read by flashlight in the middle of the night.
On some days, we’re Lucky Charms marshmallows,
Bass beating in your chest cavity at a rock concert.
But sometimes we’re the smell of wet paint,
The feeling in your feet before you fall down the stairs,
The interminable pod race in Phantom Menace.
And that’s okay.
You tell me that without drops,
A roller coaster is just a track.
You grab my laptop, hold it behind your back, and say,
‘Kenzie, get off Tumblr;
Let’s go outside.’
We are Holden Caulfield gallivanting around New York City,
Scoffing, complaining that the lights are too bright.
The blinking red hands shout at us, begging us to stop,
But we run through the intersection as cars slam on their brakes,
Our laughs grotesque and cold.
Sometimes I wish we could just enjoy things
Instead of mercilessly picking them apart.
We are the jump-kick of justice,
Handcuffing criminals and kissing while police read them their rights.
People assume that you’re the hero and I’m your trusty sidekick,
But I know you see us as equals, partenaires dans le crime.
I get tangled up in your cape, trying not to fall behind.
You keep me on my toes, caffeinated into the night.
(This poem is a response to the 20 Little Poetry Projects writing exercise. Although it does not contain all 20, many remain intact.)
It’s funny how you can be an avid fan of a piece of fiction, an album or, in this case, a musical, for a long time without knowing anything about its creation. This is usually what happens, actually. In this day and age, we’ve been seasoned to care about the result, not the process.
About a week ago, I finally learned the story of RENT’s creator and writer, Jonathan Larson, and it had a profound impact on me. In case you’re not familiar, he’d been a starving artist for years, and had finally found success in RENT. He quit his day job and was finally able to do what he loved fulltime. However, Larson passed away right before the play’s opening night, right before RENT’s success exploded, before he could receive his Tony and Pulitzer.
It made me think: if there is a god, how could he let this happen? If there is a god, couldn’t the powers that be change his time by even a day or a week? If Larson was anything like most artists, and from what I’ve read, he was, opening night would have been the happiest day of his life. Why would he be deprived of that? It’s like a bride dying on the way to a wedding or a father dying hours before his son’s birth. Maybe the play gained success because of Larson’s death, but that can never take precedence over seeing something you’ve dreamed of for years finally culminate.
One of RENT’s most prominent themes it that there’s “no day but today,” and Jonathan Larson’s death adds a new facet to this message. As tragic as his passing is, the fact that he believed deeply in this phrase is comforting. He knew that every breath could be his last, and though he probably wasn’t thinking about it, it was something he believed in.
So the main thing I took away from this: maybe it’s easier for me to take a nap or play Sudoku on my iPod for hours than to sit down and write a short story or a book or even a post for my Tumblr. But I need to do it. I never know how much time I have left to do what I love. No day but today.