Let me feel you Let me listen to your words Let me breath you Let me see you Let me lay next to your warmth Just let me be there To witness your birth Your life Your death
“What do you want?!” I snap, slamming my hands down onto my keyboard, a little harder than I intended. I turned to watch my roommate inch away as she rolled her eyes. “Never mind,” she said, with an inflection on the “mind” part of the word. I let out a breath. Half of my body wants to call after her and say “I’m sorry,” but I plop to the ground instead. Eight hours, I think to myself. Eight hours and what do I have to show for it? A crappy opening sentence and a little over half a page. Great. Why is it that 90% of my work gets done when only 10% of my time is left? It’s funnny how exams can force you to rethink life. On the ground, my carpet feels softer than I imagined it, but
First try to become anything else. Seriously. Try random jobs in sales, customer service, and the government. Try being self employed, work from home, sell handmade knits on Etsy. Only after you’ve exhausted all other possible avenues should you even think about becoming a chef. When you’re ready to start, go to school and begin studying for your bachelor’s degree. If you can afford it, graduate. If you can’t stomach going to school or paying the exorbitant fees, get a job as a waiter, or as a bus boy. If you’re a woman,
Lipstick not ChapStick. You need blush and foundation. That doesn’t look right. Your face is a little chubby. You need to try this brand, it’s better for your skin. Don’t you see? They all look beautiful. Don’t cry. It doesn’t look flattering. Buy that shirt, that dress, that mascara, and it’ll be better. Fix your hair. It’s not that you’re ugly, you just need work. Some girls need more work.
Creativity fully blooms in the morning Birds chirp, the sun shines bright The best time to write, The best time for inspiration. The problem with that, However, I’m not the morning type. Instead of rising I lay in bed and arrange words In my head
Here is the endless wet thick cosmos, The center Of my soul. Here on my feet lie The key to my whole world. They say everything about me They know everything I know. They’ve seen everything I’ve seen, They’ve even watched me grow.
She wants to write stories that ignore borders between genres, between written and spoken, between highbrow literature and children’s nursery rhymes…It’s true, she wants the writers she admires to respect her work, but she also wants people who don’t usually read books to enjoy these stories too. Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street