Butterfly Diaries A teen on a quest to be a better writer

Tag Archives: Writing

Connections 8/13/13

When a writer closes their eyes to go to a “happy place”

They don’t picture the lake, ocean, or grandma’s kitchen

When I want to be at peace, I recall all those I’ve seen

The girl with the demitasse and the constellation tattoos

Heart broken by a man who exchanged fists instead of kisses

Pens and paintbrushes became her life- taking pretty things and making them beautiful

The perky  six year old who collects fallen leaves to keep safe all winter

So when Spring comes around, he can bury them in the park

Keeping pretty things around for people to look at

The shy analytical barista with a beard and glasses

Who does long division on napkins during break

Only finding peace when stargazing with kids in the park

These people will never speak to me, or each other

But as a writer, I can connect them all

What place is happier then that?

An open letter to the guy with the “choose life” tattoo, that told me to kill myself

An open letter to the guy with the “choose life” tattoo, that told me to kill myself.

 

What would your first girlfriend- the one with the pretty white dress-think of you now?

“A fine upstanding man” her grandma tells her. “Solid Christian values.”

She never told her grandma about the time your hands slipped up her thighs

“We both know we’ll be married some day. We might as well do it now.”

She never told her grandma that her moans to God were prayers

“As long as you love me, I guess it’s okay.”

The day you graduated, she expected a proposal- Instead she got a kiss goodbye

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We Made the Move: Zed and Aahz

A few years ago, my father started listening to something he called Free Talk Live. I was 13 or so, so politics was never something I even thought of. I knew who the president was and what school taught us about voting republican or democrat but that was about it. He had always told me he was an anarchist and that meant he didn’t believe in government. My mother, worked with the state police department and I really just didn’t understand how he could want her to be out of a job. How could he not want police? They keep us safe! After opening my eyes, things changed a lot.

 

Dad started talking to me about things he heard on Free Talk Live, as well as other thought provoking questions like, “without government, who will build the roads?” I guess I had never realized before that taxes were stolen money, and although schools and food for unemployed neighbors, and roads were important, this was not the way to go about it.

 

At this point he had decided when I was 18, he’d move to New Hampshire to join the fight for personal freedom and less government intervention in daily life. We started following stories of some of the liberty activists and I was outraged every time someone was arrested for a victimless crime. Even at 16, I wanted to do something to help. When I heard about the Bartholomew case and trial, it was time for me to make a stand.

 

These brothers, founders of Good Men Do Something were arrested while holding up a sign that said “Taxes=Theft” wearing Guy Fawkes masks. Facing a misdemeanor for resisting/obstructing, their trial was only 2 hours away from us, so the next day Dad and I drove up and got a motel, ready to support these men we had never met, but who we whole-heartedly agreed with.

 

This was my first time in a jury trial and seeing how the California court system worked. It was also my first time around any number of liberty activists. I can say confidently, I felt at home and I realized California was not the place for me to be. I didn’t want to grow up there anymore. I wanted out. Now. After a 2 day trial, Dad and I were driving home and in the car I blurted out, “I think it’s time to move.” He was confused. I had never expressed an interest in moving to New Hampshire and it seemed quite random to him. We didn’t actually talk about it much that day. He wanted me to think for a few days about what I’d be leaving, and make sure I wasn’t making a cross country move in the heat of the moment. It was definitely what I wanted though.

 

Two months later, we had rented an apartment online from a fellow liberty activist, shipped 22 boxes of our belongings away, hugged our family and friends goodbye and were on the road. We spent three weeks on the road, traveling the country. We went on a showboat and a zip line, as well as all the little tourist traps we could find. We even went to a huge glass restaurant lined with hundreds of different sodas for purchase, and a 66 foot pop bottle out front!

 

July 3rd was the day we finally crossed into New Hampshire. We stopped in Keene and met some activists before making our way to our new apartment, which we woke up in the next morning-Making it a true Independence Day. It felt good to be home.

 

Since then, I’ve jumped into many groups and done much activism. I started my podcast PorcTeens, after noticing a great hole in the market, as it’s the only liberty oriented podcast for teens, by teens. Dad and I have gone to several trials including Ademo’s wire-tapping trial, and participated in Shire Sharing for the first time. I can say it feels great. I’m so glad I made the move, and I’m glad I made it when I did. This is where I belong, and I’m not going anywhere.

Mountains in Kansas

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I’m tired of my body being a topic of conversation during foreplay.
The truth is, when kissing leads to touching and clothes start coming off, I get scared.
As hands cover my thighs I remember when I had the pleasure of only being ashamed of the fat on my body.
That’s an easy thing to get over because they know before they get you in bed, that you’re fat.
He got what he bargained for on that one but the most embarrassing part of my body is not visible while I’m clothed.

 

Tonight his touch burns me with fear as if his fingernails were claws dancing recklessly above my veins.
As soon as my legs are bare, I get goosebumps of anticipation.
The god damn tattoo draws attention and I hope he doesn’t notice,
But I feel his kisses slow down when he reaches my thighs.
His fingertips start tracing in a different way, feeling the way how scars raise millimeters above the skin still managing to stand out like mountains in Kansas.
I stop moaning in sync with his movements. I know what comes next.
Shifting up on his arms he looks at me, climbing back up my body to kiss my lips.

 

“I’m sorry.” He tells me, “I’m sorry.”
Having to push away the hope we’re going any further tonight, I sigh, letting out months of curbed frustration.
“It was a long time ago. Don’t be sorry.”
He doesn’t like this answer. He wants to stay up and talk about them. He wants me to tell him a story about every time I bled. Then he’ll be okay with it. He needs a reason.
I remember when I wanted people to ask. I wanted them to notice and care and pay attention and now the scars host pure resentment.

 

I wish I would of used the medication earlier.
I wish I would of cut more so I could claim it was a skin condition.
I wish he was blind so he wouldn’t notice
but I never wish to go back.
Ashamed of the defects but solid behind their reasons.

 

This is not a topic of conversation, at least, I don’t want it to be.
Not every sad man on the bus needs to comment on the lighter burns covering my arm.
I just want to be able to have sex without telling them, “Yeah. I used to cut myself. I used to burn myself. I used to rip my skin open because I couldn’t breathe or think or live without it.”

 

Why aren’t self induced scars as sexy as the results of last year’s knife fight?
Why can’t we fool around strategically placed silence?
Either way, you won’t want to talk to me in the morning.
Either way, the scars will still be there, I can only hope they keep fading
like your faith in me.

Inspiration To Inspire-Poem

I never wanted to be a ballerina. I never wanted to be an astronaut. I never even wanted to be a rock star. Since age 5, I wanted to be a teacher. A shepherd. A compass.

Directing the sheep and teaching them to be wolves.
I wanted to be a pencil, a paintbrush, a muse.

Finding the kids who cry themselves to sleep and replacing their shot glasses and razor blades with this new age thing called art.

My goal in life since I knew the definition of the word was to inspire. To trigger the next Van Gogh. Not to better my own life, but society as a whole.

Like all the other dreaming children who became plumbers and insurance salesmen instead of dancers and spacemen, it all fell apart.

Acne and emptiness came hand in hand. I no longer knew who I was, and what I wanted to be became no more then an optimistic, “one day.”

My mind was once a thrift store, everything was second hand, but good quality.

Now it’s a flea market. Cheap Dora the Explorer knock offs drowning out any good thing that could possibly manifest.

I can’t inspire anything when my thoughts consist of the future and how the consequences of my life choices would fuck it all up.

Floating along, too busy avoiding the rocks and whirlpools to build the awesome waterslide I once had the courage to imagine.

What it comes down to, is I’ve lost my inspiration to inspire and that’s just sad.

 

Ephemeral Infinity-Poem

These infinite efforts to ban you from my thoughts keep falling short

Earth’s twisted serendipity landed me in your arms then ripped us apart

When we’re this far, my nerves get sharp and my soul gets cold

Memories of us, haunting my consciousness as these tears drown my face

Scooting my body over, making space that I know you’ll never fill

Reaching for shadows, hugging pillows, dreaming of your touch

Endlessly trapped in this darkness, longing for my Sunshine

Wishing on every star, dandelion, and eyelash for your warmth once more

The absence of your lips on mine is the only thought under this sky

Torturing myself with the constant recall of your effervescent laughter

This patch work quilt of my thoughts won’t hush or comfort

This twisted idea of an ephemeral infinity leaves me speechless again

Now that my pen dies and my eyes droop I regrettably bid farewell

As the sun rises, you’ll hear from me but tonight this must end