Thursday, November 11, 2010


Maturity is a funny thing. Sometimes it works in reverse. This is a self-reflective poem I wrote almost five years ago when I was a junior at UCLA and not quite 21:

Once there was a girl, a very beautiful girl
Who could make you believe, make you feel, all within the world of her words.
Once this girl believed in her own words, in the crafty structure of their composure.
But then there were questions and demands to know what it was that she was going to do.
What, when all the words faded away and left her in the imminent vacuity of inability.
The only loneliness, no one hearing what it was that she was saying, the exposure of her nature.
Once there was a girl, a very beautiful girl
That withered from others conceptions and expectations, as she couldn’t be who they wanted to see.
A death, an utter tragedy, of one who created her own reality.

And this picture is a representation of what I was doing last night:

But hey! I didn’t finish the whole bottle! That’s mature right?

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