I used to be a really good writer…

When we went up to New York for Christmas, my dad showed me where my sister was storing all the things he moved from California. Most of it is his to process, but a lot of it was mine. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to go through it as much as I wanted, but I did clear out one box from my sister’s house.

In that box were several journals from over the years. I already decided that I didn’t want to read any of them, but I happened to flip through one and found a poem (song lyrics, really, though I couldn’t tell you the melody anymore) I wrote 15 years ago. Apparently, I wrote it when I discovered a bunch of my friends at the time were experimenting with different drugs (acid, cocaine, marijuana, etc.), and I was completely mortified.

So, for your reading pleasure, I offer the work of a cynical 18-year-old version of myself:

Nothing Left

 

a picture of perfection

a dream too good to be true

to move without detection

to be one of the chosen few

the colors melt across the sky

the sounds of silence rushing by

the colors crash and dreams collide

leaving nothing

nothing there in your mind

 

the sky, it seems so holy

angels floating through the purple haze

the world around you’s rolling

you stumble through a broken maze

so down you go into the night

darkness calling, burning bright

the sidewalks crash as trees collide

leaving nothing

nothing there in your mind

 

a feeling gone by morning

you wake, moving like the living dead

a nightmare without warning

you face another day with dread

the light, it screams from the outside

too much to handle, go back and hide

the rush, it comes, the world subsides

leaving you with nothing

nothing there in your mind

 

there’s nothing left in your mind

I was actually impressed with it, myself. Apparently, I was a pretty decent writer back in the day.

The journal is full of all sorts of ramblings I would expect from myself back then. Even more interesting was glancing through some of its pages and quickly glancing at some of the things I wrote. Good lord. Angst much? Among some stories of first dates (some more memorable than others) and issues with friends, I did a lot of complaining. And it’s kind of laughable. Clearly it wasn’t written for anyone to see but me. And even then, I don’t think it was intended for the 34-year-old Mommy version of me. I once thought I should hang onto my journals in the event I have a little girl of my own one day. But there are some things I’d rather not revisit. Ever.

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One thought on “I used to be a really good writer…

  1. I remember reading my mom's journal from when she was 16. I don't remember much about it other than her complaining about her lack of dates. I don't think I would want any child of mine reading my own journal from the teenage years. And I think if I were to re-read them, that I would start to pray for all my children to be boys.

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