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August 5, 2019

It's been quite a while since I have genuinely enjoyed the company of my own thoughts. I remember how I used to write all the time and how the words f...

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August 5, 2019

People are poetry.

Sometimes they’re one line too long and then they end abruptly.

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Swim with the Stars #ArtByPatriciaJean

November 16, 2016



A painting inspired by this wonderful poem I read: 


I Was Told to Write an About Me and This is What Happened by Kelsey Danielle

“Each time I’m asked to tell about myself, I find myself starting the same way: ‘My name is Kelsey and I’m nineteen…’
but what I’d really like to say is:
‘My name means island of the ships but once
I found a translation that said I’m a burning shipwreck-
not a burning ship but a ship that has caught fire
after the wreckage and well, I’d say that’s more fitting.’
I’ve learned that people don’t have time for ‘about me’s’ .
They need two things: a name and an indication you’re someone special.
The doctors, they want facts not details.
‘I broke my leg when I was three, it’s a funny story actually-’
The right or the left?
Conversation over.
The teachers, they want interests, hobbies.
You’re sad, yes, but what do you like to do?
The adults are a spew of questions.
What school do you go to? What classes are you taking?
What do you plan on becoming? Got a boyfriend?
No, stop.
People my own age are the worst.
‘I’m planning on an English degree with a concentration in creative writing.’
Yeah, aren’t we all. So how many times have you, you know, done it?
I’m pulled apart, my interests traveling highway 2
my goals at a stop light at traffic hour,
my medical history on a billboard for the world to see.
But what about me?
Where’s the chance to say,
‘I hang on to fistfuls of poetry like loose change in my pockets,
and I keep waiting for the day that the world turns upside down
so I can swim with the stars.
I’m not afraid of darkness, it’s a loneliness I can empathize with.
It’s the black-holes like cigarette burns inside of me that get troublesome.
I walk through graveyards and read the dashes between years,
each a story I’ll never know. Sometimes I create my own.’
No wonder none of us know who we are anymore.”






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