Inside Gigi's World

I haven’t written in sometime. I have been so busy writing everywhere else that my journals and blog have taken a hit.

Spring break 2022 has come and gone, not leaving me half as exhausted as I was hoping. I wanted to day drink and live off of cake for the week. I also wanted to dip my toes in water but, other than the stupid rain puddle I stepped in, there was no toe dipping.

I finished my math course and passed my final. That was a breath of fresh air. Only 2 more math classes to go.

I have a creative writing class I was jazzed for. I have learned a lot from the class so far but I’m not grading anywhere I had hoped I would fall which has been humbling but it also has me second guessing what the hell I am doing going back to school.

5 weeks! 5 whole weeks of poetry in this class. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5…5 weeks of pure hell! Poetry, my least favorite part of story telling and we have had 5 weeks of it. Maybe I just haven’t found a writer that I love. Maybe there is hope still, maybe.

For those of you who do not know, A-B-C-B is a quatrain, which is a style of poetry when the 2nd (first “B”) and the 4th line (second “B”) rhyme.

I was pretty pleased with my poem. “Was” being the keyword.

Maybe my professor just doesn’t like my style of writing. Maybe I am not her cup of tea. But when I ask her how I can improve, she replies with suggestions such as I need to dig deeper. I need to trust the process and my favorite so far, “you’re a great writer. Just relax and take the grades as they are.”

My response to her was somewhere on the lines of, “I didn’t come back to school as an adult, with children, a husband and two jobs as a full time student to relax. I’m here for straight “A”s. She didn’t respond.

I still think 2022 has been a dumpster of a year. Although there have been some highlights.

R. turned 16. (I’m not crying, you’re crying.)

J. is still a dancing fool and she had her first semi-formal this week.

And just because I am not doing enough, in my free time, I have started bedazzling dance costumes.

Below, you will find the poem I wrote for school. I hope you enjoy. I look forward to hearing what you have to think. Hoping it isn’t dumpster fire.

I Want to Write Stories, Not Poems. By Angela TG

As I put my pen to paper,
Nothing productive is coming out.
I hate writing poetry so much,
The task makes me want to scream and shout.

I’ve started about thirty poems,
I’ve tried to keep an open mind.
I’ve started to pull my hair out,
One single strand at a time.

I want to write stories,
Of woman who changed the world.
Women who set fire to the wrongs of life,
And spun, and fought, and twirled.

I want to write stories,
About what life could have been.
I want to rewrite my truths,
So, I can have happier ends.

I want to tell stories,
That everyone would want to hear.
I’d rather never write poetry again,
Not today, not tomorrow, never again, just to be clear.

I want to write about demigoddesses,
Who weren’t afraid to take on evil.
Demigoddesses who learned to live their own lives,
When they screamed at the top of their lungs and caused a mighty upheaval.

I want to write an ending,
A story that’s all my own.
I want to know how it will all play out,
Before it’s my time to go.

I want there to be hope,
For once where there was none.
I want to feel the wind in my hair,
I want to live free and come undone.

I want to live a story,
Where the storm becomes my friend.
One where there are no boundaries,
A story where I’m free to ascend.

A story where there are wings,
And bright stars.
A world filled with walking dreams,
Covered in glitter while we smoke cannabis filled cigars.

I want to write stories,
That change peoples’ minds.
Instead of writing more poetry,
Trying to make every other word rhyme.

I want to get all my thoughts out,
I want to be heard.
How many more lines should I write?
Poetry is not the style of writing I prefer.

Stories of women with powers,
Stories of their strengths and magic.
Women who need no saving,
Not needing a savior is not tragic.

A woman like me,
Who lives unapologetic.
One who swears like a sailor,
Who says a woman needs to be angelic?

Stories about death,
Not meaning goodbye.
Stories about life,
Fleeting in the blink of an eye.

The stories I’ll tell will smell like colors,
Flowers will talk,
Vegetables will taste like wine and chocolate,
And music will sound from every tick of the clock.

My feet would take me further,
Then any plane, or train or car ever could.
My fingernails would glisten like jewels,
I would live amongst the woods.

Water would fill my lungs like a fish,
And I wouldn’t ever die.
There would be no more distress or disasters,
There would no longer be a need to cry.

But instead, I find myself,
Sitting here all alone.
With a pen and a piece of paper,
Trying not to play on my phone.

I’m slowly driving myself crazy,
More than LSD ever did.
As I sit here writing poetry,
Hoping that I’ll get blown away by the wind.