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MY MASSIVE FEELINGS (FRAGMENTS FROM THE DIARY OF A YOUNG GIRL) - PART 2

By Laurie Weeks

Dear Ms. Plath:

Please forgive me for troubling you when you have no idea whom I am, and of course you mustn’t feel the need to answer as this is doubtlessly one amongst thousands of letters from your admirers. But, anyway I recently had the pleasure of being introduced #1 to The Bell Jar, #2 to your poems, respectively. I found myself quite moved, to my surprise, I never knew there was a poet as superior and perceptive as yourself. I am unfortunate to be trapped in a small farming town in the middle of NOWHERE much like Jane Eyre where we only get 4 channels with nothing edifying. I deeply adore and write poems thanks to you which Mrs. Gunn my French teacher says are quite interesting, but please don’t think me immodest for I know they suck. I am surrounded by oafs who are nice to me unless I act like I like or love them for example Mr. Jim Tedeschi but fuck him he’s simple country folk, forgive my language, often I am swept by tantrums, being tempestuous.

To get to the one worthless bookstore, Mother must drive me to the mall on the freeway that stretches like a flat black tongue through the hellish corn. The people rise from the dead to drive their glittering cars like shattered cries speeding into the throat of madness. Like you I am masticated in the grinding jaws of endless thoughts of death. One example is I couldn’t drink out of a glass when I was 7 because I thought glass would come off and slide down my throat, bleeding to death. If anyone is reading this in the future because they are writing my biography or snooping in my room as usual, looking for fake reasons to punish me, this part of my journal is private and not for publication. I am just thinking out loud because unfortunately I am surrounded by zombies who care nothing for inspiration and passion, just pheasant hunting and vacuuming. Saying how negative I am every time I say something true like how commercials on TV are total lies and people are sheep. And speaking of lies this is not being written because I am smoking pot as I am constantly accused of by a person or persons who say they can smell it on my personage when I come home, which is a total paranoid falsehood. It just so happens that my pot smoking is for purely personal reasons ONLY, being totally unrelated to my diaries or other creativity ventures.

So my point AS A STRAIGHT-A STUDENT with many extracurricular activities such as Marching Band and Jazz Band is that I smoke pot in my usual responsible way and not as the lazy criminal who feeds off of society, nor also for some meaningless high, but rather as a positive thing that INCREASES MY PRODUCTIVENESS by slowing my brain down enough to sit still without being carpet bombed by a herd of worrying about tumors and where is Dad.

	Blood is spurting like a seizure Do you not hear the tulips screaming in the vortex? The carefree child became a monster No more shall the small bee merrily prance
	Or…	The carefree child became a monster Porcine bees come blasting from a shotgun Pierced by knives of cruelty Like a voodoo doll that everyone is stabbing with pins for no reason
	Is this one better? Carefree child you are a monster
		Or so the zombies say
	Whom once was an innocent baby
		Explodes in the screaming vortex
	Stabbed by the prancing nightmares
		Of a voodoo doll in a bloody seizure
	Maybe this??
	See the bloody Voodoo child of seizures Laugh at her hanging naked from your inscrutable rope Do you not hear her stygian screams Above the malodorous vortex? That is filled with the snapping bones of Madness? Snapping Madness Of bones? Madness of snapping
		Bones?

God, poetry is HARD. Trying to find the perfect way to express the visions trapped inside me is like being a tiny bird pecking against the stone mountain of eternity. How can I be a madly brilliant artist with burning eyes and arms like sticks if I can’t even have a nervous breakdown! If someone would think to take me to a psychiatrist like Sylvia Plath, the truth of my invisible SOS would be revealed by an EXPERT, PROVING this hellhouse. But no. Being so burnt out from planning the vacuuming schedule, the only thing you see is pot. Making up excuses to punish me for no reason WHATEVER, it never occurs to you that a girl with massive feelings about this magic life might stay in her bedroom all the time because like all serious artists she is depressed, for example by all the sadness and death in the world, starting with CERTAIN THINGS IN THIS HOUSE!!!!!

Also I wonder why this person or persons thinks they know what pot smells like because there is no way certain parties have ever been within walking distance of a joint. I’m too stupid to know you obviously hate me because I know all your friends stay drunk so they don’t have to face the fact that their lives are meaningless even though they have a pool.

As I write this, Sylvia, my parents hurtle toward death in their sleep, strangled by the scarves of apathy wrapping their nose. I sit on my bed surrounded by the accoutrements of my lost childhood, looking out my window.

	The moon is weeping in the window
of my prison cell
		Where I am swinging naked
						(in a noose)
		above the
			bones
				of
					snapping
						madness
									Where
					is
					the
							ghostly lover
			who will be my
							phantom teacher
		Do you not see me			BURN?!
		Your initials are enigmatic
							Your first name rhymes with
					Egg...
		Yes I am haunted!
				Yes! How I yearn
						for you to get this
		rope off of my
				Neck
					so I can
					suffocate
		in your lugubrious
		caress

MY MASSIVE FEELINGS | 1 | 2 |

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Comments

Anonymous, on Oct 24, 2009 wrote: Trouble in River City Disaster on Parade General Hospital friend would love to catch up! SF, CA

Anonymous, on Aug 3, 2009 wrote: hysterical.

Anonymous, on Jun 19, 2009 wrote: Hilarious. Deserved to be in Best Non-Required Reading of 2008 (or was it ’07 or ’09?). Planning to read her new novel next.

Anonymous, on Mar 13, 2009 wrote: get out of my head!

Anonymous, on Jan 7, 2009 wrote: this is my life and it is fucking scary to see my life on paper.

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