Generated Poetry: The Formulation of Love

I’m on this kick where I use a word generator to give me 6 random words that I incorporate into a poem. I imagine I’ll be posting many of these, so bear with me (or not…. this is my website after all. So if you don’t like this, fuck you, go somewhere else to read garbage poetry that stinks more than mine!)

Generated words: Afternoon, Imposter, wept, Serum, Formulation, Deplorable.

The formulation of love can be rather tricky

It suffers from a deplorable lack of compassion

It’s also often ironically witty…

A cure-all serum does not exist

Safe for the hours in the afternoon I’ve wept

Over memories of when I was last kissed.

I feel like an imposter in my own head

Pretending I don’t have these memories

Of you, me, and our love you killed, dead.

For more spontaneous stupidity, follow my twitter @JoyPearson


Word Generator Inspiration

Lately I’ve had a desperate need to write, but I suffer from a lack of inspiration these days. To give myself a kickstart, I used a random word generator online to give me a set of six words that I would then craft into a poem. The words I received were ‘extract’, ‘betrayal’, ‘contagious’, ‘messenger’, ‘union’, and ‘smart’. 

Using these six words, I came up with the following poem:

To extract thoughts and ideas from my mind

Seems so impossible, I take it as a sign.

A betrayal from my hand to my brain

A tenuous union that’s driving me insane.

If I were smart, I’d find hobbies more contagious

Things I can do that will be more advantageous

Someone get a reliable messenger for my hand and head

Before things remain silent, sadly left unsaid. 

For more poetic ridiculousness, follow me on twitter @JoyPearson

Random Rhymes

I’m on a weird rhyming kick currently, which always happens when I start listening to too much rap combined with watching Shakespeare films (Words, words, words). Rather than let them rot on the page of a random notebook, I’m publishing what I wrote out today. It’s probably not good (no wait…. it is DEFINITELY not good) but I know that if I don’t publish my writing more, the less motivated I’ll be to continue writing. So here I present, for either your enjoyment or torture, some bars I wrote out today.

Sure, yes sure!

I’ve got words to say

Say them or don’t

It’s all the same

My body shows peace

My mind wondrously strays

Lovers, liars, cheaters, sneakers

I know all their secrets

But I’m no snitch or squealer

Unless you do

Something found rude

Or just not true

I’ll let it stew

Until I need to serve it up, I’ll drink some booze

and watch you lose

Whatever dignity that’s left for you

Ha! Okay, okay I’m not that dope

I’m a girl hidden in the crowd

Not on display riding a float

This is no joke

I have no hope

Everyone will look at me say “you should not have spoke.”

Take from that what you will, I’m going to go write some more clunky rhymes and pretend I actually know what I’m doing when it comes to writing. For even more convoluted thoughts, follow me on twitter @JoyPearson

Notes from a strange mind

I’ve been exploring the world with wide, curious brown eyes for my entire life. I always had words to describe what I thought about, felt about, and how I reacted to the world, but never enough for a decent story or essay or whatever. I’ve collected these notes my entire life, both digitally and on scraps of paper. Here are some of my favorites:

I can’t kill myself, there are far too many Marvel Movies I have yet to see.

I’m trying to fix my life but sometimes it’s like standing on a ladder on a wet hillside

Lady Gaga dresses yogurt-y

It’s not that life is too short. It’s just that it’s full of distracting pointless crap.

Sci-Fi thriller about babies bred for celebrities looking to adopt

I am an artist. I like to make things more beautiful, noticeable. Why is it that I am applauded for doing so for painted objects, but when I do so on myself using makeup I am condemned as vain? Double standard.

Fear is just a feeling. Fear can never kill you. But it can warn you about something that’s about to kill you, like spiders, or Ghost Face.

Marry someone who doesn’t care about your personal hygiene habits.

Dastardly is a word I don’t use often enough in my regular vernacular.

I love the illusion of being pursued

People are people who are people, treat them as such.

I think when we die, our souls sort of go everywhere at once.

Can one make money by auctioning off personal space?

I love Kaiju films, there’s satisfaction in watching humanity pay for their mistakes.

Follow your heart, whatever happens, just do it. It might take you down some questionable roads and dark alleyways, but eventually it will get you where you’re meant to be.

I hate that I don’t look like Blake Lively

What would happen if I published a novel and sold the film rights to a porn studio?

I won’t change my last name unless I marry someone which a cooler name than mine. Like Hiddleston, or Boyega…

What is in a name?

“What is in a name? That which we call a troll. By any other name would also smell like feet?”

-Bastardized Shakespeare provided by yours truly

So I’m sure that at least 2 out of the 3 people who read this blog (those two people might very well be my parents…) are probably wondering what the hell a ‘Wandless Wanderer’ is. If you’re anything like me (doubtful) your first thought would be, “Harry Potter reject loses $50 souvenir wand from Florida vacation.” Well you and myself would be wrong in that assumption!

My father goes through phases of interest not unlike I do. He’s always finding new hobbies to explore and ways to create and learn. His most recent adventure in exploration has been diving into our familial history and growing out our vast family tree. Not a week would go by where I wouldn’t get at least 10 texts about the various crazy ancestors he’s dug up that I’m related to. Let me give you a quick list of the cool cats I’m related to (I’d include how I’m related to them but that would mean logging into and following the confusing lines of the family map and doing the math to figure out whether they’re first cousin, second, third, or last place in the race. I’m sure my father is grumbling as he reads this and thinking “I gave her all the information already! Why did we ever agree to trade the gypsies our moonshine for this stupid girl! Well she does draw pretty pictures…. And she does answer my texts to come refill my drinks….. Okay We’ll keep her for now.”):

Charlemagne (who isn’t related to him?)

Edgar Allen Poe (Thus quote the Raven “That girl is a nerd”)

Paris and Hector of Troy (Totally explains my affinity for crushing on guys who are already taken…..)

There are more but those are the ones that stand out in my mind when I’m having awkward small talk with people around ancestry (yes, awkward small talk about ancestry with me happens way more than you’d think…).

During one of my father’s many discoveries, we found an ancestor named Elspeth Wandless. I saw the name jump out at me and immediately thought, “I’M RELATED TO A WITCH!” Because any name out of the ordinary that includes the word “wand” obviously must mean witchcraft!

My dad gave me his usual small smile with an eyebrow raised before sighing, “I highly doubt it…” but I think he was just lying because he didn’t want me to find out he’d thrown out my Hogwarts acceptance letters (He better have at least recycled them…).

I talked to my cousin a few days later, who related to me that ‘Wandless’ was essentially a scottish term for “unfortunate” (AKA the wand represents a dick and something shitty happened and now you are left without a dick. You are dickless, but we’ll call it ‘wandless’ to make it sound more mystical and less crass).

Hammer on the nail for me to be related to someone with a last name that means unfortunately dickless, not to say that I desire to have a penis but I have suffered my misfortunes.

The name stuck with me, I added the ‘wanderer’ at the end given how much time I spend by myself wandering and wondering about my misfortunes.

Fuck it’s time for me to try and end this post eloquently again….. I really do suck at this, it’s giving me PTSD flashbacks to college writing essays and trying to find a smooth way to conclude.

This isn’t a fucking essay and I’m not being graded so I will end it in however way I choose; with a naughty word: tits *childish giggle*

Anxious Enough

I’m not enough of anything. Not funny enough, creative enough, tall enough, short enough, pretty enough, plain enough, really just not enough of anything.

I’m not stating it looking for sympathizers who read this and think, “Oh she doesn’t know her worth! She’s more than enough! In fact, she’s perfect, lets cast her in the next Star Wars as another mysterious female protagonist who’s later revealed to be Kylo Ren’s long lost twin (I know what you’re thinking ‘But that happened in the original trilogy!’ Well I figure Hollywood is so hard up for movie material Disney is recycling all their cartoons, so I KNOW they’ll recycle that plot twist at some point [please don’t make me kiss Kylo Ren before learning he’s my brother, it’s been nearly four decades and a lot of us are still uncomfortable with that Leia moment…]).”

I suppose I’m just shouting it out into the void with hopes that all the other people who aren’t enough know they’re not alone; I mean that’s one of the base human desires, right? And maybe have a salsa party if someone knows how to prepare really good pico de gallo (really I’m just here for the pico de gallo, to be perfectly honest…. someone suggested there might be some here…. That someone might have been me….)

I suppose I ought to dive into the definition of “enough” so I can better explain to the void why I am not, in fact, enough. When I googled “enough” (Because I’m far too lazy to get up to find my actual dictionary on the bookshelf) the first link that popped up was to a wikipedia page for the 2002 J-Lo film about an abused housewife who gets revenge against her dick-stained husband (totally amazing movie, BTW). Scrolling past the IMdB links, I found a dictionary site which defines the adjective as “Adequate for the want or need; sufficient for the purpose or to satisfy desire.”

I’m not creative enough for art. Don’t get me wrong, I love the work I create and produce (I realize now none of you know what I do so here’s the reader’s digest version: I’m currently working for a school district as a floater for a before/after school care program for 11 elementary schools while on the side I’m working on becoming an independent artist creating anything out of zentangle, water color, sketching, oil painting, quilling, photography, and the occasional knitted hat), but my ideas are never 100% creatively original. I am always searching for ideas and inspiration be it online through pinterest and google to visiting art galleries and museums in my travels. I learn/copy techniques to learn and be inspired and incorporate them into my own work and designs. It might sound ridiculous but I feel like I can’t take full credit because it wasn’t 100% creativity by me and only me. I feel like a fraud at times; I worry about the day an angry artist hunts me down and yells about the rose design they’d posted ‘How-to-draw” steps for that I used in my multi-award winning painting hanging in the Louvre (hey, dream big, right?).

Of course some of you think that scenario sounds highly improbable. Well it is, but try telling that to my anxiety (that bitch is way more creative than I can ever dream of being. I should let my anxiety do the creating while I do the selling… Nah, that bitch would insist on taking all the profit and credit and stop creating just to spite me…… Anxiety is a bitch, you guys. You know you’re fucked when your mental illness has more original creativity than you do…).

I’m not sure what my point of this whole post was, but I’m going to go with the flow of my random shouts into the void and discuss my anxiety. My anxiety…….. My anxiety is a bitch (as said above). I imagine my anxiety dressed up like a trashier and more worn down┬áJessica Rabbit who breathes noxious anxious smoke around me while telling me why I am not enough. My anxiety has been telling me I’m not enough since before I was ever conceived, the very idea of me was not enough for that bitch.

Starting a blog was out of the question for years; my anxiety cackled at the thought, “Oh hell no, you’re not enough to blog about, what the hell is there for you to write? You’re not funny enough, your life isn’t exciting enough, hell you weren’t even good enough for the college paper you joined and wrote two awful articles for before quitting (one of which was basically written by my roommate as it was just all her opinions I had asked for the night before the article was due). You are not enough to become a blogger, Joy.” She said with a puff of smoke and she sashays around me snootily.

The bitch was right, I could feel it. Even in that moment I was staring at the options page in the process of creating a blog on trying not to have a complete meltdown. The bitch laughed at me for the entire day as I avoided looking at the open tab, I couldn’t make up my mind on what kind of blog I was supposed to make! The options were so diverse and separated from one another, health and wellness was separate from fashion and lifestyle as well as Media and entertainment. I wanted to be all of them! I didn’t want to choose just one, I wasn’t good enough for any of them!

The bitch was peering behind my shoulder about to blow more anxious smoke when I muttered, “Fuck it!” and chose “writing”. That’s really all I want to do is write about anything and everything and nothing at all. Just a place where I can shout into the void. My anxiety was in shock, the bitch choked on her own anxious smoke while I smirked and began to think, “I’m definitely anxious enough.”

So let the writing commence! *Cue inspirational music*