not a love story

when i was eighteen
i lost my virginity
to a punk rock junkie
on purpose
i didn’t want “it” to be
special
i didn’t want “it” to be all
you are my special someone
so here is my special something…
instead
i was all like
i got this…do you want it?
& then
shortly after
i did find that special someone
who proceeded
to break my heart into a million pieces
so
i’ve never regretted getting with the bass player
from bong frog
instead of waiting
for “the one.”

on an old couch
in an abandoned house
with a guy who looked
enough like a corpse
that his friends called him
dead guy

not a love story.

it took me a couple days to figure out how to illustrate this one. then the minions went to their dad’s house & i took a nap & figured it out.
i do my best thinking in bed.
or on the couch.
whatever.

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jekyll & hyde

no one tells you
how hard it is
to be both a mom
& a real person
that those flaws
you have
as a real person
just become
as amplified as fuck
when you become
a mom
because a mom is
both more than a real person
& less

so a trifecta of mom journal page self-portraits today…but my demons are still not exorcised.
sigh.
i feel bad for my kids…but i wonder if someday they will feel bad for me.
i am trying. i really really am. some days go better. some days i am able to be a so-called real person.
other days…

this is the second one today that borrowed from a famous novel.
first i was gulliver…now i am dr. jekyll.
(or am i mr. hyde?)

stranded

you never wanted to do this
alone
you never wanted
to do this
alone
you feel so lost
so angry
& you suffer that pain
acutely
as you tell yourself to hold it together
(you don’t)
as you tell yourself to keep a happy face
(you don’t)
all you want to do
is break things
& scream
& scream
& scream
until your voice is raw
until your eyes are dry
because you have nothing
nothing
left to give
all you want to do is sink
sink
into depair
wallow
in despair
but somehow
somehow you have to
stay
afloat

more motherhood angst leaking from my head & onto my page.
yay! but, you know what? it keeps my head out of the oven.

misha pointed out that iggy doesn’t have a face in this on or in the previous one. i’m not sure why. subconscious–would you like to weigh in?
what? nothing?
iggy is a very challenging child. it doesn’t help that he is the one most like his father.
his father.
the reason for a lot of my angst.
he checked out the first time i got pregnant. he was no longer the center of my universe, and he turned from mr. perfect into mr. perfect asshole.
yet somehow i still had three more children with him.
and now i am raising them alone.
because he has just become more & more perfect
at being an asshole.

being a single mom sucks ass. it truly does. but living with dusty sucks bigger ass. so while i am living the lesser of two evils–i’m still pissed off about it.

demonic mom

every night
as they lay sleeping
my heart squeezes
& i think,
“tomorrow
i won’t be a crap-ass mom
tomorrow
i won’t lose my mind.”
then morning comes
& the demons inside me
come out to dance
with the demons
i spawned

i have a really bad habit of not waiting until the page is dry to take a picture. plus these are all on journal paper with the idea that i will do a bigger & better version on some nice watercolor paper or canvas even (ink on canvas is a gamble) if i ever get a chance & like the original enough.
so.
my page is all wrinkly & weird looking.

this is a dark subject that i have kind of made light about. because…well, i have trouble taking my pain seriously.

but tomorrow is another day.

no poetry

i am not a poet
these are not poems
it is just
that i have spilled
my angst
all over the page
vomited my emotions
with pen & brush.

this was my yesterday epiphany–expanded upon.
also!
i took a photo before i used my brush on it, because i wasn’t sure if i liked it better without shading & color.

nopoetry

but i think the color worked okay.

good news! i have been very angst-y & especially reflective with all the trauma i keep vomiting on myself. so that means i have 4 pages written in my journal that just need illustrating.
so we all have that to look forward to.

the color of my tears

the color of my tears
is the color of my eyes
some muted mix
of blue & green
that falls freely from my eyes

i get my brother’s birthday & his death day
mixed up in my head
he was born…
three weeks (& 45 years later)
he died
the last i spoke to him
was his birthday
so it is the last i remember of him
from the end of november
to almost christmas
it all blends together.
the end of him
& every time i see 12:19 on a clock
i forget that it is the birthday
of my children’s father
& only remember
it as my brother’s death
day.

out with the old; in with the new

i’m trying not to be sad
today
i’m trying not to lose my mind
today
i feel music in my soul
today
not quite drowned out
by the screaming
crying
sometimes playing
sometimes fighting
children
my artist’s soul
& my mother’s heart
trying to live together
in my troubled
self.

october 26, 2016 is the date inside my old journal. the day i started it. today is the day i end it. there is one page left…but i have already spilled some angst onto it and now just have to illustrate my own pain.

the first page of the new journal, also, is already decorated with thoughts fallen from my head.

i love being productive. i love looking forward to a blank page. i love writing down my silly, sad, sentimental, and sordid epiphanies to ponder with pen & ink brush.

ha.
i am not a poet though.
i thought that today when i could not think of the word for what some of you might call my “poems.”
i am not a poet.
i just vomit emotion, often & as colorfully as possible.