I'm Still Writting

No more pen names. My name is Tara. I'm at college now too.

http://yeahtaraj.blogspot.com/


And because I lived a Hannah-Miley (Milo or Miles would work better don't you think) double life for a while, I thought I'd finally link them together.

Hazel Grace

Paul Varjak

Diamond Fangs,

Tara J

8:56 AM

2 AM is not for the lovers with their arms wrapped around each others.

Inhale. Exhale. (a toatst to us)

 

CONFIDENTIAL:
(this is all too honest)
(i'll regret this later)

Why am I so upset.

I wish this was a 39487 year class.

Why am I so pissed that poetry is killing and haunting and so damn beautiful that I have 4398545 seminary makeups but I’m writing this for you.

More for me because its chipping at my polish but I’m writing this for you.

Because I have a filled notebook of drafts I glued my heart on.

Because “oh my gosh all her posts are about her and cadens love THEY GOT CAUGHT MAKING OUT AT THE LIBRARY WHAT??? He wears skinny ties! tara doesn’t even like caden omg”

1.       1. He says the library smells bad

2.       2. He’s not THAT indie. Not like Brandon Robbins. Love your sandles btw

3.       3. No he’s dece I like him I mean  he’s a real gr8 guy

Shut up love is crap and all these posts have about .0000000675234 ounces to do with Caden and more to do with Jern Hayes. This is High School.

But we did find a cat at the cemetery and named it Michael. And he does sing me Minnie Ripton. That part was all Cade. I can’t even remember  Jern’s real name but he has a nice 5 o’clock shadow & sometimes I see him in the halls. You bet he’ll sign my yearbook.

HI JERN

You want me to write? You want me to write you something? Something so important, so stabbing to your soul that you’ll be sure is at the end of your eulogy because it’s the most trembling thing you’ve ever layed your ear on.

Sure, I’ll light your wife’s heart on fire:

Never take sugar in your tea and when he comes to your door make sure your father shakes his hand. Wear a skirt that makes your knees look lovely. Eat an entire rib-eye with just a knife to show that everything you think will kill you may be the most delicious, life-saving ordinance out there. Inhale. Exhale.

Laugh A LOT when your little brother misses the toilet. Use hand sanitizer after you write a poem because the smell will take over the fumes from the ink. This will clear your head of any last broken messages left on the page and I promise, this time you won’t explode at the dinner table. Inhale. Exhale.

Rip off the silence. The schemes. The confidence. Move your body downtown. Take a drive on the highway to hell and leave your mother with the man taking tickets. Find a boy with a bike and ride on the handlebars. Leave the meatloaf in the fridge but bring the quivers and teeter off the tallest building in Los Angeles because everybody wants to rule the world at least once. Inhale. Exhale.

Start with Genesis and work your way to the end. It’ll take longer than New Jersey but baby when your hands stops me from speaking I’m worried the last thing you’ll hold is my sentence. Let me drape it on your shoulders. And when you sink into the cadence pay close attention to the foreign. The unfamiliar way I inhale and exhale on your shoulder. Don’t forget yourself. This isn’t a time for selflessness. Whisper to  your lungs that this will be quick. Over soon. And inhale. Exhale.

Diamond Fangs,

Tara Johnson