Super Bowl Poetry

Let's put our tuxedos on tonight and take our butterflies out dancing, for tomorrow is near.

We're nervous, we're nervous. How long we've been waiting for this. We see everything happen before it ever happens. We'll close our eyes while visions of greatness float around in our minds.

These are the moments we've been waiting for.

We stay up late reading books about soldiers, trying to win the wars of tomorrow.

We wish our bones were light like bird bones, so we too could fly.

Birds and Soldiers, Birds and Soldiers. We are birds and soldiers. Fully hydrated, full of carbohydrates. Full of hope that we might remember the things we've been taught.

The world is watching. The world is finally watching. Are we fast enough? Are we strong enough? The world is watching, but really all that matters is our moms and dads.

We can hear the crowd already, but is mom smiling? Is dad proud? 

The ball never bounces as we expect it to, no matter how much we practice, no matter how much we pray. We'll chase our enemies with torches and one day ask god for mercy.

Our muscles got us here, but our victories will always only be found in our hearts. 

new semesters

Sure, it's starting again and I'm freaking out a little, but not as much as these 17-year-olds who finally get their shot at WritersParis.

I talk about WritersParis as if it's not in the room with me.

WritersParis is bigger than me.

Every semester it gets bigger. With every blog post it gets bigger. Every pen name. Every intro that tries to be different, but not too different. Every photo, every music playlist, every comment.

I keep thinking it's going to get old. But it doesn't. It hasn't. It won't.

It's as good now as it ever was.

I'm even feeling love for the tourists. The ones who aren't reading this right now, the ones who finish their journal pages before I start the music. The ones who stay home from class because everything can be found on the blog. The ones with the hall pass right now, doing nothing. I want to give them their English credit.

Maybe I'm just feeling too much love these days. Maybe I've let this whole WritersParis thing go to my head, and like God: I love all my children. Even the ones who don't know how to show it.

These new semesters are like baptisms and we're all born again right now. And there's something divine about that.

just a class

Just a class.

Just a class.

It was just a class. 

What's it been, now: 12 years, 92 teachers, 49 Mead notebooks, 31 G2 pens, 12 new pairs of shoes,  2300 recesses, 3 Trapper Keepers, 6 lunchboxes, and 14 backpacks.

This was just a class. Just another class.

There were 480 trips to the bathroom, 6 trips to the nurse's office, 38 days you called in sick,  4 broken hearts, 219 pizza slices, 800 drinks from the drinking fountain, and 44 hours on a school bus.

Your time is running out. They're already printing diplomas for next year's seniors. They're already assigning them lockers and planning school dances. The sophomores have begun planning their senior prom and the freshman have their outfits already picked out for the senior dinner dance.

My 5th grader's working on his senior prank, and my 3rd grader is home sick with senioritis. My daughter cried last night because she didn't get in to Stanford. None of us knows what we want to do with our lives, but you're the one that's running out of time.

You're the one who's getting your 52nd report card out of 54, and you're the one who's pretending to hate everything even though you're already starting to miss it. You're the one who's doing everything for the last time. 

That's over 2500 school days, which means that's over 2500 nights of thinking about tomorrow, thinking about tomorrow, thinking about tomorrow.

And here I am talking about yesterday, when all you can think about is tomorrow.

I guess I just want you to think about today.

This moment right now. Here in the little theater. With the dark lights and the bell about to ring and your shoes that you have on right now.

Because not even the magicians can hold a moment in their hands. 

And todays are yesterdays like every tomorrow.

Too young for a mid-life crisis

I'm 35 and I don't know what I want to do with my life.

HOLD UP: I'm living the dream, molding young minds, raising a young family, excited for Monday mornings, passionate, enthusiastic, alive inside.
BUT: I have a gypsy soul and I'm eating government cheese. #jokes

I've always wanted to be something. So now what?

Everything used to be about getting the girl. Then I got her.
Everything used to be about leaving the job I hated. Then I left.
So now what?

Is this all we'll ever do?

I'm reading a book by Ed Sheeran and I want to be a musician. I'm watching a documentary about Johnny Carson and I want to be on TV. I'm watching Muhammad Ali and I want to be the greatest I want to be the greatest I want to be the greatest. 

I'm far too old for this much ambition.

Shouldn't I be living vicariously through my children by now? I think my son has a game next Saturday.

I'm tired of looking at Facebook. Comparing milestones in Instagram pictures. Liking things we don't like and favoriting things that aren't our favorite. Are we really going to spend every Thursday looking back?

I'm sick of feeling sick when I'm not sick.

I guess I just want to be nervous again. I want to be backstage waiting for my name to be called. The way I felt when she came over after I dropped off our prom pictures. The way I felt at 4:30 during my last shift.

Muhammad Ali started boxing when he was 12 because somebody stole his bike. And Johnny Carson filled in for someone who accidentally knocked himself out before a show. And Ed Sheeran blew up in America after playing at a Poetry Open Mic in Los Angeles.

The future introduces herself all the time.
 
What I'm really trying to say is that I'm not ready to start going through the motions yet.