a-poet-called-pineapple

[a-poet-called-pineapple]

A Power Struggle

I never said it was a healthy relationship

It was one where we both played a game

To see who could take the most 

From each other

I’ll give it to you though

You never lost a match.

On days I took the most I could

You squeezed just a little bit more

And on the days I took just a touch

You stole just that much more.

Then, slowly but surely

I fought tooth and nail for mercy

But you kept racking up points

While I screamed bloody murder.

While my white flag lay bleeding

Somehow you still kept needing

I gave you all I had

I guess it was never enough.

I never said it was a healthy relationship

Just one I really fucking miss.

[a-poet-called-pineapple]

Based on the prompt: Orient your perspective using a popular culture moment or element. It may be a scene from a movie, a catchphrase popularized on a show or YouTube series, a meme, a famous sculpture or painting, a cultural icon, etc.

Grief and Gilmore Girls

I feel as if everyone has said something about grief. Nat Witcomb said, “We do not have to rely on memories to recapture the spirit of those we have loved and lost. They live within our souls in some perfect sanctuary which even death cannot destroy. Diamond Rio spoke, saying, “One more day, One more time, One more sunset, maybe I’d be satisfied. But then again, I know what it would do. Leave me wishing still for one more day with you.” Even the heartfelt and classic children's story character Winnie the Poo reasoned, “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” I guess that’s what really sucks about grief, is everyone has experienced it, so I suppose that should make one feel better.

But it doesn’t.

A lot of people associate grief with death- the definitive end of a person’s life. And yes, that is grief. But sometimes grief is more. Grief is loving someone so much and so hard that their presence leaving your life is crippling. People deal with it in different ways; some, well, don’t. Psychologists talk about the five stages of grief, which I’m sure everyone has heard at least once in their life. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Some suggest people go through the cycle over and over again. I think that I agree in some regard; not that well-renowned psychologists are sitting around asking for my opinion on the subject.

I must have skipped the whole “anger and bargaining” stages and went from denial to depression in about sixty seconds. All I knew was it sucked, and I was heartbroken. The person I slept next to, lived next to, kissed, held, cooked, grocery shopped, studied, worked, and just been with was gone- and I didn't know if he’d ever come back. No, I knew he wasn’t coming back.

My favorite television show, Gilmore Girls, aired before I was even born. It doesn’t seem that old until the characters whip out their flip phones or pagers or make pop culture references relevant decades ago. I started watching it when I was in high school, and it quickly became a comfort show of mine. In season five, after a five-year-long buildup that, fortunately, I, being privileged with Netflix, was spared from, Loreilai, one of the main characters, finally began dating her best friend, Luke. They had been through five years of ups and downs, where they loved each other long before they even knew how to define their love.

After a terrible misunderstanding, Luke breaks up with her harshly and suddenly leaves her shattered like she’d never been before. She lies in bed, watching old movies, depressed and miserable, as she realizes what happened. Not only did she lose the love of her life, she lost her best friend. Lorelai picks up the phone and dials, and while the audience can't see who, we all somehow know. Then comes an iconic monologue, recognized instantly by most.

“Hey, Luke, it's me. I know I'm not supposed to be calling, but I am not doing really great right now, and - I was just wondering if, do you remember in The Way We Were, how Katie and Hubbell broke up because his friends were joking and laughing, and the president had just died, and she yelled at them, and he was mad and he was going out to Hollywood, and, I mean, which she hated, and he broke up with her and she was really upset. And she called him and asked him if he would come over and sit with her because he was her best friend and she needed her best friend, and he did. And they talked all night, and they went out to Hollywood, which was a disaster, but it was good at first. With the boat, and uh, putting the books away. I've seen this movie a lot, so if you don't remember the putting the books away scene, don't feel stupid or anything. I was just sitting here thinking about it because I, um, I'm in my house, and I was just, uh. Could - please come over. I - please.”

I remember watching this episode for the first time, bawling my eyes out and sympathizing, but grateful I wasn’t her. A couple of years later, I met my boyfriend. We watched the show together sometimes, and I smiled when we got to this episode. I turned to him and told him, only half joking, that if we ever broke up, I would call him and recite that very same dialogue to him and leave it on his voicemail. He laughed, I laughed, and we never discussed it again.

I watched that scene on repeat, over and over that night. I cried all over again, wallowing in my pain and heartache. I really missed my best friend. But I didn’t call. I didn’t leave him that voicemail.

I guess I realized he just wasn’t my best friend anymore.

[a-poet-called-pineapple]

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but if you’re at a low point:

If you were a fictional man right now, there would be *at least* ten people if not a large portion of the fanbase that would call you their wet beast poor little meow meow

[a-poet-called-pineapple]

A prompt based on the idea of a character real or imaginary, facing something in their life, after avoiding it for so long.

She stood, shifting slightly, tilting her head, and watching her reflection intently. Her mascara stained her cheeks, collecting in pools in the bags under her eyes. The reflection she saw was like a foreign stranger, the likes of which she’d never met. Her amber locks cascaded down her shoulders, and past her breasts, reaching the top of her waist. He liked her long hair, and she hadn’t even gotten more than a trim in four years. Those years were almost as long as her hair, and now it felt like a constant, gut-wrenching reminder of what she lost.

They say that hair holds memories, and the longer the hair, the more memories it holds. She grasped her memories in her hands, feeling their weight and thickness, playing with them. She even loved their flaws- the split ends, faded highlights, and frizzy texture.

He loved playing with her hair, wrapping it around himself as they lay in the stillness together. Holding it in his hands as they wrestled, laughter bubbling up from them both. Even when she was plagued with sickness, heaving herself over, he grasped its weight with one hand, using his other to loving caress her back, ensuring she never felt his presence leave.

That was then, this is now.

It wasn’t just hair, anymore, she concluded. It was a permanent, physical reminder of everything she had, and everything she lost. It was painful, and she felt her throat burn and eyes well up with new tears. She didn’t know it was possible to cry so much. She had figured that all the liquid in her body was gone by now, but it wasn’t, because somehow her eyes pushed out more. Her hair was dirty and matted, being neglected as she wallowed in her sorrow. She didn’t want to see her hair like this, abused and abandoned. It deserved peace just like she did.

In the middle drawer, she cautiously opened it, her eyes on the shears that beckoned her. They called out, in a way to encourage her to do this.

Tears flowed unapologetically, and she picked them up. Through blurry vision, not even caring about making it even, but simply making a mental note she would go to a salon after. It had to be her first, she couldn't let anyone else make this choice.

The locks fell limp and dead on the counter, as she snipped away, breath frantic and sparse. She looked down, admiring the pile accumulated. Her head felt light, and she even shocked her self with how little force it took to hold her head up again. The pit in her stomach dissipated, as she looked at this new stranger in the mirror. She was no longer his, she was her’s. She shook her head, noting a few uneven spots, but yet she never felt so pretty. Because now, she wasn't just pretty to him, she was pretty to herself.

[a-poet-called-pineapple]

From Work to Play

This assignment was given the prompt to express the mundane and turn it into play. Written in the form of poetry.

Dishwashing at my first high school job, Panera. We would put bubbles on our heads and blast things with the sprayer.

Volleyball, hard work in training, but the joy of winning as a team and celebrating by running laps around the gym skipping.

A movie essay, writing about an old black and white movie and really enjoying it, eyes locked on the screen in wonder and intrigue.

Cleaning the house, blasting show tunes and musical soundtracks while swaying hips, nearly tipping over the vacuum cleaner.

Gardening, convening with nature, and weeding the ground, you suddenly spot a tiny snail and coo as you invite it to sit with you. You watch him move, acknowledging that you are a giant to him, but to the sun, you seem small.

Writing a paper, adding a silly phrase or an inside joke that only you and your best friend would understand. You giggle, knowing she would love it.

Grocery shopping, a tiring chore until you see two friends riding in the cart while another pushes. You invite your partner to do the same, and you two laugh.

Studying for a big test, hunkering down with friends, and enjoying a very overpriced fancy latte to get you through.

Washing the car, throwing soapy water at each other, and "painting" words with bubbles on the car.

Jogging in the heat, listening to a brand-new audiobook or podcast while you run.

[a-poet-called-pineapple]

Things Forgotten

A poem assigned based on a list of things we forgot this morning

I have forgotten my keys at home My water bottle, as well I forgot to charge my watch I can't remember how you smell

I misplaced my sketching notebook My pens and pencils, too I left my lunch in the fridge How did it feel to be held by you?

I left my sweatshirt in your room Next to your bed, where we shared I forgot how it felt to be loved What it felt like when you cared

I left your T-shirt in my room When I returned your stuff last week I forgot, oh, my first love I forgot the love we used to speak

[a-poet-called-pineapple]

Welcome Post

Hi guys!

I decided to make a blog to post my original works from my creative writing class this semester since there are so many, and I'd love for them to go somewhere! I have prompts open as well because this will help me continue writing even after my class ends :)

Hopefully, you all enjoy it!