'afeared' is a cooler word than 'afraid'

I'm afraid of your voicemail, because that means you didn't answer, or can't answer, but I'll assume you didn't answer. I'm afraid of the day that you'll leave and I'll be okay with it. But that's an irrational fear because I'll never be okay with it.

I'm afraid of being dramatic. I'm afraid of it translating to my writing. I'm afraid of writing. No, I'm afraid of what will come out.

I'm afraid of my neighbors because I walk around my house in a bra and don't close the windows. When I introduced myself to her, she just said, "Oh, I know. I've seen you before." More like "My ten year old son saw you dancing in your kitchen. Put some clothes on, skank." Tell him to keep his eyes out of my window, bitch.

I'm afraid of calling someone a bitch cause it's really mean and unnecessary and I don't want my mom to find out.

I'm afraid of failing. I'm afraid of success. I'm afraid of confidence. I'm afraid of coming off as timid. I'm afraid of birds. I'm afraid of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. I'm afraid of using the word afraid too much. I should say scared. Or frightened. Afeared is pretty cool, too.

When you get so afraid, I guess it's hard to live. I think I'm at that point. But, I'm afraid to live, so I guess it's okay. Actually, I'm afraid of wanting to live, and then not living.

I'm just afraid of being afraid.

Bricks

It wasn't until I walked upstairs that I saw the rain. It was painted against the sliding glass door and all the windows. I was then forced to be thankful for the bricks. The bricks of my house kept me warm and dry. Even though I long to be soaked with the rain, the bricks smile and say "No dear, you know what is better for you. You'll get sick running out there, and you've never been one to eat your fruits and vegetables."

I hate the bricks.

They stand there all high and mighty, acting like they know what's best. They forget what they've done: shattered windows, crushed bones, and built barriers. Who are they to tell me what to do when they have been so destructive? Are they trying to destroy me?

I whip the door open. "You can't hold me!" I scream as the rain is thrown down on my body, my hair is soaked and my mascara running. I dance, I sing, I laugh, I play, I do everything worthy of a white girl quote on Pinterest. I return inside with my shoulders broad and my head held high, just to show the bricks that I am okay. They just smile at me, but I know that I have won.

I wake up the next morning with a clogged nose and scratchy throat. I cannot go to school, and therefore have to be with the bricks all day. I scowl at them, because they're still smiling at me. My irritation reaches a new high, and I burst. "You're not perfect either! You can destroy and hurt and break, don't act like you're all good!" The brick's smile quivers, but quickly returns. "You're right. I have used myself for some pretty terrible things, and I can never take any of those back. But I have learned. I will never force you to listen to me, but I will always be here to be heard." I stop. I stare. I cry.

I sit sipping my tea, inside the bricks, watching the rain. "Man, I love the rain," I whisper. And (would you believe it?) the bricks smiled. "I know," they whisper back. I stay inside, and together, we smile.


Yours Truly,
Penelope Jude

Untitled

And to you,
I'm especially sorry.
I'm sorry I doubted you,
Because I know all you wanted was love,
And I don't know how to give that.
They say it's cause I don't know how to accept it,
And I say they're right.
They're so freakin' right.



Yours Truly,
Penelope Jude

You influenced my life, and I wish I could let you know. I wish I could actually write you a good poem. This is all I have.

I said a joke.
I said a joke,
And I acted like I knew you,
And I have never been more ashamed.

Do you hate me?
Do you hate that I cried?
Do you hate that I comforted him?
Her?
Them?
Do you watch me and scowl at my shell of a human?
If you were me,
I'd be iconic.
Finally, I'd life to my potential
and soar through the crowds,
Their eyes admiring me,
as my chest heaved and my hair flowed.
But that is not how it is.
For I am me,
And you are you,
I am here,
And you are there,
And I want to be there!
But I am here.
Your legend will live on forever,
Here.
And I wish you were here.



Yours Truly,
Penelope Jude

And I Will

I once knew a girl
who, when asked to recite a poem,
would talk

like this.
Waiting
for your reaction
because

SHE KNEW

she would get it.
Then I stood up there,
speaking with so much feeling,
I thought my heart would burst.
And it did.
Through my eyes and down my cheeks,
I could hardly see.
But she's in New York,
And I'm here,
hands wrinkly from washing the dishes,
because I never was the girl

who could.
But I will.


Yours Truly,
Penelope Jude