Shallow Like the Ocean

I am not a deep person. I don't come up with beautiful, poetic pairings of words easily. I hardly ever say something that tickles the throat and mind. I just say things that make people guffaw and think "Oh, how charming this little girl is! What a delightfully foul mouth!".

That doesn't mean that I don't want to speak poetry, oh no. Quite the contrary. I wish my phrases were eloquent and lyrical and that my voice didn't reach such high octaves whenever I get excited. It is aggravating. It is annoying. It is a hindrance to the ears of those around me.

I love words. I always have. I love English, I always have. I love the abundance of words for me. For me! For everyone! For anyone who wishes to explore our tongues, our mouths, our words! I love foul words, like fuck and shit. I love soft words, like cotton and breath. I love words that are like marbles that smack against the roof of your mouth and threaten to poke your uvula.

But I don't know how to put those words together. I cannot make a giant found poem out of words. I cannot create images out of words, I cannot create works of words. I cannot gurgle them out and create beautiful word vomit. My vomit is hideous. My vomit stinks. My vomit goes in the toilet, where it belongs. My word vomit is vomit.

But my vomit is my vomit. My words, are my words. I do not try to imitate writers. I do not try to sound like something I am not. When I write, I scratch my nose like when I speak. I wring my hands like when I'm nervous because writing makes me nervous. Makes me nervous to expose myself. Makes me nervous to be judged by intelligent and well-learned people. Makes me nervous to think about me. My thoughts. My heart. My body. My mind.

I wish to create beautiful word vomit someday. I wish to fill it in a little moleskine book written with a nib and ink in a beautiful cursive. A cursive like my ong ngoai's. A cursive that belays my personality, my quirks in the way I cross my t's and dot my i's and the slant of my letters. A cursive that makes up for my own lack of curves. With the words it clothes being me. A padded cursive that makes up for not-so-beautiful word vomit.

My words that are shallow like the ocean.