The Daily Opinion – Friendship

What type of boundaries do you create between friendships? Should there be lines between best friends? Is someone truly your “closest friend” if there are things you won’t say to them?

I am a Big Fat Liar

I came across a blogger writing about public speaking and how she had gone with her speech group to do some impromptu park appearance. I commented that I was impressed and I would be terrified doing anything of the sort. It reminds me of a time… A time when I was a big fat liar…

It was my sophomore year in college and we had to give a speech in a History course I was taking. I hate giving speeches. Something has always gone wrong and I have always been plagued with having to give them in school. I hate being the center of attention in large gatherings and nothing could be more torturous than being in front of a freaking classroom. So the day of the speech came and I took my paper, courage, and mini flask and went to class. Now I want to point out here that the few shots of whisky had before class had nothing to do with me forgetting my speech. I just completely blanked. You see I rarely went to this particular class (again I am lying, I rarely went to any class period) and so every face staring back at me looked far too… interested in me. I completely bombed. I think the speech went something like “The Romans were a people… in Italy. Only it wasn’t called Italy at the time… … Thank you!” And that about did it.

Afterwards, having spent the remainder of the class pretending I had invisible powers, I sheepishly approached the old professor. I explained to him that my English wasn’t very good and I may have been a little “glossy” over the details as to how long I had been in the country. I then offered to write any length of paper in exchange for the F I was about to get. I can’t be certain, but I may have stuttered and mispronounced a few words along the way. He agreed and I ended up getting a B+. I am a big fat liar. There, I feel so much better now.


Where does Poetry go…

Where does poetry go when it dies within my mind? It is quickly replaced with the pain from its loss. I do not mourn the coming of the sun, I only wish the failing night did not steal away my words. I have become lost in this contest of will. I struggle with it weekly and yet I cannot make the right decision to turn away. For to turn away from my addiction is to turn my back on words that I love…

How does a poet live when he can no longer write poetry? Does he weep tears of imagery or is instead his sorrow suddenly solidified by the reality of his sadness? I know that I miss my mind even as I feel the scars building upon my chest. Would it be enough to kill my soul in exchange for the beauty of a perfect phrase? What would be the worth of such a sacrifice?

That is easy to answer… The sacrifice would be myself. How do the artists combat their struggles while at the same time achieving to create such wonders? Every poem I write is drawn in blood and that is a sad thing… but to deny it would be to deny reality. I just cannot do that.