I like writing poetry. I'm not at all GOOD at it, but I enjoy doing it. The only good poem I ever wrote was in ninth grade. It was bitter and angry and it lashed out at people who had friends, which I didn't have many. It sounded sort of like a poem for Wakaba from Revolutionary Girl Utena--babbling all about how much special people (people who are special to one another) suck.

I had to do a poetry book for English before I left school, and Ms Bass thought it was the best damn thing ever. There wasn't really anything that good in there. Except for a rap that I composed (which basically detailed--semi-rhythmically--that I'm a white girl and I have no business composing rap in the first place) and a letter to John Lennon (though you could view it as a letter to the Woodstock generation in general, lamenting for brotherhood and people who gave a damn).

I've got a few random verses that are wandering around in my head. I wish they'd leave. They're not at all good--stuff along the lines of a poor man's "Have You Seen the Saucers?" It's kind of a whine about how nobody in my generation gives a shit about the rest of the world. They're occupied with themselves, and they're drugged to the point of fucking mind control, but not on anything like pot or acid. Fuckin' doctor drugs.

*hums*

Anyway, I often wish I was born earlier. For various reasons: either I want friendship with someone who gives a god-damn about how the world ends up, or I want to go back in time and change the world in some small way (if I had the chance, I'd go back to 1980 and save John Lennon's life, even if it cost my own), or I just want to dig the spirit of rebellion and revolution and brotherhood that the '60s and '70s brought.

Then my mind wanders back to that ever-present little suspicion--"Maybe God put me in this time for a reason. Maybe I'm meant to bring BACK the spirit of rebellion. Maybe I'm here to spread love and peace to THIS generation, that so desperately need it. Yes, that must be it."

And I go back to planning my backpacking trip.