THE ISSUE WITH YOU

This isn’t a rant. This isn’t an anti-rant rant. This is a peace offering and a love letter. Can we please all hold hands and skip?

Breaking: Humble poetry blog owner died from mysterious causes “too full of love,” the coroner said. (God, we need to get a better coroner…)

Trust me, I’m sick of seeing the rants, the callouts. They’re plastered all over the blog page like ads on a telephone poll. Enough of the “I can’t stand”s and “the problem with”s and the drawl drawl. I know the comfort of hordes in the dark where you can't tell whose tears belong to whom. I know what it's like to have someone match your agony every time you scream, but the ground is sinking, and the lower it gets, the harder it will be to climb the ridge and see the sun. It’s brilliant up here, come see. If your legs are tired, I’ll fucking drag you with me. Show me your heart, not bloodied and aching, but stitches and reborn. No biggie, though. I’ll love you either way because I know you can’t reach the knife in your back without a friend. Write about the spider you saved last night; write about your backyard garden.

We’re stranded together in the empty corners of the internet, there are cobwebs every which way, and I can still hear swords clashing. Face it, you're just as much of a freak as the next guy. I know, I know. You listen to better music, and your ripped jeans are way skinnier than theirs. Unfortunately, baggy pants are in everywhere else, so you’re still a freak. Take my hand. I can free you. “This was meant to be MySpace,” I can hear you saying, but if we were meant to be on Myspace, we would be. The world moved on because the world needed something better. We can be that. Even if you don’t want to hold my hand or scream from the rooftops, you can help by listening.

“Give this kudos so more people can see” but the poetry that reads like stars in love remains hidden under stacks of posts, abandoned in a dusty file cabinet. I know you want your art to be recognized, so let’s make it happen. The change is simple, and it starts with you being what you want to see so that when you look in the mirror, the future smiles back. Don’t even give the venom a second glance.

Instead, let’s normalize love. Let’s normalize crying over a pretty view, a sad song, two birds dancing in the sky. Crying isn’t sad; it’s proof you are alive. I LOVE you. I want to see your art, I want to read about your night, I want to see you dissect that weird feeling you got last Thursday, I want to reply to all your bulletins, and I want to be your friend. My mortal enemy is the guy who came up with “nonchalant,” but I’m pretty sure it’s one-sided because their mortal enemy is joy.

These are all stray words I’ve sewn into a quilt, but I hope it’ll get you through the winter.

Seriously, how do we fire this guy? I mean, he owns the morgue... maybe we should just kill him.

xo, Fran