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Hedwig SequelJohn Cameron Mitchell
recently announced a sequel of Hedwig
who knows when it will emerge
but I want it to take its time
because, in his own words
The sequel to Hedwig is all about
"I know who I am, and I have very little time left"
And I’m scared
I’m not ready for that yet
I don’t feel strong enough to mourn her
Eyes Far Bluer Than MineI swear to god
in one of the parts of dialogue
in ‘Hedwig and the Angry Inch’
Hedwig says something
near identical to a poem I wrote
before I even saw the bootleg
yet when I needed her existence the most
DriverAndrew Rannells got a driver to pick him up
Yet Lena Hall walks, which may well be her choice
But I would get my drivers license
Just for the sake of driving her around
And I could be the Ralph to her P.L. Travers
I Love LenaLena Hall is the sweetest celebrity I’ve ever met
not that Malcolm Ray, Andrew Rannells, or Greg Sestero are unkind
it’s just that Lena seemed to understand entirely
when I told her how ‘Hedwig and the Angry Inch’ means the world to me
and from then on she acted like autograph and selfie were just a given
as if we were old friends who had hugged and taken many photos prior
and I felt entirely comfortable in her presence
no stammering or forcing myself to be brave enough to say hello
it was a simple beautiful thing, and I wish I could be her friend in reality
but just to meet her briefly twice was phenomenal
before I met her, a woman nearly fainted when Lena told her “I love you, too”
and I don’t blame the woman, since I’m sure Lena really truly meant it
Imagine Your Favorite CharacterI know it likely isn’t healthy
to connect as much as I do to Hedwig
considering she’s fictional
and I’m meant to be a functioning adult
who doesn’t need imaginary friends in order to cope with life
yet Hedwig gives me strength and support
and makes me feel like someone
albeit a fictional someone
knows exactly how I feel and felt
and has felt that as well
and when a real human to spill my heart out to is hard to find
and I fear being an anchor to my beloveds
I don’t have to worry about explaining myself
or risk the possibility of seeming solely selfish
I have a validating voice
to guide me through the struggles
and live out the triumph and recovery I hope to find for myself
Opposite of PityHedwig was different
than any other show I’ve seen
since with other shows
it’s as if I need to imagine their pain in order to empathize
I don’t like the word pity since it seems patronizing
but with other shows I pity the characters’ tragedy
with Hedwig I feel it fully and for selfish reasons
drawing completely from experiences that felt the same
though details are as different as different can be
but I swear in my soul
I can feel Hedwig’s hurt in the same way I feel my own
because it seems the same
the pain down in her soul is the same as the one down in mine
so the show made me feel more
than any other before
since it was a reflection of myself
and I in the audience was a reflection of her
Hedwig's SoulSome people believe
that Hamlet has a soul
a real ghostlike soul
able to possess actors
to portray him in a way
that Hamlet would
if he were 100% flesh and blood and reality
I believe Hedwig has a soul
for she pointed directly towards me
and looked at me with the intense eye contact of a loved one
as if she knew how much her words meant to me
as if she knew it was her voice
I chose to lull myself to sleep
when it seemed unwise to wake up
She knew everything
Marymount ManhattanI told Joey I want to go to Marymount Manhattan
He looked quite shocked, so I questioned him
He said, “No, I just thought you’d stay in town”
And suddenly I felt compelled to admit something
Something I’ve never admitted aloud to anyone
He’s like family to me, so I could be completely candid
I said, “As difficult as Columbia was
I learned a lot about myself, and I feel like,
If I stay, I’ll stay here and stagnant forever
So I have to go elsewhere, and see what comes of it”
I looked him right in the eyes as I spoke
My adoptive family members are eye-contact masters
He then said, “Good, I’m proud"
Spring Semester 2014Typing up old poems is always so weird
Since within a month or two
It seems my entire inner reality has changed
Meaning the poems change to me
Yet I have to try to insure the original meaning
Though now I may have it figured it out
Or now I might be struggling more
But I type them up and submit
And feel the need to add a disclaimer
“Views expressed in this poem
May not be endorsed by the author
At this time of posting
Though I am the soul who wrote it
So once it was my truth"
When you lose a best friendWhen we said friends forever and
crossed pinkies like grade-schoolers,
I could only believe those words
lodged in your heart
like they did mine
because every time I think back
I can't help but remember the
under star lit constellations,
and study sessions where we
learned more about each other
than we did Biology
but now it's clear
that each beat of your heart
has made those words fade,
and you could care less
about crossed pinkies
but I'll still see you,
and hear your voice
and I'll still wish
the meaning hadn't changed-
At peace within this tranquil garden,
I picture the moments where I've made you smile.
Those times are endlessly precious to me,
I think they're worth the while.
They're worth the time I've spent with you,
Even if it wasn't long.
I only wish I'd spent a little more,
Before our love was gone.
Forgiveness takes twoThe words are struggling
to tumble off my tongue,
and despite having
a fleshy cushion
to rest on,
they stain my teeth
and sting like acid
"I'm sorry," I stutter,
but the bitter taste
doesn't leave my tongue-
not because the words weren't true,
but because I know
I won't hear,
She's an artistShe's an artist.
Always seems to be daydreaming,
She draws to escape her pain.
Cause for a single moment,
When her work is done.
It seems like there is no more rain.
And she could finally touch the sun.
The one that shines so brightly in her paintings.
But then it's gone,
So she keeps drawing,
She's become good at escaping.
Running from reality.
Because dreams are the only things she wants,
Her imagination is the only thing she's ever known.
And it's sad really...
Because she tries so hard to be happy.
But the most beautiful thing she could ever create.
Was that smile upon her face,
And that is the one thing that remains blank.
Waiting to someday be something more than,
Mommy Is A Super HeroMommy Is A Super Hero
Standing before his class, he held his tiny report,
“Who is your super hero?” Was written in yellow chalk on the green board.
Exhaling his breath, the curly haired boy closed his little eyes,
“Don't be ashamed of yourself” His mother's words rung in his ears, “And don't ever cry.”
He began to read aloud, with a shaky voice.
to his class, he told his mother's story.
At age fifteen, she was a beauty queen,
the most beautiful girl in all of the world.
She flaunted her silky hair, bore her bare legs,
prided her breast. The boys treated her like she was a treasure chest.
They respected her rules, they “looked, but didn't touch”,
but there was one older man, who from her, wanted too much.
All alone he met her, he approached her in the alley,
and all his mother told him, was that this man had treated her badly.
But what the boy didn't know was that she was taken against her will,
and that two months later, she turned up ext
Still HereSuicide is a
Thought that frequently lurks
In my mind, wich
Lets it overcome the
Laughter and happiness
Here I still fight, however
Enduring this sad life
Reviving my hopes
Embracing the gift of life
cenotaph of stormsthe first thunderstorm
was triggered by a blunt pair
of scissors, sparking violently
against the lightning,
shaking in the wind.
the downpour pierced,
tattooed with no ink but
the dark bleakness
of an overcast morning,
infiltrating uniformed wrists.
hid behind the music block,
shaky raindrops rioting
fears, she fractured.
the second storm
wept a two year downpour
outline that dripped from wrist
to hip, sidelong silhouette glances
obscured by the rain.
stalictidal waves shuddered
frozen, until icy glass
fell in stained shards from
the stillness inside.
thinner, brittler, growing
in flurries of sleet and hail,
her outline was never filled,
though the floods threatened
the third thunderstorm
was a mist-ridden melancholia,
a dream for permanence
smeared in ink through
fueled by the hope
that just this once,
the rain would spark a
rebirth beneath the ground.
instead, a tsunami
washed away the ink
as tides so often do.
smotherher spine was dusk
and unmade nests,
but he tried to live there
he was neither nocturnal
nor a dawn-believer,
so he suffocated
in the birdhouse of her ribs.
between my vertebrae, you are (cemeterial)oh, these writers never speak; they
claw words out of bird carcasses,
poets pecking viscera like necropolitans.
they count their ribs to remind you
of a corpse or of a matchstick. dry bones
between fissured wrists & funeral pyres,
these have been dying days &
they're all mortuaries.
I was so mean, my god was I mean, and you were the innocent archetype. You were never that open, or naive after that year. I feel like I broke you, but it took me so long to realize, and now I cannot apologize since, I'm sure, you don't remember. Many of the people I hurt don't remember me, but my words shaped their souls and I wish I could take all that back. It's true, you know, those that are hurt tend to hurt others, but you are anomalistically kind, and I wish I could be as devoted to anything in life as you were to everything. You'll make it I swear, even while I am stuck. I'll be your Renfield, perhaps then I'll earn your forgiveness.
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