End of Semester Review

End of Semester Review

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

There is a difference between the "one that got away" and the "One who willingly walked out of your life".

This is a discovery I made in my humanities class while discussing sustainability and alternatives to fossil fuels.

I am learning that college is much more than higher education; it is also the place you discover yourself.

There is a difference between the "one that got away" and the "one who willingly walked out of your life".

This realization made it much easier for me when I ran into the boy with brown eyes and wavy hair; the boy who kissed me when the lights went out and brought me a flower when he came to see me perform.

I am learning that I often blame myself when things do not work out.

I am learning that that is not very fair to me or anyone else.

College is much more than higher education; it is also the place where you discover yourself.

Said discoveries are as follows: I often side with the misfits, hold hands with the forgotten, share secrets with the left out; I let emotions lead me, sometimes to a fault, other times, to beautiful things.

There is a difference between the "one that got away" and the "one who willingly walked out of your life."
That is perhaps the most important thing college has taught me thus far.


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Writing Prompt No. Me

Writing Prompt No. Me

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Kim Carnes is playing on the radio, there's a Beto for Senate poster plastered on the outside of the strip club that I drive by on my way home, and I'm cold, despite the boots that I laced up earlier and the sweater that I'm wearing.

I am trying to write about myself more, which sounds conceited and has proven to be more difficult than I thought it would be.

Yesterday I ate food, drove my car, called my best friend, laughed a lot, cried a little, remembered to breathe.

These things don't seem interesting, but they are the mundane, imperative moments that make up a life.

My life.

My life involves aromatherapy to cure my insomnia, a therapist with a cane, too many CD's, quotes from rom-coms staring Meg Ryan, pen ink, lava lamps, and an alarming amount of unread emails.

Lately, I've been focusing a lot on introspection; exploring what it is that I am made of, hypothesizing that there is more than just blood pumping through my veins, entertaining the idea that I am more than just skin and bones.

It is hard to decipher what the best decisions are for oneself.

Funny, considering how opinionated we are when it comes to other people's choices.

I am trying to write about myself more. It is proving to be more difficult than I thought it would be.

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Puzzle Pieces

Puzzle Pieces

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Last night, I realized that shadows are much better than reflections.

See, reflections are misleading.

They show you what you want to see one day, then what you hate about yourself the next.

Shadows, on the other hand, are the outlines of who you are.

They show you truth, elongated.

They show you honesty, with fuzzy edges.

They show you what you are made of; lightness and darkness and everything in between.

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Movie Moments

Movie Moments

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

People are the most beautiful when they smile with their eyes.

Creativity is the most influential when shared.

Jokes are funniest when the audience understands.

The Riverwalk is the prettiest at 11:57pm.

Friendships are the most genuine when built upon a foundation of mutual respect.

November nights are perfect when they include rosy cheeks and foggy breath.

I had a camera with me, but I didn't take any pictures.

Sometimes it's best to let the moments come and go, understanding that the memories will always stay.

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Voting Season

Voting Season

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I am sitting in the back row of a movie theater, accompanied by a Memory and a Choice.

I realize that, for the first time in a long time, I have stage fright.

It is as though the idea of performing for an audience made up of Roads Not Taken and Recycled Feelings is much more nerve wracking than people.

I have a theory that every boy who reads enjoys reading Poe. I also have a theory that Romeo and Juliet was written by a woman who let her dreams go; it's a shame that play is so overrated.

There is a left hand resting on my side and a beating in my chest that feels familiar and exciting and terrifying, all at the same time.
I am trying to remember how to just be; how to put my overactive brain to sleep.

Anxiety is a constant struggle.

I am trying to decide if I've forgiven too many times; the Bible says 70x7.

I'm no mathematician, but that number seems pretty small.

Recently, they've been telling me life is short; "make the most of it."

Recently, they've been telling me I'm so young; "take your time."

I wonder which one is true and could it possibly be both?

I am a forward thinker; afraid of the unknown.

He is a spread sheet, PowerPoint presentation, logical conversation, follow up with a sweet text and a dopey smile, truthful answer kind of guy.

I am trying to decide if I like answers as much as I think I do; maybe this time, I am the question.

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Little Things

Little Things

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I have developed a theory that different people love in different ways and in different amounts.

For example, my little sister shows me that she cares by bringing me glasses of water throughout the day and telling me that I am a "good potato."

I think that she is the purest form of love.

To contrast, my little brother loves by listening, closely and thoughtfully. 

He is good at pointing out possibilities you may have missed somewhere along the way, and if that is not enough,

if you need a little more,

he will pray for you.

I do not know many teenage boys who pray.

I think that I love quietly; in ways that some people might miss no matter how much I wish they didn't.

I love in the poems that I trace onto the car window as he tells me that he is trying;

I love through eye contact during sad songs and freshly baked bread on the weekends.

I love in little things, but I do not love a little.

Neither does my sister. 

Neither does my brother.

I suppose you could say that love runs in my family, and if that's not something to be proud of, I don't know what is.

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Forward Thinking

Forward Thinking

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

If they ever decide to pick apart my poems in classrooms,

if they begin to dissect my feelings,

peel back the layers,

unpack the similes,

cut up the metaphors,

break the words down until all that is leftover are definitions abd empty promises,

I hope that they find your name lit up in lights somewhere, and that they discover pieces of me scattered about in the aftermath of us.

I hope that all they find is love.

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Truth

Truth

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

It's a simple thing really;

if we could see how much our selfish actions hurt the people around us, we would do everything in our power to live a life full of nothing but love.

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Tracy's Love

Tracy's Love

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

so just like he suggested

she reached out in front of her

foolishly letting her heart guide the way

when she found who it was that she wanted

she held tight for all that she was worth

it is hard to hold onto dreamers

and when the time came

as it so often does

for her to let go

she did

leaving her fears in his pockets and her heart pinned upon his sleeve

they say it's the brave ones who know when to let love go

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Hotel California: The Album in Summary

Hotel California: The Album in Summary

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Track 1. Hotel California: You know how sometimes you get in your car to drive somewhere, but your mind is on overdrive so you aren't even thinking about where you're going, and then the next thing you know, you're parked outside of your ex boyfriend's childhood home, even though he's away at college in another town and you haven't spoken in months, but you still want to be close to him? 

Track 2. New Kid in Town: He says this is his favorite song on the album. It took me a while to understand why.

Track 3. Life in the Fast Lane: The reason why I don't do drugs.

Track 4. Wasted Time: I once listened to this song 32 times in a row. It hurt just as bad each time.

Track 5. Wasted Time Reprise: Just because you tell other people you've gotten over it doesn't always mean that you have.

Track 6. Victim of Love: Not long ago, I played Vera Claythorne in a stage production of Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None. I listened to this song every night before the start of the show. It turns out that Vera and I have a lot in common.

Track 7. Pretty Maids All in a Row: How old were you when you realized? I was 5. I walked in on my parents wrapping Christmas presents; the ones that were supposed to be from Santa.

Track 8. Try and Love Again: What I've been trying to do for years, but every time I think I have been successful, I end up listening to Track 4, 32 times in a row, and each time it hurts just as bad.

Track 9. The Last Resort: My dad says that anyone who calls themselves a Christian should listen to this song at least once. So, I do every Sunday to remind myself to walk with compassion and to appreciate what is already here.

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Reminder #7

Reminder #7

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Please don't forget just how fond she is of laughter.

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Looking Backː The Things That Remind Me of You

Looking Backː The Things That Remind Me of You

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

1. The Chinese food place close to my house. I will occasionally flip it the bird when I drive past it.

2.Poetry. This one is harder to deal with considering how important it is to me.

3. I once called you a walking thesaurus and you responded with a list of words synonymous to laughter.

4. Pooping. I won't get into that one.

5. Brioche French toast.

6. The wrappers found on disposable straws. We crumpled them up and shot them at each other for hours. It was one of the best evenings of my life.

7. J. R. Tolkien. He is still boring, despite your many efforts to make him sound brilliant.

8. The kiss that rests in the right hand corner of my mouth; the type of kiss that can move mountains and end wars. I still have not given mine away.

9. The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost; also, The Road to El Dorado, the Dreamworks film.

10. Pride. We've both got a lot of that.

11. Forcing myself to be angry so that I don't feel broken instead.

12. The naive poems I wrote; the ones that were once my favorite but that I now avoid.

13. The words I regret not saying; the words you will never say; the phone call I wish we could have, but that I am too afraid to initiate; trying to move on.

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Something I've Been Thinking About

"We accept the love we think we deserve." -Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Something I've Been Thinking About

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

When I was 12, my best friend lost her virginity in a bathroom stall, to a boy who didn't know what he was doing and didn't care about her at all.

When she told me the story, there were tears streaming down her face; she apologized and asked me if I thought her stomach looked swollen.

I am not sure if she ever told her mom.

I once walked in on her scraping at the skin on her wrists as though it was the winter and time to shed; time to start anew.

That is the summer she started wearing rubber bands in the pool; one day she asked me if I believed that girls like her deserved love like the movies.

I told her, "Girls like you deserve so much more."

Those were the days when I learned to be wary of boys with beautiful eyes and flattering words.

That is when I decided that me, I'd hold out for Love, and if he never came, at least I would be happy knowing that my stomach wasn't swollen; maybe I wouldn't apologize each time I cried.

It's been years now.

I have mastered the art of crying in public without anyone knowing; it's during one on one encounters when I sometimes get caught.

He says that I am an observer and then wipes away my tears; I realize I've been holding onto them since I was little.

I wonder if my old best friend ever found a love like the movies.

I hope she knows that she deserves so much more.

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Freely

Freely

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I have learned something recently;

Love has to be given freely.

That is not to say that love is free. In fact, I would venture to say that it is rather the opposite.

Freely, defintion; of one's own accord; 

without restraint or reservation; 

without hindrance;

not strictly following a model, convention, or rule.

If it is love, you will give it freely.

That does not mean it comes at no cost.

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Thought #14

Thought #14

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I'd rather be the one that got away than the woman who overstayed her welcome.

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Recently

Recently

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Sometimes, when I'm lucky, I get to see him puff out his chest as he shows me the books he keeps on his shelves or the presents he got for his birthday.

It is reminiscent of how an 8 year old might show of the new toothbrush he was given by the dentist or proudly display how many Valentine's Day cards he got at school earlier.

Those are the moments when I know I am seeing him.

Just him.

Not the motorcycle dreams or the neon lights; not the quiet hesitations and the second guessed thoughts.

Once, he pulled me away from a dinner table so that we could listen to a song that he couldn't remember the name of, but that he knew he loved.

He hummed along, kind of pitchy, and when I went back inside, the waiter commented on how much my dimples show when I am smiling hard.

I seem to be doing that a lot lately.

I wonder if those are the moments when he can see me.

Just me.

Not the overthought precautionary measures; not the way my hands shake when I'm nervous or how I try to take up as little room as possible.

Once, he introduced me to his friends as someone who is special.

I don't think I'll forget that.

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Brown Eyes

Brown Eyes

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I told you once that I knew something you didn't.

I wonder when I will be bold enough to tell you what that something is.

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Challenge

Challenge

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Call me an optimist or call me a fool;

I'm sure I fall somewhere in between.

I believe that if we decided to be strong enough to let ourselves really, truly love one another,

without reservation and with every intention to make the sacrifices that come along with it,

nothing in the world could break us.

But I promise you, it will not be easy.

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1 O'Clock in the Morning

1 O'Clock in the Morning

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

It is hard for me to look and you and see her fingerprints everywhere.

I've never seen her face, but I know the patterns that she traced on your mind and how she used a Sharpie when she wrote on your heart.

The worst part is that I'm pretty sure she knew the ink would stain; she knew that Sharpie can go away, but it takes time to fade.

To compensate, I write in very light pencil.

I want you to know that I am trying to be gentle; you have the option to wipe me away.

But, if I am being honest, I wish I were bold enough to use a Sharpie. 

Then maybe you would notice; then maybe you would give me a little more of your time.

See, but I am not like her. I would never blame you, even if I should. 

Maybe that's the reason; maybe that is exactly why...

I have a feeling that I will be gone soon.

You will brush away my residue, and all that's left will be a faint shadow on your heart, in the shape of mine.

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Reality

Reality

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Ah, a familiar story indeed:

a girl who loves too hard,

laughs too loud,

dreams too big,

overthinks too often,

and smiles just enough,

fell in love with a boy who never really knew how much she cared for him.

He overlooked the stars in her eyes and the skip in her step.

He rushed past her open arms and swelling heart.

She smelled like vanilla, but he never noticed.

And now that he's finally slowed down,

now that he's finally looking...

she

is

long

gone.

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Solar System Murals

Solar System Murals

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

When we were 5 years old, I loved you because you had solar systems painted on your bedroom walls and a rocking horse in your living room.

People said we were a good height for each other, and I thought that meant we would get married in the future.

Back then, love was simply a four letter word that I could spell backwards and forwards.

Back then, love was simple.

I don't love you like that anymore.

Now, I love you like I love lemonade in the summer and hot tea in November; it comes and goes with the seasons.

I love you enough to have let go.

Nowadays, love is more complicated than l-o-v-e.

Nowadays, we are more complicated than e-v-o-l.

You are still a good height for me. That doesn't mean we should marry one another.

You have strong arms. You once wrapped them around me as though I gave you something to write about.

I am proud of who you are and of who I have become.

Now, love means that I will always have a place for you somewhere deep in my chest.

When you feel lost, I will try to remind you of who you are.

You are a boy who has solar systems on his walls.

A boy with strong arms and quiet eyes.

A boy who taught me how to move on.

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Lessons: Recently Learned

Lessons: Recently Learned

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

If you want to fly, all you need is a car, a sunroof, and a boy who drives carefully when you are around.

Selfish prayers are still prayers; they count for something.

It's okay to miss people you're not supposed to.

Rest. It is one of the most important things you can give yourself.

Hugging is oftentimes better than kissing. I think that has something to do with the fact that, when you hug, hearts get pressed up against each other and breathing patterns tend to sync up.

The way the crinkles by his eyes become extra prominent when he smiles at me; that is one of the most beautiful things that God created.

The healthiest thing on the Jim's menu are long conversations about jumbled up hearts and misunderstood motivations.

There is no such thing as loving too much.

In fact, loving too little is the most dangerous thing you can do.

I am so afraid of coming on too strong that I sometimes hold back more than I should.

As long as there are stars in the sky and songs to be listened to, there will continue to be reasons to be happy. 

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Words for Someone Else

Words for Someone Else

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Seems like all the signs on the highway are leading us to the airport.

Everyone always seems to be going somewhere; but what if right here is exactly where we're supposed to be?

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Slightly Inappropriate Questions that We All Need the Answers To

Slightly Inappropriate Questions that We All Need the Answers To

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Where exactly does the line between "platonic friendship" and "emotionally cheating on your boyfriend with your best friend" lie?

Are babies the product of habitually trying to save relationships that burned out years ago, or is it always love found between the sheets?

What if I don't care anymore?

Why does kissing have to be slobbery? And, follow up question, are all stage kisses really just for show?

John Mayer, was her body really a wonderland, or is that just a line you used to get her clothes off?

If you don't exactly hate Donald Trump, are you still allowed to be a Millennial?

Can you be in love with more than one person at the same time? If you are, does that make you a bad person?

How come movies never show people excusing themselves so that they can use the bathroom? I'm pretty positive that George Bailey and Indiana Jones have to take a crap sometimes, just like all the rest of us.

Asking for a friend, what if the moon landing didn't actually happen?

How are we supposed to build a better world if we keep using disposable razors?

Who authorized heartbreak as an institution, and where do I go to file a complaint?

What if some of us really do fall in love too often, too easily, and too fast?

What if that is the human condition?

Do you think we'll ever know the answers to all of the questions?

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Right Now

Right Now

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

The floor is very cold; I can feel its coolness through my jeans, which is confusing considering how hot it's been outside.

Recently, I've been trying to be more aware of my surroundings.

The floor is cold and the room smells good and the song from the 80's that's blasting through the speakers makes me miss an era that I never got the chance to see.

I'm feeling pretty good, and I don't know if it's because of the song or the smell or the boy who's sitting next to me while holding my hand.

Maybe it's a little bit of all of it.

His kisses are salty because of the pretzels he just finished off, and when he leans against me and speaks, I can feel his voice echo from deep inside his chest. 

I hope he doesn't mind me writing about him. 

I also hope the fact that I'm writing about him doesn't make his ego any bigger than it already is.

I usually write about people in retrospect; way after the fact, so that maybe they won't know that I'm writing about them.

I've lamented over the fact that my writing is sometimes very transparent.

I was corrected, however, and told that it is honest, and that that is how you tell a good story. 

So then, here are the honest facts: the floor is cold, the room smells good, there is no 80's song with my name in it, the boy next to me is going to know that this poem is about him, and I just let myself feel the happy as the happiness was happening.

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Bottle Blonde

Bottle Blonde

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I'm sitting on the back porch of a house I've never been to before, talking about a boy who thinks I'm good, but that I'm not good enough for.

Or maybe, he's not good enough for me.

The Bottle Blonde who's listening strums ukulele that she never learned how to play and finishes off her third cigarette.

When she isn't busy blowing smoke, she talks a lot.

I do too, but I've learned that listening is sometimes more gratifying; the challenge is knowing when it's time to speak up.

I think he holds my hand to keep himself steady sometimes. He wouldn't be the first person to do that.

Bottle Blonde tells me that I'm smart and strong, and that boys want that but don't know how to hold onto it;

Then she offers me a cigarette and I politely decline.

"You're a good girl with a couple shades of grey. This world needs more of you."

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Asking For a Friend

Asking For a Friend

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I believe that if we try hard enough, we leave something with each person we interact with.

Whether that something is going to be good or bad is the part we oftentimes don't understand until after the fact.

For example, my last boyfriend left me with a half-assed goodbye and an abandonment complex.

I left a book of poetry in his dorm room.

Consequently, it seems to me that, out of the two of us, I did the least amount of harm.

Yesterday, someone asked me if my legs get tired when I run away from my past; I explained to them that I like to see it as me flying towards my future.

Either way, I do occasionally experience shin splints.

Personally, I like seeing the sun set more than watching it rise; even bright, burning stars deserve a little rest.

Have you ever thought about the man in the moon?

Don't you wonder if he objectifies the planets?

Or maybe he knows how to look beyond the mountains that are made of molehills; perhaps he focuses on more than just the tree trunk thighs that pass by as he orbits the Earth.

Why is a raven like a writing desk?

More importantly, why is it that every boy enjoys Edgar Allan Poe?

Sometimes I think that it's my many questions that scare people away.

I should just start accepting things for their face value, I know.

It's just that it's my tendency to look for the deeper meanings.

I suppose it's really no loss; you never could answer my questions anyway.

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An Epiphany

An Epiphany

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I've got goosebumps on my arms and butterflies in my stomach.

The goosebumps are there because it's a little more than chilly outside. 

The butterflies moved in when I decided that I like the way his voice dips down when he says my name.

The light that stands tall a few feet away from me shines in a blurry sort of way, thanks to the smoke that curls towards the sky in pretty little wisps.

I've just now had an epiphany: this whole time, I've been growing up, and now I'm as old as I've ever been.

I've outgrown my cradle, I've left the kids menu behind.

Here I am, holding hands under the table in an attempt to be discreet and singing along to songs I am too young to know.

I'm whispering secrets to friends I've known for only minutes and making room for memories I forgot that I'd forgotten.

I love how it feels to be this young; I have yet to lice so many adventures.

There are still so many stars for me to make wishes on.

I've been offered a drink now, and I take a sip as someone skips my favorite song.

I suppose I didn't realize I'd got to be this old; I was too busy wasting my days, wishing I was older.

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