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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