Change of Plans

I’ve been working on my short story for most of this week and now, I just hate the whole premise of the story.  It’s too depressing I feel and it annoys the hell out of me. I thought I had a really good idea for the story and then as I got further through the it, I just became very frustrated. Now I have to start completely over and I don’t know what to write about. Looks like my muse really is riding on the winds of change…(Haha! Is it a bad thing that I just referenced my own poem?)

Personal Bio

Marissa is a relatively quiet girl who finds an escape in the works that she creates. Her greatest accomplishment to date has been winning first place in her English class poetry slam contest. When she isn’t writing, she can be found listening to music, singing, or spending time with friends and family.


So here is my bio, feel free to give any feedback you feel it might need.

The Reason it Sucks Being Shy

You can probably tell by the title, but this is going to be something of a vent post.

Anyone who doesn’t know me, probably thinks I’m a mute or something.  I rarely ever talk in class and I actually don’t like that. I really do like talking to people and getting to know them but breaking out of my initial shell is very very difficult for me. When I do talk, it comes out like a bunch of gibberish because while I can very clearly express my thoughts and opinions through writing, apparently I can’t do the same with my mouth.

It’s strange because sometimes I myself wonder why I’m like that to the general public while people that I do know, I usually have no problem talking to. How did I even get the point where I was comfortable enough to just say what’s on my mind whenever it comes to my mind? Maybe it’s because I know for a fact they won’t judge me? Am I really that afraid of judgment though that I can’t even speak for fear that I’ll be judged? I don’t feel like that’s the reason…so why?

I don’t want pity for being shy. That pisses me off. People have discounted my opinion on things just because I was quiet while explaining it to them. Yes, I’m shy. No, that doesn’t mean that when I do speak I don’t know what I’m talking about or that you can discount what I say.

I have been working hard to overcome my shyness though and I’m very happy with how far I’ve come in the past two years. I used to not be able to maintain eye contact while talking to someone, I would stare at their feet, their hands, anything but into their eyes. Now, even though I still sometimes don’t feel comfortable maintaining eye contact, I’ve learned tricks to make it seem like I’m still looking into someone’s eyes even when I’m not. For example, looking just past a person (Maybe at a wall behind them) but still keeping your eyes in the general area of the face will make it seem like you are maintaining eye contact. Little things like this have helped me start to work on overcoming my shyness and I hope to be able to go even further in years to come.

Reoccurring Dream

I had this reoccurring dream as a child that has haunted me even now and I feel that the only way to understand the dream is to hash it out in writing – or typing in this case.

So, in my dream I am looking at ruins, it’s almost Greek or Roman ruins I think. And They have little information pamphlets on them like you would find at the zoo for the animals. I am with a guy that gives me the creeps. Sort of. I can tell whoever the guy is, he cares about me very much, maybe…too much? The knowledge of the fact that he cares about me is almost suffocating. I feel the need to escape, and as we walk around exploring the ruins, I feel the need to get away grow until it sits like a stone in the pit of my stomach. It weighs me down. I remember making an excuse to go get a map from one of the strangely modern kiosks that are on every corner of the area. And then I run. I run like my life depends on. Perhaps it did. But not before the guy notices. And he doesn’t run after me, doesn’t try to stop me at least physically. But no matter how fast I run I can’t escape what happens next.  He drops to his knees and starts crying like a baby, begging me to stay. “Please don’t leave me! I’ll die without you! Please! Come back!” But I don’t stop running. Even as his face disappears, his words echo in my head as if he is still right behind me. And instead of a weight lifting off me, I feel the stone in my stomach grow. It weighs me down even more.

To this day I don’t understand what this dream means. And it still haunts me everytime I think about it.


I am fading.

Gradually becoming naught but a faint whisper of wind.

When others come near me they don’t even notice my presence.

As if I’m the ghost ever present in their everyday lives.

I’m there, yet not.

If they notice me at all it is for a fleeting moment.

Like a muse riding on the winds of change

How then, is the wind able to feel pain?






Terrible Teachers and Ones that don’t Teach

I thought teachers are supposed to be responsible, caring adults that do their freaking job. For the most part, they are. But then you get those teachers that just don’t care, don’t teach, don’t even grade for that matter. I can’t stand them. Why did you even get a degree in education if YOU AREN’T GOING TO  TEACH???!!! I am in your class to learn something new or further my knowledge on something that I’m interested in and you sit there at your pretty little desk and do god knows what on your computer. I’ve watched you go on sites that don’t even have anything to do with your job. Don’t think that just because I’m only seventeen means I don’t pay attention to things. Maybe you think that because this is only an elective class that your other classes you teach that are core classes are more important? But people chose to take this class and that is disrespectful to them to not take it as seriously as your core classes. I would understand if you have other assignments to grade. I’m sure you do. But when I ask when an assignment that’s been turned in for over a week is going to be graded and your answer is “When I get to it.” surely you could understand how I’d be upset by that answer right? If you asked a student when they were going to turn in an assignment that was assigned over a week ago and said “When I get to it.” you’d probably be upset too, wouldn’t you? Even though they have other classes that assign things, you always tell them to use time management and prioritize. So how are you any different?

Family Woes and Broken Toes

I am the child born from lust, not love.Whose first cries were greeted by a cacophony of quarreling. I’ve been wretched in so many different directions that I”m no longer certain which one is right.

That’s what perturbs me the most.

Now that I am supposed to start acting like an adult (Somehow I guess they forgot that they forced me to grow up far before this), how am I to determine which way to go? I’ve been a pawn in a cruel game that my parents have been playing from the moment I was born (I know; very dramatic sounding, but trust me. It’s very true). Now it’s time for me to be my own person and take control of my own life.

But where to begin…?

I am probably the most graceless human being you will ever meet, I’ve broken multiple toes more times than I can count. Hell, I’ve even apologized for knocking into a chair once. I fumble over my words when talking in front of the class, my social anxiety stifles my enthusiasm to put forth my own opinion.

But I long to show people that I am a caring person, despite my broken attempts at socializing.



Tonight I flew away.

Author’s Note: I wrote and performed this at The Wolf’s open mic night last year. So this is an older poem but I still like it.


I flew away tonight to a distant memory.

To shadows of shouts and a mind filled with doubts.

I watch from afar as a pair of fearful eyes peak from around the corner

I watch from afar as that already splintered girl, splinters further.

Just nine years old!

I watch as she witnesses this terrible thing.

Hear the sound, the loud echoing rip!

As her innocence is torn from her

Though it’s not the first time.

I can almost hear the clunk of her heart’s doors bolting shut.

But what I fail to hear is the low, rumbling sound.

That sound is her poor little heart tumbling down.

What happens next I’m not prepared for.

All I can hear is feet pounding for the door.

“Get up!” I tell myself

“Get up! Get up!”

But for all my efforts, my feet are still stuck.

The door swings open and all I can see, is this striken girl staring back at me.

And now I watch as she crumples to the ground

Not unlike a flower thrown into fire.

She’s trembling.

Turning her tears into Niagara Falls so she can drown out the sounds of her mother’s choking and her stepfather’s booming thunder.

The only time she’s ever been afraid of watching a storm.

What do I do?  Her eyes seem to ask.

But I can only think of one thing.

So I stand and grab her small, shaking hand

“Come with me,” I say, “We can fly away to Neverland.”

“Like Peter Pan?” She asks, and I nod.

Tonight I flew away with my younger self in tow

I took her to Neverland, where she’ll never have to grow

She can unbolt her heart

She no longer has to be the protector

Now she can be innocent forever and ever.