Pig Racing

Aaaand the piggies are off! Snout in the air and smile on his face, little Football confindently takes the lead, while Kosher and Porkchop fight over second place... I was recently told that I use the word "cute" too often, but how can one not use it when something like this surfaces on the interwebs?! CUTE. Whose sick idea was it to make pigs so cute, yet bacon so mouthwatering? Some contemptible prick, obviously.

Taylor Mali - What Teachers Make

It's next to impossible to find someone who doesn't recall at least few memorable teachers from their elementary and high school days. For me, it was Mrs. Magon, my high school Math and Chemistry teacher. I remember her teaching methods were always geared towards the provincial exams, her approachability lead entire classes to talk about anything, from the possibility of ghosts to birth control, and her merry mannerisms, articulated by her characteristic lisp, always left me at least somewhat elated as I trudged to my next class. Most of all, however, I remember that her passion for being the best teacher she could possibly be inspired me to see the opportunities education presented me. Bottom line is: teachers make a difference. Here is Taylor Mali, a slam poet and K-12 teacher who lectures all over the world, performing What Teachers Make, the poem that first sparked my interest in the idea of being a teacher.

"I make parents see their children for who they are and who they can be.

You wanna know what I make?

I make kids question, I make 'em criticize, I make 'em apologize and mean it,

I make 'em write, write, write, then I make 'em read, I make 'em spell

Definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful

Over and over again, until they never misspell either one of those words again,

I make 'em show all their work in Math

And then hide it on their final drafts in English,

I make 'em realize that if you got This,

Then you follow This

And if somebody tries to judge you based on what you make,

You give them This.

Let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:

I make a goddamn difference,

Now what about you."

Right under my feet is air made of bricks

There are tears in my eyes and I don’t know why. I’m happy, yet sickly at the same time. I feel like I want to run, but I don’t have the courage to get up. What am I afraid of? Getting hurt? Failure?

But screw up your courage to the sticking place and we shall not fail.

I think I’m afraid that I may have found perfection in an extremely unexpected place and in a particularly paradoxical way. I’m afraid I could believe in fate or karma or – gasp – God. It’s just too bizarre to be slapped in the face with a brilliantly gorgeous answer to a whole bunch of questions, asked just days earlier. I’m afraid of the unpredictability of the future. Shut up brain. Start living in the now, or you’ll never really exist.

Too many emotions are crashing against the floodgates of my self-control. I’ve always been so good at keeping everything at bay; my boxes have helped me appear sane. Trying to write with my sister’s eloquently raw emotion seems to bring out more real person feelings than I ever thought I had. Am I starting to care? Should I try and stop?

It’s only been 36 fucking hours, Kelsey. Seriously, hold it together.

Do I need a hug? Have I turned into a disgustingly hopeless romantic or am I just absolutely bat-shit crazy?

I’m doing it again, I’m finding reasons to run, reasons to keep being so apathetic, reasons to not try for something I might actually believe in. I’m a repeat relationship apathy offender with the recidivism rate of a psychopath scoring 40 on the PCL-R. I really need to start believing in the ink under my skin, don’t I. Perhaps the years that have passed since I got tattooed have made me less enthused to try in anything besides school and sports. Or, perhaps, I had to be so indifferent with everyone else so I could find someone like this. No. That’s irrational. Isn’t it?

The more I learn about the world, the more I think that our simple scientific answers aren't capable of explaining everything. Does that apply to this?

Biology explains the how, but love explains the why.

I don’t think I’m good enough. I don’t think I’m intelligent enough. I don’t think I’m pretty enough. I don’t think I’m worldly enough. Christ, am I even a real woman of real substance? Maybe these doubts are just another defense mechanism. Probably so, considering my track record for keeping myself at bay. Therefore, I think it’s finally time to write an authoritative letter (deep breath in):

Dear uncertainties,

You’ve overstayed your welcome; kindly see yourselves to the door.

Sincerely,
Intriguingly Excited

Ok, I'll jump.

Shane Koyczan - Atlantis

It's time the world be well versed in the wonderful world of slam poetry. Shane Koyczan, who grew up a proud Canadian in Penticton, BC, was one of the very first poets to make me fall in love with this diverse genre. The ways in which he weaves his words together always leave me in awe. This gorgeously composed number is called Atlantis. Enjoy the rhythmical creation of beauty.

"This is for every time
Love becomes the finest minute in the darkest hour.
This if for those who scour the streets
Wondering where the wild things went.
For the believers who leant us their madness.
This is for everyone we miss.

And this is for the children who were lost.
Sadness is nothing more than the cost of being able to smile
Once in a while.
And grief is the trial we stand to offer evidence
That your finger prints were left on our hearts
And our skin,

And in terms of proof,
Love can be demonstrated in giving.
Our lives consist of the efforts we give
In swimming towards the lost continent
Where you are rumored to be living."

Gemineye - Penny For Your Thoughts

I can't even give a description for this one. Gemineye, I'll always pretend that you wrote this for me. Enjoy. 

"I want to engage you buy putting a two carat solitaire diamond on your mind

And marrying your every thought."

Pretty Little Boxes

Pretty little boxes constructed so precise.

A muster formation whose identical outward appearances

Encase uniquely convoluted inner machineries,

Spiraling high from undisclosed desires down to

The depths of deep dark not yet deserted secrets.

    Pretty little boxes stacked from floor to ceiling,

    One on top of the other in hopes that the oldest ones

    Will never have to be opened again.

    In hopes that the rate of accumulating neatly assembled piles

    Will equal the rate of cobweb production from corner to corner,

    Keeping each container closed, bolted, and padlocked

    For as long as this house shall live.

Pretty little boxes protect the home from clutter,

But all it takes is one curious guest

To creek open the foreboding attic door and unexpectedly explore

The compilation of possessions that once adorned these walls and floors.

Its curb appeal is renowned in this neighborhood;

A vibrant emerald yard with flowers in its hair

Hugs a welcoming walkway winding to the front door.

It’s quite clear why a curious stranger may find himself caught up in the

Exterior’s inimitable character, from the ageless brick to the

Steeply pitched roofs to the extensive rows of casement windows,

And wonder how far into the structure those

Dramatically delicate Tudor-like half timbers go.

On first step inside, vaulted ceilings give the illusion of ample living space,

But, little does he know, there is only room for one in this house

And as the naïve visitor’s curiosity lands him in the attic,

A place void of the delicate touch of sunlight, he meets her.

Spinning, twisting, intertwining her webs, the tender of the boxes

Graciously greets him tongue-in-cheek,

            “Welcome to my warren,” as she gradually and deliberately

Walks down her weaved web towards him.

    Most shy from her articulately ominous stride and

    Her burnished black body stamped with a telltale bright bloodshot hourglass.

    However, she observes no quivering, cowering, or recoiling from this company.

    Instead, he sanguinely stretches out a long chiseled arm

    And touches the tip of a box draped in alluring spider silk.

            “What’s inside?” he inquires with a tender smile.

She tenses up all eight legs and all eight eyes

And wonders why this wandering pup won’t simply

Pass this grim and dismal dwelling by.

“Won’t you show me?” he coaxes as he cocks his head

And lets his coiled tawny locks flop playfully to one side, “I don’t bite.”

    The irony saddens the shadow sovereign

    Because she knows that once a guest delves inside that cardboard,

    A darkness creeps over her willpower

    And the guest sees light no more.

    Yet, alas, she regretfully unravels the wrapping to let

    The young man kneel down to explore.

Time ticks by as the man gazes
Over what the pretty little boxes have to hide.

And as he stands up to face her,

To express his respect for her timeworn effects,

To earnestly console her secrets without pity or patronization,

To offer a place out of the cold on his sleeve,

Where he wears his heart, and to evince his wishes to share it with her,

She sinks her fangs deep into his flesh.

As quickly as he stood up to embrace her, he crumbles to his death.

She remorsefully wraps her latest casualty,

First cardboard, then silk,

And robotically returns to her throne

A slightly more twisted
And questionably sadistic queen

Of the pretty little boxes she’s built.