What's REALLY Scary This Halloween?

First things first: a HUGE thank you to all those reading my posts. Don't be shy, I would love to hear any thoughts or opinions you may have. Writing is meant to be shared, it is meant to be read, to spark ideas, to ask questions, and to expand your worldview. I am a work in progress. I am always learning new things, gaining new perspectives, and seeking knowledge from those with different experiences from my own. I hope to hear from you soon, and thanks again for giving my writing a chance! :D

On to the real post!

What's really scary this Halloween?
I am finding myself trusting people in masks (specifically Guy Fawkes masks), more than those in suits. I was raised to respect authority, and to not question the status quo. I am sure many of you were raised to be complacent citizens as well. However, I am becoming increasingly disappointed in those we as Americans are to look to for guidance. Our leaders have sold us out for greenbacks from big business lobbyists. How many more people have to lose their homes, jobs and futures before the rest of us pay attention to the hypocrisy of our government? We have more foreign debt than any country in the world. Our country debt is now nearly 100% of our GDP. The people running the show expect the market to turn around by throwing more dollars in the pot. Simple economics will tell you that by injecting valueless dollars into the system we are only creating inflation. Have you noticed the price of fruit is doubling? Milk prices have jumped up nearly a dollar. From what I'm reading, it seems that this is only the beginning. Hyperinflation is more terrifying than ghosts and zombies, or even the hypothetical Mayan apocalypse. I remember reading an anecdote in my high school US History class on the livelihood of the German people right after WWI. The currency at that time was so useless they were collecting paper money for kindling, since they couldn't afford the heinous price of coal to heat their homes. The price of bread jumped to the equivalent of hundreds of US dollars for just one loaf.

I'm not saying that's what our future has in store for us. However, I am losing hope that things are getting better. Students and graduates across the country are waking up to the fact that there are no jobs for us. Many young people are dropping out of school. What's the point of a degree if it doesn't make you any more economically stable? My generation is NOT stupid. We are taking to the streets, the internet, the people's plazas of the country, and we are retaliating against the banks. My hope is carried on the shoulders of my peers. The only thing we need to overcome is our apathy, and the ignorance surrounding the institutions running our lives.

Nothing is scarier to me than staring at my reflection, and wondering what I will be seeing over the next few years.

If you are interested in finding out what is happening in this country outside of the occupy movement, I would encourage you to visit this website: http://www.whatis-theplan.org/

For a Chance at Paradise

For a Chance at Paradise by Emily

Paradise is a game of chance

With valueless chips stacked high

The ante: good deeds, karma

But this poker game is rigged for the righteous

Whose debt is doubling by the hour

A shovel of dirt raining down on a closed coffin

Greets the winning hand

Greets the losing hand

A cement tomb awaits its newest guest

Their final resting place, decorated with playing chips

They are irredeemable, illegal tender

Voided passes to the beautiful infinite

This game will not bestow eternal consciousness,

Rebirth or sainthood to the invested gambler

All players are martyrs in the pyramid scheme

Of immortality

Swindled by Jesus’ salesman and misinformed

By manuals of Fairy stories

St. Peter waits at the golden gates

Anticipating his dying audience

And how they will interpret

The final punch line

Where Am I Beneath All This Mascara

I thought I would lighten it up today. It's Friday, the weather is above freezing, and the sun is shining! I wrote this poem a few months back, and revision is still in the works. As a feminist, body image talk is everywhere. The unrealistic standard of beauty we see everyday through media is not the reality of real women with real bodies. Women spend billions of dollars on beauty products every year. We're taking the bait and trying to cure our inadequacies with chemicals and dyes. Have you ever looked at what's left behind after you take off your make up? A swirl of unnatural colors and angry black lines from mascara rings and eye liner. No wonder we worry about aging, this shit can't be good for you.

I once read an article about a woman who made a one year no mirrors pledge. For an entire year she did not look at her reflection, wear make up, or style her hair. She did a self-esteem and body image assessment before and after her unofficial case study. The findings were very positive. If she can't see her reflection she can't obsess over it. I'm not saying that I'm going to ban mirrors in my house, but being less critical of yourself may be the ticket to accepting who you are. I'll never be a size 0, I will never have a Marilyn figure, but accepting myself as the way I am provides just one less stress in my day to day life. I'll take that!

Where Am I beneath All This Mascara by Emily

I am sucked in

Pushed up

And squeezed

Into a form foreign to my body

Coaxing my square form into an

 HouR

     G

  LasS

  

   A

PeaR

 A top-HeavY

      TrianG

          LE

I foil my hair

Until each strand is parched

I empty my money into products

As if Shea Butter can cure cancer

And my brutalized tresses

Are back-combed

Into frizzy surrender

I pinch my eyelids in metal cages

So I can appear flirty and wanting

I fear glasses and poke my irises everyday

To avoid the label of geek

The sexy librarian look is so 1994

I waste money from every miniscule paycheck

To become the better looking me

But when it comes to staring down the mirror

Can any amount of cash make me

Appreciate what I see?

Work Americans, Work!

For the last few months I have been evolving, the final stage of growing up. Gone are the carefree college days where my worries consisted of getting an A on a presentation, and kicking ass on my writing portfolios. Now, I'm only beginning to know fear and pressure. I was raised for this system of full time work, I had dreams of being a grant writer, a novelist, an activist. What do you want to be when you grow up? That question excited me as a child. I was told there were possibilities for someone like me; if I got a degree, any degree, I would succeed in the working world, afford to get married and raise a family, and continue on until retirement. After removing the rose colored glasses I've realized that every day is a struggle. For everyone. If money is not an obsession there is something wrong with you, if bills don't occupy your mind you're not a real adult with real adult problems.

Why would our parents and teachers tell us these lies? There are way too many college students and graduates disenchanted with this broken system like myself. We're questioning this monetary institution that requires us to scrape to get by. I can't afford to dream these days. But if I don't dream about something better I think I might lose myself in this transition process. So, these are some of the snippets of inspiration behind this poem.

Work Americans, Work! by Emily

We toil for twenty days of paid vacation a year

Holed away in a 4x4 cubicle

Of stifling tans and grays

A single family photograph on the carpeted divider

Effective motivation for a measly paycheck

We wait for Friday nights and pre-teen babysitters

To permit us to regress to the carefree age of 21

A time before mortgages, insurance, and daycare costs

Our escapism reflected in a full martini glass

We worry about fixed interest rates and credit ratings

Financial portfolios and mustard stains

On designer silk ties

About the wear and tear on our cars

After hour-long commutes and

Close call fender benders

We hope to stop working before

The grave creeps from six feet underground

And swallows us up

Washing down our weary bodies

With unfulfilled American dreams

We may end up lucky

Living to age 65

The age of golf and Florida condos

On sub-par courses

Reading large print pulp fiction

And finally getting admitted

To the shady sterilized nursing homes

The “greener” pastures

A hospital bed and blessed dementia

To The TV Viewers You're Just a Stain

To The TV Viewers You're Just a Stain by Emily

All that remained was a stain on the pavement

No more news helicopters flying overhead

No more breaking headlines, they cut to commercial

No more jaws of life, prying open your mid-sized sedan

Just a tow truck dragging away your car

An ambulance fleeing

With your plastic cocooned body

Broken glass and debris

And that angry red stain

But I wonder if you were really a person like me

Or just another casual casualty on TV

How much life was in you?

Would you hug a stranger if they were crying?

Were you allergic to peanuts or shellfish?

Did you floss your teeth every night before bed?

Did you leave behind a widowed lover?

Did you believe in god?

I’ll offer up a few minutes of silence

And make up a memory of you in my mind

Swinging away in a park at age five

With ketchup stains on your jacket

And threadbare patches on the knees of your jeans

Then allow thoughts of you

To fade

Like the stain

Internet Age Indifference

Internet Age Indifference by Emily

Internet age telepathy

Detonates a peppering of culture bombs

Simultaneously

A child lacing up sneakers with ineptness

A tidal wave devouring coastline with relish

Consuming livelihood down to the bone,

Then sucking out the marrow with watery lips

A mother is cradling her ash-skinned infant

In famine-weakened arms she rocks him

Keeping time to an invisible pendulum

Swinging slowly, so desperately slowly

Down to the last labored breath

Of westernized dismissal

Internet age apathy

Hibernates soundlessly amidst pixels

And trite advertisements of fad diets

An old woman stares at a glossy panoramic screen

Waiting expectantly for the final loop

To slide between the bumbling fingers of her first grandchild

She sings her praise to the blank screen

Powering down her lap top

Like folding a newspaper

She strides into her kitchen

Humming “How Great Thou Art” while nibbling

On a peanut butter cookie

The crumbs fall unacknowledged to the heated linoleum floor