bring a flashlight

So I've realized something since the last post a couple days ago. I'm trying to knit in the dark, but wouldn't it make sense just to bring a flashlight? Haha, yes I know, corny. But it's so obvious. Bringing a flashlight can look like a couple things. It can be reading God's word and drawing truth and light from that (God is light and he drives out the darkness), or it can mean bringing someone else who can carry a flashlight and help you out, encouraging each other and spurring one another on. And then maybe a third person to bring batteries as a back up. Sounds good to me. Yesterday God revealed a lot of cynicism that had been growing in my heart, but instead of actually being the hands and feet of Christ, I sat back and complained and let my bitterness breed contempt. It's pretty awful and I hadn't even realized it. I'm only one person, but if everyone can come together as the church and work together, that's when things really happen. Put your hope in God, Tiffany.

Writing poetry is hard stuff. I'm taking a creative writing class and we have to write at least four times a week and turn it into dropbox each time. I can go on and on about my life, but no, she wants it in poetry form, which makes it a little trickery. Gots to think of lines and very specific word choice and sound and rhythm blah blah blah. I can appreciate it, but it can get wearisome. It turns out that I'm a lot more trite/cliche than I originally thought. My original thoughts were pretty unoriginal. I wish I were a funnier person but alas...not so. Haha.

But here is a poem that was one of the better of the bunch. I hope I never have to date this many boys. Only one or two men are good enough for me. I hope it makes you laugh and maybe think.

Like the Boy of Her Dreams
after Mitch Sisskind

My cousin tells me Gunther was an ugly boy.
Acne mapped his face like bloody constellations
Toes pruny
No, he wasn’t smelly
But he always had poppy seeds stuck in his teeth,
trails of his morning bagel from 3rd Avenue
and cuffed trousers because he could never find pants
that were short enough for his even shorter frame.
Yet beside Hector, my cousin says,
Gunther was like the boy of her dreams.
Gunther was like the boy of her dreams beside Hector.
For my cousin tells me that Hector was an ugly boy
because he never paid or opened doors.
Chivalry is dead, he said,
And he lived by it too.
Really you don’t need to pay on the first date (it was crappy).
You don’t need to do anything at all.
Yet beside Alex my cousin tells me Hector was like the boy of her dreams.
Hector was like the boy of her dreams beside Alex.
For my cousin tells me Alex was an ugly boy.
He cracked his gum wickedly, charming the girls with his crooked grin
but smooched too long behind her back
and had a book that ranked them all on a scale
like cows in a meat market auction.
His words could be sweet as Splenda,
Sugary but fake, sitting on the tongue to leave a bitter kick
after it’s all over.
Yet beside Sam my cousin tells me Alex was like the boy of her dreams.
Alex was like the boy of her dreams beside Sam.
Beside Sam’s stalwart hand my cousin tells me
Alex was like the boy of her dreams.
His stalwart hand composed and conducted the rhythm of her soul
weaving a haunting tide of false reveries
Passion ignited
Then smothered in a fury of soft white ashes.