Your Biggest Mistake

Fake.

I play music for myself. Writing songs takes all the sand out of my head and makes me feel real. But I can't escape feeling like a fake.

I try to be honest with my music. None of that "I'm sad because I'm not pretty enough for you" bullshit.

My lyrics and my songs translate my raw human experiences and emotions.

But still, I am followed around by my own shadow holding onto my heels saying "Face it, Patience, you're just a fake."

I taught myself guitar. I don't even know most of the chords I am playing. I remember them by how they sound. I feel insignificant playing with other musicians.

E minor 7th? Uhh...Yeah. That's a great chord. I love that one.

What am I playing? Uh...It's the chord that sounds like Sunday mornings. You know? That one.

This is how my brain works. I'm not a real musician at all.

My songs are never good enough. The chords become redundant, the purpose unclear.

I don't play enough. I should be booking gigs every weekend. I should be meeting people. I should be getting a full band together. But I don't.

Because I'm a fake.

Flaws to Fight (Rough)

Meu Pai Com Olhos Verdes

My father is

Warm

Dark

Madeira in his blood, in his

Eyes

Green like pine, like

Chá verde.

 

He used to

Tap his Vic Furth drumsticks

On my knees

And sing

“Goodnight” to me

By The Beatles when I was

Falling asleep.

 

My father would

Dance with me in the kitchen

After ballet, or on

Sunday mornings

My father would

Crack open the door to my room

The light leaking through

And sit on my bed.

He would lean down and

Put his arms around me

Humming

“Good night

Sleep tight”

Strangers’ cigarettes

The bitter backstage smell

And his musty jacket

Swimming into my

Dreams.

My Mother with Angel Red Lipstick

She hears me like a whisper

A breeze twisting through her

Fingertips

I am

The sun in her

Jewelry box, the

Moon in her eyes

Blue and grey.

 

She is Clininque “Angel Red” lipstick,

The smell of cut grass in

July and

Chanel Coco and No. 5

 

She is a polka dot dress and

I love you to the moon

 

Homemade apple pie

With real crust

And no sugar

Blue hands on

Sunday mornings

 

She is my October

And I am her July

 

But she knows

 

To me

She is every season,

 

And I know

 

To her

I am every sunflower opening her golden arms to

The sky,

I am the ray of light

In her pocket like the sun

Bursting behind green mountains—

 

To her

I am

Every

Day.

Really? I Started a Blog?

Yes. It's time for me to initiate something besides the fear of my music not being good enough or my writing being uninteresting. Insecurity was so high school. Welcome to college. Do something with your life. 

So here's my introduction:

I'm Patience.  I'm nineteen. And I am always writing something, usually in my head, like mental descriptions that narrate my day. 

I write poetry. 

I write music.

When I first started to form full sentences was when this mess began. I sang about my neighbor's cat and Martin Luther King when I was between the ages of three and seven. 

While I would like to believe my songwriting has improved and grown, you never know. It's all a matter of opinion. 

I started playing guitar in seventh grade. 

My dad is a drummer and the most incredible overall musician I know. He would leave basses, talking drums, and guitars in my room when I was a child in an attempt to get me to play music on my own. 

And it worked.

My Epiphone sits beside my bed in this small shoe-box of a dorm room. 

I write songs because I have no choice. It's like anything else that naturally occurs in your life. I breathe, get irritated, and write music. 

College is definitely an experience. Trying to continue my creative outlets while also attending beer pong championships, classes, and basement parties can be exhausting. 

This is me trying to survive college, creatively.