She's Back

Hey Y'all.


Wow, so it's been a very, very long time since my last post.  College got the best of me.

I lived in a sorority house & didn't have access to a proper kitchen of my own, so no cooking/baking.
I was taking 15 hours, 12 of which were writing classes (the last class was a food & culture class). So all I did was write, write, edit and write some more.  You stop caring so much about who reads your work after the 2nd weed of complete strangers dissect it line by line.

My favorite class, though, of the semester was my creative writing class.  I have always loved writing (obviously) but had never just done it because.  I had a really great professor who had devoted her life to poetry.  Seeing someone do that, and be somewhat sane was refreshing.  What was good was hearing from someone that I had potential.  For most of my life I had wanted to be talented at something like some people are athletic or talented musicians, and for most of my life the only thing I was drawn to was writing.  It's not exactly a great line of profession to get into but because of my major (Strategic Communications) all I will do is write (kinda).


Sorry about that little tangent! I've been doing nothing but baking and cooking since I've gotten home, so I'll have photos very soon! But for now, here's a product of my creative writing class, which is a poem.  I'm not happy about it but its' the only one I'm willing to post on here right now.  Funny thing is, I hate writing poetry.

New Orleans

I was lost, and then found

Again, in the pews of a Catholic church

That my mother made me go to mass at as a child.

She would slap that doily on my head and march me

into the confessional booth to talk to a priest.

That was twenty years ago.

Lookin’ back, I was never truly found.

But after all these years, I don’t think I

Ever wanted to be found.

I don’t think I was meant to be found.

It happened all too fast,

The magnolias at first;

Then the people started to haunt me.

Souls on the street would look right through me.

They would sit there barefoot and ragged,

And play old gospel hymns that my great-grandmother used to sing.

On old clarinets, tubas, banjos and guitars.

They had more religion in their dirty hands

Than I had in every fiber of my being.

It bothered me, they knew I wasn’t one of them.

They looked at me with understanding of things I didn’t know.

Lookin’ back, they probably knew that it wasn’t long until

It happened.

I ended up stayin’ in a friend’s apartment during my visit over the summer.

The smoke from my cigarette was curling into wisps in the still air,

my hair was sticking to the back of my neck.

And my world wasn’t my own; 

I had been seduced by the city,

          The people and the religion of it all. 

xo,
Meg