Tag Archives: wattpad

Because This is What 30 Feels Like

Because This is What 30 Feels Like
Johanna M. Geiger

It feels the same,
like a whisper calling you from sleep in the early morning.
like the smell of coffee that hasn’t yet been ground.

Thirty feels much like twenty-nine, but with less syllables, less pent-up wondering rage.
Thirty feels like a much-loved moth eaten sweater, the kind you wear around at night and on the
weekends and sometimes out to the store when you realize you’re out of milk and are in need of some
Chinese food.

It feels like twenty-nine summers and thirty Autumns. It feels like the impending snow and the hope,
again, that
yes, yes, yes
the world can still be changed, but not in quite the same way as bachelorette youth.

Thirty feels like everything and nothing.
It feels like so much anxiety-riddled anticipation made flat like a shaken soda – the kind you dropped at
nine on your way back from the convenience store. The one that bubbled on the counter with that first
burst, but was just sticky sweet water by the end of the day.

Yes, thirty, this number of dread, but not quite living up to its doomed visage.
The world didn’t end, no.

It’s opening its wings again. It’s bursting though.

More of my work can be found on Wattpad.

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Lost my shit on the ride home

Lost my shit on the ride home
Johanna M. Geiger

I am not this or the other thing.
Instead, I am floundering somewhere in the middle.
Good Morning, Jo!
I wake myself from the sleepy slumber, imagine my arms and legs attached to a fine string
forward pulling, this puppet-master tugging at my floppy extremities
a haphazard struggle toward the thrumming alarm.

Dizzy, I wake.
Today, maybe, I will learn to make eggrolls or
mix my own flavored cream cheese. Today, maybe,
I’ll just practice getting by, practice passing through the doors of productivity,
but not letting the should should should wash over me like panicky little waves that leave
my body hot and my head thrumming.

Good Afternoon, Mother.
I lost my shit on the drive to the bagel shop
after my meeting with the therapist, who used to be my therapist, but probably not any longer.
There are no more pills to halve. There are no paths of return.
Red-eyed bleariness, then confusion.
low humming of the engine halted. I wait in the parking lot for the vibrations to subside.

Poetry note: I really wish WordPress were more…flexible with the formatting of my poems. The spacing is off, but there isn’t much to do about it here. More of my work is available on Wattpad.

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Poetry and the creation of a chapbook

In an effort to continue my motivation with writing past November, I have enrolled in a chapbook workshop for early December. Though I feel I sortof know what I’m supposed to do surrounding this, I signed up because I figure it can’t hurt to be around other people that are looking for the same thing. Community motivation, let’s call it.

I already have a chapbook/series in mind and have been diligently posting new poems on Wattpad every week or every couple of weeks. There are 25 poems in all, and I have 19 that have already been uploaded. I haven’t decided yet how I’m going to put the physical version together and have been contemplating creating the book myself – sortof an extra arts & crafts project that I can use to occupy my time. Whatever I wind up deciding, I’m excited with the prospect.

In my post from yesterday, I mentioned that I do not write to be published, which is true. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I don’t want something to show for my efforts. Creating a physical chapbook to share with others is one way to have a more concrete final product.


I’ve finally worked through the demons in my head that on one hand say:

Write, because you need to!

Only to immediately follow up with:

Why bother? No one cares/will read it anyway.


I don’t know what changed in me to make it finally OK for me to stand up to myself – to battle with the voices of the cranky, negative editor and decide that this passion I have is for me and no one else. The joy I get from it is my own and any other positive effects it has on others that stumble across the path is pure bonus. This is the shift in mentality that I’ve been riding for the past few months. I feel like I’ve finally broken through from the internal voices that tell me I’m not good enough, that I shouldn’t tell people that, Yes, I am a Poet.

You know what, voices? You can stuff it. I’ve got better things to do than be silenced by you.

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Newness, mushy newness

I’ve added some new poems to the Invisible Wires series over on Wattpad. Feel free to check-um out!


Something like a Coma


I’ve been using Wattpad for my poetry because it’s a little easier for me to see which posts are most popular and it’s got a great budding community of supportive writers. Though I also have a domain, I’ve been a bit torn on the best way to go about communication, so I’ve mostly put it on the back burner until I have more time to tend to it.

From the NaNoWriMo front, I’m ahead of the word-count in order to finish on time, so I took yesterday off from my fiction attempts to tend to my poetry. What I love the most about NaNoWriMo, and may have already said it before, is that it keeps me in the writing mindset. Yesterday I spent the same amount of time writing poetry as I would have on the fiction. I’m calling this month a win based on the writing schedule/renewed need factor.

I have, however, hit the point of my very, very rough novel where I’m sortof sick of the characters. They need more/less flaws. I’ve got to even them out a bit, but I hadn’t had the energy to tackle that yet. Tonight’s the night for that sort of thing.

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Glass Bursting Rage

Glass Bursting Rage
Johanna M. Geiger

Glass bursting rage
A forced reckoning

Do you remember walking in bearded twilight?
Hands held: a mask of forgiveness

Pattering rain   and   the hopeless wish for time to pause.
I was       and now we are
this visage of simple perfection – only ever one step from procurement

There is nothing, nothing, nothing else for us here.


Part of the Invisible Wires series on Wattpad

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Fear of Falling

Fear of Falling
Johanna M. Geiger

Often enough I am failing love
like the blossoming scent of
white tea with lemongrass –

the way your smile creeps across
the floorboards and moves me to silence.

For us, this life is a forest of possibility.
I am in the process of smashing it.

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Phone Call

Phone Call
Johanna M. Geiger


Too much: the morsels of questioning –

this incessant hum encouraging betrayal.

How would you know of my ever-present musings?

This moment – stolen –  twelve years of looking back plus

fifteen more spent wishing for the future.


Memories: these flecks of gold dust     barely visible and wholly insignificant alone.


Reaching out: a suspended tragedy.  How often I halt my hands from that final connection

plus – the likelihood of a response is as low as is

my actual desire to create reality.



More of my poetry can be found at Wattpad. The formatting shows up much better there.

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Upon Awakening

Upon Awakening
Johanna M. Geiger


I listened to you snore for twenty minutes
touched your hair and earlobe, then cascaded down the stairs.

Saturday mornings are meant for silent contemplation,
good coffee and lazy showers.

While our world is covered in a light snow blanket I wonder if
the lilacs will bloom and if the little one will survive.

It is easy to make warm weather promises
when the world is cocooned in quiet winter.



Read more of my poems at Wattpad

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Nearly again & lost work

In my excitement to “jump back in”, yesterday I spent some time looking through my notebook for a series of poems to post on Wattpad. As per usual, I then meandered over to Duotrope’s digest to see what literary journals are out there – both for my own reading pleasure and to perhaps find a journal to submit to.

This sidetracked moment made me start to second guess my previous statement to just get over it and start putting my stuff out there. Finally, around 10ish last night, I finished posting the series on Wattpad titled Meanderings.


The secrets we don’t share

Road Trip

Today, yesterday


Day Job

Bleary Eyed, She Wakes

Glass Eater

Unintentional Emphasis

I must keep asking myself, “what am I saving it for?”

This question is especially poignant, as I discovered last night that all my poems from 2011 (saving two) are mysteriously missing from my computer and SkyDrive. I usually print each page and put them in a binder after typing them up, but I must have failed in this step on my last batch-type up sometime late last year. My handwritten notebook bears the mark of being e-filed, but no such digital copies exist. It was definitely a moment of the ground shifting beneath me. Fortunately, most of my work from 2011 had been handwritten, so at least there’s a copy I can recreate. I did, however, mourn the loss of the work that originated digitally.

Lesson learned, but this is why I have the type-up, print-out process in place. It’s served me fairly well since 1998.

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Always trying new things; I joined wattpad yesterday. It’s been interesting so far. Check it out!

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