When I was 20.

I found this tonight on an older site that I forgot I was apart of. I was silly.

I am a distraction. I am what you come to in life, not to love, just to observe…almost like a mirror. You look at me and find yourself, because I am never myself. Everything I say turns poetic, and people seem to like that. I am a 20 year old cynic. Some say cynicism, I say truth. I don’t believe in God. I believe there is something more, and millions of things we have no idea about. I know there is something far greater then this, I just choose not to label it as God, or follow it in a cult-like manner. I like life. I like simplicity, but complicated happiness. I don’t like to pick things apart. I like to look at lines and textures and imagine what they feel like before feeling them. I love peoples faces, everyones faces…not in a vain way, I just like to see through them and imagine what they are like. I enjoy many forms of art. I was voted most artistic/creative when I went to hell. I’m tired of old fashioned life, but modern times scare me. Medicine scares me. I like things to be natural; everything must flow freely. I have to put up with a lot of shit. I need closure. No one can trust me, yet strangers can empathize better. When I’m bored I clean. My room is always spotless, as are my guitars. I love music for what it is, you don’t need glitz and glamour. I have a treasure chest filled with memories at best, and for the most part I hate hearing my phone ring. I have pointless things and big dreams. No matter what I do I’ll always be known as the fat girl who can draw. I like the stars and the cold air. I can watch a burning flame for hours and walk away with a smile and happy thoughts. I hate make up. I sometimes hate boys. My fingernails are short, chipped, and dirty. Mud and grease is appealing. Paper compared to this monitor is amazing. My name is Mandy Poole, and I like black ink.

So what has changed? Well, I’m now the fat girl who can take photos. I love makeup and I love boys. My nails are long and well manicured. Everything else is pretty much the same haha.



Lying with my back to the sheets I’m desperate to find the answers to the questions in my mind.
I haven’t got a home, I haven’t got a prayer,
It’s a hard way to die, murdering your own hope.
My eyes wander these streets in fear – I’ve got everything to lose.
I don’t know how to feel this kind of love.





Because I don’t know what common sense is anymore –
Or if I have it,
Or if I want it.
Everything feels up in the air, like chairs and boards flying around inside of a tornado.
You want to reach out and grab it like you’re anchored to the ground,
But you’re a silly human and you should know better.
is not an age,
But rather a dislocation, a transformation,
An enraged discomfort without reservations.
The only thing that helps me see clearly are these bright lights
Without them I am blind.
is not an age,
But rather my destination, I think, because I don’t know what I’m doing here.

Back to the drawing board.


Sometimes I feel so incredibly, and terrifyingly alone.
Sometimes I cling to things like they’re my last breath.
Sometimes I feel like my whole life people have been keeping secrets from me, that I’m really just a crazy person and everyone’s in on this plan to make me feel normal.
we all go a little mad.

My Life On These Shelves

my life on these shelves
french-english dictionary

i tried to be the person i was before
but the pain wasn’t worth it
that’s not who i am anymore
i’m still figuring this out

my life on these shelves
black ink
woman of labrador, i think

i tried to be the person you deserved
but the pain wasn’t worth it
you’re not who you were anymore
i wish i had figured this out earlier

my life on these shelves
i’m still dipping in this ink well


On the corner of Death and Disaster

I caught you eyeing me too many times to count, and all I could do was smile. Looking back now, did you ever think the girl you met at the corner of death and disaster would make you this happy?

You sit awkwardly near the wood stove. Your socks drying from that mornings trek for firewood. Your hair is matted at the base of your neck from the sweat of towing two large logs all the way from the river. The glow in your cheeks and the hint of a smile knows the mornings accomplishments.

You’ll never know how thankful I am that you found me. I look around this cabin now and I’m lost within memories. The photo on the mantle of the spot where you got down on two knees because, “one wasn’t enough.” The photo of Titan, the big yellow lab you got to serve as our ‘tester child.’ Little did we know that some nine months later our first real child would be born. Spencer. In the second framed photo on the mantle.

And you’re so good to him. The way you wish him well every night before bed. The way you straighten his fussy hair and make him smile with your corny jokes. The way you show him how to ride the fretboard like your dad taught you. I love how you make me feel, too, like I’m the best mother in the world even though I am a walking patchwork quilt, just trying to do the best I can to give warmth and feed love.

I walk around the cabin in amazement at the life we’ve built. At the ease in which the day ebbs and flows without fear or strife. Because two people loved each other enough to try. Because two people loved each other enough to forget all reason and doubt.

I’m remembering all of these things now before they even happen. I’m remembering our life, as the frost dries from your beard, as the ice melts from your boots. As I stare cautiously at this beautiful stranger lost in the storm on Christmas Eve night that I found on the corner of death and disaster.