Lethargy.

Slow moving
lethargy
sits in bones
like
promise rings
tightly coiled
around fingers
brimming with
youth.
It means nothing
and yet
so much.

- - -
I have a co-worker who wears a promise ring. Her boyfriend of six months gave it to her. She's freshly sixteen.

I was just thinking that to her, that must mean the whole world. It must be so important to her. And yet, it's an empty promise.

On a Music Rampage.

I've just been on an unstoppable rampage lately. I think in the past two weeks I've bought something like two hundred dollars worth of music, and borrowed tons of Cds from the boyfriend.

One of my favorite finds so far is Porcupine Tree. They're a progressive rock band, and I have to say every song that I've listened to so far, I have greatly enjoyed. I just bought two albums by them about fiffteen minutes ago (Thank goodness Itunes exists, my life would be so dull and drab.).  Some of my favorite songs would be 'Occam's Razor', 'Time Flies', and 'Bonnie the Cat'.

I've also found some more jazzy stuff that I really like, namely Emilie-Claire Barlow and Holly Cole. For some reason the remind me of the movie Roger the Rabbit. Weird.

A progressive metal band that I've been enjoying lately is Intronaut. I also purchased their most recent album  ('Valley of Smoke') and have been slowing working my way through it. They're definately one of those bands that you have to listen to several times to fully appreciate, because there really is just so much depth there.

Anyways, hopefully I'll get back into the swing of things after the Christmas season. Poems have been few and far between. Don't even get me started on prose.

This whole month has been a lull, but I see some bright gleams of light with the coming new year.

Home.

The last hour
is dragging
it's behind
outta my life.
The next one
is looming
above me.
Time is
inbearable
when all I want
is to
come home.

Ladders.

I walk under
burning ladders
because
climbing them
is impossible.
They would
turn to
ash.

- - -

I've written nothing even remotely related to Christmas. Sorry. :)

I guess it's mostly because of how surrounded and suffocated I feel by it. It's crazy-- this is a crazy time of year. My writing is my escape, and right now, I'm escaping from good old Saint Nick.

The one biggest thing I've found out about working at a pet store is how crazy people are about their pets. Especially round this time of year: it's easily our busiest time. What, is everyone stuffing a stocking for their dog?

A City Morning.

Snow
and brown grit
line streets
in a city
masked with
morning light.
I like to watch
the smooth
unceasing line
of cars
drive
in the hazy eyes
of a mourning sun.

- - -

I can finally get my internet fix. The web's been down at my place for a few days, and I was starting to get antsy.

UnWritten.

You wrote
a long time ago,
and I never
wrote back.
I guess because
sometimes it's hard
to love what's
abandoned you.
And now
all I have
are these old
angry
unsaid
and unwritten
words.

- - -

Just because I need a push in the right direction.

I had to trudge through what seemed like miles of snow on the way home from school today. I live really close to the high school (thank goodness), but sometimes home feels like a long ways away when you're squinting through a blizzard.

Anyways, I think the cold has made my brain into a viscous, unmoving syrup.

See You Again.

I start missing you
even before you leave;
sharp punches to my stomach
and I agonize until
I see you again.
Then the warm smile
returns to my eyes
and the bed
dosen't look
so empty.

Sleep.

Eyes close,
deep exhale,
tense muscles
loosen under
Sandman's
watchful eye.
I wait
for sleep to
take me
in it's warm
tangled grasp.

- - -

This whole staying up late and getting up early thing is starting to get to me; I can't keep my words, my thoughts, or my actions on track. I amble from place to place in the fog of over tired eyes.

But tonight was wonderful. It was a double date night for my bestest pal in the whole world, her boy, my boy and I. And it was more fun than I expected it to be.

Now my eyes hurt and it's time for bed.

Never Do.

Impassioned words
cannabalize
silver lining
and hopeful eyes.
They drown out
the faux light
of the moon--
just a reflection
of the vagabond
and brilliant
sun.

We sit
and groan,
roar with water
lining our eyes,
whine
and write speeches
with false reflection
but never do.

Sepia.

Move in

slow motion

sepia tones.

A still photograph

brought to

warm glowing life

by browning age

and fading

edges.

- - -

Yes, there's a picture today. I couldn't talk about how much I love the depth sepia brings to images without an image. Which is courtesy of Google.

We're reading The Great Gatsby in english class, and because the story takes place in the Roaring Twenties, I always think of black and white and sepia. I guess just cause they feel like aged colors/ shades and the book is old?

Fixing Cracks - Prose.

They liked to spend evenings sprawled on the couch together, their bodies twined with the genius of a jigsaw puzzle. The TV was always on; a soft white noise to dampen the magic of the moment. She liked the the sound of comedies, drama, cartoons, anything-- It made her nervous to only have his saccharine eyes to focus on.

She liked the easy way they had. He came and went, mostly in the evenings, and nothing commital ever popped up. Nothing even foreshadowing the idea was ever said. But thoughts of him, all his quirky moments and all the sweet ones, spent the day canabalizing her mind.  It was a constant flow of things she ought to do, she things she ought to be, things she ought to say. A barrier always held her back; she never did tell him all the things he ought to know.

Tonight was the same. Outside the air was damp and chilled, cold hands on a bare neck. Pressed against him was like pressing her back to sensuous flame. His wire arms were wrapped around her waist in a precarious manner, as if he thought she'd break under the tiniest pressure. It wasn't true though-- she was already broken.

He kissed the nape of her neck, murmured into her ear. "You never talk much about yourself."

She giggled. "There isn't much to talk about." He snuggled in closer, spoke in rhythmic jumbles with his mouth moving in hypnotizing circles.

"I bet you've got some wonderful stories to tell." Flashes of childhood moved in sepia slow motion in her head. Moments of ugliness, ferocious fear and anger. Battered. Scars and bruises. She pulled away subconciously, boxed into the cinema of her grey matter.

He twisted her around to look at her face; an impossible feat made easy with his warehouse man strength. 

His face was square, scruffy. Framed with dark hair and held together with eyes the color of moonlit ocean. They were impossible to look at for long, so she looked at the celing instead. They were silent for a moment, and moment too long she thought. She felt bare, even the white noise of the Tv faded into tense silence.

"What's wrong?" He asked, his voice was rough silk.

"Nothing." Was her abrupt response.

"Did I say somethi--"

"No, I just... was remembering."

More silence.

"You know, all cracks can be fixed." And the way he said it, right then and there, she believed him.

- - -

Yes, it's sappy and sort of lame. But hey, I'm allowed to be a romanticizing teenage girl once in a while, right?

Last Bit O' Sun.

Smells like
a dry winter
out there.
Snow glistens
in grey light,
and empty branches
grab at the last
weak rays of sun
like hungry hands.

You Are A Bittersweet Onion.

Raw onion
stings my eyes
and tastes sweet
momentarily,
before stinging
my tongue too.
Have you ever
bitten into
something
bittersweet?

- - -

When I originally wrote this, it felt all wrong and silly. I was asking myself, "Why the heck am I writing about onions?" I put it down for a few days and came back and rewrote it. And now I feel much better about it.

So my thought of the day will be: Why do young writers feel like everything must be polished, clean, and perfect the first time around? Or maybe it's just me?

I like to get stuff right the first time, I guess. It's the obsessive complusive perfectionist in me.

3 Minutes.

For 3 minutes
the whole world fell apart
and I tried
to pick up the pieces
and stuff them
in my back pocket
before it all
went back together.

But you
have quick fingers,
and stuffed them
faster.

Wind.

Bones limber with ice
and
joints glazed with frost.
You bow and bend
with the screeching wind
and it burns--
scratches your face
with long
curling fingers.
These days are
stay in bed
cold.

- - -

I know I haven't written in a while! Sorry! I'd give excuses, but I've really got none.

One Crazy Weekend.

This weekend has been full of a lot of fun and a lot of craziness. On Friday I went to work five to nine, and then after that was the Grad Dance Marathon (you dance continuously for twelve hours to raise money for graduation) I was there from ten pm to seven in the morning. And then I had to go back to work for an eight hour shift (eight thirty to four thirty) and then I came home and just crashed. Really hard.

I slept eighteen glorious hours, and now I'm getting ready to go throwdown at Battleship's Ep release. I'm so stoked for it!

Thus is my excuse for not writing this weekend! Ta ta!

MediaThorns.

You said
every rose
has a thorn.
I watch
pretty girls
go by,
faces lined with
media
and eyes
shadowed with
social commentary.
I wonder
if they have
thorns too.
I wear
a crown
of more than
one.

- - -

This week has been one filled with thoughts that flow like molasses. Nothing really spectacular has been coming together for me. There's a lot of stuff that's going on right now, and I know for the health of my entire being that I must, must keep writing. Without words, I get stressed and anxious and bottled up. But that's hard to do when the inches of snow keep accumulating, and my bones feel like they'll grind to a halt in the below zero weather. Silly, viscous molasses.

Anyways, my brother is the inspiration behind this poem. He was feeling down because his lady friend cancelled their date, on account that her friend was deathly ill. Or something like that. My brother (also a lover of poetic language) offered her a little piece of his heart written into a few stanzas. She doesn't much like poetry apparently. He later sighed and said, "I guess even the most beautiful roses have thorns." He's a poet at heart.

Warped.

My heart is
a little mis-shapen,
it's got funny warps
and glued up cracks.
Those are
commonplace
in this house.

My heart is
a sad, gangly
little thing--
more than
just a little
deprived of
love.

Soft Opening.

Your mouth
is a soft opening,
sheets of silk
upon your tongue.
Nothing sharp
falls out of there.
You are
soft when you speak
and softer still
when you kiss.

- - -

I didn't realize until just recently how much I enjoy the word soft. Is that strange?

The First of Many?

http://isloud.blogspot.com/

This is such a good start to a blog. It's the first post, but I couldn't help falling in love with the simple words and the flow of the poem. Take a peek!

Father, Mother, Brother.

My mom always said
dysfunction runs deep
in this family
like
a million paper cuts.
Hidden until
you wash
with soap;
Then they
sting.

My father always said
resentment runs fast
in this family
like
river water.
Soft until
you fall in
and choke;
Then you
drown.

My brother always said
they both never knew
what it was
to be alone;
They had
substance
for that.

But in all the madness,
you'll always have me,
little bro.

- - -

This feels...so long. -_- I'm not a fan of long poetry, really I'm not. But it seems like lately I've been having trouble getting my ideas down in a small span of words. But I guess it's all part of growing and developing: both are perpetual and never stop. They also cannot exist without each other. Hmm.

Anyways, this is for the Thursday prompt at Poets United.

TatteredCity.

In the city,
the sun rises
in the east
and sets
in the west.

It sheds light on
tattered streets
with tattered cars,
and tattered people
in tattered bars.

The sun rises
in the east
and sets
in the west
of this urban sprawl.

But all that matters
is the next drink.

- - -

This weekend I'm visiting family down in Calgary. So it's kind of amusing that the Thursday Think Tank on Poets United this week is a prompt on family. I'm sure that by the end of this weekend I'll have plenty to say on that subject.

My Heart Is Not A Bird.

Why is a heart
compared
to winged, fickle
crusaders of the sky?

My heart rarely flutters
(but you make it so),
nor does it fly into my throat
(but you make it so),
nor do wings sprout
from the tissue.
(but..)

No,
my heart is
a flower
that buds
and blossoms
and flourishes in the spring
and shrivels
in the winter.

- - -

Not sure about this one. I'm just playing around with new things, trying to make my brain pump its arms and breath hard.

Metro Lips.

There's a metro;
a labyrinth of cities
lying in the
cracks and gaps
of your lips.

I see the cobbled streets
of Paris,
the neverending skyscrapers
of New York,
the gray of too many faces
in Bangladesh.

I wonder
how many have
been explored
and how many
I have yet to
see.

- - -

I edited this while posting it. It was originally much shorter and made less sense. With the addition of the second stanza, I think I shaped it more to what I had in mind for the piece.

ValYou.

I fell into
deep dark
sleep;
Another night
without you.
I guess that's
okay--
it only
makes me
treasure you
more,
like the last green
of a yellowing
world.
Tomorrow maybe
I'll see that face
that makes
spring buds
sprout anew.

Procrastination = The Death of All Projects.

NaNoWriMo isn't going very well for me so far. Stupid school and stupid work make it really hard to sit and just write. Plus I'm a procrastinator. Probably not the best habit for a young aspiring writer to have. :/

Haiku - Window.

My heart is
a window frame with
no window.

- - -

Small ideas are often the most profound. I'm not one for long, wordy poems--I guess that shows. But this is so small that I think it leaves a lot to the reader. Mr.Shamchuk always says that when you read anything, you're really reading yourself. I guess that I always take that to mean that you find little parts of you as a being in literature (maybe in all walks of life?) and you grab hold of that.

Look.

Brought up
by a best friend,
now it's festering
in my mind.
Look
what I did.
Left little peices
trailing behind me.

Acrostics.

Far, far
Away.
That's
How
Everyone
Raises their kids.

- - -

Maniaclly
Overdosed on
The prescription
How can you
Even try to
Relate?

- - -

Not
Immortal, but
Cool like
Kool-aid.

- - -

Just playing around and trying to excersise my brain. Everyone says Acrostics are really easy, but it's hard to come up with good, coherent ones. My personal favorite is Nick's, just cause my sense of humour is showing there. Plus I was a bit stretched for words that start with N and words that start with K.

Anyways, wow! Start of NaNoWriMo. Better get my write on!

Warmth in Another.

I'm looking for
warmth in another.
There is no heat
in these tired eyes
and bloodless fingers.

Just me,
is like shivering
on a sidewalk
sheeted with
packed down ice.

You and I
together,
we're the embers
of an eternally
stoked fire.

Hello.

I guess
we haven't spoken
in a while.
You can
brush me off,
and walk briskly
away.

I just stopped
to say hello.

WeekLong.

I broke
a wall today,
wrote a poem
that's been hanging
on tongue-tip
for a week now.

And finally
I see scrawls
on previously
blank paper.

- - -

This past little while has been a long stretch. I've spent the last week and a half in what I like to call 'Don't write, just sleep' syndrome. I'm so tired lately, I rarely get a day just to do nothing. Which is fine, I suppose. When I'm doing nothing I feel pointless and very teenage. I just miss the days that I could sleep in till like four in the afternoon.

A Lie Spoken Long Ago.

That lie--
I wonder if it ever
did fade from your lips.
Or do you still
hide it there,
in deep corners
and chapped red.
Do you still utter
the lie that
you cried so long ago?

Perhaps when trouble
has caught up,
it will momentarily
leave your lips.

- - -

I like the idea of things fading from a person.

NaNoWriMo Right Around The Corner.

So, I'm very aware that my posting has slowed down tremendously these past few weeks. I'm sorry! It's not my fault! School work is starting to rear it's ugly head, I'm in the process of applying to university, and I have a social life.

PLUS NaNoWriMo is right around the corner. I didn't realize it till just now, but it's only five days away. Goodness gracious: I'm extremely terrified and extremely excited. Last year I only got to 5000 words or so before I gave up, but I'm determined to make it this year to the full and ripe 50,000 words. We'll see how that goes. :)

I fully encourage anyone who is serious about writing or even those who've always thought it would be cool to write a novel to participate. It'as thirty days of mayhem, but really so much fun to get involved with the community and so rewarding to come out of the month with something. Be it a couple thousand words or a full manuscript.

The website is here: http://www.nanowrimo.org

Check it out, and then join me for a month of baggy eyes, ideas squeezed from a ragged and dry sponge, and bloody messes for fingers. :)

UltraSound.

Her face was a full moon awash in the autumn night. She sat swaying uneasily forwards and then backwards in an old rocking chair; the curtains were flung open so that she could watch the miasma of streetlamps and hooded figures that darted down the street. The old, wise trees cast long shadows across cold cement and suburban houses. They were lit from the inside, like giant fireflies.

Autumn nights were always so gloomy: They smelled like decay preserved with frost. I didn't like to watch long evenings, but I did enjoy watching her watch them. She would sit in her rocking chair watching leaves in cast iron darkness, and I would sit on the loveseat and watch her examine orange lines of limelight. I'd come to know her features well this way.

Hair like the finest ebony silk and eyes that bore you down with intense green flames. A frail, brittle nose, but cheekbones of the most high and elegant variety. Her hands were of the same stately posture, and always resting upon her round and overlarge belly.

She sighed and I wanted to sigh with her; she made the most beautiful faces when she sighed. I stood and went to kneel before her, resting my own workmen's hands on the precious cargo in front of me. I felt a little kick and then another. Not hard--indignant, impatient ones.

"He's kicking," I said, grinning.

"She's a fighter." She replied, tossing back my smile in her own crooked way.

I pressed my lips to her belly and wished I could kiss a baby instead.

"How do you know it's a girl?" She asked how I knew it was a boy.

"Maybe we should have an ultrasound done." I suggested.

She squinted, her eyes following another leaf randomly but inevitably falling into darkness.

"That would ruin the surprise." She said.

- - -

I know this is sort of confusing and makes no sense, but I love the way it turned out. Gotta work more on my dialogue though; it feels a little choppy here.

Money.

Nothing is
a harder blow
than a hole
burnt in
the shallow pocket
of new blue
jeans.

- - -

This is in light of spending money. I'm generally a very frugal person, but just within the last two days, I got a hundred dollar haircut (mohawk!) and spent eight hundred on a lovely new laptop, which runs like a charm and is just so nice to type on.

Youth.

You ask me
what I think
of worrisome worries
and misguided days
and I say
that I don't.
I'm too young
for that.

Ego.

Your words
are a ululation
where 'joke'
and 'jab'
are interchangeable.
I imagine
you think yourself
smoke,
so swift
and ghostly grey
that you slip through
my nascent understanding
like pale
and dead cold fingers.

- - -

I credit inspiration for this poem to Jenna Butler, who is a poet based here in the Edmonton area. Only in my most wild and highly absurd dreams can I write like her.

Missing Northern Lights.

A lightless sky,
where have the Northern Lights gone?
I can't see where the water starts,
or where the trees bend,
or when the night begins.
All because of
a lightless sky.

Disregarding Friends.

Your disregard
is a thumbtack
through the toe,
a brick
crushing my skull.

My tongue is heavy
with lead,
so it pains me
to say
that I must
step towards
scary life
without you.

- - -

I suppose some friends are not forever. Any mature person would know this, but it doesn't silence the pain of absence.

I'm at a certain point in my life where in less than eight or so months, I'll have to step away from everything I've known for the last three years. Things are changing, rapidly. I don't know where exactly I'm going, and I don't think I necessarily need too. But I do feel as though I'm losing a handle on things I thought I understood, on people I thought I knew, on where my talents are and who I am as a whole.

Live and let go, I guess.

Tea in October.

Green tea,
hot and bittersweet,
drops into my stomach
and warms cold thoughts.
Blood flows again,
and my fingers
don't feel
so paralyzed
with snarking October winds.

- - -

The colors of autumn are starting to fade here, from those dramtic yellows and oranges to a dull, flat, decaying brown. Feels like winter is almost here.

A Writer With An Interesting And Fishy Perspective.

This entertaining blog has an a new and fresh perspective: Miscellaneous musings through the eyes of a Betta fish. I personally thought the idea was gloriously fun.

http://pinyins-tank.blogspot.com/

Check it out, and be entertained by Pinyin the fish and his tankmates.

A Scowl.

Her scowl
is a snarl
in her eyes
and a roar
in her mouth.
She tears you down
when she
dosen't want to.

A Grin.

He grinned
a staggered grin.
Thoughts and tremors
left unsaid.
But they show--
plain as day,
dank as night--
in half hidden
teeth.

Ash in an Ashtray.

An ashtray,
glass that no longer
glistens with geometric shapes--
there's too much
ash in there.
It used to be
a thing of beauty.
Now it's a sorry state
of it's former self,
like hands that tap
ash
into an ashtray.

Lightning.

I remember being lightning
dancing with the best;
I was quick of wit
and sharper of tongue.

Those days,
like boiling
tumultuous clouds,
have moved on
taking the lightning
and brooding thunder
with them.

Cursive.

I want to see
this pen
scrape at paper,
make little
flowing marks,
that resemble
a language.

SenileSociety.

Walking to that place
I call a home,
I slump down a sidewalk.
Leaves, crunching and yellow,
are strewn across gritty cement.
I walk past trash lining
the street and see
an old woman
back bowed and joints aching
raking up leaves.
There are no young backs,
strong legs and arms of zeal,
to do this
for her.

I, as young
as I am,
kept walking.

Reading Shakespeare is Good for The Soul.

Truly it is. Every year in english we read one of Shakespeare's more prominent works. Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, Hamlet. It wasn't until I got into english 30 that I developed such an appreciation for these works, so much so that today I actually went out and bought a few copies of my own.

And now I can't wait to snuggle into bed and burry my nose in new paper and old words.

Sometimes.

Sometimes,
I write to
forget
all those deep,
heated moments
that only you
want to remember.

Sometimes,
I forget to
write
and all those
that I've forgotten
come rushing back
to steal away
my breath.

- - -

Yup, three poems in one day. Though I've been writing all weekend, mostly turning up nothing but craptacular crap. :) These three are on the better end at least. I guess, in the end, not everything I create is a staggering work of heartbreaking genius, but at least writing something is better than writing nothing.

This poem was written for a certain someone. It's been almost a year since I've even really talked to them, but it's hard to forget longish periods of my life sometimes.

Feelings I Wish I Could Write Away.

My pen
is running out of ink
from scribbling
heartfelt scribbles.
It cannot take
all these feelings
of utter remorse,
of supposed failure,
of unreliquished anger,
of death defying saddness,
of sanctioned lonliness,
of felt ugliness.

My pen
can never relieve
what I feel.

A Moment Alone.

Back pushed up against the wall,
your hands blazing
well worn trails.
Your lips like
fire against my ice.
Your eyes carving
plain feature
and plainer virtue.
Your heart
is twined
and thumping radically
with mine.
Back pushed up against the wall,
we left marks there,
scratched green paint.

- - -

I feel like I've been writing a lot about what I see in the natural world lately, so this is more of an attempt to break developing habits. As much a I love romantic poetry, I want to remain as versatile a poet as I can or as my age will allow.

Cruelty.

On a gritty bathroom floor
I spot a busted fly.
Wings crumpled,
like egg cartons and
legs broken,
like slum street windows.

I watch it
a moment longer
as it twitches
and life sputters
like the engine
of a 1994 Toyota Previa.

I stand,
button my pants,
and leave it
to sputter some more
on a gritty bathroom floor.

Nelson, B.C

Behind me, sunlight on the leaves
dappled gold hues
that shine through the window
and take me
far away.
A place I see
on the borders of my memory.
Hushed green and purple gray--
mountains sheeted with forest.
Birds warble
and I remember
loving it there
more than here.

Hope or Dread.

11:30 pm and
I've spent my day
pondering
whether or not yesterday
will happen again
tommorrow.

Those memories,
lines beginning to
meld and blur,
jab sharp knives
of pleasure and uncertainty
into organs
long forgotten.

12:00 am and
the last half hour
has slipped through
my vice grip fingers.
And still I'm wondering
will yesterday
happen again
today.

- - -

Originally I wrote this with the idea that the subject hopes for a memory to happen again. My mom read it and then thought the complete opposite. She felt it was like the subject was dreading a memory. I guess it could really be taken either way.

Chilling.

I'm chilled
to the bone,
and I can't rid
these shaking quakes
from cold hands and feet.
I wish
for one last ray
of evanescent summer sun
to warm
my frozen ligaments
and moisten
chapped lips.

- - -

It is bitterly cold for September here in Canada, and I do not like it one bit.

Circle.

Tuesday through Thursday
are long gone
and coming up again.

Gold Leaves.

Walking to school,
I was stricken with a moment
whilst golden leaves,
speckled brown,
fell in cascades
and ribbons
all around me.
And I realized
life is more beautiful
when the mirror
isn't dotted
and the puddle
lies still.

Tangerine.

Biting tang of
tangerine.
Round, supple
sweet outside;
sharp snarls of
orange and white.
Sickly sweet sensation
as I bring you
to my mouth
and taste
sugar-melding citrus
prickling my tongue
with thumbtacks
and I eat
a tangerine.

- - -

Whoo, I just got goosebumps. :) I don't know what is about the word tang that I love so much. But it inspired this poem. Plus my mom gave me this sweet chapstick that totally tastes and smells like oranges. It's called Softlips and I love it.

Great White Shark Fight - Where The Fruit Comes From

Great White Shark Fight - The End Begins

ButterFly.

Need wings to relieve
stiff, raw bone.
Need eyes that are
dark, veiled and sultry.
Need words that
don't buckle
like nimble fingers,
spagetti bridges,
and brittle noses.

Because without those,
all you are is
a wilted caterpillar.

She and The Everyday Face.

I miss your everyday face,
the one that crumples in
when you smile.
Now all I see
is tired eyes,
slouching back,
lackluster scowl.

I look under sheets
and pages of long-loved books
because some part of me
hopes I haven't lost
that everyday face
and the friendship
that lies behind.

So Far, So Good.

Today I had to take one of my earrings out. Just a few months ago, I had the conch of my left ear peirced and just last week, I started taking JuJitsu again. I got smashed in the face today, the ring cut my ear and got all bent and awkward. Oh well, I knew it was gonna happen sometime!

What else? School is harder than ever; I've got a full course load this semester, mostly thirty level classes. Math, Bio, Art, English. But amazingly, I seem to be keeping up. I haven't missed an assignment yet, I've done well on all the quizzes so far. I guess it is only like three weeks into the year. :)

I got to watch my boyfriend's band Great White Shark Fight play their first gig on friday, they opened for Amber Alert. I'll put some links at the end of this post. They did really well, better than I expected them to, and all in all the night was a ton of fun.

I think that's all for now, but I'll be sure to post some more poetry and possibly another piece of prose soon.

GWSF: http://www.myspace.com/greatwhitesharkfight
Amber Alert: http://www.myspace.com/theamberalertmusic

RainLove.

I walk past bark
sheeted in lichen.
Above me,
green dappled yellow leaves
droop with the rain.
A line of cement,
cold, slick, wet,
beneath my feet.

I stop
stand
breath in humidity.
And fall in love
with precipitation.

Crying.

I'm fiddling
with pop can caps,
trying to hold myself together.
I'm clenching my jaw
so hard
I'm busting teeth.
But I'd rather feel
this marrow breaking pain
than break down
and cry
in front of you.

- - -

My mom decided that it would be really great to point out that it is extremely easy to make me cry. I thought about it and realized that's she's right. I cry when I'm frustrated, when I let people down, when I'm super happy, when someone shows me a great deal of appreciation, when I feel down and many more. Oh well, crying is theraputic. ;P

Traffic Lights - Opening Scene.

It was a four way intersection. A major road. Cars were zipping past, so close he could almost reach out, almost touch them. Almost feel the relief he knew they'd bring. He watched the lights change from red to green, and the line of cars shifted, following the iridescent dance of traffic lights.

John didn't know. He didn't know what led him here. He supposed, in the end, he really didn't know anything. He was too busy living a 'non-existance'. That's what she'd told him. He shivered at the memory, missed the sweet tang of her lips.

But after missing her, all John felt was bitterness. He was bitter she'd left him, bitter she'd found someone else, bitter because he couldn't do the same.

The light swapped again and again the traffic shifted. He watched all the cars and thought they looked like ants; marching, never tiring, droning on and on and on.

What was he doing here, watching the unceasing sway of a four way intersection? What was he doing, waiting for this elusive perfect moment? Really, any car would do. Any one could cripple him, crush him, kill him. He guessed it really didn't matter.

And truly, the only thing that did matter was the giant semi-truck, plowing its way down the road.

He waited, his body tensed.

How did it come to this?

- - -

What, prose? The world must be imploding. :0 This is the opening scene an idea I thought would make a great novel. It goes a little like this:

Man writes novel. Novel gets big. Man makes lots of money. Man writes another novel. Novel sucks shit. Man writes another novel. Novel sucks even more than the last. Man stops writing and becomes a recluse. Man's wife leaves him. Man's wife finds someone else. Man goes out into real world. Man has unsuccessful relationships. Man writes novel. Novel is lame. Man jumps into oncoming traffic.

That's pretty much the basis of it all.

A Memory.

In the dank hours
of night,
I wake to your breath,
hot, heavy,
full of memory
upon my cheek.
My body breaks
into bitter cold sweat.
And I'm thrown,
arm spinning,
windmilling,
into my dark
remembrance.

- - -

I really should be worrying about getting homework done, starting my portfolio, filling out my application to get into university, but all I can do right now is enjoy life and write. :)

MisMatched Socks.

You and I,
a pair
of mismatched socks
hidng in the dryer.
we know
we're wrong for each other,
we know
we don't match.
And for some unknown,
unfounded,
unreasonable reason,
we just keep coming together,
like a pair
of mismatched socks.

Old Writing.

The feel of coarse velvet,
aged paper,
the long drawn out kiss
between my thumb
and timeless ink.
I wish I was
a subtle thief too,
so that I may steal
those metaphors,
that diction,
this old way of speaking,
when language was
but a butterfly
wallowing in vanity.

- - -

I'm so in love with old poetry right now. We're reading all of these sonnets and poems written by dead guys in English 30 (AP). And I love how beautiful they make the language sound, I love the metaphors and all the techniques and devices. It makes me wish I was born in a time where language was beautiful.

There's also a very tiny reference to a poem I was assigned to close read and analyze in class. Sonnet VII, John Milton.

Not that my reference has anything to do with the sonnet or even John Milton himself, I just really liked the line. Well, maybe that's for you to decide. ;P

Days without the Internet.

Our internet was shut off for a few days. But it's back now. :)

I'm back in school for my grade twelve year, and we are now coming up on the end of the first week. Math is eh, Biology is eh, Art is AWESOME and English is EUPHORIC! I'm loving my English teacher Mr.Shamchuk right now. He is very easily the best teacher I've ever had for this course.

You can really tell when he talks that he loves literature and he loves poetry, you can hear it in the tremors of his voice and the way he skips around class and flings jokes every which way. I wonder if I love literature the same way.

Anyways, I'm sure I'll have some new poems to kick around soon enough, I'm really digging the idea of trying to write my own sonnet. Might be something interesting.

Till a later date!

Words.

The words are vibrating
on my lips.
I'm breathing fast,
and speaking faster.
There's so much
I need to say.

Things that would
change
how flies land on fruit,
how mountains wear down,
how the stars shine
like the sparkle in your eyes.

But I'm breathing fast,
and speaking faster,
and I'm choking
on my own words,
as you tell me to
slow down.

- - -

I watched a movie today called 'To Save A Life'. It was actually about a high school boy who's childhood friend commits suicide, and it causes him to raise a lot of questions about himself and his life. I thought that the movie was really well done. It made me wonder about the communication between us as human beings.

Do we understand what people say they need? And not just through words, but body language and action too. Do we, ask a fast paced society have the capactity to slow down and really understand what is going on with the people closest to us?

This may make me think a lot harder about even the little day-day conversations I have with people.

Mosquito People.

The closest thing
to a perfect moment
was when we fled
from scathing looks
pointy mouths
and bug eyes.
We walked together
across old train tracks
as we swatted at mosquitoes
because all they ever want
is
to suck us dry.

Poe.

Edgar Allen Poe,
writes tales of woe,
where spooky things
end up in walls,
or under floors.

- - -

This was written a while ago (couple months), but I just found it, and thought it should be here.

100 Reasons to Like You.

1. Because you're proud of your 'gayness'
2. Because I think about you and I laugh.
3. Because you make me smile. Duh! :)
4. Because you appreciate a good dirty joke.
5. Because you poke fun at me.
6. Because you're so smart.
7. Because when I don't tell you, you don't push.
8. Because you always listen when I'm ranting.
9. Because my parents adore you.
10. Because my friends adore you.
11. Because I adore you.
12. Because you love watching movies.
14. Because you introduced me to metal.
15. Because my Ipod has eight extra gigs of music because of you.
16. Because of your blue eyes.
17. Because of your dark hair.
18. Because you can make fun of yourself.
19. Because you drive a truck! ;P
20. Because it's okay if I pay sometimes.
21. Because you never push me, but you're not afraid to tell me exactly what you think.
22. Because we could spend all day watching cartoons together.
23. Because you love music more than I do.
24. Because I love your family.
25. Because I can tell you absolutely anything.
26. Because you stay up all night.
27. Because you sometimes sleep all day.
28. Because you were in my art class, and it was so much fun!
29. Because you never complain about my dry hands.
30. Because you think you're the lucky one.
31. Because you watched Gunslinger Girl, even after I condemned it.
32. Because you inspired the best poem I've ever written.
33. Because meeting you was exactly what I needed, when I needed it.
34. Because you won't lie to my parents.
35. Because you showed me Fight Club.
36. Because you're so soft spoken.
37. Because you dressed up as Andy from the 40 Year Old Virgin.
38. Because you hate Nickleback, but I find them listenable.
39. Because I'll say something that doesn't make sense, and you won't hesitate to tease me.
40. Because I gave you a bloody nose and you laughed it off.
41. Because I got you into trouble, and you stuck around.
42. Because I know I'm sometimes trouble, and I think you do too.
43. Because I said Tony Roma's had the best onion cake, and you took me to Outback and proved me wrong.
44. Because we don't argue.
45. Because you're always so calm.
46. Because you have hilarious friends.
47. Because you work so hard with the band.
48. Because you're hardworking period.
49. Because I feel like I can trust you around other girls.
50. Because I'm halfway to 100!
51. Because I'm willing to be wholly and completely yours.
52. Because you gave me the book "How Babies Are Made."
53. Because you don't try to flatter me.
54. Because I love the way you kiss.
55. Because you creeped my facebook page, and I creep yours ALL THE TIME. :)
56. Because you found my blog before I even told you I had a blog.
57. Because you think my stepdad is a nice guy.
58. Because I still have time for me.
59. Because you want to have classes with me.
60. Because you brought my friends and I maple syrup.
61. Because you love a good breakfast.
62. Because every samurai must sometimes bloody his sword!
63. Because you play the bass. Cough.
64. Because you're not afraid to tease my friends.
65. Because you can take it and you can dish it!
66. Because you always say goodnight.
67. Because you showed me how awesome local music is.
68. Because you were there for my first head banging.
69. Because BATTLESHIP is awesome, and you know it! ;P
70. Because you showed me Gojira.
71. Because I'm a calmer person now.
72. Because your family loves Country music, but you don't.
73. Because you like to reference movies.
74. Because you love inside jokes.
75. Because I know you don't really like Boxer Shorts, but you deal with him because you know I love my ferret so very much. :)
76. Because we want to go on a road trip together.
77. Because I see no end to this in sight.
78. Because you put up with my crazy, dysfunctional family.
79. Because you think I should grow out my hair, but I like it short!
80. Because you wear band T-shirts everyday.
81. Because your pants actually fit.
82. Because you worry about the wellfare of other people.
83. Because we love to make fun of Evan/Victoria together.
84. Because I like your mom.
85. Because you have so many stories to tell.
86. Because you have friends that are lifelong.
87. Because you're so mature.
88. Because I know you'd never abuse your ability to drink legally.
89. Because you're not much of a partier.
90. Because you share my hatred of acne.
91. Because you'd do Will smith. I'd do him too! :)
92. Because I burrowed your CDs for like three months, and you didn't nag.
93. Because you have a favorite book series.
94. Because you, Adam, and Scott apparently like whale sperm. :/
95. Because you and my brother are pals.
96. Because you play video games.
97. Because we invented the code word "pizza." ;D
98. Because you actually tookthe time to listen to my favorite band.
99. Because you're so patient.
100. Because you're still reading this.

Stolen Smiles.

I like to find
stolen smiles
and hang them
on my wall.
I find them
on porches
glazed with sun,
and between fingers
twined together,
and shoulders grazed
whilst passing by.

You find them too,
in a subtle glance,
a split-second spark
in the middle
of eyes.

- - -

I've been toying with the idea of a stolen smile for a little while now. I try to think to myself: "What could the phrase mean, where would you find one, how would you steal it?"

Anyways, I'm feeling particularily lackadaisical and not very sesquipedalian today, so I'm going for a nap. ;D

Summer Ending.

I watched the leaves today,
their edges faded
from green to yellow
as Autumn comes
and steals
Summer‘s breath.
Blooming life
is shot down
by bitter frost.
An arrow
in my back.

- - -

Inspired by the yellow leaves of a tomatoe plant that really isn't getting enough sun. Darned weather.

Swing at the Park.

Gritty chain
beneath my hands,
and muted gravel
under my feet.
I take off, and
the wind tangles my hair.
I go up,
and back,
and up again,
on a swing to nowhere.
I close my eyes
and jump.

- - -

I've been feeling pretty uninspired lately (mostly because I haven't been doing as much reading as of late), but today my two younger brothers and I went to the park. I love swings. They're a cherished pastime of my childhood, a snatch at the sky, so much fun! :)

Strangers Kissing.

I watched two strangers
stand in drenching rain,
but they looked so warm
as their lips fuzed
and their hands
twined together.

I miss the feeling.
But more I wish,
as rain spatters me
with lip marks,
that you would
kiss me
in the rain.

The two strangers
boarded the bus,
and I never saw them
again.

- - -

I really did see this happening today. It felt almost an intrusion to watch them, but they were way at the corner waiting for a bus and I just happened to be sitting on the couch looking out the window. Completely not my fault they had no sense of privacy! Anyways, my dad will probably shake his head when he reads this. :)

Other notes, I realize this is my second poem in about a week about some type of stranger. I like the anonymity of the idea. It took me FOREVER to figure out how to pronounce that word! Don't mock. :)

Erosion.

Far away the mountains
are glazed in blue.
I wish
I could climb up them
and stand,
my fingers skimming
cloud.
I would watch
streams run down your face
and wind
fling back your rocky hair.
And I will watch you,
mountain,
erode.

Boxed.

I feel boxed in. Angsty, anxious, annoyed, beaten down, hopeless, upset.

I'm already tired of my summer vacation. I want to go back to my routine, I want to stop dealing with extended family. I want to punch the keys on a piano, and pluck the strings on my guitar. Amazing, but true.

I miss home.

Earlier today, I looked at myself in the mirror, and I had to stop and look closer. I didn't really feel like myself today. I haven't been the zany, outgoing, slightly obnoxious teen that I usually am.

But who knows, maybe a goodnight's sleep will make me feel better.

Smoking Stars.

The smoke
melded with the sky
all speckled with stars.
I was peering through,
squinting my eyes
until I realized
I could no longer
see stars.

- - -

Inspired by the great outdoors and a campfire.

Stranger at Night.

The dark night
is washed
in yellow limelight.
I see a flickering shadow
lurking in the alleyway
as I stand on my porch
and watch it
watch me.

I pull
the sliding glass door,
marred with fingerprints,
shut.
And suddenly,
I'm afraid.

- - -

Poor Dexter. My dad's sixteen year old dog has been having a bit of trouble as of late controlling his...er..bowel movements. I noticed he was shuffling around anxiously, so I let him out. I stood on the porch in the darkness, and was suddenly stricken with the beauty of night in the city. I love the color of streetlight.

That's what inspired this piece. I didn't actually see anyone wandering the allies, but I liked the concept.

Prologue: The Taste of Blood.

He screeched in pain, a sound that echoed through the dank halls and empty rooms of Shiro’s neglected palace. It vibrated through old cobwebs draped across everything: They sheeted the gray stone of walls, hung from unused chandeliers, coated lavish chairs and wasted furniture. In some of the older rooms, ripples appeared in pools of once stagnant water. Drops of liquid hammered stone and molding carpet.

Shiro’s lips curled into a dark smile, his eyes gleaming as he forced the knife deeper into the man’s side. The archivist cried out again, his voice weak. He jerked his entire body violently, attempting to wriggle his arms free. It was useless; the bonds that held him to the gore ridden chair stayed tightly clasped around his body. It terrified him, to know he was sitting in more than just his own blood. He felt like this torture had gone on for days, months maybe, though in reality it was a few tremendous hours. Fatigue had set in. He felt crushed, like a mouse caught in a steel trap.

His tormentor’s face was still crumpled into a wicked smile. The man’s eyes bulged from his head, and his lips quivered. He gulped down a hard stone in his throat. “S-stop this,” His breathing felt labored, his chest constricted under tight coils of chain. “Please…”

Eyes of the palest green, cool and full of void, looked down. They bore into the man’s very soul, but showed no sign of sympathy. The surreal smile that had peeled back his lips faltered for a moment, transforming his expression into an ugly grimace. He wrenched the blade out, careful to drag the serrated edge, making the wound larger. Shiro held it close to his pallid face. The contrast of his skin to the blood was vivid, like black and white.

“Beautiful.” His voice was silky, but dangerously sharp. A pink tongue emerged from his mouth, pressed up against the flat of the knife. “Mmmm..”

The man was sobbing now, his entire body shaking with fear and adrenaline. “I h-ha-haven’t done anything!” He wailed. “Why are you doing this?” He twisted his fat wrists again. The attempt was fruitless.

The knife slipped from Shiro’s hand, clattering to the floor. The definite lines of his body blurred as he moved too quickly for the human eye to follow. He brought his face within inches of his victim’s, his half-mast eyes widening intensely. His alabaster fingers clamped down on the man’s pudgy arms.


The tormentor inhaled. He breathed in the stench that lingered over the chair-—it hung in even the dankest corners of his palace-—it seeped from the pores of the pathetic man before him. The scent of Death was like rotten rose petals: sickeningly sweet.

Even when it was fresh, when he’s begun all this, he’d loved the smell. Shiro blinked as he was abruptly caught in a moment of nostalgia. He remembered plowing through damp, worm ridden dirt. He remembered dragging up coffins with the assistance of his uncle, remembered stealing bodies. He remembered his first feeble attempts at the Black Arts. The memory made his lips twitch.

“Tell me what I need to know.” He said softly, dragging his long fingers down the side of the man’s face. The man jerked back at his touch. Shiro sighed contently. Death was so intimate, so romantic. It was all too lovely for him.

The archivist hesitated. His eyes darted from place to place. His lips parted, as if to say something, but closed again. His cheeks were tearstained; blood congregated at each of the corners of his mouth. He coughed suddenly, spewing bits of blood into Shiro’s face. Shiro’s eyelids fluttered, but he did not flinch.

The man was dying.

“Okay, oka—okay.” He sobbed. “There are tw—two.”

“Where, my love?” The tormenter asked, allowing his face to become soft, like that of a love stricken girl. The man shut his mouth again, whimpering.

“WHERE?!?!” Shiro screeched, his expression contorting into a feral snarl.

“In my country. I-in Arael.” He gurgled. “Hitalgiss.”

Shiro narrowed his eyes as he turned away. He felt the man wasn’t lying; no one would want to bring Death into their own country. But both children, in the same place? It was too convenient.

“Please, the-they’re still just children!” The archivist pleaded. “why risk the—“ He hacked up more blood in a fit of coughing. “Why risk them, the fate of out world, to open it?”

Shiro turned away, ignoring the sobbing and beseeching of the grimy man. He wrinkled his nose as he moved to a table pushed up against stone wall. He hated the sound of pleading. It reminded him of greedy children, screaming and grabbing with pudgy little hands.

The table was lined with an array of metallic instruments. He ran his hand along sleek edges and sharp points, before settling on a new blade. It was like a razor, smooth, and with a deadly looking hook at the end. He took in a long breath.

“Sometimes my love, we have to sacrifice the lives of many to achieve perfect utopia.”

He twisted, lashed out.

There was red.

Shiro raised a hand to wipe the gore from his face, though the attempt was useless. He could almost smell the fat in the man’s blood. He threw the knife aside, and listened as it clanged against stone. The sound felt muted to him, distant. He was lost in the dead man’s face.

His eyes and mouth were wide, frozen in a look of terror. The wound at his neck was unruly; the hook had performed like a talented bard lamenting stories of old. Blood gurgled from the slash and soaked what was left of the man’s clothing. It spattered on the floor. Shiro stared a moment longer, thinking the image would make a lovely painting.

“Aqeale,” He called. “Bring me my pipe.”

A shadow flickered in the deepest corner of the chamber. A robed figure emerged and glided forwards, making not the slightest of sounds. Its head dipped down as he approached Shiro.

“My lord.” Aqeale whispered as he handed Shiro a long wooden contraption with a curved end, his head still bowed in respect.

“Rise, my friend.” Shiro said as he took the pipe. He stuck an end in his mouth and chewed on it, thoughts and ideas and plans churning and melding together in his head. “I have a most important errand for you.” Snapping his fingers, he created a small flame on the tip of his index. He lit the pipe and sucked in, savoring the sweet taste of tobacco.

Aqeale straightened, though his features remained masked in shade. Shiro preferred him this way; it made it easier to not become attached to his most trusted weapon.

“What does my lord wish of me?” His servant asked. His voice sounded hollow, like an echo lost in a canyon.

Shiro puffed out wide smoke rings and watched them dance through the moist air. He felt distracted by the success of his interrogation; he was so close, so close to reaching the Divine.

“The children have been under our nose this entire time. Or, should I say, above our heads?” Shiro mused, smiling at his cleverness. “Go to Hitalgiss, find the two, and bring them to me.”

“Alive, my lord?”

“Alive and hearty. They are vital to my plans.” Shiro said. He gave Aqeale a stern look. “I know you will not fail me in this; Do not make me send her.”

Aqeale bristled at the threat; a hint of annoyance touched his voice as he turned to leave.

“I will not fail you, brother.”

- - -

Finally, I know. I think i promised this, what, like a month ago? Alas, here it is! I'm very proud of it, but I know there's still work to be done, parts that need rewriting.

Leave a comment if you find something I should touch up on!

I'm Choking On My Tongue.

I am so blown away right now, I don't even have words to decribe it. I just stumbled across this blog called 'She Would Have Liked Wings', the author is fifteen. Fifteen! Two flipping years younger than me.

Her grasp of language is just phenominal. It's intricate, delicate writing.

At first I felt sharp pangs of jealousy: why can't I write like that? But I kept on reading, and it was all a sense of awe.

Anyways, have a look for yourself: http://writingsfromwonderland.blogspot.com/

Singing With You.

My heart,
lodged in my chest,
is zipping around
like a hummingbird
on steroids.
So in sync,
with the way everything was,
like a rapper
spitting up words
to his own beat.
Am I singing
out of key?

- - -

I have all of these fragmented ideas just crashing around in my head. I can't keep anything straight right now. It took a lot of effort to forge this little piece, because tangible, relatable ideas are not coming together for me. Like, a hummingbird and a RAPPER? Those two objects are so obviously related! *sarcasm*

Door To The Timeless Nether - Exerpt

It was just white. Endless white in all directions. No shadows, no objects, nothing for the eyes to focus on. It was just white.

“Holy hell.” He whispered, his mouth hanging open. He turned three hundred and sixty degrees and saw nothing.

Three doors suddenly appeared before him.

One was saccharine blue.

One was a deep shade of mottled green.

One was vivid red.

He looked at them with wide eyes, his heart pounding in his throat, his brain screeching at him to run. But run to where? There was nothing here but three doors, and never ending white. Rowan knew, somehow he knew, that he could only go forward.

- - -

So, in two months National Novel Writing Month will be up and buzzing in my face again. I realize last year, I didn't even make to the ten thousand word mark, thanks to my ever demanding social life. Not much of an excuse, I know.

Anyways, this is just a short exerpt from my attempt at it. I really fell in love with my characters and the very real potential the plot itself had. But alas:

"When Breanna and Rowan are shot from reality into a world where time, the laws of physics, and equality mean nothing, everything they have ever known is thrown into question. With only the theories and delusions of a mad scholar to guide them, and the help of a tiny and elegantly useless dragon named Macaroni, they must traverse the Nether and find the gateway back to their own plane of existance. The only problem is, time is never on anyones side, even in the Timeless Nether."

That was my synopsis. Not the greatest summary ever written for a story, but my first go at it.

I do intend to try NaNoWriMo again this year, and I've got a few ideas swimming around in my head for the whole thing. I encourage all writers/novelist wannabes to have a shot at it(or maybe you just like the idea of torturing yourself for no reason). 50,000 words in thirty days! Can you do it?

Link to the website: http://www.nanowrimo.org/

BATTLESHIP!

I was just looking back and saw that in a previous post, I said I'd find a link for a fricking amazing local band called Battleship. And well ah! Here it is:

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/BATTLESHIP/397910326631?ref=ts

Myspace: http://www.myspace.com/battleshipband

Listening to them on myspace is really not the same as seeing them live, but as I've said before, I've completely fallen in love with them.

Drinking Water.

Currently, I've taken to drinking FAR too much water. I'm wondering: Can you be addicted??

Interesting Website Is Interesting.

http://threeframes.net/

This site just blew me away. All the images only have three frames to the animation, so the motions are very repetitive, but it gives the images such a new dynamic. I spent about a half an hour looking through the site, and I have to say, some of the images really feel like they've a strong message behind them.

Take a look and decide for yourself!

Sad Eyes.

I woke up from my daily dream
and saw you
staring out across
stirring ocean waters
and your eyes were sadder
than tumult stormclouds above.

I spread my toes
across cold wet sand
as you looked on,
but never looked at me.
I reached out,
touched a finger
to your shoulder.
But still
I would not see
your eyes.

The rain was coming,
slamming down on my face.
I shivered
and you took off your jacket
and walked me home.

But still I wonder
what I saw that day
in your
sad eyes.

A Dark Place.

I stepped inside myself
and it like was standing,
folded over,
in a black crawlspace.

I felt my heart throbbing
and crawling up my throat.
Even that part of me,
intimate,
inseperable,
dosen't want
anything to do with me.

- - -

Okay, this is shit, and I realize that. It's also very dark and sullen, which are not themes I usually touch on. I just feel like experimenting. :)

Drinking.

I take another gulp
and realize that my glass is empty.
I stand up
slump into the kitchen
and fill it again.
I sit back down
and stare
at the empty white before me
then I realize
that my glass is empty
again.

You Crashed Into Clouds.

You crashed into clouds,
the fluffy white sheets of my bed,
and I watched
stormy passion
spit and crackle in your eyes.

It was heat,
that drew me in,
made my own tornadoes
sputter and give way
to something
that only feels right
with you.

And now I watch clouds
being whisked around
by blue skies and
the ground blurs and disappears
beneath me.

My heart beats feel so distant,
because I’ve gone
and left seven pounds of myself
in clouds
like piles of sheets,
all twined up with you.

What A Great Week.

Wow, okay, I think it's time for a bit of an update. I'll do this in a list so I don't get confused. It's relatively easy to confuse me these days. Without school to keep my mind and tongue sharp, things get jumbled around. :)

1. Joplin has FINALLY had her second litter of puppies. Seven again this time. I got to help birth them, and as much as I thought it was gonna be the most disgusting thing I'd ever have to do, I found it to be really fascinating. All in all, I think it was a very valuable experience.

2. As I've already told you that my piece won honourable mention, I think it suffice to add that the ST.Albert Gazette (local newspaper) got in touch with me and asked for an interveiw. How could I not oblige? I'm sure it will be small, but still, YAY! This is very exciting for me!

3. I saw Ringo Starr live in concert yesterday. It was so humbling to be in the same room as a former member of the band that, in my opinion, revolutionized pop culture as we know it today. The show itself was good, but I think I expected more than I got.

4. I miss my knight in shining armour. This is going to be such a long three weeks of vacation without him.

A Song.

I hear a song
that never is played
on the radio.
I know it only
because of that moment,
when we became more
than juvenile lovers,
and it screamed
hot buzzing noise
somewhere distant.

I remember it because of the funny motion
you made with your hands
and the quirky smile
that made me laugh.

I love you so much,
that the lyrics
the whole world marches to
matter not
to me.

I AM AWESOME! EGO BOOST!

YES! I got hounorable mention for The Isabel Miller Young Writers Award, which was exactly what I wanted to do. I'm so happy right not I don't think I'll be able to sleep at all!

Kicking Myself in The Ass.

Okay, enough with the goddang fricken stupid rip my hair out procrastination. I am so tired of saying and thinking and dreaming and hoping of doing all these great things and then never doing it because I'm a very lazy person. And that's that.

From this day forth, I promise myself not a day will go by where I do not write something. And I'm going to get back into writing more prose type things, because while my poetic writing has definately improved, my ability to create likeable characters and good scenes has gone down the crapper.

Yep, rant over. I'll have something soon.

Watching the Sun.

On the days
where nothing screams at me,
I like to sit
and watch the sun
rise from deep slumber
and splash the shaded sky
with deep pastel
and watercolor paints.

Nigh Noon,
the sun licks my face
and kisses my belly,
warms me to my toes.
The sky looks like
a glass lake somewhere windless,
and I imagine
I can run my fingers through it
and make ripples.

But the sun soon yawns,
and stumbles off to bed,
begging I come with him.

I stay where I am
and watch
the pastel sky
turn to ash.

- - -

Taadaa! Yet another work of sensational art by me! Just kidding. I'm just fiddling around with imagery here, since I feel like I write too much about feelings and mushy girl stuff. Trying something new, so there.

The Great Lesson.

She always said to me
"loss is the great lesson."
I never believed her,
not until the day
I lost her soul
and she lost her way.
The wolves anchored
their tainted claws
and devoured her.
And then I understood
her words.
They echoed in my head:
"loss is the great lesson,
loss is the great lesson."
Then what is life?

I pondered this,
as I stood alone.

Listening to Wind.

I can hear
the sly snickering
of wind
drowned out by
the churning belly
of the neighbor's lawnmower.

It's a shame
I can't sit here
in quiet isolation
and contemplate
the complexites
of wind
brushing by my skin.

Father.

Sometimes I think
I can never forgive you
for being absent in my life.
Your lack of determination
to love me
frustrates
to the point
where my throat swells
and I cry.

But as those tears,
salty and bitter,
drain
from my father-deprived body
I realize
you did the best you could.

Stressing.

I'm stressing about things
that maybe are pointless.
But I need this
to move forward
down this forlorn, beaten trail
that I follow.

And even though for now,
I should just smile,
love and lust
while the summer heat
flourishes and grins
with freedom,
I can't help but
rush headlong
into that new world.

And when will the day come
when I throw down my pen
and smile at that wicked devil;
"weakness",
and look him in the eye
and laugh
fearlessly.

- - -

Well, this is definately not my best work, but at least its something. I guess this was primarily written because I was angry that Art 30 is not on my schedule for next year. I did fricken sign up for it, didn't I? :(

Late at Night, Writing About Canada Day

Happy Canada Day, even though now it's technically July 2nd. It's about one thirty in the morning around here.

I'm really just posting to reflect on my evening. Nick and I went to his friend's Barbeque and watched some fireworks. It was nice to spend some time with him, and I did get to meet alot of new and interesting people. An all together fulfilling evening. :)

Craving Sushi

Today has been a sushi craving type of day. I long to feel the sublte flavours of rice and fish melding together on my tongue, the satisfaction of knowing I've eaten something heathly AND delicious. :)

And it's all a coworkers' fault. She brought in some sushi she made at home. It was so fresh and tasty, I wanted to eat the whole box. So I decided I'd treat my brother and sister sushi tommorrow at the Tokyo Express, and then Ryan and I are going to try it ourselves at a later date.

That should be fun. And messy. And experimental. :)

Well, some new poetry should be up soon. Until then!

Sitting in The Dark, Blogging.

Seriously, that's what I'm doing right now at this very moment. Just so my miniscule group of creepers has something to read late at night. Thinking of that makes me feel small and insignificant. I guess feeling insignificant is sometimes a good thing: it's humbling in a way. Shame few other teenagers think like that. I think the world would be a better place if everyone was modest and kept their head down and shied away from compliment and power. But then I guess we'd be a weak species of animal if we were all like that.

Not saying that I shy away from things and keep my head down. Most certainly not. It's just a thought, my muse for the day.

Anyways, let's run through what's happening right now in the life of Deana! :)

School's finally over and done with, thank freakin god! Now is the time for me to relax and get away from people that for the last two months have been driving me nuts. Nothing ahead of me but a summer of work and play.

I sent two poems for The Isabel Miller Young Writer's award, but I won't find out if my writing has any merit till at least September. Why does it take so long? I'm an impatient person! This also means that writing should become more frequent again, so we'll see if I can live up to my promises this time.

Yay to being a good judge of character: my Boyfriend is awesome! :)

WildFire Falling.

I fell for you
so hard and fast
that hitting the concrete
almost hurt.
I don't know
if I can pick myself
up again.
I guess I'm afraid that
as quickly as you appeared,
you'll fade away.
And like the forest
that held a feast
for the wildfire
I'll have nothing
again.

- - -

Hopefully this will keep some of you dingbats satiated for a little while. The deadline for the Young Writer's Award is rapidly approaching, so it shouldn't be too long until I am regularily posting again. I've chosen two poems to enter, and from what people have said about them, I'd like to say that they've got a least a running chance. Of course, people are sometimes too nice.

A few comments of WildFire Falling. The first three lines I actually came up with just as I was about to drift into sleep. I guess I was just thinking about some stuff that I'd really like to say, but I keep thinking to myself that I'm not ready for that yet. Maybe this poem was my way of communication without really trying or feeling like I'd fail to elaborate on my emotions. Poetry is good that way.

Crappy Poetry For A Friend.

Hey you,
you're very tall
and you've got a lot of freckles,
pretty sea-colored eyes.
It must be nice
to mean the world
to so many people--
especially me.

Sometimes I feel exasperated
by your sharp wit.
But most times,
it's all a sense of awe.
The glowlight around you
is fuzzy and warm;
the best peach
you could ever eat.

I may not say it,
but I think you know it:

You are the better half
of my apple,
the cheese
of my macaroni,
the center
to my tasty ruhbarb pie.

Eat that,
you damn best friend.

- - -

Snap, here's some really shitty poetry. But at least it gets my point across. Enjoy, turdfaces! :)

The Reasons Behind Skimpy Posting.

I actually do have a very good reason for not posting as often as I would like to. Seriously. Well, actually, I have two.

1. This is my better of the two. There's an award that I'd really love to win: The Isabel Miller Young Writers Award. I've been working really hard to come up with some strong piece to enter, and as far as writing goes, everything that is entered for the award cannot have been published elsewhere. A majority of my recent work has been holed away as possiblities for entrance.

2. This where I get to complain. Not many people actually read my blog. I think there are possibly one or two creepers that are frequent readers, so it's hard to keep up the work when your not obliged to. Honestly, that's fine by me. I started a blog with the intent to write more often, and that I have accomplished. Okay, I guess I'm not really complaining. :)

Anyways, as soon as I put my entries in for the award, posting will become more frequent.

Adieu!

Killing Fish = Emotional Turmoil.

Today at work, I had to euthanize a fish. It was still alive, sort of. I remember watching it flutter in and out of life, gasping as it floated at the top of the tank.

Depending on the circumstances, there are two ways you can euthanize a fish. You can freeze it, or you an smack it really hard against something. Usually I only freeze a fish if it has really bad ick or tail rot, but it's going to live for a few days at least. But this guy was almost dead, and to be honest, I was just gonna chuck him straight in the garbage anyways.

So I reached into the tank and scooped him out as discreetly as I could, slipped him into his plastic coffin and spirited him away to the back. I was just about to throw him to his shadowy doom when I happened to glance at the bag. He was still flickering around, suffocating on oxygen. It felt bad to make him suffer more than he had to.

Without a second thought, I brought my arm back and smashed the bag against the side of the garbage can. And that was that. He was dead.

I felt queasy afterwards; my heart was fluttering around in my chest. I don't think I can recall a time when I was overtly cruel to an animal, let alone having killed one (even if it was for good intent).

Can killing something as simple as a sickly fish have an emotional impact on a person?

Looking in Mirrors.

Mirrors.
Full length mirrors.
Afraid of them,
because I don't know
what they show me,
Beacause I don't know
who that girl is
looking
down
on
me.

The Kiss.

Your kiss is like liquid,
hot and cold down
my chilled spine.
Bumps rising
where
your fingertips
graze my skin.
I've fallen in love
with the blue kaleidescope illusion.

- - -

I'll give you a cookie if you can name the pattern here. Haha, I'm so clever!

Jumping Over The Moon.

There's a pounding heat
in my head.
Makes me want to
jump up and over
the moon,
just like that cow
that acheived it
in a fairytale.

- - -

Taadaa! I know, writing has been skimpy and all together unsatisfying. Well go eat some Sherret Fit. I mean Ferret Shit. :)

Wanting To Stand Up For Someone, But Doing Nothing Instead.

Today I watched a bunch of douchebags at my school harrass a kid named Reese. Now Reese has kind of a reputation for being a pervert around the school, so on normal circumstances, someone cracking a joke about or at him wouldn't really bother me. But it was just the way these guys were picking at him: Like vultures hovering over a rotting carcass. I guess it really shook me up.

It was like eight to one, and I really wanted to get up and punch some of them in the face. I didn't. I just sat there and minded my own buisness, wincing as they continued to aggravate Reese.

I felt horrible. I wish now that I had gotten up and come to his aid, I wish I had the guts to go talk to a teacher about it. In some respects, I'm no better than any other teenager. I'm weak and brittle, and I sometimes break under peer pressure and social standings.

The incident made me realize something else as well. I was looking at those guys, with their pants down to their knees and dopey, assinine looks on their faces, and I realized that I'm a really lucky girl. How many of those boys have girlfriends who are unsatisfied, who are always trying to convince themselves and everyone around them that he's really a nice guy? How many of those boys have lost friends and made enemies, just because they felt the need to act a particular way?

I'm so happy that my boyfriend is not at all like that. And I'm very, very lucky. :)

Quick Update

Just a quick update. New prologue is finally finished and part of it will be up very soon! Till a later date!

This is a Post to...

RAWR!

Say nothing.

Seasons.

Spring,
flowers sprout and
grow.

Summer,
heat flourishes and
hangs.

Fall,
leaves yellow and
die.

Winter,
creeps in and
stays.

- - -

Sorry, I know there's a bit of a gap between my posts. School has just been eating me alive, namely English AP. I guess if I just sat down and actually did my homework for once... :)Ah, I keeping telling myself as long as I do well on exams and the Finals, I'll be fine.

This statement is true. If I pass the Final exam with, say, eighty percent (which is easy on a comprehensive test) then I bring my mark up a minimun of twenty percent. That's rough math, obviously, but you get the picture.

Quite soon I will be posting up a prologue I wrote a good while ago, though the version I put up here will be revised and rewritten. The first two paragraphs are done, so I'll give you a sneak peak:

Old Version:

"He screeched in pain, a sound that echoed throughout the dank halls and empty pools of water that had formed in some of the older areas. The sound of dripping was a constant beat, a rhythm that the torture ensuing danced to."

As you can see, it's a weak parapgraph. I went back to elaborate and expand.

New Version:

"He screeched in pain, a sound that echoed through the dank halls and empty rooms of Shiro’s neglected palace. It vibrated through old cobwebs draped across everything: They sheeted the gray stone of the walls, hung from unused chandeliers, coated lavish chairs and wasted furniture. In some of the older rooms, ripples appeared in pools of once stagnant water. Drops of liquid hammered stone and molding carpet."

To me, the new version is not only stronger, but gives you a much better sense of place. But I'm probably biased. :)

Sweet, till later!

Drabble and Others.

Here's a short bit of prose for you today. It's called Drabble, a peice of fiction exactly 100 words long.

- - -

It started as a fizzle in his sleeping head. He rolled over, ignoring the alarm until it became exasperatingly loud. It was still Sunday, wasn’t it? A gasp escaped his lips as he jolted upright. God dang it, it was Monday. He jumped out of bed and rushed around in the dark, fumbling as he picked random articles of clothing from the floor.

Breakfast was skipped. He dashed out the door, only to rush back in a minute later. He’d forgotten his glasses. He pounded down the sidewalk, each step heavier than the last. Tromp, tromp, tromp.
He was late.
- - -

Yep. Took me five minutes to write it. Even still, I'm quite proud of it.

Okay, in other news:
- HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!!!! I'm seventeen on May 6. (it's very late at night)
- Saw a local concert tonight, and fell in love with the band Battleship. I'll find a link.
- Ate Wendy's and spent some very well deserved time with mah boyfriend.

Till later!

Want S'more Cookies?

So, this evening, I decided I would get creative in the kitchen. I have invented the next drug, and it's more addictive than crack. Seriously.

Here is my recipe for S'more Cookies. Enjoy!

- - -

You will need:

- 3/4 cup of Splenda Sugar
- 3/4 cup of Icing Sugar
- 1 cup of Margarine
- 2 Eggs, beaten
- 2 teaspoons of Vanilla
- 2 1/2 cups of Flour
- 1 teaspoon of Baking Soda
- 3/4 teaspoon of Salt
- 2 cups of semi-sweet Chololate Chips
- 1 cup of Mini Marshmallows

And this is what you do:

1. Preheat oven to about 375 degrees.

2. Mix together Splenda sugar, icing sugar, margarine, vanilla, and eggs in a large bowl.

3. Add the flour, baking soda, and the salt. I use my hands to mix it all together, but an electric mixer will do the trick as well.

4. Stir in the chocolate chips and marshmallows, and keep kneading the dough until both are evenly through out.

5. Drop the dough into nice and relatively thick cookie-circles onto the cookie sheet (I use my hands for this). Putting tin foil down first will save you a lot of trouble later, because the marshmallows will melt and stick to the cookie sheet. Trust me, it's a bitch to try and get that off.

6. Bake for about 10-12 minutes. They should be just the lightest of gold on the top. The marshmallows will be all melted and oozing. If you hear sizzling, that's good.

7. Let them cool, and then indulge! :)

Balloon.

Balloon, balloon, balloon
blue ones,
red ones,
green ones,
pink ones.
all my problems
high above my head
in multi
vibrant
color.

Crying at Stars.

staring at the faded velvet sky,
I wondered why you cried.
what you saw,
that I couldn't see
is your heart a precious flower?
you wilt
at the first sign of beauty and sorrow.
am I stone,
that my breath is not stolen away
by the very same?

- - -

Written for my brother, who cries at everything.

Sun Kissed - Prose.

The heat of the sun kissed my back, wrapped me in the warm hazy light of an april afternoon. For once, I felt tranquil. No worries bounding through my brain, nothing to pull my attention from this peacful moment. Even the black ink of my pen seemed lovely: graceful scrawl on white paper.

I remember watching my brother playing on the lawn with the dogs, my sister basking in the sunlight as I. I remember thinking as I looked over the expanse of garden, an overgrown jungle in the midst of our urban habitat, that this was the most perfect moment of my life. The only sound cutting through the light and cool chatter of the wind was the occasional tinkle of a far off wind chime.

It was a refreshing outlook on a chaotic week, month, year.

Thinking of that, I was suddenly flooded with dangerous thoughts. I thought of Sam, I thought of Charlie. I thought of booze, and sex, and drugs. Just these alone were enough to make me want to crush my head between a rock and a hard place.

I was a stupid, stupid girl.

- - -

Might elaborate more on this. We shall see, young padawans(I think that's how you spell it). I really enjoyed writing it, as I was basking in the sun, and my brother and sister were there with me. And yes, it was a very tranquil moment in a hectic week. I think it should be interesting to flesh this out a bit more and see where it goes. May have to do some research first, since I know practically nothing about booze or drugs. Boys, on the other hand... :)

The Sun Comparison .

Warm sun,
wrap me
in your yellow hugs
and kisses.
I love you,
only when
you don't bake me
under your heated stare.

- - -

I love the sun. That was the first inspiration behind this peice. I guess if you're one for metaphor and symbolism, then it has a far deeper meaning.

From Mars.

falling from a shooting star,
where are you from,
that you should be
so like myself?

the spark of lighting
hiding in your eyes
and in the sky...
I guess I'm paraphrasing.

where are you from,
that your fingers are like fire,
but ice fills my bones
at your touch.

I've lost my reason
to deny myself
the feeling that you bring.

we are the same,
are we the same?

- - -

I wrote this while listening to the song From Mars, by Gojira. Though the poem and the song have absolutely nothing in common. LEGIT.

Silver.

clouds have silver lining,
blashempy;
nothing is as it seems.

As much as I want to,
I won't follow the silver cord
because I know where it goes:
it only shows me the way
through drenched-in-tears mazes,
back to you.

Why would I want
what I cried
for
about
with?

Silver lining, silver cord,
blashempy;
I'll only follow
blue eyes.

- - -

Written in social, when I was supposed to be working on a bunch of questions pertaining to the unit we're on (imperialism in africa. . . I think?).

Avoiding The Question.

and I asked him
"do you love me?"
like shattering glass
his silken voice
drunk off sweet body carress
he said
"you're so beautiful."
stretched to run a hand
zigzagging down my exposed figure.

i cried.

- - -

This is more a memory and a fear than poetry. I know, it's a memory disguised as poetry!

I trying some new things, because Charles Bukowski is very inspiring.

"Don't Try" - Charles Bukowski.

http://www.poemhunter.com/charles-bukowski/biography/

WOW. That is all I have to say. I just sat down and read stuff about him and stuff by him for probably a good three hours and I'm astounded. I think I'll raid Chapters for some of his poetry collections on Thursday.

Blotch Life.

Staring at the ink blotch
on the page.
Wonder how it got there,
wonder how I ended up
so like it.
Stuck to the paper,
with so much to say,

but nowhere to go.

- - -

I was looking through my poetry file (yes, I actually do have a folder that I keep all my rough drafts in, no wonder we have no trees :/) and I sort of just happened on this peice. I have no idea when it was written, how I was feeling when I wrote it, or even where I happened upon the inspiration for it. Hmm. I'll have to jog my memory.

Looking at it now, I can see that it still has a lot of relevance to my life. I feel like I have nowhere to go. I feel like I'm stuck all the time. It's so hard to change, and so hard to do the things that I need to do. I just leave all of these unfinished strings of...everything everywhere.

I have no drive. :(

Wow, Talk About Enlightenment.

http://selectiveanalysis.blogspot.com

The blog linked above is called 'Analyse This'. It's fantastic, I've never met a person so enlightened and so willing to accept the flaws and beauty that life brings. It's so positive, and there's such great writing hidden in each post.

The only thing that drives me crazy about it is the huge blocks of text. I like managable paragraphs, but then again, I'm slightly OCD.

Anyways, check it out, SA is a great writer, and this is a really good read.

EDIT: Okay, for some reason, the hyperlink is being a bitch. Just copy/past into your address bar, should get you where you need to go. :)

SaltPepper.

Salt and pepper shakers
upon the table.
Polar opposites,
but stuck together
as paper and glue.
Just like
you and I.

- - -

As I was writing this, I really wanted to go into detail, WAY more detail. I wanted to write to the end of the page, and then keep writing. I decided in the end it sounded good just like this, and as is almost always the case with good things: less is more and more just sucks some real cock. I hope my dad never reads that, cause he'll kill me. :)

I was really frustrated as well, because I couldn't decide on a good comparison, and I'm still not sure. The two lines "but stuck together, as paper and glue" had many variations before I hesitantly settled on those ones, some of which were:

"But two peices,
of the same puzzle."

and

"Perceived together,
like body and mind."

and

"But two slices,
of the same loaf."

Those were some of the better ones. Tell me what you think. Do you like the poem the way it is, or should I have use one of the previously mentioned lines? Maybe you can think of a better one?

Lips - A Haiku

Chapstick glazed on lips,
red and blooming like roses,
eager to kiss you.

- - -

Yay, another Haiku! I'm really liking this whole structure thing. Like I've said before, it's nice to say a lot with a little.

I'd love to let the poem speak for itself, but I'm going to give my thoughts on it anyways.:P

This is what happens when you don't see your boyfriend more than two days in a row. Is that bad of me? I like him so much it's painful to be apart? Maybe that's a bit of an exageration, it's not painful. But it sure as hell isn't grandly fun either. Maybe I just hate being without other people? Guess that makes me sort of needy. Wow, am I ever good at finding flaws or what? Anyways, enjoi for now, cause there's more coming!

Year One is the Stupidest Movie Ever.

Yeah, nuff said. There are so many better things that people could be doing. Like, say, spending time with their awesome boyfriend, who rocks their world. ;P Yeah.

- - -

Possible piece of prose coming soon!

Seasons - A Haiku.

The winter is still.
Spring blooms and the summer flows.
I fade into fall.

- - -

Look how tiny this is! That's cause it's a Haiku, and Haiku are just awesome like that. I dunno, I've never really written any poetry that has to follow rules, so this is pretty new to me. It feels restrictive, but ironically, quite freeing. I think there must be something empowering about saying so much with so little. As you can tell by this paragraph, that dosen't happen very often with me.

Hole in Jeans / Cryptics.

You've got a hole in your jeans,
an obnoxious hole
that drives me insane.
And I'll fly away,
as fast as my wings will carry me.
You've got a rip in your shirt,
a little rip
that I love.
Makes me want to
pull all the soft cotton away
from the soft carress underneath.

- - -

There's still so much.
You'll never know.
Cryptic past,
all muddled up
in my memories.
I don't remember the reason
behind all the things
that I've done.
Are you sure,
that those you know,
and see,
and love,
and need,
are truly there?

Checkered Linoleum.

A cold foot,
on checkered floors.
Deep white and black linoleum.
Step down to this level
because I keep slipping;
falling further
and farther.
Press my cheek
to checkered floors.
What is this,
pounding,
beating,
dark red,
checkered floors.

- - -

This one I really like, because I feel like it captures the idea of never being able to catch yourself, to be always falling and never in control. But I guess you could just look at it and be like; "It's a person falling and hitting their head on the floor." That's plausible too, if you suck. ;P

And on the line 'falling further and farther', that's deliberate. If you haven't read The Elements of Style by William Strunk, then do so. Your words will love you forever afterwards.

Way Too Deep.

Feels like
the ground
has dropped out
from beneath me,
and the roof
has risen
so far above.
I'm falling in,
way too deep.
In ocean water
with you.

- - -

Yeah, and there's way more where this came from; I've got a whole page to put up before work. I had a big spark of inspiration in Social today, and I decided I was going to ignore the banter going on around me and just do what I do, and that's write. I even started to catch up in Art, and since we're starting a new unit in English tommorrow, I'll have lots of thing to bring up my mark with.

Who the hell am I talking to?

Brain EXPLOSION.

Yeah, wow. I have this great idea generator thing that comes up with all of these brilliant ideas and tells me what it sees and helps me bounce them around until they become amazing flesh eating brain monsters, that just dig and dig and fucking dig until you write them down. This magical machine is called a...drumroll please. A MOM.
Yeah, my mother is freaking brilliant.

She is just always coming up with all of these spectacular ideas for stories and poetry, and it's a wonder to me why she ever stopped writing. I'd say that I'm pretty good at brainstorming. Seriously. All those storm clouds just spewing and sputtering lightning in my head; I'm always thinking. But my mom. Wow. That is all I have to say.

There are times when I bubble over. Long periods where I can't write and can't think and can't even generate the energy to think about thinking. She never stops, it's like a train on tracks without a break. When I'm stuck in a rut, she can shove me out and start me up again. When I can't figure out how a character is supposed to act or how a storyline should work, she can help me to push all the pieces of my puzzle together.

Do me a favor and go give your mom a hug. Because you know she's awesome and god I hope my mom never sees this, because I'll never hear the end of it.

Ticking Clocks.

I'm watching the minutes tick by.
Tick, tick, tick.
Have the gears halted,
stopped turning?
Can time really stop;
a car pausing for a gleaming red light?
Tick, tick, tick.
Should we stop?
Do we have time,
to love,
to lust,
to explore
the twists and turns
of body unknown?
Tick, tick, tick.
It's 10:45.
When is my curfew?
I don't care,
all that matters is heaven,
settled and comfortable
in arctic eyes and dark hair.
Tick, tick, tick.
Time is non-existant
when I'm with you.
Tick
Tick
Tock.

- - -

Wow, okay so I just found out that I'm failing two of three of my classes this semester, primarily because I spend too much time thinking and writing, but not enought doing I guess. I'm Screwed.

Basically, I have just barely a fifty in Art, because I never hand shit in. And I've got like a thirty nine in English because I never hand shit in. PLUS I never study. But on the plus side, I've got like an eighty two in social which is awesome.

Okay, I'm gonna have to put a lot more effort into this semester. I kind of have a reputation to defend here. I'm the artsy/ humanities kid. I should be rocking this like something inappropriate.

Anyways, a couple notes on Ticking Clocks. I love it. I have a pretty fair grasp of what I'm capable of when it comes to writing, but this exceeded my expectations entirely, especially considering I wrote it in english while I was severely bored. I have to promise myself to keep writing, because in the last two months, I've seen some pretty major improvements.

Saying Stuff, like.... Uh.

You ever get that feeling that you have nothing to say? No voice, no opinion, no retort to that backhanded comment. Well, that's not me.

I've never really been at a loss for words. Ever. I don't think there has ever been a moment in my life that I haven't had something to say, or some opinion to give. Is that a bad thing? Maybe. I hope not.

Why am I writing when I have nothing to write about? Does a seventeen (almost)year old really have anything to say? Or are teenagers so caught up in all their glorious narcissism that we always have things to say, but nothing substantial or important to someone else.

Face it, kiddies. You blow half your brains out when you blow out the candles on your thirteenth birthday, and you don't get them back until you're at least thirty.

I guess this is sort of a waste of a post, because ironically, I have nothing to say.

Flitters of Passion.

Moans of passion.
I'm falling into sheets,
a facade of 'together forever'.
Butterflies flitter from my mouth
as violet blossoms
upon your honeydew skin.
Need to say what I know,
they're only words,
but my heart is real.

- - -

Second poem of the day. I'm just on a roll this week! Want to see if I can break my record of ten posts in seven days? I'll bet a cookie I can do it at this rate.

I quite enjoy the fact that as I was writing this it somehow turned into a poem about hickeys. I swear that was not my intention at all. You know what they say, some of the best writing is an accident. Or maybe only I say that, and maybe it only applies to me. :)

Spluttering and Crashing.

Spluttering angel wings;
they sprout from my back.
Spindle fingers,
like the silk webs of pale spiders.
I reach to touch
the velvet sky.
I can't grasp it all.
Will I ever fly?

- - -

GASP, there's some rhyming in there! I dunno about this one. I like it, but it feels kinda choppy.