"The desert bears only a scathing sun, and nothing more."
"What about mirages?"

Sunday, March 28, 2010

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!

Monday, March 22, 2010

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,
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?

Sunday, March 21, 2010


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.

Friday, March 19, 2010

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.

- - -

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.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

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.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

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.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

In March You Haunt Me.

In the chill march air,
I'm haunted by dreams of you.
I see your face
behind every tree,
and beneath every stone.
Even though
the stagnant winter air
has warmed
and faded,
your imprint still chills my bones.

- - -

I think I discovered a neat trick to writing poetry. Listen to awesome heavy metal, and say the whole thing out loud.:)

I really like this one, though writing it made me want to cry. I guess I was just thinking about things that have happened in my life. Not really recent things that I try to force down, and like a jack in the box, they keep springing up. This piece is really about one individual that still remains apart of my life, and try as I might, I cannot deny the impact that this person has had on me.

Many are really quite negative, some are positive. Some I just don't understand. But whatever. Do you know someone like this?

And just a few comments on The Moon Thief. I loved the way it turned out, from the starting sentance to the closing one. Once again, I was listening to the band Cynic when I wrote it, and I dunno, I guess Metal just makes me think. I need to put more on my Ipod. I think I might add more as time goes on, but first I have to work out a few kinks in the storyline.

And BTW, new boyfriends rock. ;P

Thursday, March 11, 2010

The Moon Thief.

I watched the darkening of the moon, a beacon of light that cut through the hallowed night. The shadows were suffocating, pushing in around me and stealing away all of the precious air. I became concious of my breath, the inhale and exhale of my heart and lungs becoming ever more frantic. I watched in the fading lunar light my breath rise above me like plumes of smoke. My fingertips had no feeling; My ears were ringing with the deathly silence.

With my elevated level of paranoia, I saw dark figures flickering and dancing around me, like imaginary ballerinas and their partners.

Something lurking in the deep night was waiting for me. It was waiting for the moon and I, and we both trembled with the pressing blackness. I remembered my father once told me that light could not exist without darkness, and I wondered, was there such a thing as darkness without light? My father would have doubted it at the time. But if he were here now, in this very moment, I think even he would question such imediate defiance.

Now only a sliver of the moon remained, a slice of pie left uneaten. I wondered vaguely if the moon knew it was disappearing forever. If it knew that this was unlike any other eclipse it had known.

I wonder if the moon knew it was being stolen.

I thought it ironic, that the weather would turn sour at this moment, and heavy pellets of rain would pound down upon my shoulders and back. In seconds my shirt was drenched. I could hear the chorus of a thousand little voices of water. They screamed and sang and cried as they collided with the intangible forest around me. It felt as though the moon was crying, shedding tears of great sorrow. It was like it was a last attempt to drown me in guilt.

But this wasn't my doing. I was only the catalyst in this unprecedented crime.

I was not the moon thief.

Sunday, March 7, 2010


Pale ivory,
like melting skin beneath my touch.
Pale blue,
like river water.
Can you be so
ceaselessly white?
Like broken porcelain.

- - -

This is quite short, I know. But I like it. SO THERE.

It's very late, I haven't studied at all for my social exam, and I'm writing poetry and texting my new (YAY) boyfriend. Where have my priorities gone? To my words and to my love, I suppose the right answer would be. I'm not sure if that's a good thing, or if I should be ashamed.

But why be ashamed, because I've put my need to be a raging, fluttering, dancing social butterfly ahead of my schooling, again? Or because it's been not even a week and I'm already in so deep. But I can't help it, I'm so in need of someone to share everything with and so in need of pizza (ahem)it's a little bit crazy.

Anyways, better at least take a crack at that studying. At least I have a spare in the morning, so I can also do some then.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Neon Colors.

His blue eyes
are like the moon
dropped in Arctic water.

Haven I fallen in,
lost myself in modesty,
that may or may not
be there?

I thought the pages ahead
were blank,
bleached white,
like dry humour.

You've made me smile.
Thought I'd forgotten
how to show
tha genuine crinkle.

And now the days,
they've filled with neon.

Color before my eyes.

- - -

...Do I have a muse? It could be so.

But I'm proud of this peice. I think I'm starting to become more aware of the rythmn in the text, and I like this one much more than any of my others thus far. That's going to be my goal when writing poetry: to find the rythmn and focus in on that. I guess that means I better start reading more poetry. :)

So I know that this update is long and far past it due date, but I promise I'll try to be more regular. Real life has certainly got the better of me.