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

Thursday, September 30, 2010

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.

Monday, September 27, 2010


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

I forget to
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.

Friday, September 24, 2010


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.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

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.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Hope or Dread.

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

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

- - -

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.


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.


Tuesday through Thursday
are long gone
and coming up again.

Friday, September 17, 2010

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.


Biting tang of
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.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010


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.

Monday, September 13, 2010

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

Wednesday, September 8, 2010


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
breath in humidity.
And fall in love
with precipitation.


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

Monday, September 6, 2010

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,
into my dark

- - -

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. :)

Sunday, September 5, 2010

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,
unreasonable reason,
we just keep coming together,
like a pair
of mismatched socks.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

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!