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?