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.