Basketball.

Every fiber,
bone,
and tendon
pull
relax
spring again.
Sweat beads,
ball leaps
through the hoop.
2 pointer.

Finally!

So today I received a letter in the mail. It was labeled from Grant MacEwan university--all blue and white. It was a letter of acceptance: I got in! YES.

I'll be going there for a Bachelor in Professional Communications. It's essentially a writing program--it sets you up to work in a lot of different places. My hope is that I'll still get to do what I love (put words on paper!), while still being versatile and able to works tons of different positions.

The only thing left to do really is figure out how I'm going to pay for all this. A Student Loan is really not an option, because my parents are seperated and re-married. : \ That leaves scholarships and money out of my own pocket: It's the only thing standing between me and going to school there.

Well for now, just knowing that I have that conditional acceptance enough. I'm really excited and very happy I got it.

Wayward Sailor.

Looking south
like a wayward sailor
in search
of warmer winds.
No verdant land
on the horizon
yet.
The cold here
burns my face
and leaves me
in ragged company.

- - -

I finished reading a book today that was called 'Better than Running at Night.' It was about a girl named Ellie who is studying abroad at a school called NECCAD. It's an arts school, and it's basically just about her day to day life and her love of art. It's about how, despite distractions, she works so hard to become a better and more subtle artist. How she rediscovers herself and her talents.

The writing in the book was simple, and it was a fast read, but I really enjoyed it for a number of reasons. The first was that it was the first book I've actually finished in quite a long while. When I was in junior high, I could tear through a book in a matter of hours. I could read multiple stories and keep them straight. This ravenous reading is really where my love of words stems from I think, but as I entered high school, my reading pace gradually slowed and at one point stopped altogether.

I don't know why that was.

I think I could partially blame it on being more concerned with my own writing. I think I could probably partially blame it on being involved with boys. I could partially blame it on my terrible grade ten and eleven English AP teacher Mrs.Andriuk, who nearly made me stop writing.

I can thank Mr.Shamchuck, my english teacher this year, for re-igniting that love of words in me. And also for encouraging some of my best writing. I can also thank thee boy, who read three books in the time it took me to read one, and who helped spur that need of reading again.

Anyways, my thought of the day is this: Can you be a writer without being a reader?

Book.

The last page
of an old book.
I feel nostalgia
baking in my bones.
First book
I've read
in a long time.

Slipped.

Grim clouds
choke out
a pale sun.
My feet
slip on ice--
I clatter
to the ground.
It's cold down here
but
not cold enough
to get back up.

Elliot Smith.

Acoustic guitar
trickles down.
Lackluster,
half whispered
vocals.
Something else
is hiding in the mesh,
between the lines
of an Elliot Smith
song.

- - -

Three new poems tonight. This one is the best of the three I think, but I put so much emotion into each one that despite their choppiness, they had to be posted. Some things just cannot sit and go stale with dust in a notebook.

Cheater.

It was
nothing--
Not
a big deal.
But the plot's
been changed.
The No-Big-Deal
has her
burning me
with flaming
olive eyes,
and giving me
the cold shoulder
while frost
creeps up her back.

Wants.

I want
to wake up
to your sleepy eyes
and cutsie bed head.
I want
to watch
our fingers, bodies, and smiles
get tangled together.
I want
to wish
for old age
to scoop us up.

I guess
we'll have to
wait and see.

Computer Screen.

Computer screen
creates pale
luminescent rays
and they are cast
along the
smooth contours
and sleepy hollows
built upon
my face.

It burns a bit,
and yet
I can't
tear my eyes
away.

- - -

The Internet is addictive. : /

Long Dial Tone.

I'll call you
everyday
till you answer
the phone
and I hear
that pearly smile
say my name.
But I hear
an endless dial tone
and I can't help
but think
maybe you've
moved on.

You always said
we could still be
friends.