(I hope you know to click to enlarge...)

It's beginning to look a lot like...

The poor leaves must be beyond freezing cold. Utah, Utah, Utah. Always inflicting weather so quickly...

Interested Insults in Disguise

If sticks could branch o’er fears and demons great,

I’d ne’er find myself hope for more than these.

A tree sits not for years to only wait;

No, his buds do wave at dead falling leaves.

His pulse beats wild like flustered rabbits’ darts

But never sings more than a bee’s soft hum.

His wiry wooden fingers stab at hearts

But never fails too, bidding my beat come.

Dirt doesn’t come em’rald-eyed to stare up,

But often’s dragooned by jealous stares down,

And humbly hides until dug down enough.

The sky and ground are always wear’ng his crown.

So sky and dirt wish not to be bear’ng it,

His leaves be my gold, wreathed, on my crown set.

_____For English class we were apparently supposed to write a sonnet, and this is what I've been able to come up with in an hour. Yeah, I know, the meter is off, but I sorta gave up on searching for synonyms. The thesaurus is only a friend for so long.

_____I hope it's not supposed to be about love... because it's more like I'm in hopes of taking over a tree. How odd it is too... but sleep calls greater than whistles through wood.

(Later side-note: apparently I didn't do too horribly on this, because my English teacher thought that I had plagiarized it, so Googled the title and returned it to me failed with this blog page attached... rather amusing.) : )

What a Life!

_____In the early morning, I’d heard a hundred milk bottles shatter. The newspaper boy didn’t really have great aim.
_____“Stupid cat,” he grumbled, another cat hissing after him and his abysmal aim. If he was a soldier, he would have hit the entire ocean trying to hit Asia.
_____Finally I slumped down on the doorstep of a joint trailer house. Another tabby cat hissed after the boy on the bike crunching his way down the driveway. If I could have flicked my rubber bands after him, he’d be a dead man. Being a newspaper sucks though – we have no opposable thumbs.
_____I must have closed my ruffled paper for a bit, because when I woke up I was laying flat on a cool glass coffee table with a ceiling fan above me. Ahh, this was the life.
_____"I love you," was whispered across the room. Or was it? I couldn’t see; maybe it was just another cat rubbing against things and making weird noises. “I love you too?” I said quietly.
_____A little girl picked me up and stared at my belly. I could see the other side of the room now. People gathered around something with their heads down and their hands out. “No! No!” A woman with curly hair cried out and covered her mouth with one hand. All of the people around her started crying for some reason. It felt like ages until I was set down again, and people came in to take away what everyone was crowded around. The little girl tried not to stare at the man who was being covered up and wasn’t moving.
_____Whoa. Maybe this wasn’t the life.

It's Only for a Day

_____It wasn’t really that bad. Dying, that is. I’d known I was going to die anyway, so it wasn’t even surprising to me. The doctors told me that I only had so long to live. I’d expected that it would be shocking.

_____It was simple, really. Stop feeling, stop seeing, stop hearing, stop thinking even. If a soul thought their way through this, they would probably go insane. What happens when the soul itself is insane?

_____Sucked into a pool of ice water, with the instant realization that I was going to drown, I was peaceful still. The water only disappeared once I ran out of breath, and by that time, it was as if we’d gone through every season in a blur, until the old me was laying still in the winter time, and the new me was standing as a stream of warm sunlight itself.

_____Everyone was sobbing. Why were they so sad? It seemed like this should be a happy place. Mary was rubbing her wedding ring with one hand, and holding the old me with her other. “No! No!” Maybe she could feel me touching her, maybe she couldn’t. I just hoped she’d let go soon. I kissed her forehead and touched my son’s hand that was holding his wife’s.

_____I turned to go to the door of our house – it wouldn’t be for long; Mary had so many more people to touch that she’d be gone from here soon enough – but stopped when I saw her. She sat on the couch, wide-eyed and staring at the Sunday funnies. Then her eyes flicked up to me for an instant, before she went back to staring at the paper. When she looked up at me again, I waved at her, and if it was even possible, her eyes got wider, and she gripped the paper tightly. I laughed as I let myself out.

_____Grandchildren have that effect on dead people.

I'd rather say it all and fix the mess later,
Than hold my guts in and let the mess build up inside.

Is it ever remotely possible to end your life? Even if it has been so-called ended, it never would truly end until the last person forgets you, and then you're just left to the dirt. But then you're part of the dirt. Of the plants. Of the animals. Maybe someday you find a little bit of yourself becoming a little bit of someone else. And then you're still there, a million thoughts of your own in a million thoughts of someone else, whether you know it or not.

My soul, my eyes, my mirror, my camera

Some people say you can see someone's soul through their eyes.
Some people say that souls are kept inside mirrors; that's why it's bad luck to break them.
I've only ever seen my own soul through the reflection of my eyes in a mirror.
Some people refuse to have pictures taken of them because they believe their soul can be stolen that way.
If I take a picture of my eyes in a mirror, am I stealing my own soul? Or does it just make me have a two-fold soul?

Communicating With Batted Lashes

_____She gripped the newspaper page with straight fingers, as if it was supposed to be natural. Her pinkies locked, but she didn’t notice. She was trying to forget things beside this as they happened. Her eyes scanned the page, up, down, side to side, still trying to look natural. Natural was a lie, she knew it, but didn’t know that it showed. It’s hard for a nine year old to control their body language sometimes. Her fingers ached. Her eyes ached.

_____“No! No!” She could hear them sobbing and their voices crack as they tried to compose themselves. She didn’t need to try to compose herself. She’d been lying that she was composed this whole time, wasn’t she?

_____“You win.” Garfield said to Jon. She went back to the beginning of the comic line. What did Jon win?

_____She focused her eyes even more intently on every line across Garfield’s back, but focus didn’t help a thing when her mind could only imagine the entire newspaper being blank and made of clear plastic wrap. All it does is make what’s happening on the other side a little bit fuzzier for your mind. She could see them touching him; she could see them holding each others’ hands with tears in their eyes and red faces.

_____“You win.” Garfield said to Jon. She went back to the beginning of the comic line. What was it that Jon won?

_____She could see him. His head was tilted to the side, and he was shaking. He looked like he was choking. Mostly she could only see his wife, sitting at his side and laying her hand on his. She could almost see her silent praying as she stifled her cries.

_____But the girl could see him still. Above himself, his hand on his wife’s shoulder, smiling. He turned to walk out of the house, and looked at them. She was still staring at Garfield. She tried to ignore even him too. Why today? Why now? Stop, stop. What did Jon win?

_____He walked down the steps, to the left, and down the jagged sidewalk stones. He didn’t turn around to wave until he was out from under the tree, finally making noise as he crunched down the red gravel driveway.

_____"You win." What was it that Jon had won? She stroked the page with her thumbs until the ink was fading.

_____They were making telephone calls now. They still were sobbing. Their voices cracked still. The doorbell rang; they hugged people. They called more people. They got more phone calls.

_____She set the comic down with all of the normalcy that she could muster.

_____“I need to go to the bathroom,” she said to no one in particular. She snuck one glance at him as she passed on her way to the hall, and wished she hadn’t.

_____“I was there,” She said to her cousin. Her hands had less of a death grip on the dwindling ropes of the swing than they had on the newspaper that morning.

_____“I know, Mom and Dad told me,” Her cousin pushed her again. “I’m gonna miss him.”

_____“Yeah,” she kicked her legs forward. “Me too.”

Reflective Glass

There's every single person coming in and out of the picture frame, talking and laughing and singing and crying and whispering and yelling. And then there's you. And you just stay in that wooden picture frame, and smile and talk as quiet as a whisper.

Communicating With Batted Lashes

It was an everything room in a nothing second. Sun filtered through curtains as they would every other day, because it was just another day, after all. Why didn’t the sun cave in on itself, and why didn’t the sky crush them all?

All of the noises sounded like they were behind a wall, even though they were only behind a coffee table and a stack of Sunday newspapers.

No matter what anyone thought, it was just another day; a robbery of Time that no one outside of the orange walls and the phone line would care to know. Time stood on the doorstep with his pockets turned out before he shrugged and waved, walking away. The phone was constantly ringing. Two rings only, no more. The air was suffocating with medication and hot tears condensing on the glass figurines in the cabinets.

One child was sitting between the couch cushions, and hiding behind the paper reading Garfield. Had ever someone’s eyes been so intensely studying the Sunday comics? Every furrow and every crease in ink lines were so interesting now, instead of the turning fan that offered to drown it out, but stayed silent.

Eight were in the room, two of them the same person in two places. Five of them did not notice the moment.

And then the moment was over, and the child was swallowed into the couch to hide from an imploding sun and a crushing sky. It was so much easier to hide than to meet with others’ nonchalance on the swings later.

No Breathing and Phone Calls

_____There was a horrible nonchalance in everyone after that day. Pretending, just like everything else. Time had ended, standing still on the edge of the blinding lake with its hands clasped behind its back, pockets turned out. Dead fish jumped out of the water and couldn’t open their mouths enough to eat the flies that blackened the air.

_____The swing teetered back and forth of its own accord, as did everything these days. She only sat upon it and watched the flies tease the poor swimming skeletons. A stone sat seven minutes old, dim against the wretched lake. The lake made the air taste salty with its tears. Salt and the Sunday funnies wouldn’t remind her as they sit on the kitchen table. The stone wouldn’t make her think to cry for seven hours, then seven years. She pretended like the fish.

Sane Mistress

There's too many hours in the day when the she's gone away.
I'm stuck alone in my head.
What a horrible prison.

Pebble

The heavy well cover was blocking more and more light before she shouted, "I lied!"
The angel stopped and spoke in a near-whisper, "And now you can lie forever."

Now in 3-D

Red and blue was blurry. He stumbled over the tables as they wavered in his vision.
Another bottle smacked into the side of his head. She stood on the glass with her bare feet. "Life's all a ride, right?" She picked up a green bottle the size of her forearm and stroked dust off the label. "All in the name of fun, right?"

Doodle and Noodle Around the Clock

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, I got out a blank notebook from the basement. I tried to come up with inspiration for NaNoWriMo, but have decided I'll stick to the short and quick thoughts I post, until I get a really good idea for a novel that I can go off of without forcing myself, and by that time, who knows? Maybe it'll be NaNoWriMo again. But, alas, I just ended up with a notebook page full of random quotes from songs and random ideas with the occasional doodle. And I have stuck with it! It's a fantastic way of getting through a boring school day, and now that I have careers class, I'll find myself in need of something to survive boring more and more. If all goes as I suspect, I'll have this notebook filled by the end of the school year.

You'll be seeing many more of these.

Everything that I heard someone say or is a quote from a person or song is in quotation marks. Some drawings are of pictures on Tumblr, becuz I loveth Tumblr, some are just mine. The rest is mine! Enjoy the utter random thoughts I have...

And, also, I may repeat some of these thoughts in their own post, because I liked them so. Yea!

/Oddly sarcastic post.

Because

Never one for smelling flowers.
Never one for walking slow.
Never one for over-thinking words.
Never one for sleepless nights.
Never one for blushing red.
Never one for random smiles.
But...
Never one who doesn't change, either.

As fall the leaves, the rain, the snow, and all that comes from the sky, so leaps my heart to my throat and a height to my step, until I might well be the next to fall from the sky that I've reached.

The first moments of snow are magic. Where when you look down it looks like rain, and when you look up, it's like the clouds are falling into the trees...

Better to Be Neat (draft 1)

_____The door closed with a soft clack of the latch taking its place. The wood echoed my father’s “Goodnight” until it sounded like “Goodbye” fading with the footsteps down the hall. Even the footsteps are garbled by the thick tan carpet digesting the noise.
_____I close my eyes tight against the cold. It always gets colder when the door is closed. The tiny bed was surrounded by cold. The soft covers felt rough and frozen in the cold. I know it’s not that cold.
_____“Nothing to be afraid of, it’s just dark, and nothing changes in the dark that isn’t changing in the daytime,” Mommy and Daddy would say before they put me to bed. I had to believe them. I have to try to believe them. My eyes shut tight.
_____Shelves neatly line the walls, holding smiles of porcelain figures, and grinning tiny plastic animals. They smile down to my bed. They can see me better than I can see them, with the light from the lamppost across the neighbor’s yard making a spotlight between the cold pink curtains to my feet at the bottom of the mattress. The whole room looks pink. The tiny bit of light reflects the wallpaper color onto the ceiling and onto the floor.
_____A car drives past, and for a second, I think it’s okay. The headlights turn the room normal colored, and nothing moves. The dolls stay smiling, and the animals stay quiet. But in the red light of the brake lights before the car turns at the stop sign, the mobile in the corner moves. It circles around slowly, and the tiny sea shells on it clack against each other, ticking like a clock. Just the wind. The wind can move things. I remind myself. There’s only silence besides the clicking of the mobile clock.
_____Too many things happen at once. The nightlight turns on with a flicker, projecting stars onto the wall. I close my eyes tighter. The cat scratches at the door to get in, but I can’t move. I can feel their eyes moving, blue and green, even if I can’t see them. Down off of the light wooden shelves, dropping one by one onto the covers next to me. I sneak a peek from under the covers. Teddy shakes himself, fluff falling from his ears like snow. His dark eyes like the night, glinting. Snake and Tiger inch towards me. I close my eyes tight again.
_____The dark is colder than ever. The ticking of the mobile like a clock continues, and my tiny zoo of animals practically roars. I’m sweating in the cold pink light. Why can’t they hear it? It’s so loud! The white toy box lid creaks open. Barbie and Ken giggle with each other. The whole room is giggling, laughing at me as I sweat on my bed.
_____Baby Secret touches my foot. “I like to whisper in the dark.”
_____It’s too much! I scream, silent against the darkness at first until I can breathe enough to make a sound.
_____The door opens and light turns on. “It’s okay, darling,” Mom’s hands block out the light.
_____Dad puts the dolls back on the shelves and closes the toy box. “It’s time for bed, pumpkin. You can play tomorrow.” He tucks the pink covers around me. A kiss on the forehead from both of them, and the door closes again.
_____It’s dark, and suddenly cold, once more. Snake slithers up softly, sliding herself across my mouth. “Sssleep. It’sss our turn to play now.”
_____I shut my eyes tight against the pink room. “Nothing to be afraid of, it’s just dark, and nothing changes in the dark that isn’t changing in the daytime,” Mommy and Daddy would say before they put me to bed. Just the wind. The wind can move things.

Google to the end of the world

Mr. Jessop has assigned us a short story on setting. At the beginning of the year, I was sure that I'd be glad to end the poetry quarter and to get right into stories. Now I'm not so sure; I can find a few words and come up with a half decent poem and be fine. Short stories are harder, because at some level it makes me feel like it's all confined. And, in a way, it is. I only have a page to do it. What story can I write in a page?? I thought. So, Googling, Googling away about short stories, I found Flash Fiction, and I think I may be able to do this now. One story, few characters, one place. Now, just how to write a short story with emphasis on setting...

Sometimes I wish for rain,
because when it rains, it's only water people see;
the red in my eyes is just from a tearing wind,
and the thunder cracks just at the same time as my voice.

Agoraphobia

Stars fall like static,
winking in the crinkled crescent eye.
“Where are you going?”
whisper washed white trunks
to the boy with swift feet.
Branches play a creaking song
to a tune of crickets playing footsie.
“What are you doing?”
question golden groups of orbs
to the boy with swift feet.
Grey clouds swirl infinitely,
dancing with the trunks of green fir.
“Why are you running?”
inquire rocking rolls of wind
to the boy with swift feet.
Another turn,
another crack,
another whip,
on a winding pathway
that doesn’t exist.
He sees it!
A mirror,
the mirror he searched for;
the escape from the open.
As splashed the feet,
as thrashed the hands,
as ashen the face went -
silence.

Shakespearean Jack and Jill

(Also from ninth grade... hahahaaaaaaa!)

He who hast carried the title Jack, and she Jill,
Why doest thee perambulate up vegetated land
heavenwards for the steep-sided cup of liquid to drink?
Alas, collapsed Jack
Upon his fragile pate
And Jill, o’er heel and toe,
Trundled down behind.

The Supernaturalist

A Crown of Sonnets (from ninth grade, teehee)

A Wreath of Pain

Constantly saved and constantly saving
Orphaned, parentally challenged, no sponsor
Sudden vision of that which isn’t supposed to exist
Moscowtown on Cosmonaut Hill, a baby swaddled in trash
Offered a new family after the one he never had.

Failing every day
To be what I was once said to be.
“The future of our world”,
Lying on my shoulders.
Breaking the connection
And immediate correction
By working gloved hands
To save what is too great to save alone.

To emancipate the victims
From the evils of this world
A goal that we all can live with.
Fight off the unseen,
To protect the unprotected.
Civilians.
Friends.
Myself.
No family to hold me back.
No family to hold me back.
It’s a duty to use this knowledge I’m given.

As life drags on,
We are the helpless innocents
Created for the gain of others.
Useless and feeling,
We are the rats running laps.
We’re lucky, to be where we are.
We’re lucky, to be needed somewhere.
We’re lucky, to be able to fight back.

A super city of twenty-five million souls,
Each with a story more heartbreaking than the last.
On their backs. Looking up.
Its features were delicate and impassive.
Weightless. Watching him with large, expressionless eyes.
Sparks rolled in its veins instead of blood.
The agony dipped, faded, and was gone.
His heart. Beating again. And again.
“Please.”
“Take me.”

Constantly saved and constantly saving
Failing every day
To emancipate the victims
As life drags on
A super city of twenty-five million souls.

Leather Boots

The desert is only shortly confined;
muddy paper can only hold for so long.
The winds that bear
carry off to great distances.
Subjects fall
and red mountains rise.
Greatly skilled rough hands form it
and rough hands of nature will destroy it.
Circles always end up where they began;
the desert will always unite
with the drying sand it was once more.

The editor has the exact mechanism.
A pocket-watch altered the music.
The type indicated the sliding tempo.
The initials preceded a note.
A clockwork mechanism,
sliding left, up and down.
A pyramid-shaped pendulum
performed the rate and pace.
A number to indicate the set.
In music, the earlier music
has developed it to later music
and into an electric box.

(Translation poem)

So Cold - first draft of a short horror story for creative writing

Craaaaaa-ch-ch-ch-ch. Craaaaaa-ch-ch-ch-ch. It was late at night, and the birds were still calling. The path from the river twisted and wound back to camp, bright compared to the rest of the brush.

“Daddy, why’s it so cold?” Andrea asked as she tugged at her pigtails.

“Because when the sun goes down, the world gets sad,” I took her hand again and blew out the lantern. We knew our way to the tent well enough out here to make it in the dark.

“D-daddy,” Andrea tripped over a root that looked like a hand in the soft moonlight, “Why don’t the black ones sleep?”

“I’m not sure, honey,” I pulled my hand up and steadied her. I could see a soft red light in the tent, so inviting out of the cold. Andrea was right; it was getting very cold, very fast. “Maybe they’re sad that the sun is gone too.”

“Daddy, I love you,” Andrea smiled up at me as I pulled the sleeping bag tight around her shoulders.

“I love you too, honey.”

Craaaaaa-ch-ch-ch-ch.

“Why’s it so cold when the black ones don’t sleep? Why’s it so warm in the water so deep? Why does the river sing scratches when I sleep? Why’s it so warm in the water so deep?”

“Daddy?” I jolted awake. What a horrible… I dreamt…

“Daaaddy?” Silence. I waited to hear it again. That singsong voice, I knew it…

“Daddy, do you think I can swim like the big black ones?” I slid out of the thick sleeping bag.

“No, honey, it’s too late to go swimming,” My voice dropped like a rock into still water. Even the wind was silent.

“Daddy?” Andrea’s sleeping bag was empty. Andrea? Where are – “Daddy, why’s it so cold?”

“It’s not cold, Andrea,” I zipped the tent up after me. It wasn’t cold at all. The heat felt like it was suffocating. Each breath I released was harder to take back than the last. “Where are you?”

Her high pitched laugh glided through the air, even though the air was as heavy as bricks.

I could hear nothing except for the river now. I stumbled and fumbled through the branches. I could feel blood dripping down my arms where the brambles cut too deep, but I couldn’t feel any pain. “Andrea? Where are you?”

“Why’s it so cold when the black one’s don’t sleep?” On the shoreline, a tiny figure stood holding a stick out over the water.

“Why’s it so warm in the water so deep?” She took a step into the water. I rushed towards her, but she was just as far away as ever.

“Why does the river sing scratches when I sleep?” She was in to her waist. The water was flashing black with the body of something that was swirling inside.

“Why’s it so warm in the water so deep?” Andrea waved. I stopped running and waved back. Her head bobbed on the surface before it disappeared.

Craaaaaa-ch-ch-ch-ch. The wind whistled. My heartbeat pounded through my hands into my ears. I thought I could hear tears going down my nose.

“Daddy?” Someone with a tiny hand put it on my back. I jumped.

“Andrea?” I smiled at her and wiped away my tears. She reached out her hand.

“Daddy, I’m tired.” The path from the river twisted and wound in the dark.

“Daddy, why’s it so cold?” Andrea tugged at her pigtails.

“Because when the sun goes down, the world gets sad,” I knew the way back to the tent well enough in the dark. I took her hand again before blowing out the lantern.

“Daddy, why don’t the black ones sleep?”

Second (not totally, only half) Failed Attempt at a Villanelle

Alternate title: Of Forks and Playthings orsomethinglikethat.

The words all spilled backwards across her face,
Good morning, goodnight, farewell, and hello,
And let her sleep at peace in leather walls with her age.

I never know what to put for a date.
Is it ever appropriate for when I read tomorrow?
The words all spilled backwards across her face.

Dear Lovely, I only dance like a kite, to sway.
Sat on a shelf to look like everything and not show
And let her sleep at peace in leather walls with her age.

I feel the sun starting to fade
Why not times like this for the rooster song to follow?
The words all spilled backwards across her face.

Dear Lovely, he'll notice my voice someday.
Sit a pen at mid-morning on paper of snow,
And let her sleep at peace in leather walls with her age.

Whenever it is I leave this place,
I hope my tired existence you will still know.
The words all spilled backwards across her face
And let her sleep at peace in leather walls with her numbered age.


Praying that I can edit this drastically by the time the "final" draft is due. And that he won't make us write any more villanelles.

Yiruma, River Flows In You

Boyce Avenue, Find Me

Is there ever really a thing to say to make everyone happy?

Even on a happy night, sometimes the only thing to feel like doing is listening to sad music and crying to sleep.

Tonight I feel lonely, because I can't see the stars. The clouds are not in the sky; they just are hiding it. They are the child who cries to be noticed.

The clouds tonight were pretty cool! With how grainy they all looked, playing around with the light and contrast made it all look pretty galactic.

(Especially if you look at them bigger.)

When I grow old, all I want is wrinkles around my eyes that will say I smiled more than I did anything else.

Adventitious? Perhaps

I've always wondered when Orion comes out. I've never felt like wanting to look it up; I'd rather be the one looking up to search for his belt, and I'd put the date on a paper and look back on it in half a year and remember again.
I tried to look for Orion tonight. Once it becomes closer to winter, I know that I'll see him soon. If only he could be seen though, one night in the weekend, but the world is always there, and Orion has to hide, if he is there. Shining porch lights, street lights, or headlights and signals on airplanes. So that there's my shadow walking up McGinnis in front of me. It seems like the only shadow that should really be around is over the faces of the moon, but maybe even those faces are lost in the glare off of windows.
People seem to be so afraid of the darkness. And maybe the fear is good. When we're fearful, that's when all the people who are afraid come together to say "I'm afraid". Who'd have ever thought that a fear would make me happy? To have people confront their fear of the darkness would make me happy. The fear of the darkness is maybe just to humble us. To have them turn off their porch lights and look to Orion and Cassiopeia and feel small. If we weren't supposed to be in darkness for hours each night, why are we?
In a whole night, I only saw one amount of light on Earth that made me feel happy. Colored lights strung over chairs, while people watched a strummed guitar and listened to the man singing. I didn't want to walk by. I'd rather just sit on the edge of their lawn and be invisible. I'd rather just be able to watch the people laugh. Because sometimes, happiness like that is contagious, just like yawns and hiccups.
I walked by though, because invisibility is harder around strangers than around people you've known for years. I saw the big dipper, but I still didn't see Orion. I'll be happy when I can see Orion from the street. : )

Do you know

how much you make me smile?

Friends
Music
Laughter

Please, don't give up yet. The moment that you give up is the moment that I have no choice but to follow you that way.

Scissors

In a soft love’s sandpaper hand,
walk moving patiently, spider.
Over tender steadfast pulses,
push on- the task of sleepless feet
to the human shores
of a ripening red swell.
Eightfold (be watching, spider)
for what are now your Earth’s red waters,
those that bring you ever gazing
up to the night’s splendor
dancing upon her nature’s
pale mask of unchangeable snow.
Be still; be gentle, spider,
of the bright star
rounded on her pillowed cheek;
a lone bygone song
for you fallen from her fair lips.
I see your adoration for her,
and it will live on
with every one of her breaths
in my memory of the longlegs;
the breath that would take you,
swooning and poised
on her exhalation,
to your death.

Stalkerisms

No wonder it takes me forever to read books at school. It's probably the fact that I forget the book in a basket of laundry at home and am only left with a lined notebook and this to do.
Anywho. At least I'm getting good at people sitting in desks...

Everyone tells how much you smile towards me, but does anyone realize that I do the same thing about you, too?

Undone Marigold

Do you know companions?
A father, my father,
had summoned within me
a raised child's curiosity
out of dying and surviving.
Earth was master of us,
save for the terror
of the end of summer.
Speak not of the day
running with failing lights!
I know the catching
of the stars peeking at twilight
close to the opposite horizon.
Enough of the dirt sunk
under Father's raw bare feet
that I could perceive the air
like a flower down my spine
and hear the crack of expanded ribs.
Now I spin around, thinking
to call to my father
from where I can see the summer ants,
because unless he can see
how they will go on not knowing time,
I'll laugh in the dying summer
by myself.

The dying world, the death, the birthing world, the birthed.

I can never wait for the seasons to change. Now summer transitioning into autumn, and I don’t think that October could come quickly enough. Then as the leaves are all in the streets crunching beneath the passerby’s feet, I’ll be sitting on the curb and looking at the sky willing it to snow. Once January comes, I’ll wait to see the flowers poking up out of the soil moist from the slushy melt. When May comes, I’ll wait for the warm rain that will fill the gutters to the brim, and my shoes. And then by August I’ll be back where I am now, waiting for the wind to knock the branches bare.

"You never have a final draft."

The train came and left four minutes and thirty-seven seconds ago...

How do I know that you'll ever show up? They all say, "forget him, isn't it sad?" And yes, it is. Worse even the silence. To think that you've never been there, and that those footprints painted on the ground are for a ghost.
Four minutes and fifty-eight.

Blind Palms and Paralyzed Eyes

I am Brahm's Lullaby,
sung each night with made-up verses
and a prayer for safety and happiness.
I will be the card of faces,
which upon the palm of seven names
is my future of determination.
I want to be the wind
through a thick-trunked oak.
The force only ends at the end of rain forever.
I used to be a cardboard box,
the likes of which are anything
within the first hour on my side.
I let go of the number twelve,
forced to by the nods
of those who have already lost their wonder
I've forgotten the cars passing
by the circle of black pavement;
cold metal with warm faces.
I remember the ceramic bowl,
the blue stripe
where the milk level once was.

Draft two, creative writing assignment number one. Creative writing is a hard class. o.o

It annoys it terribly. : )

When the world glares at you, just smile.

Little pieces of paper can fake to be concrete

Some people can let "life" get in the way of life.

Then someday it all comes rushing out through your eyes, and you realize that nothing else really matters, and you push "life" away to let the shadows of life envelop you.

But the world has a way of running with you

I want it to rain. And I want it to thunder. And I want it to light up the sky, and make the wind blow like it's running away from some unknown beast. And I want to be that wind, because it feels safest to just be running away. And there's no better music than wind, thunder, and splashing through the puddles to block out everything that's in the world and focus on everything that's outside of it.

Glue and Tears

As my creative writing teacher thinks, there is no writing for yourself. Sure, you may write to understand yourself, but if you've written it out, then that is a public piece. I'm sure we've all had those times where we're writing in our journal (or whatever you prefer to call it) and address people in the future. "If this is still around in fifty years..." "To my great-great-grandchildren..." So what is writing? Is it public, or private? I suppose that it's meant to be private sometimes, but will always be public. Unless of course we burn the paper. But after 120+ pages written in dedication, it's hard to part with one of those little books. I'd stare into the burning flames and see a little bit of me burning into nonexistence... of course, that's what my teacher says we need to let go of. Our writing is not us... but I'm perfectly happy to have it still feel like it.