Bummer

Something stupid.
When people don't have fun. They come, make plans, hang out with friends. But being a total downer? not cool. Not at all. So please, if you're having a pissy day, go grab a cup of tea, a book, whatever floats your boat, and don't make plans! Because being a bummer on group plans? Not going to make your day better. Sorry.

These phantom whispers
kill me. Their hollowed
eyes and wretched lips.
Narcotic death.
This sweet silence,
a drunken kiss.
Our lips are tainted
with bittersweet words.
Melancholy death makes
its bed with me.

My flesh consumed,
and so it called, a
reminder of former
carelessness, do not
fight this reprieve.
Our dreams ripe with
hunger. The menacing
shadows dulled. so
does vivid death
lie open to me.

humanity

Oh the fatal tries of human error
A bloodbath of neverending proportion
Calculus classes are still plugging in the numbers
By the million? Of course.
Humanity, its ruined for today.
It’s ruined for us all.
The young and hopeful, the ones who have not
Yet seen all of our deathly throes
Of action. Those who seem to carry
That thread of hope, of longing.
But candles are obsolete, no longer
Needed at all. So why are we?




Sorry, bad poem. I am just so fed up with people in general. not people i know, but humans. we are awful. I'll rewrite later.

I'm in a creative slump brought on by excessive I-hate-indiana-bipolar-weather illness and a good case of AP world history (see symptoms below). Forgive me for lack of poem posting, etc. I promise, this summer I'll have plenty. I'm going to writing camp again, and that always makes my creative side really strong. I'll try to get a picture up of my ceramics project, a clay pot of my hand.

the things that make my day

1. thirty second snowball fights
2. our snowman, his name is Victory!
3. hottubbing in winter
4. snow angels in our bikinis and trunks
5. feet!
6. The Time Warp in the street, yes in swimsuits
7. Never wanting to go home
8. a lovely warm shower
9. my computer

Gran Torrino

So, two posts in one day. What a day.

Gran Torrino. For those of you who have not seen this clint eastwood movie, it's not a western. It adresses issues like racism and gang violence. In other words, you have to see it. In the words of my brother, the acting might sometimes be sub-par, but worth seeing. I completely agree.

the blood.
It took hold,
weakened those
vital muscles,
like legs and strength.
Rendered little
things, like tearducts,
impossible.
Too much else was
leaking,
some halfway dried.
It makes you think
it makes you weak
and scared.
Crumble, like
ancient rome after
a power vacuum.
The blood.
Like a river,
it never seems
to stop flowing.


Thank you and good night

I've been reading. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a bookworm, and even more so when the book is as amazing as this one was. My Sister's Keeper.

I finished it with tears running down my face. I kept them in my eyes for a good moment, too. For a few moments I couldn't quite see the words on the page. But gravity got the best of me, and my tears melted into my bed and my hands and fingers. I balanced one tear between two fingers. Have you ever tasted tears? I recycle them, like i have a bank that will someday run dry if I cry too much.

My Sister's Keeper was so amazing, I cant even describe it. I won't try to. All I'm going to say is that there are some moments of brilliance that you simply can't ignore. This book kept me up at night thinking about it. Past when I could keep my eyes open to focus on the words. But words arent the only thing telling this books story, which is the amazing part. Its the tears that I know people are shedding, the thoughts, and the dog-eared pages. its that feeling you get when you know the words to your favorite song. I don't know how to explain it. It just is.

I wear my books like honor badges. I read in the hallway, my nose constantly buried in a book. I am a true bookworm. Maybe the words protect me from the world. with a book in front of my face, I can be whoever I want. Or i don't have to be anybody at all. I'm hidden. One thing about My Sister's Keeper: the other kids felt invisible. I would hate it. But then again, being invisible has advantages.

I know this is really long. I can't help it. Sorry, and if you're still awake, next time I'll post a poem

all those great little poem ideas slip through my fingers.... I think of something brilliant. but i can't write it down. I'm going to start wearing a pen around my neck.

teardrops

let teardrops
fall to
unworthy laps.
let them slide
past unassuming
lips.
Over valleys of
noses and
smooth, unbothered
cheeks.
Let teardrops
drain to salty
oceans that
wished for none
of this, though
they carry memories.
let them fall
as nobody stops
to catch them

Hey, Miss Sobriety

My room smells like smoke. I'm choking on it. I want to go to bed. but I want to DO something. I have a sort of urgency to do something. I'm afraid its going to spew out the wrong way. Maybe I'll do something stupid. But at this point, anything is really the wrong thing. I'm just bored with everything and I don't think I fit into any of the little places that I used to fill so well. I don't really fit anywhere. I fit into my bed, into my room, into my pen. But I don't fit into the little spaces people have shoved me into, and pushed aside. I'm not going to be boxed away. I want to be where I want, and not have to fit into where someone puts me. I am not smiley all the time. I don't really want to fit into any of those places either. I want to be free. I don't really know what i want, but I don't want this.

Don't get me wrong. My life is not bad. I love my friends, but lately some are getting on my last nerve. I just need to talk to someone who won't judge, or won't try to tell me everything is going to be okay when nothing is really wrong. I don't want to be told that its all perfect and peachy when that's really the problem. "fine" is a filler. I'm in a mood, of course, what with my computer moving at the speed of a dying snail finishing a race. But I'll be "fine" again. But fine is bullshit, and I'm going to change something. Maybe. I just hope its not the wrong thing.

Anna, your letter is sitting, licked and adressed, ready to be sent out whenever I get a stamp, kiss it, and send it off.

It makes me feel
lost, she replied,
and considered it.
Like I'm nowhere,
and neither is she,
but we're not
nowhere together.
Maybe there's
seperate nowheres.
She frowned, a
furrow knitting
her brow. I
see the desperation,
she comments,
quieter. The hopelessness.
Delapitated, though
young. She's young,
hopeless, and lost.
She's everyone on
the inside.

The Symptoms

Of being an AP world history kid:
1. it takes them hours to read a seven page passage
2. Pages without pictures make them want to cry and bang their heads against something hard
3. They beg for extra homework to make up for their test grades
4. They save everything for the night before
5. They always ask "can I see my grade?"
6. Last minute study groups are not productive
7. The thought of the month of may makes them break out into a cold sweat
8. Wondering every day why they took the class
9. Word copying is an art form
10. They fear F's more than the end of the world