Shh, listen

A huge sigh escaped her heart-shaped lips. She threw the note back on the bed and walked to the bathroom. Once there, she turned the shower on, letting the steam rise to her face before closing the curtain to get undressed. Her pants fell to her ankles and she stepped out of them, the blue sports bra pulled a little at her hair, but nonetheless she got it off quickly. Her eyes scanned her body, examining it. Inch by inch, part by part. Her fingers lightly brushed over the scars covering her stomach, she felt nauseous just thinking about what caused those. Her eyes shifted to her arms, light burn marks could still be made out if a person looked hard enough. She lifted her foot and stepped into the steaming water. Her muscles tensing up, and then, slowly relaxing from the heat. The water tinted her skin a light reddish-pink color, but she refused to turn it down.

More from my previous piece. Stuck.

Shh, listen

Snip it from latest piece..

It was a saturday night and everything felt perfect. They lied there, listening to the wave’s crash against one another, as they starred up at the stars. She saw a hermit crab scamper away out of the corner of her eye. She glanced at her watch and realized the time. The curly-haired girl slowly started to lift herself off of his chest. She sat up straight and he followed.

Keep writing in third person, or rewrite to make it first person?

Trapped.

I'm trapped.
I can't get out.
I'm all alone.
I'm suffocating.
My body is being smothered.
And breaking,
Into many, little pieces.
I'm trapped.
Someone help me,
Before it's too late.

Not my best..

A Life You Never Knew

Do you believe it to be true?

To miss a life you never knew?

To feel as though you never fit in,

being caught up in what is and what's been?

Do you ever want to go back in time,

To erase just one line?

To live that life that you never knew.

was in a poemy mood..

Him and Her.

Her petite hand wiped the long, auburn curl away from her emerald eyes. That's when she noticed him. His sharp jaw line and shaggy, light brown hair. With one flick of his neck, his sapphire eyes were revealed. She took in all the tiny details of his structure. From his height, to the tiny freckle just to the left of his right eye. She snapped out of her trance once he passed by her. She filled her nose with his scent and nearly melted inside. He smelt so fresh, so new.

She closed her locker, and swiftly turned on her heels. Her eyes locked on her schedule as she picked up her pace.

THUD!

"Oh my gosh! I am soo sorry! I wasn't watching where I was going an-"

"It's fine." the words escaped his plump, pink lips. She glanced up. Blue and green collided as they locked eyes. It was him.

PLEASE PLEASE PUH-LEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK! I would really like to know if anyone thinks my writing has any potential.

A Thousand Paper Cranes

Fly them to the sky
A thousand paper cranes away
Just to bring you back


(I feel like haiku, which I usually don't like, is very fitting for the paper cranes.)

Love at First Sight

Once upon a time there was a girl named Sue. Sue was looking for some berries to pick in the woods when she came across a lovely little pond. Sue was fascinated by the pond, sitting down next to it and tossing little pebbles in the water, just to watch it ripple.

She was riveted by the little body of water until she saw a boy on the other side, fishing quietly. He was the most handsome boy she had ever seen. Sue didn’t have the courage to talk to him but she stayed at the pond, watching him until it was dark.

Before she left, she decided to come back to the pond every day just to see the boy. Each and every afternoon, Sue sat on her side of the pond, smiling dopily at the boy on the other side, who still had not seen her.

After two weeks of watching the boy fish, Sue wanted to get his attention. She wanted him to talk to her, be nice to her. She was too afraid to talk to him so she thought up a plan to get him to see her. She would jump into the water, pretend to drown and then he would save her so they could fall in love and get married.

She smiled as she walked home, smiled as she went to bed that night, and smiled when she woke up the next morning. Today she was going to get the boy’s attention.

At first Sue took her usual seat across the pond from the boy, watching him fish as usual, catching nothing but trying nonetheless. As he reeled in his lure again, Sue decided this was her moment. She stood up, a sunny smile on her rosy face, and dived into the water.

When she came up for air in the center of the pod, she found it kind of hard to get to the surface. Her wet dress was dragging her down but she broke the surface anyway and took deep gulps of air. The water was colder than she had expected and she hadn’t realized how dirty it was. She forced back her shivers and began to shout daintily, “Help! Help me! I can’t swim!”

The boy didn’t look at her.

“Help!” She tried, again, a little louder this time.

It was getting harder and harder to stay above the water as her saturated dress wrapped around her legs and tried to pull her down. The boy still hadn’t looked in her direction and her cries grew more shrill and panicked as her mouth dipped in and out of the water and her limbs flailed uselessly.

“Help me! Please!” Sue shouted, coughing and spluttering out slimy pond water. She managed to squeak one final plea before she was finally wrenched under the water by her heavy clothes, tiny ripples on the water’s surface marking her final moments. Sue didn’t come back up for air.

The boy smiled as he reeled in his first fish ever later that day. He hurried home to show it to his parents. He lived happily ever after.

THE END

Hey everybody! Read this :)

I have been meeting with Horvath a lot of times over the past few weeks, and we came up with the idea of doing a writing club! It will be very informal and we will have meetings every few weeeks. We can all bring any writing that we have done recently, or well any writing that you have that you want to share and have critiqued and all. Eventually, we want to build up to having a bimonthly or so magizine/book of all our works coming out! Horvath will be the advisor of the club, the meetings will probs be around 3:00 in his room, dates will come soon! So stay posted, get some writing together, and yeah. If you have any questions feel free to facebook me or whatever, please respond to this post if you are interested! Thanks a ton, Meg :)

Stop and Smell the Coffee

Stand at the top of a mountain, bare feet rooted in the cool mud. Stand with spine aligned and proud yet not arrogantly so. Stand with lungs overflowing the stench of life, lack of grimace from tolerance. Stand with chin up, the harsh wind slicing at exposed flesh. Stand with ears perfectly attuned to every crunch or rustle. Stand with wide eyes up to the canopy of dancing leaves high above. Stand with hair tamed only by the wind. Stand with palms outwards, releasing all things hidden. Stand with humbleness as pure life soaks in. Stand alone as the world continues to spin.

To know what you know you have to know what you don't know.

They say that writers should write what they know.

What do I know?

I know that there are 24 hours in a day,

though part of that is night

and the only star that doesn't sit in its sky

is the most important.

At least to earth.

I know that billion of people live on that earth.

And that no matter how much I donate to charity

only a few matter to my world.

I know that my world is only big in my head.

I know that my head likes to think it's unique,

yet nothing is unique,

and I simply enjoy pretend.

I know that pretend will never be reality,

still I try to make it in my notebook.

I know that my notebook is full of blanks

because I can only stitch rhymes.

I know that rhymes are a doomed fate

and I'll most likely be stuck with a coffee pot.

I know that I don't drink coffee black,

but I claim to take it strong.

As if that being true is deserving of a trophy.

I know that the only trophy I ever got

was for kicking a black and white ball down a field,

and that with the past years of neglect

it found its way to the trash.

I know that if someone were to look through my garbage

they'd find photos of the chubby cheeked child I once was.

Still full of curious questions

and imagination.

I know that my imagination scares me

thanks to the possibility that its fading colors

will some day become a blank page

of my adulthood.

And growing up fuels my fear.

I know that actual fear

releases natural chemicals in your brain,

and phobias

release unnatural chemicals.

I know that my mom cautions, "fluoride is a pesticide."

And here I thought

brushing my teeth is good.

I know that good isn't a real word.

That situations are ether shit or sunshine,

and mushad

is the only in between.

I know that being the middle child

means I do things myself.

Which is why it baffles me

that I can't do what I want to do most.

Because I don't know what I don't know.

I know it's long, but someone please read this!!!!! I'm begging you, take the time to tell me what you think!!!!

I Met it on the Beach

Monsters are real

And they live on the beach.

Of course, they're invisible

and don't make a peep.

Except when they growl,

And snarl,

And howl real loud.

They're eating

Dead seagulls that lie on the ground.

True story. I"m just walking on the beach in Maine and THIS happens.

The Old Man

it's raining

it's pouring

the old man is soaring

He ate a goat

and had a smoke

and couldn't get up in the morning.

Having Left

The leaves in the street

Scamper in the wind,

And sound like tiny feet.

I wade in grass,

Doing the normal chores

Since a while back

The chores normal kids do,

In a place that feels

So deliciously new.

It's so bright here, green,

Without worry for what

Fearful days bring;

Questions like that

Exist lesser so now.

It's that, in fact

Why I like these chores,

So tedious and long...

I'm doing chores that normal kids do.

The Stench of Man

Farmers smell like

sweat and mud and poop,

mixed with

dust and old hey and overalls,

along with

rocks and animal and sunshine.

Also known as the stench of man...

I wrote this for you Kase.

Swaziland

My deep blue secret keeper,

mermaid tear collector,

constellation reflector

and rare red sea glass gifter,

My empty promise holder,

shell breaker,

jewelry guzzler

and sandcastle crusher

My hope riser,

boat bearer,

sunset magnifier

and late night walk backdrop

Roll on,

Roll on,

Roll on.

I see better with my eyes closed, do you?

Close your eyes,
What do you see?

The whispered lies
Of ghost stories
Passed through malicious lips?

The imprint of the sun
Left to linger
Just out of reach?

Do the backs of
Your eyelids act
As gilded frames
For the art of long ago
Or do films play
In your own private cinema?

Darling, do tell me,
What do you see?

Do you see the dreams
Half forgotten
By daylight?

Ideas just born,
Waiting to be
Breathed into life?

Do tell me, love,
What do you see?

Does the dark
Rush to greet you,
Shake you hand,
With a smile
That holds back nothing,
Because it holds nothing

When you close your eyes,
Do you see?

Observatory

Today I went out to dinner with my grandmother. Soon after we sit, a jovial and talkative couple sits at the table next to us. They are very close and so I could hear every word they were saying to one another. About half-way through their conversation, I decided to make a few recorded observations in my cell phone. Based on the way they spoke and subject matter, this is what I concluded:

"The couple sitting next to us is married, with children. Their children are approximately late elementary school age. The man works for a finance company. He is optimistic, morally intelligent, and confident in his decisions. He likes to have plans. The woman is quiet, agreeble, but outgoing. She is more of a socially experienced being; the children, friends, camp and vacations. The couple is obviously middle class, similar dress to the uniform of slightly upper class style. They are both in their late 40s."

After our dinner, I interrupted the couple. I introduced myself; asked them to review my observations and report back on how many I had gotten correct. Their reaction after reading?

"Dead on."

Why? Because as it turns out, I was 95% accurate. My only miss was that the man's job is actually as a CFO for a jewelry company. However, that position does in fact require plenty of financial knowledge. I realize that my story has absolutely nothing to do with writing...

Or does it? I found that through a few sentences, I could accurately portray the characters of two complete strangers. It takes very little to figure exactly what kind of person someone is. I suppose my point is that things like this should be taken into consideration during character and story development. Look at the people walking by you on the street. Who are they? What are their lives like? If you had to write a book about it, could you?

In the creation of your own characters, not much is needed to tell others who they are. The way they speak, body language, and personal looks are all any human needs to judge another. It's also all you need to birth a great character that can clearly be loved or hated by your audience.

Something that is so magnificent, impressive, and marvelous that you will be inspired

I have not written anything this whole entire summer and I thoroughly understand that I am a horrible person and will most likely die, or a more negative consequence, face ignominious defeat in the near future. I also thoroughly understand and accept that the circumstances of either event will most likely have been avoided if I had just exercised my brain at least a small fraction of each day this past month. However, what I have just stumbled upon while navigating the Google will not only make up for this, but will most likely inspire me to do something or write something close to or equally as magnificent, impressive and marvelous as it.

First tidbit of information I found on Wiki: September 2004, French

police discovered an underground movie theater run by La Mexicaine De Perforation. The makeshift theatre contained a movie screen, a well stocked bar, and a kitchen. Telephones and electricity were brought in from an unknown location. Movie titles ranging from 1950s classics to modern thrillers were also discovered. When the police returned for a formal investigation, all the equipment had disappeared—all that was left was a note on the floor reading, "Ne cherchez pas" ("Do not search")

know what you are thinking. Who are this brilliant and awesome people? What other awesome things do they do in their spare time? What are their motives? Here is an article that goes into further detail about the movie theater event: http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2004/sep/08/filmnews.france

Here is another article containing more information on the theater they built as well as explaining their reasoning:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2004/sep/11/film.france

Another article, in which more motives are explained and another awesome mission described: http://thesecondpass.com/?p=1376

I am intrigued and impressed by and obsessed with La Mexicaine de la Preforation. There are so many adjectives, descriptions, and ninja and star wars analogies that are running around my brain right now that I can't concentrate. Such awesome tasks taking place current day in our world probably as you read this needed to be known. I needed to share this with people. I needed to blog something this summer. It all works out.

Post Blog- if you find anythingelse awesome that has to do with La Mexicaine de la Preforation,

let me know. Por favor.

Flame (Part 1)

Tied up to the over-used charred post, flames impatiently licking a my feet, I looked amongst the spectators.

The flames grabbed my ankles. I decided I would not scream- they were not going to get the satisfaction. They crawled up my body, no longer able to resist their hunger. The spectators all stood watching, same grins and laughter, relishing every second of show.

A week ago, I stood with crowd, one of my own hanging from the very same post. As the flames slowly crawled up her body, I turned my head. I could still hear the ear-splitting screams, smell the horrid scent of burning. The others were all laughing, smiling, enjoying the gruesome show.

A girl swallowed in the crowd met my eyes. I silently willed her not to show any emotion, show no weakness.

A single tear escaped tear streaked her face, marking her. A matching one of knowing she was next ran down my face, only to be swallowed by the flames.

A Short Comic About The Alien Who Lives In My Electrical Box

Part One:

How I Met Phil

For those of you reading this and wondering what the hell is wrong with me you should know that I came up with this because my sister and I were looking at the green light coming out of the electrical box one day and I said it was an alien, I am now convinced that there is an alien outside my window.

I tried something new this time. I think in the future I might turn this into the preface of a short story, but for now it is just a poem I guess..




“Oh wow, look at you! You’ve gotten so big!”
“All grown up, you aren’t a little girl anymore!”
“My, you’ve grown so much! I barely recognize you!”
The words waft from crooked-tooth smiles, along with the stench of over fried eggs and chocolate cake.

I used to be the little girl they talk about. That would sit on daddy’s lap, and would fit in mommy’s embrace.

But I’m no longer the gawky girl of skin and bones. The years have fattened me up, the sneaked cookies have stopped their journey right at my thighs. And I carry a heavy heart.

I carry the weight of school, love, ad the drama of the teenage years, along with every single calorie to enter my mouth.

No more pirouetting down the halls on matchstick limbs, log-like legs cannot lift me. No more counting ribs, now just skin and layers of yellow, slimy, ugly, fat.

Because that’s all I am. The little girl who has grown, and gotten so terribly big, she is beyond recognition.

Little drops of spit launch from his putrid mouth
That nears the tired girl’s face
To him she is no one
A reject, an outcast, a mistake
His eyes are raging red and bulging
A fuming bull ready to charge
And puncture his prey with his horns
Straight through her bony chest
Her eyes search his face
Looking for a trace of the man she once knew
And the all too familiar face of the Devil himself
Takes shape
Although her arms wrap around her body,
The only embrace she has felt in years,
Her soul is left unprotected
It is marred with crisscross battlescars
That match the ones on her sickly wrists
And her fragile ears are intruded by harsh words
Arrows dunked in poison and aimed with perfect precision
He knows exactly what to say
The demon turns and stalks out of the room
But she is left, still burning in Hell

The World A Canvas

I walk gracefully
Along the smooth sand,
Bare feet on lifeless specks,
Each grain overlooked
Until they all blend together.
My light footprints
Stretch behind me.
Awave breaks,
Spraying spite into my eyes
As it thunders to shore.
White foam gently glides
Across the canvas.
After its achingly slow retreat,
My footprints are gone.

I've kinda been in the mood for the beach, since it's summer and all. And I really really really miss the beach.

A One Way Street

I am the tree that bears the fruit.

I am the strings that suspend the clouds.

I am the light that resurrects dirt.

I am the twinkle that speckles night sky.

I am the beauty,

I am the song,

still you refuse

to sing along.

I am the bolt that strikes the dark.

I am the strength that shakes the earth.

I am the chill that steals your shiver.

I am the drought that awakens your thirst.

I am the horror,

I am the tear,

still you refuse

to shutter in fear.

I am the wind that sweeps Falls leafs.

I am the bird that leaves for winter.

I am the force that turns the tides.

I am the warmth that welcomes you home.

I am the father,

the stitcher of souls,

still I will lose you

when it's your time to go.

Missing Him

I wish for the old you.

Kind, and silly, and

Perpetually loving,

Sweet, and comforting.

I hate this newer you.

Cold and sarcastic.

Ridden with gross arrogance.

You can't win me back.

Haiku with a slight additive. I'm probably rusty since I haven't written in ages. What do you guys think?

Lonely Nights

Sun: Do you love me?

Night Sky: Yes.

Sun: But how do you know? What's love?

Night Sky: I don't really know what it is.

Sun: Then how can you tell that you love me?

Night Sky: Because I just know it.

Sun: What do you mean?

Night Sky: When I look at you I see everything, and that's all I need. I love you without understanding love.

Sun: Oh... I don't see that.

(Sun turns around and walks away)

Just a question...and a poem....

The year may be over, but I've made a vow to continue posting. Who else is with me here? Lets all do our best both in and out of school!

The Determined

x must always

equal the opposite

of b plus or minus

the square root of b squared

minus 4ac

resulting in a perfect arch.

every time

we can predict

most outcomes

and boast about doing so

but still

where is the excitement in that?

the adventure?

does it exist

if our lives are predetermined?

is there a point

in trying to discover

what we already know?

the apple must always fall

and hit the ground

just as people

must all go.

where is the magic

the supernatural

the significance,

in the word

controlled by

formulas

and laws.

no thanks math

and modern day and age

I'd rather live

questioning

how the rock i throw will arch

than already know.

and so long evolution

i prefer

the bible:

it assures me

that theres something more

This poem was inspired by a line from the song Mugen no Kanata by my favourite band ViViD. (they are aweeeesommmeee) "I wonder what kind of meaning existed on that predetermined formula.)

This poem isnt all that good....which is why its kindof the afterthough of this post.

My Enemy

It moves with graceful confidence,
Most polite in all its ways.
It weaves fine silk for penniless
And with homeless children plays.
Though from its charity I could prosper,
A long-awaited dream of mine,
I will not rest until its demise.

I've been writing a lot of poetry lately...and now think in poetry(which wasn't helpful durring finals-especially algebra and spanish/spanisho)

Demon Bug

Demon bug,
You crawl along the wall
Visible from my eye's corner,
Every move suspicious.

Demon bug,
You leave scorch marks
On the still-wet wall
Repainted after your last visit.

Demon bug,
You flutter round the light,
Setting frightening shadows
To dance along my confines.

Demon bug,
You sit atop the flame
Not singeing as a bug should
By which I am not surprised.

Demon bug,
If you cannot give me blessed rest,
Would you be kind enough
To grant me peace to write?

Aspiring Eyes

Leaves of gold
Awakened from slumber,
To perform
For aspiring eyes.
Flung into air,
Suspended in spotlight,
Virtue prevails.
Humble leaves spin,
Muted lesser sides
All there is to see.

Secrets

slippers
on hard floor
whisper whisper
cereal and milk
swirling in a bowl
whisper whisper
sharpened pencils
on stark paper
whisper whisper
soft breeze
in dancing leaves
whisper whisper
drawing nearer
as the fire grows
whisper whisper
a silent door
swinging closed
whisper whisper
why so
many secrets?
whisper whisper

I've been told it doesn't make sense by...a few people

You sure know how to ruin a song

You sure know how to throw rocks at the glass harmonies to make them rain down on me.

You sure know how to rip at the melodies and shred them like those long forgotten love letters I found in the bible.

You sure know how to take the chords in your hands and to squeeze, smirking at the cracks.

To cut apart the notes, each ligement gritting though the blades.

To crush that bass line under your boot like thos ciggerates that coat your breath and cling to your clothes.

To kick the drum beats in the ribs and to stride away without looking back to see them coughing up blood.

You sure know how to ruin a song.

My Prison

I will a veil of gray
to hide the prying blue.
I will the sky
to split in two.
I will cold rain
to come through.
I will the drops
to land on my window.
I will the diamonds
to stumble down.
I will the larger
to grow and grow.
I will the smaller
to know.
I watch the race
as it comes to a close,
from my desired prison
entwined with red rose.
I will the smallest tear
to be carried away by the wind.
It held my dreams-
What a sad end.
I will the rain
to turn to snow.
I will the flakes
to cover all I know.
I will the white
to touch me,
but it cannot,
for my window is forever closed.
I watch
from my desired prison
entwined with red rose.
I will the snow
to turn to fire.
I will it
to never tire.
I watch
from my desired prison
entwined with red rose,
as all but my prison
goes up in flame.
I will my prison
to be devoured.
I will the red roses
to be burned flower.
I will
to be encompased by fire.
I will my last desire.
I will myself
to be free.

Please tell me what you think!

The Train, The Lights, The All Above.

Stop,
Turn around,
Look,
and actually open those bright eyes of yours to the existing life you never knew,
Have you ever just sat there, ears drained with the heavy sound of silence?
Ever just cocked your head a little to the left to watch the second hand on the clock turn with grace?
Now pinch your eyes shut,
are you lost in the cavernous black and blues, splotted with the red and the stars?

[I really liked this beginning, but i'm not sure at all how to kind of close it. I wanted this to be one of those short poems, the ones leaving you with questions. S.O.S!]

Title suggestions?

Attitude and hairstyles

Arent the only things

That change with age



Remember the little girl

Who would chant silly songs

To annoy older sisters?

Who would sit at the kitchen table

Coloring with bright yellows and pinks?

Who wore sundresses with sweaters

To hide the sunburn from too much play?

Remember the little girl

Who dreaded taking showers

Because buble baths were more fun?

Who would sneak another cookie

When backs were turned?

Who would beg and plead

To be surrounded by her friends every weekend?



But the years have flown by quickly

Little girl has changed before your eyes



Now she plugs in her headphones

To drown out the suffocating thoughts.

Now she quivers in the bathroom

Painting the floor with her bright red blood.

Now she wears long sleeves and jeans

To hide the criss cross scars from too much pain.

Now she craves the long showers

When the throbbing water is as heavy as her tears.

Now she pushes the plates away

Because the skinny girls said so.

Now she needs the solitude

Because everyone else doesnt know what to say.



Poor broken big girl, who grew up too fast.

Bye Bye Writers Block. Helllooo Alliteration.

We skidd across bricks, pavement, ever lasting roads
Awaiting the victory at the other end of this journey.
Finally, we won't be the lackers, the losers, the ludicrous!
We will forever be indulged in the triumph that the others did not get to grasp.
Smiling ear to ear is what we intend to do, until the bones in our faces collaspe with the feeling of excitement!
We will grin in our graves, where no one can tell us to stop.
But when we get over that hill of heaven and hell, there is no treasure.
No glistening gold,
Nothing full or fortune,
Or no waters overlapping wealth.
Nothing, but us.

The Perks of Being a (Metaphorical) Zombie

The other day,

I decided to

(metaphorically)

kill myself

And if one were to ask me

how I'm

doing now that I'm

(metaphorically)

dead

and if I still

had the ability to process

emotions

I'd say

“Great, thanks, I'm

happier then I've ever been.”

The perks of being

a (metaphorical)

zombie;

one can't feel pain

I think I wrote this because zombies have been on my mind ever since the people working on the mural decided unanimously that in the event of a zombie attack, I would die first. I think this is really just my way of saying “fine then, I'd rather be a zombie anyways!” in a poetic (?) way.

The Order In Which I Watch It

1:There are three squirrels on the curb of Lamberg street, all the acorns have been eaten an their side and they wish to cross the busy road in search for food.

2: The first squirrel is too scared to risk being hit by a car and stays on his side.

3: The first squirrel dies of starvation.

4: Crazed with hunger, the second squirrel blindly dashes into the street.

5: The second squirrel gets hit by a van and dies.

6: The third squirrel carefully watches the cars and calculates his time of passage through the busy road.

7: The third squirrel makes it across.

8: Immediately after his victory, the third squirrel is shot by a careless teenage boy playing with his fathers hunting equipment.

9: The third squirrel dies.

10: There are three dead squirrels on Lamberg street.

Hidden Treasure

The boat skims
the salty water
overflowing with life.
Sunlight reflects
off gentle waves
filling the air
with fractured stories,
fabricated to hide
what lies below,
a net to catch
wondering wanderers.
Clouds
of ashen gray
roll across the sky,
obscuring
the blinding sun.
The water seems
darker,
a veil
covering hidden treasure.
The boat is tossed
from mane
to mane
of roaring lions;
a never-ending fight.
All to hide
what I now know-
an ecclectic heart
far below.

Please tell me what you think!

Animosity

Injected
With poison red
Through skin torn by sharp words, remarks, shouts.

Filled with the boiling brew,
Simmering in the shadows black.

Tied down by shackles of hope-smothered desperation
To the cot scarred with past conquests' screams.

The poison spreads;
A weed plaguing the Garden of Eden,
Lava swallowing a city slowly.

The poisonous heat builds, leaks through skin
Leaving hot trails scarlet
Of toxic liquid on the cement floor
Until the skin is charred, a candle wick past its prime,
Barely concealing a frayed framework of bones and systems.

The poison drips at an agonizing pace from the holes marring the burned skin,
Leaving the quaking form haunted by a beat beat.

Beat beat.



Alright, you guys. I haven't written anything in a while so I'm a bit rusty. This is more angsty than my usual writing, I swear I'm not an unhappy person! So tear this apart, you guys. I need to get back into the writing groove.

From darkness to light,
Or light to darkness?

A short one for my No Longer Lover

Go to hell.

I'll meet you at the gate,

And we can walk in

Bound together by hate.

"No Longer Lover" is, of course, the title as well. It may sound somewhat unrelated but really it clears up the actual topic of the poem since it's so short. Oh, and (mostly for Horvath) please pardon my vulgarity in the first line. It was unavoidable.

Title Suggestions please?

The rowdy crowd surrounds the glistening marble statue

It stands upon a pedestal, reflecting the rising sun

Each person is armed

A small pebble here, a larger boulder there

As the sun settles in the sky, they launch their weapons

With perfect, precise aim

At the flawless figurine

But to their deep disappointment, she stays in tact

Not a scrape or a scratch maar the still statue

Soon the crowd disperses

They’re tired of their useless attempts

The sun has set, and all backs are turned

It starts right under her eye, a thin crack that etches its way

Down her cheek, down the center of her torso

Fingers and toes crumble, incintegrating into dust

Her shoulders crumple, in cascades to the floor

Bit by bit she breaks apart

Until nothing is left, but a pedestal

Where a strong steel statue

Mother, Oh, Mother Mine

The wrinkles on her face read
Like the story books she
Would read to her children.

Summer's sweat pours
Off her face still.
Countless winter's cold
Rests on her brow.

But a smile breaks open her face
And sunlight catches fire in her eyes.
Laughter expels like carbon dioxide
From her mouth.

Writers block sucks.

untitled (suggestions please)

Once there was a girl

who was given a simple assignment

"define nothingness"

and she was

to perform this assignment

as accurately creatively as possible

and so she wrote

"nothingness

is an endless blackness"

but then realized

blackness being something,

couldnt possibly be nothing.

and so she started again

"nothingness is something

people fear"

and then quickly

realized that it wasnt the fear of nothing

that most people feared,

but the unknown aspect of nothing

and while unknown, unknown is SOMETHING

and therefore couldnt be nothing.

she tried again again again

"nothingness is...

nothingness is..

nothingness is...."

until finally,

she knew what she was doing

wrong.

quickly she wrote,

"nothingness isn't"

and failed the assignment.

FEEDBACK PLEASE!!!! PLEASE DONT TREAT THIS POEM LIKE NOTHING!!!!

I Have Many Names

Just a warning here: this is kinda long...and creepy.

My bare feet pad through the cool grass, as i stalk determinedly toward my destination. A powdery yellow colonial house looms invitingly before my bloodshot eyes, daring me to enter. A cryptic smile forms on my chapped lips. I never could resist a dare.

My stalk slows to a prowl, as the house gets closer. It is more clear to me now. The door is a soft, light brown, and a white trim decorates the rooftop. Just what I need. A gentle home, for a gentle family, with a gentle child, waiting to be bred.

I tip-toe around the perimiter, looking for my key to entry. A window meets my trained eye. My smile grows. Everyone knows that the best time to hunt is when the seasons should be changing, but aren't. People feel lucky, as though they had cheated mother nature. They want to know what else they can have. They become careless. Foolish. They make silly mistakes. Mistakes that give hunters their window of opportunity.

My smile grows, as I notice my pun. Window of opportunity. Hah.

My kitchen knife slowly cuts through the screen of the window. This is the chance I have been waiting for. A warm, late summer day, where the windows are open enough to let in the cool, fresh, relieving night air.

I step through the gap, careful not to make a sound as I land on the tile floors.Despite my best efforts, I catch my breath, hoping that not a single peaceful soul was disturbed by my demeaning presence. Hearing nothing, I continue on with my dark journey.

The first bedroom I reach is that of the parents. Their slumber is disturbed only by dreams of the welfare and happiness of their young, innocent, beloved children, as i slit their throats. My footsteps are nonexistent in the ways of the sleeping, as I slip out of that first bedroom, and into the next.

This bedroom consists of a single soul. A young soul, of no more harm to this world than the fresh grass on which it lives. But this does not stop me. This boy does not deserve to know he is dying before he does. But I cannot help my meathods. I slit his throat, just as I did his parents, and his eyes flash open, full of confusion, then fear, then request of help, before fading away.

Just like his parents.

I fade away, just as his eyes did, from the memory of the young boy's bedroom.

The next room is of that of a girl, a child. A very young child. A child so young, I nearly hesitate from my duty.

Nearly.

As my kitchen knife advances towards her young, unknowing throat, i realize something key. This girl is beauty.

~

I go by many names. Some call me dream stealer. Others friend of war. Most the grim reaper. More call me death. However, the one thing that doesn't change as I move from place to place, challenge to challenge, dare to dare.

I can never overtake the thing that is beauty.

For she goes by one name.

She has one image.

She has one purpose.

And she is Life.

No one ever comments.

Its one thing to express your deep feelings,

but to not have them heard is even worse.

You post and you post but no one seems to see,

that what you're sharing is hard for you to even say

So you continue to post, and still no one seems to care

It may not seem fair, but to get aleast one person to hear would be wonderful.

:)

Bathroom Conversations

Maya: My tummy is getting bigger.
Bronte: I think it's your nose.
Maya: ?

I and It, It and I

I try to escape,
It folows me.
I stumble,
It walks with confidence.
I aimlessly talk,
It doesn't make a noise.
I cast a shadow over everything,
It has no shadow at all.
I turn to face my tormentor,
It is me.

The Poetic Guidelines

When;

Reading this poem

do NOT;

Attempt to read "in between the lines"

(for those tiny spaces have been

filled with white-out)

& read only what is written

DO;

take everything written

here literally

for graphite on paper,

& pixels on a screen

do not

have a sense of irony,

or the ability to comprehend

"metaphors"

do NOT;

seek a "another truth"

from what has been written here

for

the only truth

is the one intended

and do NOT

you ABSOLUTELY MUST NOT;

attempt to find

meaning, symbolism

and or themes

for i can assure you

everything written here

says exactly

what

it

means.

The Law of Coffee

When making coffee

one must keep

this simple fact in mind;

Even a single drop of milk

will ruin

the inky blackness

that is "coffee"

in its purest form

and prove itself to be

irretrievable.

So;

One must proceed

with caution

This is a kind of a weird poem, but please let me know what you think! What do you suppose it symbolizes?

raindrops

In the clouds

Raindrops converse

wanting to see

the world

waiting to fall

suddenly

released from

white prisons

of solitude

descending from the

heavens

in a rush

they see

green fields

growing cities

until

with a splat

they hit

rainbow colored umbrellas

cold asphalt

and die

surrounded by the beauty

they yearned for

their

whole

lives

White Untouchable Canvas

White, Untouchable Canvas

I’ve seen a blank canvas many a time

One that withholds no words, no art

No promise for intriguement.

Could it be that the promise is of itself?

That the great white expanse of it is invitation?

So tempting and alluring, it boasts its freedom

The fact that I cannot touch it,

Mark it with the unseen tool of mine.

If so, then why can I see

Why can I imagine from whence it came?

Perhaps it was made by a man’s hands.

Or was it brought into existence by some other hand?

One that is neither human nor real to this world?

Say some tell-tale creature that grew

Grew from the fertile soil of my mind?

Or from that of another’s, that I’ve stolen and made my own?

There we see the beginning of so much to come,

The promise for a ride, of which I’ll never let go.

This ride, though it be false to the material man

Shall be imprinted on the vessel’s mind.

It carries me to the highest of mountains

With the sunshine creeping o’er them,

They reach the sky with craggy fingers that bleed of ancient age.

It shatters beneath my feet, dropping me far below

Into the very darkest of the abyss filled with inklings black.

Shaking me wholly afraid, I rip myself away

Away from that would harm my mind and me

Only to open my eyes to a feathered pillow.

It seems that the vast white land is mine,

In both my hand and mind,

I hold that great expanse of lines.

That unseen tool of mine in hand and mind,

I draw across the white abyss, giving it marrow and life,

Only to find in moments time,

I’ve gone past that dreaded nine.

Dreaded it seemeth be

I’ll draw near to thee

And give my mind in hand,

If only you promise me

To give me time again.

This came about from a mind blank after editing and writing; it seems I write well {at least I hope} when utterly exhausted and losing track of time.

?

The smooth, pale, barren skin
Untouched, unbroken, unharmed
Shadowed by the ice-cold blade
That rests inches away
Hovering above the unmarred shell
Of a quivering soul
With one quick swipe
It digs in
Tearing away the covering
And leaving blaring gashes
The monster is hungry
For another bite of flesh and blood
Its claws come out
And rake the burning battlefield
Leaving nothing
But a torrid carapace
And the faint beating
Of a heart