Monday, June 11, 2012
Plastic World
The plastered-on smiles, they're everywhere
Everyone encourages me to get one too
But I'm not like that.
I don't smile like that.
If anything, I smile small.
It's not always there,
But it's brilliant when it is.
Plastic people, plastic smiles,
That's all I see.
Everything seems plastic.
Fake, rubbery, and expendable,
That's what plastic is.
They may want to be plastic, but I'm NOT.
I want to be real, to move, to live.
I want to lay on real grass, and pick real flowers,
Not to lay a smooth, flat, green-painted concrete ground.
Not look at fake flowers that are there for show.
Plastic everywhere.
Everyone's plastic.
When can I meet someone real?
Friday, June 1, 2012
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
What Do You Love About Me?
What do you love about
me?
Everything.
Is
it my hair?
I know it’s not the longest, or the
prettiest.
It certainly isn’t styled like the other
girls around me.
In fact, I find it lackluster.
Yes, I love your hair.
It doesn’t need to be long or pretty,
because it’s pretty enough for me
I like the way it hangs down your back, .
I find it beautiful, shiny, and just like
you.
What do you love about me?
Everything.
Is
it my mouth?
I know it’s loud and boisterous.
It’s
sarcastic and mean.
It’s not the most
melodic of voices, but it’s mine.
Yes, I love your mouth.
The way it moves when you talk.
The words that come out of your mouth are meaningful, and not
mean unless you want it to be.
Just because it’s loud, doesn’t mean it’s
bad.
I love the sound of your voice, which sounds
like an orchestra, with all the instruments sounding in perfect harmony.
What
do you love about me?
Everything.
Is it my eyes?
They’re
brown
Plain, boring brown, just like me
They’re
not orange, or blue, or green, just brown.
Yes, I love your eyes.
They way they spark when you look at me,
The way they sparkle
when you talk about your
dreams,
When I look at your eyes, I swear that I can see the Earth
itself moving.
What do you love about me?
Everything.
Is
it my skin?
I’m not the tannest girl on Earth,
In
fact, I find myself pale.
I don’t have any
piercings, so my skin has no holes.
I love all of you
I don’t care what other’s think,
Because I love you just the way you
are
I love your hair,
your eyes, your mouth, and your skin.
I love you especially.
What do I love about you?
Absolutely everything.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Sometimes, Night Is Cruel
Ultimately, this is a complex of most, as people are alone, afraid, others walk,wandering into the night, not caring if they're on the borderline of insanity.
Sometimes, insomnia takes a firm grasp on someone, making them wonder why they're here, living and breathing, while they blink the sleepless nights away. Sometimes, figures skulk through the night, waiting for a round of fun to begin. Sometimes, people forget, forget themselves, forget their troubles, everything, and let it all go.
Sometimes, the night is cruel.
And always, we push on, waiting for the sunrise, just to begin another day, so that we can move on to another night, where the routine begins once again.
We all hear about the scary, dreadful things that happen at night, but we brush if off, so that we don't need to look at it's ugliness anymore. With the wimps that we are, we can only hope thtat it doesn't happen again.
Bad enough that we live in overcrowded noisy cities. Bad enough that we use the night to catch up on the things that we "treasure". Bad enough, we treat it all like a game we play, planning out all the moves we need to win, when you can't really win at all.
Sometimes, you feel the need to wonder if it's ever going to get any better.
We all prowl the night, wondering what makes us, us. We all move through our daily lives, wondering what will happen next, and what the new blow will bring. We all cling to the hope that things will get better during the day. We allow ourselves to worry at night, whilst ruining the line between stability and and trouble.
We all have our own problems to deal with, but choose to ignore them. We go to psychiatrists, wanting them to solve our problems for us. We get pills, because little colored capsules are infinitely more amazing than thinking about what irks us.
But, as the day begins anew, we all go on in our own little worlds, oblivious by what bounds us all. We dream, we want, we lust, and we move on. We forget, if only for a little while. Sadly, each day we come home only to face our fears again. We all share the same complex. One question: How afraid are you of the dark?
Sometimes, insomnia takes a firm grasp on someone, making them wonder why they're here, living and breathing, while they blink the sleepless nights away. Sometimes, figures skulk through the night, waiting for a round of fun to begin. Sometimes, people forget, forget themselves, forget their troubles, everything, and let it all go.
Sometimes, the night is cruel.
And always, we push on, waiting for the sunrise, just to begin another day, so that we can move on to another night, where the routine begins once again.
We all hear about the scary, dreadful things that happen at night, but we brush if off, so that we don't need to look at it's ugliness anymore. With the wimps that we are, we can only hope thtat it doesn't happen again.
Bad enough that we live in overcrowded noisy cities. Bad enough that we use the night to catch up on the things that we "treasure". Bad enough, we treat it all like a game we play, planning out all the moves we need to win, when you can't really win at all.
Sometimes, you feel the need to wonder if it's ever going to get any better.
We all prowl the night, wondering what makes us, us. We all move through our daily lives, wondering what will happen next, and what the new blow will bring. We all cling to the hope that things will get better during the day. We allow ourselves to worry at night, whilst ruining the line between stability and and trouble.
We all have our own problems to deal with, but choose to ignore them. We go to psychiatrists, wanting them to solve our problems for us. We get pills, because little colored capsules are infinitely more amazing than thinking about what irks us.
But, as the day begins anew, we all go on in our own little worlds, oblivious by what bounds us all. We dream, we want, we lust, and we move on. We forget, if only for a little while. Sadly, each day we come home only to face our fears again. We all share the same complex. One question: How afraid are you of the dark?
Thursday, April 26, 2012
I See You, You See Me
You may be cold and distant to others, but there’s no need to be so with me.
You think we’re different, but we’re not.
I have struggles just like you. I worry, just like you.
You may be considered legendary, but I see you as a regular person.
I’m not interested about what people love about you, but what you love.
Don’t surround yourself in this blizzard of indifference.
No matter what it takes, I’ll climb that mountain, and brave the snow, if only for you...
You needn’t to look upon me with wickedness, not everyone means harm.
If you’ll let me, I’ll carry your burdens,
I’ll carry your troubles, because no one should go through life alone.
I’m willing to climb this mountain of yours, if only you’ll come back down with me.
You think we’re different, but we’re not.
I have struggles just like you. I worry, just like you.
You may be considered legendary, but I see you as a regular person.
I’m not interested about what people love about you, but what you love.
Don’t surround yourself in this blizzard of indifference.
No matter what it takes, I’ll climb that mountain, and brave the snow, if only for you...
You needn’t to look upon me with wickedness, not everyone means harm.
If you’ll let me, I’ll carry your burdens,
I’ll carry your troubles, because no one should go through life alone.
I’m willing to climb this mountain of yours, if only you’ll come back down with me.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Protected
She has to protect them. The trees that saved her family.
When her family was falling apart, they saved them. The falling blossoms,
the hopefulness she could feel.
If she could save them, her life would be complete.
When disaster stroke, the cherry blossom trees helped her stay together. They gave security, and love, love that her family couldn’t give her.
They want to cut them down, those trees.
She needs to stop them, because the trees have too much value to her.
She thinks no one cares, so she has no hope.
Until she met him, that is.
He cared, when no one else did.
He wanted to save the trees too, before it was too late.
Those cherry blossoms helped him get new life, and gather his priorities.
She did it. She saved those trees, and moved onto bigger and better things.
Those trees are still there, lining up that hill that so many years ago, she walked, broken and wayside.
She owes those cherry blossom trees a lot, and she saved them, which is enough for them.
When her family was falling apart, they saved them. The falling blossoms,
the hopefulness she could feel.
If she could save them, her life would be complete.
When disaster stroke, the cherry blossom trees helped her stay together. They gave security, and love, love that her family couldn’t give her.
They want to cut them down, those trees.
She needs to stop them, because the trees have too much value to her.
She thinks no one cares, so she has no hope.
Until she met him, that is.
He cared, when no one else did.
He wanted to save the trees too, before it was too late.
Those cherry blossoms helped him get new life, and gather his priorities.
She did it. She saved those trees, and moved onto bigger and better things.
Those trees are still there, lining up that hill that so many years ago, she walked, broken and wayside.
She owes those cherry blossom trees a lot, and she saved them, which is enough for them.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Blind Love
It may be that you can’t see, but I can.
I can see the hope in your deadened eyes when we embrace, and the smiles you make when I do something awkward.
Just because you can’t see, doesn’t mean that you’re handicapped.
The only handicap that you have is when you’re down, and I’m not there to cheer you up.
I don’t care what you look like, if blind or deaf, or even mute, I would still love you.
People may stare, but I don’t care.
Our bond is stronger than others’ skepticism.
You may feel helpless, but I’m here to pull you up out of that hole of sadness.
You don’t need to see, because I see for you, I’m your eyes.
And these eyes, they see something beautiful coming from this.
I can see the hope in your deadened eyes when we embrace, and the smiles you make when I do something awkward.
Just because you can’t see, doesn’t mean that you’re handicapped.
The only handicap that you have is when you’re down, and I’m not there to cheer you up.
I don’t care what you look like, if blind or deaf, or even mute, I would still love you.
People may stare, but I don’t care.
Our bond is stronger than others’ skepticism.
You may feel helpless, but I’m here to pull you up out of that hole of sadness.
You don’t need to see, because I see for you, I’m your eyes.
And these eyes, they see something beautiful coming from this.
Hunger Games Movie Review
To be honest, I hated it. The movie was somewhat like the book, but not really. I hate to read a book, then go see the movie, because I'm always critical on it. I'm not gonna give you a synopsis, because if you really want to know, go see the movie yourself.
One thing that bothered me the most was that they only seemed to be in the arena for like, four days, that's it. I was also peeved when Peeta just fell asleep, and then Katniss went to the feast. In the book, Katniss DRUGGED him people! Get it right! And then there was Rue. In book time, Katniss spent at least a good week with her. In the movie, it was like a day and a half.
If you people wanna see it, be my guest, but I hated it. If you're into the whole action-packed-killer thing, than this is for you. If you're a reader, like me, then you'll hate it, and be really judgemental about it.
The actors were good, I'll admit. I mean, it's not their fault a script writer can't do it right. They played their parts, and did pretty well. Right facial expressions, seriousness, and other things were great. They did their part, but I still resent the movie.
And all of those fangirls who are shipping Katniss and Gale, I'm here to tell you that it's NOT GOING TO HAPPEN. I've read the third book, and I can tell you what happens. They do NOT get together.
Rating: 2 out of 5 stars.
One thing that bothered me the most was that they only seemed to be in the arena for like, four days, that's it. I was also peeved when Peeta just fell asleep, and then Katniss went to the feast. In the book, Katniss DRUGGED him people! Get it right! And then there was Rue. In book time, Katniss spent at least a good week with her. In the movie, it was like a day and a half.
If you people wanna see it, be my guest, but I hated it. If you're into the whole action-packed-killer thing, than this is for you. If you're a reader, like me, then you'll hate it, and be really judgemental about it.
The actors were good, I'll admit. I mean, it's not their fault a script writer can't do it right. They played their parts, and did pretty well. Right facial expressions, seriousness, and other things were great. They did their part, but I still resent the movie.
And all of those fangirls who are shipping Katniss and Gale, I'm here to tell you that it's NOT GOING TO HAPPEN. I've read the third book, and I can tell you what happens. They do NOT get together.
Rating: 2 out of 5 stars.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Numb
Pain is the only feeling I can feel anymore.
Sadness, hope, loss, I feel those no more.
After you lose them, you never miss them.
These little cuts and scars represent my feeling.
I can never look at people and not turn away.
How do they look so happy all the time, when nothing is truly ever so?
I had love once, but now, it’s all dust and ashes. Remembering him, only brings back even more pain.
I can’t stand the sight of people laughing, but love to see them weep.
When they cry, I feel their pain, and they understand mine.
Seeing little headstones remind me of what We used to do.
It’s the pain that brings me through.
It’s pain that keeps me numb from everyone and everything else.
If I can feel pain, I don’t have to feel anything else.
I’m always alone, never with anyone.
People come by, but they can never bring me out of my state.
Only he can, but he’s gone, and never will.
I always push forward, hoping, dreaming, waiting for the day when I see him again.
This thought and this thought only lets me live day to day.
Sadness, hope, loss, I feel those no more.
After you lose them, you never miss them.
These little cuts and scars represent my feeling.
I can never look at people and not turn away.
How do they look so happy all the time, when nothing is truly ever so?
I had love once, but now, it’s all dust and ashes. Remembering him, only brings back even more pain.
I can’t stand the sight of people laughing, but love to see them weep.
When they cry, I feel their pain, and they understand mine.
Seeing little headstones remind me of what We used to do.
It’s the pain that brings me through.
It’s pain that keeps me numb from everyone and everything else.
If I can feel pain, I don’t have to feel anything else.
I’m always alone, never with anyone.
People come by, but they can never bring me out of my state.
Only he can, but he’s gone, and never will.
I always push forward, hoping, dreaming, waiting for the day when I see him again.
This thought and this thought only lets me live day to day.
Friday, March 30, 2012
I Am The Messenger Blog Out 1
I Am The Messenger starts out slow, but really picks up later on. Ed is a deadbeat - I have no doubts about that- but I think he really turns into a hero. He starts out with the little things, and works his way up.
When he started with Milla, I was really contrary. I liked the fact that he was helping this old woman with her loneliness, but I don't think I could stand being called someone else everyday. Even if I was helping the woman, it would agitate me to no end. Ed was really nice to her, and really compassionate. For a deadbeat, he's somewhat of a Batman type to me. Saving other people, but not in the big news worthy kind of way.
Then there's Sophie. She was really shy with Ed at first, but I think she really blossomed. I did not like her father. He seemed to uncaring to me. "You can win it, if you want." What kind of encouragement is that?! If it were my kid, I would tell them something much better than THAT! But, in the end, I think she really did good, even though she wasnervous. I mean, the whole no shoes thing really gave her confidence, and let her be her.
There's also Edgar street. I like the way Ed handled it, because I thought the husband deserved to die for his actions. I also hope he burns in hell, because he goes home and rapes his wife every night! Or, he did, anyways. Ed did the right thing, I just hope he doesn't go to jail for it.
When he started with Milla, I was really contrary. I liked the fact that he was helping this old woman with her loneliness, but I don't think I could stand being called someone else everyday. Even if I was helping the woman, it would agitate me to no end. Ed was really nice to her, and really compassionate. For a deadbeat, he's somewhat of a Batman type to me. Saving other people, but not in the big news worthy kind of way.
Then there's Sophie. She was really shy with Ed at first, but I think she really blossomed. I did not like her father. He seemed to uncaring to me. "You can win it, if you want." What kind of encouragement is that?! If it were my kid, I would tell them something much better than THAT! But, in the end, I think she really did good, even though she wasnervous. I mean, the whole no shoes thing really gave her confidence, and let her be her.
There's also Edgar street. I like the way Ed handled it, because I thought the husband deserved to die for his actions. I also hope he burns in hell, because he goes home and rapes his wife every night! Or, he did, anyways. Ed did the right thing, I just hope he doesn't go to jail for it.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
A Three Ring Circus, That's Me
“Are you okay?”
“Are you okay?”
That’s all I hear anymore.
They only ask me because of what I do.
They treat me like I’m stupid, or mental, like I don’t belong with the rest of society.
They stare, they giggle, but they don’t really care.
They just need something to entertain them. Well, that’s me, their personal three ring circus.
I feel as though I live in a cage.
Four “walls” all made by bars, so little staring children can stick their grubby hands in.
I’m always there, in my cage, just waiting for the next person to laugh and point.
I want to lash out, but then I’m stared at even more, and punished for what I’ve,done wrong.
I’m wrong to get angry, but they can poke and have their sadistic fun?
I want to stand for my people, and protect them for once, from all the cruelty they put up with.
That’ll be the day.
The day when my people and I can live in peace, or better yet laugh at the people who laughed at me.
The day when I can be...me.
“Are you okay?”
That’s all I hear anymore.
They only ask me because of what I do.
They treat me like I’m stupid, or mental, like I don’t belong with the rest of society.
They stare, they giggle, but they don’t really care.
They just need something to entertain them. Well, that’s me, their personal three ring circus.
I feel as though I live in a cage.
Four “walls” all made by bars, so little staring children can stick their grubby hands in.
I’m always there, in my cage, just waiting for the next person to laugh and point.
I want to lash out, but then I’m stared at even more, and punished for what I’ve,done wrong.
I’m wrong to get angry, but they can poke and have their sadistic fun?
I want to stand for my people, and protect them for once, from all the cruelty they put up with.
That’ll be the day.
The day when my people and I can live in peace, or better yet laugh at the people who laughed at me.
The day when I can be...me.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
What Happened?
What happened to the wonderment of childhood? When I was a kid, everything was wonderful to me. I could look at things with innocent eyes. I can no longer do that, because I know adult truths, and I know that nothing can ever again look mystical and amazing again
When I look up at the sky see clouds, I feel like all those clouds represent hope. Each one carries its own sense of the word. One cloud represents a woman's' longing for love, another a man's hope for relief. They all stand for something, things we all know that we won't get.
Having hope is kind of like having a dream that will never come true. One wants the dream to come true, but it won't out of fear of rejection. When children have dreams, adults think that they're cute. They smile down at them, knowing that they may have to conform to society, and not be free.
When you get to that certain age, and start to learn that the world is not as it seems, you wonder how anything could look beautiful. I wondered that once. I wonder now how little children cannot see the real things on Earth. All they see is a field full of friendly animals and flowers, while I look at the same field and see carnage, like a war has gone through.
When I first learned about these kinds of things, I wasn't really worried, because I didn't think that I would see things differently. But then, I was suddenly colder, more alert, and indifferent. I didn't want to be happy, because I knew that not everybody was. I didn't enjoy things, when other people are starving and hurt.
There are many shades of gray, but I guess that you have to know some things in order to see certain shades.
When I look up at the sky see clouds, I feel like all those clouds represent hope. Each one carries its own sense of the word. One cloud represents a woman's' longing for love, another a man's hope for relief. They all stand for something, things we all know that we won't get.
Having hope is kind of like having a dream that will never come true. One wants the dream to come true, but it won't out of fear of rejection. When children have dreams, adults think that they're cute. They smile down at them, knowing that they may have to conform to society, and not be free.
When you get to that certain age, and start to learn that the world is not as it seems, you wonder how anything could look beautiful. I wondered that once. I wonder now how little children cannot see the real things on Earth. All they see is a field full of friendly animals and flowers, while I look at the same field and see carnage, like a war has gone through.
When I first learned about these kinds of things, I wasn't really worried, because I didn't think that I would see things differently. But then, I was suddenly colder, more alert, and indifferent. I didn't want to be happy, because I knew that not everybody was. I didn't enjoy things, when other people are starving and hurt.
There are many shades of gray, but I guess that you have to know some things in order to see certain shades.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
ELA Showcase Assignment
My top three blog posts go as following:
Untitled Poem #3- I love this one, because I feel like I moved into something deeper, other than the stuff I'm usually told to write. I felt a kind of freedom, writing about what I wanted to write.
Untitled Poem #2- I felt changed after writing this one, because it was something different, and desperate.
Untitled Poem #1- I wrote this because I feel like the queen of unrequitted love. I also fell that love really is like this, a game of chance, all up to your own decisions.
The blog post that best reflects my creativity:
Sunday Mornings- I never go into much detail about my memories, because I'm very private about my past. This was difficult to write for me, because digging through old memories always bring up bad ones.
Evidence as my growth as a writer:
Untitled Poem #3- I never want to create new characters for a blog post, because then I feel compelled to writ a three hundred page story, so I had to cut down on a lot of stuff that I had wanted to write about.
The post that proves I am a writer/thinker:
Hunger Games Final Blog Out Project- I really had to convey feeling, and my own ideas, which is very hard, because not a lot of people understand what I write about, or what it even means.
Untitled Poem #3- I love this one, because I feel like I moved into something deeper, other than the stuff I'm usually told to write. I felt a kind of freedom, writing about what I wanted to write.
Untitled Poem #2- I felt changed after writing this one, because it was something different, and desperate.
Untitled Poem #1- I wrote this because I feel like the queen of unrequitted love. I also fell that love really is like this, a game of chance, all up to your own decisions.
The blog post that best reflects my creativity:
Sunday Mornings- I never go into much detail about my memories, because I'm very private about my past. This was difficult to write for me, because digging through old memories always bring up bad ones.
Evidence as my growth as a writer:
Untitled Poem #3- I never want to create new characters for a blog post, because then I feel compelled to writ a three hundred page story, so I had to cut down on a lot of stuff that I had wanted to write about.
The post that proves I am a writer/thinker:
Hunger Games Final Blog Out Project- I really had to convey feeling, and my own ideas, which is very hard, because not a lot of people understand what I write about, or what it even means.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Untitled Poem #3
This sweet, sad sound fills the air. I know where it comes from, but do not move.
The violin I hear is from a player who has gone through troubles, but lets it play in his music.
This man could be a star, but only plays for himself. Only he can feel the sorrow in his music.
This sound is sad, and only he knows where it comes from.
He knows the memories it took to compose this kind of work.
The hurt, the pain, the loneliness, he knows where it came from, and what kind of notes it takes to release.
The sound is of happiness, but then sadness, as though he has lost someone, and won’t let anyone else in.
He is a loner, and only lets one stray cat follow him.
He wants to be like this cat, and be free. To have no restrains, this man can only hope.
He has one love, but she barely notices.
She is torn between two loves. A king, and a stray cat. He feels that he could provide so much more, but she doesn’t see it.
She is confused and conflicted, and can’t divide loves.
He holds a key, only for her lock.
He keeps a promise, a promise that keeps him bound.
He wants to leave, to break free, but the consequences are just too great.
He would only gladly jump and leave, if only he could.
He plays this sad, sweet tune, because it’s the only thing that he can do to let go of his sorrows.
He plays and plays, in the moonlight, so no one can hear him, but I do. I know his story, and I follow along, because he is like me, and I like him.
Two stray cats, to never love, hope, or dream. Only to wish, never to succeed.
To watch the sunrise, and wish that that day will be the day, the day he breaks free.
The violin I hear is from a player who has gone through troubles, but lets it play in his music.
This man could be a star, but only plays for himself. Only he can feel the sorrow in his music.
This sound is sad, and only he knows where it comes from.
He knows the memories it took to compose this kind of work.
The hurt, the pain, the loneliness, he knows where it came from, and what kind of notes it takes to release.
The sound is of happiness, but then sadness, as though he has lost someone, and won’t let anyone else in.
He is a loner, and only lets one stray cat follow him.
He wants to be like this cat, and be free. To have no restrains, this man can only hope.
He has one love, but she barely notices.
She is torn between two loves. A king, and a stray cat. He feels that he could provide so much more, but she doesn’t see it.
She is confused and conflicted, and can’t divide loves.
He holds a key, only for her lock.
He keeps a promise, a promise that keeps him bound.
He wants to leave, to break free, but the consequences are just too great.
He would only gladly jump and leave, if only he could.
He plays this sad, sweet tune, because it’s the only thing that he can do to let go of his sorrows.
He plays and plays, in the moonlight, so no one can hear him, but I do. I know his story, and I follow along, because he is like me, and I like him.
Two stray cats, to never love, hope, or dream. Only to wish, never to succeed.
To watch the sunrise, and wish that that day will be the day, the day he breaks free.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Untitled Poem #2
I can see her there, standing in the grey.
I want to reach out to her, but I know that if I do, I won't see her anymore.
She beckons me, but I know that now is not my time.
They all get over her, but I can't. She was mine, I can't live without her.
Her family focuses on other things, trying to forget. I can't. I need her.
Without her, my life is an empty void. Every night I dream of her. She tells me to wait, that I will be with her soon enough, but this waiting is killing me. I want to feel her hair through my fingers, and touch her soft skin.
I have waited weeks months, almost a year know, yet she tells me the same thing, Wait. I avoid the places we used to go, so that I'm not reminded of her.
When friends come around, I shut down. Every time I look at them, they remind me of times with her. They joke and laugh, but I won't do the same. To feel happiness without her, is wrong.
Finally, she tells me to come. I don't know how, but she tells me.
This is the place we picked. It's abandonded, and high up. They say the jump is painless. I prepare myself to be with her, after all these months. I jump.
Finally seeing her is peaceful. She smiles and I can't help but do the same. We're finally together. Forever as one.
I want to reach out to her, but I know that if I do, I won't see her anymore.
She beckons me, but I know that now is not my time.
They all get over her, but I can't. She was mine, I can't live without her.
Her family focuses on other things, trying to forget. I can't. I need her.
Without her, my life is an empty void. Every night I dream of her. She tells me to wait, that I will be with her soon enough, but this waiting is killing me. I want to feel her hair through my fingers, and touch her soft skin.
I have waited weeks months, almost a year know, yet she tells me the same thing, Wait. I avoid the places we used to go, so that I'm not reminded of her.
When friends come around, I shut down. Every time I look at them, they remind me of times with her. They joke and laugh, but I won't do the same. To feel happiness without her, is wrong.
Finally, she tells me to come. I don't know how, but she tells me.
This is the place we picked. It's abandonded, and high up. They say the jump is painless. I prepare myself to be with her, after all these months. I jump.
Finally seeing her is peaceful. She smiles and I can't help but do the same. We're finally together. Forever as one.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Untitled Poem #1
I look his way, but he doesn't see me, he never does.
I try to talk to him, but I always turn away.
This game of love is so unfair, I just can't take it anymore.
I have played this game for months now.
He is my prize. They offer him to me, but I know this game too well.
They know about my insecurity, and use it to their advantage.
They set out other girls to discourage me. He entertains them, but always catches my eye and brushes them aside.
The white room where this game takes place is blinding. There is only a slight hill, where he stands, waiting for me.
I see him standing there across the way. I want to call out, but I can't.
The makers of this ghastly game prevent me from talking, because I know they're always listening. "Tut tut, this is a game, she mustn't win this easily." I can hear them say already.
I need some privacy alone with him, but I know I'll never get it.
Everyday I leave this place, broken and sorry. I know that they tease me, but I don't do anything about it.
I walk away, hoping tomorrow will be better. They dangle him in front of me, taunting, encouraging me to talk to him. Every time I rush towards him, they snatch him away from me. So close to me, yet so far away.
I desperately want to get rid of the ache of love. I look towards a hope I will never get. I don't face it. I want to run forwards and suppress the rules and regulations of this game, but that only leads to disasters. I take two steps forward, and take five steps backward. These days get longer and longer, but time is always frozen when I'm around him.
I finally see him alone, without all the traps and plots to hold me back. I am hesitant, but I know that if I don't move quickly, then it will never be like this again.
I surge forward, nervous. I know that I could be loved, or rejected. To play this game forever, I can't comply.
I run to him, and he whips around to face me. I land into him and sob.
I am so happy, I have finally been able to touch him, a first. All I can do is cry and whisper "I love you."
I feel his arms snake around me and hold me tight. "I love you too."
I have finally won this game. I need no more.
I try to talk to him, but I always turn away.
This game of love is so unfair, I just can't take it anymore.
I have played this game for months now.
He is my prize. They offer him to me, but I know this game too well.
They know about my insecurity, and use it to their advantage.
They set out other girls to discourage me. He entertains them, but always catches my eye and brushes them aside.
The white room where this game takes place is blinding. There is only a slight hill, where he stands, waiting for me.
I see him standing there across the way. I want to call out, but I can't.
The makers of this ghastly game prevent me from talking, because I know they're always listening. "Tut tut, this is a game, she mustn't win this easily." I can hear them say already.
I need some privacy alone with him, but I know I'll never get it.
Everyday I leave this place, broken and sorry. I know that they tease me, but I don't do anything about it.
I walk away, hoping tomorrow will be better. They dangle him in front of me, taunting, encouraging me to talk to him. Every time I rush towards him, they snatch him away from me. So close to me, yet so far away.
I desperately want to get rid of the ache of love. I look towards a hope I will never get. I don't face it. I want to run forwards and suppress the rules and regulations of this game, but that only leads to disasters. I take two steps forward, and take five steps backward. These days get longer and longer, but time is always frozen when I'm around him.
I finally see him alone, without all the traps and plots to hold me back. I am hesitant, but I know that if I don't move quickly, then it will never be like this again.
I surge forward, nervous. I know that I could be loved, or rejected. To play this game forever, I can't comply.
I run to him, and he whips around to face me. I land into him and sob.
I am so happy, I have finally been able to touch him, a first. All I can do is cry and whisper "I love you."
I feel his arms snake around me and hold me tight. "I love you too."
I have finally won this game. I need no more.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Sunday Mornings
I remember that when I was younger, Sundays used to be a big deal. They were like the holy grail of all days. Every Sunday my mother would wake me up for church at around six or seven a.m.. I would get up, and try to get things ready. Shower, eat, brush hair and teeth. It was a routine to me. Now, when I was younger, I shared a room with my older sister. She wasn't an early bird like me.She was more of the type to wake up at four o'clock and think that it was nine p.m.. She'd grumble and complain, but always got ready just in time. My little sister was always behind me.
When we were all ready, we set out across the street, to my grandmother's house. We waited for my grandfather, who was an usher. We all walked down the street, while my grandfather cracked jokes. He was always a jolly person. He was almost never serious. He was what people would say "big-boned." My grandfather was the only person in our family with blue eyes. They always sparkled, like he had a hidden joke that he was dying to tell.
When we got to church, I sat in a pew and waited for the service to begin. The entire time, I was always sitting quietly, like a china doll. Never stirring, quiet, and emotionless. I usually sat in between my grandparents, and fell asleep during service. I always thought that the preaching was boring. If I didn't fall asleep, I would read another book in the Bible. The book of Ester, or Ruth.
At that time, our church was going through a rough time. We were losing members and fast. People were worried about the attendance and tithes. If we didn't accumulate enough money, we couldn't pay bills, and our church would be shut down. I loved this church, I 'd been going there since I was five. I couldn't bear to see it closed.
After service was done, we would head back to my grandparent's house and decide where we would go out to eat. It was always someplace nice, not like a fast-food restaurant. A that time, didn't get why they called them that. My definition of a restaurant was a place with fancy napkins and menus. The food also came out on glass plates, the drinks too. It wasn't a place where people yelled out orders and the food was wrapped up and greasy. The drinks were not put in plastic cups. We always would decide to go to a place called Ted's. It was a relatively nice place and had the best food. We would order and eat, while talking about our weeks, or what the latest book I had read was about. When we were done, we would always get desert.
On Sunday afternoons, I would grab a book at my house and go back to my grandmother's. I would go to her guest bedroom and flip open the book. The guest bedroom was the best room to me. The walls were painted lavender and it had a big queen-sized bed. There were little night stands on each side of the bed, and a big closet. She also put a dresser on the wall facing the bed. There were big, wide windows on two of the walls. It always felt like a second home to me. That's why I read there on Sunday afternoons.
My books were my escape. Whatever bad thing that was going on at the time, I could get away from with a book. I started to read young adult books when I was about eight. They were inspiring and thoughtful, much better than the small chapter books and picture books that everyone else in my classes were reading. I would sometimes grab smooth, thick novels, the pages yellowed and thick with age. Other times I would grab a science fiction book, which was my favorite type of book. I could always escape my reality and move into the world of mysterious creatures, or complicated technology. I would read until I had to go home.
Sunday nights at my house were the nights my mother actually cooked. She had promised each of us one meal a month, except for Sundays, if she wasn't tired from work, she would make a stew, or maybe ribs with corn. Whatever it was, I would eat heartily and love it. She was rarely in a good mood, but on Sundays, she always was. It was just her optimistic day. Like I said, Sundays were the holy grail of all days to me.
When we were all ready, we set out across the street, to my grandmother's house. We waited for my grandfather, who was an usher. We all walked down the street, while my grandfather cracked jokes. He was always a jolly person. He was almost never serious. He was what people would say "big-boned." My grandfather was the only person in our family with blue eyes. They always sparkled, like he had a hidden joke that he was dying to tell.
When we got to church, I sat in a pew and waited for the service to begin. The entire time, I was always sitting quietly, like a china doll. Never stirring, quiet, and emotionless. I usually sat in between my grandparents, and fell asleep during service. I always thought that the preaching was boring. If I didn't fall asleep, I would read another book in the Bible. The book of Ester, or Ruth.
At that time, our church was going through a rough time. We were losing members and fast. People were worried about the attendance and tithes. If we didn't accumulate enough money, we couldn't pay bills, and our church would be shut down. I loved this church, I 'd been going there since I was five. I couldn't bear to see it closed.
After service was done, we would head back to my grandparent's house and decide where we would go out to eat. It was always someplace nice, not like a fast-food restaurant. A that time, didn't get why they called them that. My definition of a restaurant was a place with fancy napkins and menus. The food also came out on glass plates, the drinks too. It wasn't a place where people yelled out orders and the food was wrapped up and greasy. The drinks were not put in plastic cups. We always would decide to go to a place called Ted's. It was a relatively nice place and had the best food. We would order and eat, while talking about our weeks, or what the latest book I had read was about. When we were done, we would always get desert.
On Sunday afternoons, I would grab a book at my house and go back to my grandmother's. I would go to her guest bedroom and flip open the book. The guest bedroom was the best room to me. The walls were painted lavender and it had a big queen-sized bed. There were little night stands on each side of the bed, and a big closet. She also put a dresser on the wall facing the bed. There were big, wide windows on two of the walls. It always felt like a second home to me. That's why I read there on Sunday afternoons.
My books were my escape. Whatever bad thing that was going on at the time, I could get away from with a book. I started to read young adult books when I was about eight. They were inspiring and thoughtful, much better than the small chapter books and picture books that everyone else in my classes were reading. I would sometimes grab smooth, thick novels, the pages yellowed and thick with age. Other times I would grab a science fiction book, which was my favorite type of book. I could always escape my reality and move into the world of mysterious creatures, or complicated technology. I would read until I had to go home.
Sunday nights at my house were the nights my mother actually cooked. She had promised each of us one meal a month, except for Sundays, if she wasn't tired from work, she would make a stew, or maybe ribs with corn. Whatever it was, I would eat heartily and love it. She was rarely in a good mood, but on Sundays, she always was. It was just her optimistic day. Like I said, Sundays were the holy grail of all days to me.
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