High School Logic

Magical high schools are filled with extraordinary quests:
Arrive on a dragon's back for the first day of school.
Flirt with a mermaid without losing your cool.
Select the witch from the cheerleading squad.
See through the science teaching genie's facade.
And try to survive his class scratch free
Else you'll regret it, I guarentee.
Always extraordinary, especially the tests---

You have to fight brawn with brains. You have to study.
Get help from a frizzy haired smarty, or an old genius buddy.
Wave your wand. Wish upon your lucky comet,
Diplomas require sweat, blood, tears, possibly vomit.
The will to do whatever must be done:
Don't sleep for a month. Forget the meaning of fun.

Inspired by A.E. Stalling's Fairy-tale Logic

Worth

What in all the world is worth it all?

Worth anything?

Worth living for?

Worth dying for?

Worth breating for?

Worth crying for?

Worth rejoicing for?

Worth living for?

Worth dying for?

Worth everything?

Let me count....

One.

Say It Again

Say it again, please.
It feels like catching bullets.
I'm pouring my heart out to you,
Why are you spitting it back in my face?
Maybe you call it flirting.
Can't you see just how I'm hurting

Say it again please, just say it again.

I'll cry when you leave, but will you ever see
The cracks your making on my heart?
Its breaking in your hands
'cause i nieve was enough to leave it to you to smash

Do you even know what you're holding?
I'm trying to breathe without a heart.

I'm struggling to survive.
I want the world to realize
Whose blood it is on your hands.
Who is holding my heart
While all I need is for you to hold my hand.

I'm just lying on the floor, dying,
But i don't know which would be
Worse, watching my heart turn
Black in your grasp, or watching
It shatter in the sand beside me.

So just say it again.

    All of a sudden the room grew gravely still. Rude and harsh eyes wash over us and the world paused for half a moment. I glance from his new frown to the familiar swish of velvet color, and down to the small tear stain on my yellow bodice. The world stirrs, with a few hesitant coughs in the background. Eric forced a smile and placed a hand on the small of my back, leading me through the grand golden doors. Red uniformed attendants closed the doors behind us as a waltz began.

    Eric's hand fiddled with the back of my dress, and I closed my eyes, taking a breath of the crisp night air. The stars smiled at me when I reopened my eyes, and for a moment, I could imagine this moment never ending. This moment, in which all that mattered was the stars glittering, feeling the warmth of Eric through the silk dress, and his lips lightly brushing my ear.

    "Why?" He whispered.

    "All I want is to fall in love with you, but the second that I do, I stop myself, because I know that you won't catch me."

    "I'll take care of you."

    "But will you love me?"

Silver

Gold is good. Gold is glory.

Gold is for winning. success. the best.

I'm the girl in silver.

Silver is on step away from the top of the world.

Silver is eating crumbs but smelling cake.

Silver is giving everything, and still not be good enough.

Silver is losing. failure. the worst.

Silver isn't a color or a metal.

Silver is tugging on my neck, hanging heavily.

Gold is right.

Silver is wrong.

I am silver.

Beat

                dead
          born     now                                             alive.
    heart               can                                     now      A                                                             evils
A                           beat.                              is              heart                                              and the   of this
                                     A       and blue heart                   born                   salvaged from ruin             world.
                                       black                                            from            been
                                                                                              greed    has
                                                                                                and woe








                            sacrified                                                                      has                                                   forever.
                       been        to the                                                         heart   gone                                     last
                 it has                 depths                                                My            to                                  will
Or perhaps,                                of                            a forien beat.                  waste         But this heart
                                                     darkness      there is                                            elsewhere           .
                                                            Replacing                                                                         
                                                     

Goodbye Summer

Goodbye to the blunt warm breeze,
And rainy spontaneous kisses siezed,
And the last wild flowers leftover from spring,
And the splinters and thorns that barefeet might bring.
Goodbye to the cicadas who sing in the heat of the day,
And the fireflies blinking, goodnight they say.
Goodbye to the days that blister and scorch.
Goodbye to my freedom, and hello to the
Leaves crunching,
The animals munching
A last snack before their slumber.
Hello to the turkey roasing,
And the football fans boasting
On chilly sunday afternoons with their thick college sweatshirts.
Hello autumn.

goodbye Summer.

Welcome to My World

Come with me,

and we'll travel

far away to land of make believe,

far from here to the world of words.

Where words are
beautiful like flowers,

free like birds,

strong like storms,

and fall like rain.

Let's escape

from this humdrum life

that forgets yesterday

to a world that never erases.

A world

as sweet as

as unrulled as

as impossible as

a chocolate waterfall.

Look inside

of my eyes

and you'll see
my world of words.

Simply view

and come with me,

 and we'll be free,

if you truly love me.

Blue and Green and Green and Blue

When I had the blue half, and you the green,

There was nothing outside or in between.

You and me and me and you had the matching blue jean.

However, something unexpected lurked, unforeseen.

The move stopped our band: a triangle and tambourine.

And late night wonderings of being teen.

But now, your eyes are infront of mine again, clear and blue.

You and me and me and you.

By chance, I've run into you, a sad and shocking revalation.

'Cause you grew up, and so have I.

Remember we promised to be best friends until the day we die?

But that was when I had blue and you the green, and there was nothing in between.

A Warning Called Autumn

The sounds of Autumn's call are the crunching, and the munching, and the crackling, and the snapping, but most of all the silence -- the silence that should be filled with the songs of birds.

Everything departs after they hear Autumns's wintry warning. Birds fly far away to another Summer's warm embrace, as Autumn gives way to her coldhearted sister, Winter. Snakes and bears sleep through this tough time. Plants die or go dormant. Even color vanishes. Any and all life leaves, except me. I am the only one left to see that there is nothing new to look at tomorrow that wasn't there today. No new flowers, no new baby animals, only bare branches hanging stiffly on long dark trees that cast dark silhouettes on the light sky. The sky looks the same allmost every day. There is no blue, only unending gray clouds.

My naked feet feel the frigid earth as I step onto the ground. The bitter breeze collides into me, and my hair blows softly with the wind. The dormant grass scratches the bottom of my feet, as I pull my jacket closer to my body and shiver. I sniffle. The parched air makes my lips go dry, and I involuntarily lick them, just because there is no water here, only cold unforgiving ice.

Whole weeks go by where there is nothing new from nature. There is only one outdoor promise: the could waterless air that arrives by the relentless morning wind. Inside, however, there is evidence of a synthetic warmth, hot soup, sugar cookies, and the unknown meal lurking in the oven, encasing the entire house in it's delicious aroma.

During these months of harsh conditions, I sit inside and stare at the same landscape for days, weeks, maybe months. I yearn for the warm sunshine, and the time when I am once again free from this harsh trap nature has devised. Like a kindergartner waiting for recess, I desperately await the arrival of summer.

Foolish

Fools are the flies drawn to the green fire.

It's certian death, wrapped in a pretty package.

Do they dream of dying a fiery death?

To become brainlesss boring addicts,

Burning themselves slowly,

While the whole world awes with mouths wide.

Obviously enviously enjoying, egging them on.

To play with the erie green glow.

Ready to kill for the chance

 To be just like the fool of a fly that burned to death

While the whole world cheered.
I mourn the day when the world
Sets herself on fire because everyone wants
To be just like the fool of  a fly
That burned to death whole the whole world watched.

Goodbye

Goodbye

Hello. Good day. I love you.
Goodbye
Every greeting ends with
Goodbye
It's such a difficult word to say
Goodbye
Much harder than a simple farewell
Goodbye
It's much more final. definite. sure.
Goodbye
I know that the time has come to say
Goodbye
To leave. To move on. To go.
Goodbye
Although my heart is aching to stay
Goodbye
It sounds so final. so definite. so sure.
Goodbye
Everything I'm not.
Goodbye
What I don't mean is don't go. stay. linger.
Goodbye
Prove that you love me
Goodbye
Don't go when I say it.
Goodbye
I don't mean it
Goodbye
Don't repeat it
Goodbye
I'll loose it if you say it
Goodbye
I'll loose you if you say it
Goodbye

deep down

he said he'd never say 'i love you' until he knew what love was.

she said he was smart for doing that.

deep down she knew that he was right.

deep down she knew she had no idea what 'love' meant

deep down she knew he wasn't the one for her.

but her society wasn't focused on 'deep down'

and deep down she knew she wasn't either

Genesis

Sea Side

Seeing Past

Can you see me?

Honestly see me?

Or do you just see brown eyes?

Do you see my fear. my anguish.

my anxiety. my pain. my pride.

my joy. my sorrow?

Can you see how much I love you?

How much I care about you?

Are you looking?

Or do you just see brown flecks muddled together?

You can't read the questions in my eyes.

Otherwise you wouldn't be looking at her right now.

Lipgloss

Age 8
A symbol of maturity,
A big girl's magic wand.
Cheap purple sparkly goo.

Age 13
A question: have these lips tangoed with another?
A piece of golden gossip; the truth (or a lie) exclusively told to everyone.
Strawberry flavored hot pink mess.

Age 16
A prom queen nominee's secret weapon.
An escape, a nervous habit, an addiction.
Light pink shimmering fairy godmother's wand.

Age 22
A quick thing to do before you go see him. He says he loves you.
A steady fix for when he breaks your heart.
Clear inexpensive glossy dreams.

Age 36
A reminder to your husband that you're still beautiful.
A hope that he'll look at you like he did before four kids.
Red hot dissapointing hope.

Age 52
A shield to the world, a once beautiful face's cover.
An insecurity, the mirror isn't the same friend it was, but still a friend.
Light pink bottled wishes.

Age 90
A last sign of rebellion; your mind's still intact.
A sign to the nursing home that you can take care of yourself.
Bright orange tube of no regrets.

The Thought

I'm lying on my bed, all is calm. No wind shrieking through my open window, my sisters' giggling voices quieted. Only my steady breathing on this warm summer's night. It is so peaceful. so calm. so perfect. Sleep is intoxicating, beconing. Eyes fluttering, fighting to stay awake. But right as my eyes fall to a resting position, a soft humming begins, coming from between my ears, oddly enough. But then, it erupts, I hear it crashing from wall to wall, bouncing about becoming louder and louder until it pauses right before my face. I can tell it's bright, even with my eyes still closed. Humming softly, as it hovered above me, I slowly opened my left eye cautiously. It's a ball of light is hanging infront of me in midair. I check for strings, then cautiously reach in to touch the wonderous globe. My hand hesitates half a second before brushing it with my fingertips. Then images start appearing, things I've never seen before, but somehow know their funtion. Then it explodes. Fragments of light fly in every direction. The largest part zooming forward and hitting me in the forhead. It felt like it sunk into my brain, and I felt no blood or scaring of any type. Then all the shards glow brighter, and form together again in the center of the room. It pauses, almost as if it is waving goodbye before soaring out the window. As to where it went, I don't know. To inspire another I guess, I don't know who though. Maybe to Nicaragua or South Africa or Romania, or maybe, just maybe if the time is right, and the moon is high, my idea might come visit you and maybe, just maybe, we'll change this world.

*Special shout out goes to the wonderful woman who inpired this. You know who you are:)

Darling.

A kiss on the cheek.
 "They are angel tears, don't be afraid, darling."

A kiss on the lips.
 "Don't you just love rain, darling?"

A kiss on the hands.
 "Marry me? Even though I waited for the storm darling?"

A kiss on the eyelids.
 "The rain will cover your tears, and it's alright to cry, darling,"

A kiss on the stone.
 "Goodbye, darling. I hope there's better weather where you are."

Two Trees

Imperfection

interesting canvass right?

Killed

Questions killed you. They always did.

When your first grade best friend came over for the first (and only) time and asked what was wrong with your little brother.

When that kid asked what was wrong with your little brother when he lay on the floor, mouth foamiing on his first day of school.

When your little brother asked what was happening to your mummy's tummy. When he asked why there wasn't a baby later.

When you were twelve, and that kid from across the street asked his mother what
was wrong with the boy, your brother, lying on the pavement, bleeding. You felt like your heart was killed by the car too.

Questions killed you. They always did.

So you needed to be sure that you would never ask any. But babe, face it, you needed an escape.
So you killed two birds with one stone.

You crammed your head with facts, so that you would only have answers, never questions.

You crammed your head with facts, so maybe, just maybe you wouldn't have room to remember.

But darling, who could ever forget what you've seen? You're too smart to think that being valedictorian in high school would let you leave the past in the past.

Everyone told you to be a doctor. You were so smart. So driven. So much potential.

But you didn't. couldn't. wouldn't. be a doctor. To be around the sadness of loss, to be reminded every second of every minute of every hour of every day of your own sorrow would have killed you.

So you went to college to become a business woman.

Third year in college, so close, yet so far. That's when you meet him. Art major. When your life couldn't get any better according to you. When your life couldn't get any worse according to anyone else.

You couldn't stand him. He couldn't form a sentence, just questions.

Who ever thought that you would fall for a boy who had only questions?

You have to have an art credit to graduate with your degree, so you take the simplist drawing class you can find. He's just in there sketching, not part of the class, to advanced, but every day, he's there sitting next to you, constantly asking you what you think of the eye. the flower. the building that he's just drawn. You don't care. You barely glance at the page before muttering wonderful. amazing. incredible. But by the time you really start looking, he stops asking.

It's a relief, a blessing, or so you tell yourself. You can't help but wonder what he's drawn. You don't even know his name, but you want to. You guess in your head in class. in your dorm. all the time. Nothing fits. It's only been a week since he asked last, darling, face it, he's killing you.

Next class he lays it on the table, his sketch book. You don't know but he might as well have just handed you a loaded gun. That is his life, and has been for the past seven years. You look up at him oddly, but you don't dare ask a question. Questions kill you.

Opening the book, you discover his world. It's beautiful. And then the last drawing is a portrait of you. It takes your breath away.

"What's your name? I need a title."

"Heather."

He writes your name right above his signature. You hate yourself for noticing, but you love the way he writes your name. You crane your neck for a second to see what his is. It looks like something a toddler would draw. You can kind of make out two capital letters: F and A.

"My name?" He laughs; you blush, "It's Finn Andrews."

"Hey, Finn, do you want to do something later?"

You catch him off guard, you're close enough to reccognize the happy surprise in his eyes. Maybe questions aren't all bad.

Mountain Majesty

Bleakness

This isn't one of those stories that end with a happily ever after. The hero doesn't marry the girl, if you can even call him a hero. The anatgonist doesn't have an epic demise. This is a story for all the pessimists in the world, enjoy.

The beginning isn't anything spectacular. Just an average joe, going to work an average joe's job. Let's call him Greg. His name could be Sam, or Jacob, or he could have your name, but Greg is as good a name as any. At twenty-eight years old, where this story begins, Greg owned a small barely furnished apartment, but he mostly spent his time in a smaller cubicle. He works hard, for enough money to get by with a few extra beers at the end of the week. Greg's boss is an ass, and the girl in the cubicle next to his might just be his dream girl, she's in enough of them, but he's never said anything not pertaining to work to her, and subconsiously, isn't ever planning to.

The beginning isn't anything spectacular. Just a girl next door working a girl next door job. She could be a Courney or a Laura, or whatever your distant cousin that you were close to when you were little, but never really talk to now name was, but for our story purposes, her name is Erica. Erica will turn twenty-nine in four days. Without alimony from her cheating ex-husband she couldn't afford to keep Sarah in daycare and a leaky roof over their heads. Erica's boss sexually harrassess her, but without a college degree, she can't risk losing her job by filing a complaint. But she works hard to get a promotion, to excape her boss, and becoming a bit more independant, although, honestly, she'll never get it.

The beginning isn't anything spectacular. He's the boss. He will inherit the company once his father dies, if he keeps his office in check, at least that's what his father told him he will inherit. Although, like father like son, he did inherit the inablility to be faithful to his spouse. Meet Donald  Allen. I suppose he could be Robert Hall or Paul Cole Junior, or whatever your boss is called, but I prefer Donald Allen. Who coincidentally goes by his surname only. He just turned fifty four two months ago, and celebrated with a fifty thousand dollar bash. He always has been a people person. He needs to know people. Needs people to know him. Allen makes half a million dollars annually, mostly from daddy's allowance. It isn't a coincidence that if someone took a poll of female hair color and eye shade over ninety percent would be brown eyed blondes, but as Donald likes to say, coincidences are like honest politicians, nonexistant.

These three saw each other every week day for a year. We would not even have a story to tell if That Thing hadn't have happened. Greg would have lost his job due to budget cuts in six months, give or take a day, and had to move back in with his parents in Canada. Erica would have tried everything to get a promotion, but fail and turn back to alcohol, losing her six year old daughter, Sarah in a custody battle because of it, and Allen would have filed for a divorce in exactly one year, draining all his funds, right before his father died, leaving the entire company his daughter, Donald's half sister that loathes him. If That Thing had not have happend. But it did. And the real kicker is, that things would have been better off if That Thing never happened.

Guess Who

This is for you, just in case.

Just in case you're ever down without a friend, think of me.

Think of me when you're at the top, you'll get there one way or another.

One way or another you'll get to be in the middle, not up, nor down, when you're there pause.

Pause, relax, and stop to smell the roses.

Smell the roses, but know that all beauty comes with thorns that you won't see at first.

At first, I bet this wasn't what you were expecting at all.

At all times, know that I love you for your strenghts, and your flaws.

Your flaws are just strenghts that are out of control.

Control is an important thing, but it doesn't mean you always have to have it.

It is just a material possesion. It won't give you happiness.

Happiness is a journey, not a destination. Like life.

Life, is a tricky matter. And this is for the times when you need someone.

Someone special I wrote this for.

For when life throws a curve ball, and you need it, just in case this is for you.

Things

A whole array of things,

Lifeless trivial things,

Lay however last left.

Things to humanity flings

Burdens, sorrows. and joys.

Lifeless trivial things

Cannot encompass the

Emotion human brings.

Selling your soul is prizing

Lifeless trivial things.

Mitus will tell it has

Been the downfall of kings

And rules poor men's lewd dreams,

Lifeless trivial things.

Society comes to

girls lusting for gold rings

And lives wasted for those

Lifeless trivial things.

Green strips, metal disks

do not give birds their wings.

What is the funtion of

Lifeless trivial things?

That snare and trap minds

into thinking of "blings?"

The moment you die, those

lifeless trivial things,

like the world, forget you.

The nightengale still sings.

Listen to the poets

Lifeless trivial things

Cannot give you hope or

anything that clings

After departing. Those

Lifeless trivial things

will not introduce you

to the great King of Kings.

They are just simple things

Lifeless trivial things.

When something shiny snags

you eye, beware of things.

Change

At the first day of May, seven years ago, at exactly eight o'clock, a girl made her birthday wish. She wouldn't tell anyone, but she wished everything would change. Espesially her older brother's best friend's feelings towards her; she was ten whole years old after all.
She looked around the moment before she blew the candles out, her eyes pausing at her mother and father, they were holding hands, smiling at their little girl. She didn't notice the new gray streaks in her mother's hair, or the fresh wrinkles on her father's forehead, mysterious signs of early aging. Her brother, Kellen, and his best friend, Darlow, were leaning in, practically over her birthday cake in anticipation of her blowing out the candles. The neighbor's daughter, Fate, was sitting beside her, her face also lit up with excitement.
The whole moment was magical. The stars dimly gleaming in the new purple darkness, as the afternoon cicadas sang a last goodnight. Everyone she loved was around her picnic table, waiting for her to blow out the candles on her blue birthday cake. And when Claire finally blew out the fire, only one thing was on her mind: change.

Sorry, Bryce

I can't stop thinking about you, Bryce.

And I want to say thank you.

Not a sadistic facetious thanks, no, a real thank you.

I mean it.

You opened my eyes to the little things.

You were a big picture guy.

And when your plan burned, you pulled the trigger.

I used to think like that.

But not so much now.

I see beauty. Old beauty that I missed somehow before.

Like grass blades, and long endless roads.

I also see new beauty, beauty that you'll never see.

The baby was born the day after you died. She's gorgeous.

I hope her mother tells her about you. So that she won't be so stupid.

You were so stupid to do that. So stupid.

Valedictorian, but yet so stupid.

I'm stupid too, for needing to see death to live.

At first, I was horrified at the Earth for continuing to turn.

slowly. steadily. consistently.

Is that what you would have wanted, for everything to stop when you did?

My world stopped turning, Bryce, just for a moment.

They didn't call your name at graduation.

They just moved on.

slowly. steadily. consistently.

I don't think I'll ever truly forget you, Bryce.

But I'm not going to think about you anymore.

You pulled the trigger.

No one did that for you.

Now I'm going to let you die in my mind too.

I never really grasped the concept, death.

Such a mysterious unusual word.

You weren't my first death, but I never understood what it meant.

They just weren't there after that, even when they seemed like they should be.

But you.

Your empty chair killed me.

They taped your picture on a chair.
But it's gone now. So are you.

And I'm going to let you die in my mind too.

I hope you're enjoying yourself.

Pray for us who are still here.

There are too many sorrows to count.

Speak to Jesus on our behalf. On my behalf.

Ask Him to forgive us, we do not know what we are doing.

I pray for you.
Pray for us, Bryce.

Lastly, Bryce, I forgive you.

I forgive you for never saying goodbye.

For putting us all through death.

Suicide isn't sad for the victim.

The victim isn't actually a victim at all.

The victims are those of us who are left behind.

I forgive you for leaving me behind.

I forgive you.

Forgive me?

Direct Son Light

In this moment there is nothing that I want more than to be right here.

Doing nothing but praising Him.

Burned and marred, Here I am, blimished and scarred.

I have no where else to run.

I have no where else to run.

But even if I did, I wouldn't go.

Because He is here, and He knows how I felt.

Alone. Trapped. Ugly.

And He is forgiving,

If only I'll appologize.

If only' I'll repent and turn.

But it is easier to persist ignorantly into dark sin,

Than to turn into direct Son light.

Claire and Darlow

"You know, sometimes, the bad guy wins. I don't know why, but that's just the how it is! What's the point in fighting it?" She screamed. She raised her fingertips to her temples, his back was still towards her. His hands were fiercely grabbing the table; his knuckles rapidly loosing color.

"Tell me!" Exasperated, she tossed her hands into the air. "You know, that was Superman's problem. He could catch a bad guy, but there's still one on the loose. There's still one more to catch. So what does it matter if we catch this one?" She was pleading at the end of her speech.

"You know why," his voice was gruff. It caught Claire off guard, but she refused to let him see that.

"Why? Because of Fate? Or is it Kellen this time? You do remember him, don't you?"

The table Darlow had been grasping colapsed to the floor in a loud clatter. Furiously, Darlow marched over to Claire, she backed up until she felt her back bump into a concrete wall. He kept coming until she was sandwiched between him and the wall.

"Listen, I know what you're thinking, but I'm thinking if you were a man, I would hit you. I have half a mind to do it anyway."

"Fate's dead! She's dead! And catching her killer isn't going to bring her back!"

"I know."

"Then..."

"I know! I know she's dead. I don't need you reminding me of that! This isn't for her!" Darlow backed up half a step and found a spot on the wall to stare at.

"Then who?" Claire's voice was barely a whisper. His eyes rejoined hers.

"This is for the next victim's fiancee. This is for the next little sister. This is for the next best friend. This is so that they---- never---- have ---- to deal---- with this---- pain!" Darlow had backed up completely and hit the wall between his words.

Claire stayed exactly where she was, and watched as Darlow threw the table and hit the wall. Carefully, she walked over to him. Her left hand moved her hair behind her ear as her right gently touched his wrists. He dropped his arms, and his eyes. Claire didn't know why, but she just kissed him.

"Just because she's dead, doesn't mean that you have to be." She started to walk out of the room, he stood there. Just before she reached the door, she turned around. "You coming, there are dirt bags out there we need to catch."

Broken, Ugly and Dying

I am a unique piece of ceramic, beautiful to my Creator. But I've jumped and broken. I've tried to get up to mend myself, truly I've tried, but my hands are shattered.

I am a puppet lying on the floor, ugly and unwanted. And all I can do is cry, hopin the next child will want me and hold me, but they never last.

I am a seed trying to grow on a rock, but dying. There is good soil down in the valley; I can see it. I am thinking that if I let go the breeze could blow me down. It would be a hard fall though. And even harder to grow. But it has to be better than dying on this rock. I am letting go.

I am thinking back to the Puppet Master. The One who made me. The One who I ran away from. Maybe He would untangle my strings and maybe repaint me and maybe, just maybe, forgive me and I could be of use to Him. It would be hard, calling to Him, sacrificing myself, but honestly I would rather be with Him than being dropped so many times. I am calling

"I am so sorry. I knew what I was doing when I jumped. I knew. But I'm sorry. Cover me. Forgive me. Fix me. Please? You can remold me in ways that I never imagined. I give my whole self to You. You are the Potter, make me in Your image. Please Lord, please?"

Art Lessons

I took art lessons a few years ago and this is the first thing in my sketch book. Don't make fun, it's really good for me. But i don't know exactly when this is. Enjoy though:

Pinch Me, Lovebug

A summer fling can pinch.

Even when you expect it to end.

It still hurts, just a bit.

You didn't say why,

But I never asked.

I would never tell you,

But maybe it hurt a bit.

And if my phone wasn't dead,

I might embarrass myself.

Even though at the beginning,

I knew you weren't the one.

But I wanted us anyway.

You never knew that I wrote poetry.

Or dress up and twirl around my room when I'm upset.

Because you never really cared to know.

But guess what, lovebug,

I never really knew you either.

And I'm not twirling now, trying to make myself feel better.

I'm ok. I'll be hurt worse. I've been hurt worse.

A summer fling can pinch.

But pinches only sting for a second, never scaring.

And to be honest, lovebug,

It didn't really hurt.

Squares

Ok. I really like to paint with water colors. Since May I've been doing these squares. Here they are though:

Safe Haven

to be differentread my moodthe truth about the worldlooking back Playing with LightDear Ms. Moore

Unnamed

Forever Boy-Crazy

Best friends repair hearts boys break

Moving on begins with a goodbye

My magical ending is not you.

I miss you. Wait, I'm lying.

Saying sorry doesn't magically fix anything.

Kissing you flips my world over.

Go ahead, my heart needs stabbing.


(I've already published this one, but I really like it)

Floral Flings
Summer romances,
Are pretty little flowers.
Pretty, but wilting.

(now new haikus)

Teenage hearts are like
Rabbits, quick to runaway,
Slow to recover.

Facebook Official
Doesn't mean what it meant in the
Olden days. Does it?

Chess

I feel like a pawn in some bigger chess game.

To be a pawn seems so insignificant, so irrevelent, so inconsequential, so utterly unimportant.

But although I do not know the plan, He does.

My path may not be glamourous, I may not be the piece to take the black king, but He can use me in other ways. Because I will move when He calls, and not sit painted in the right color, but dead and lifeless any longer. I have been repainted. And I'm His pawn, and pawns can't move backwards.

Jerimiah 29:11

A Friend of Failure.

I've always been a friend to failure.

I set myself up to meet him,

face to face.

Over the years,

his bitter eyes have become a degree warmer.

a bit friendlier. almost neutral.

It doesn't hurt meeting him.

Not anymore.
But I'm afraid of the pain

returning once more.

You see, I've always been

a dreamer, not a doer.

And seeing these dreams crash

around me is just too

painful a thought to bear.

Maybe I should just

quit while I'm ahead.

The Most Difficult Word

No.

the word has so much promise. so much potential

it can kill a relationship.

it can start a revolution.

it can save you.

it can kill you.

no, it speaks for itself.

no,

no.

No.
NO.

NO!

Two letters. One syllable.

You would never think that the most difficult word

to say in the English lanuguage is just

a simple life changing no.

1899 Russia

Poetry is not the only things I like to write. Snip bits and pieces of storys I also write, proses I guess. Anyway, most of the time, this is an exception, but the characters reflect a mood. Oh and I need a name. Post suggestiongs please! Here is the a part of something I wrote a while ago, and edited thouroghly before I published:

The train jolted into motion. I relaxed a bit as the steady train's sounds replaced the voices chasing me. I sat down in the car, my back against the cold steel interior.

"I have it!" I whispered to myself, after taking a moment to breathe. I stuck my tounge out at the men who were following me, even though they were too far away to know. I smirked, and reached into my duffel, slowly extracting the stone. It gleamed slightly in the low light.

Someone gasped softly; sharply I looked up.

"So there she is," he said, I guessed he was reffering to the ruby that his eyes never left.

"Dimitri," I hissed. At this point I had no idea whether to be annoyed or frustrated.

"Evening, Abbigail," he tipping his messenger hat as our eyes met. His eyes were a luscious chocolate brown, not that I noticed.

"Where's your friend? What is he going by these days?" I was trying to divert the conversation off the stone. I turned the back of my closed fist towards him and slowly pantomimed placing the ruby into my bag, while I moved my other hand, with the ruby behind my back.

"Jack, just call him Jack. He's probably looking for you in another car, you should be glad that I'm the one who found you, and not him though."

"Why's that?"

"He stole a gun in the last town we visited, and has been itching to use it."

"Interesting," I hope I come off as amused, because I can't afford to let him know how truly terrified his presence is making me. "What did you want?" I ask softly, trying desperately to sound much more appealing and mature than the underfed ninteen year old theif that I am.

He steps towards me and lowers himself to one knee. His face is only inches away from mine. He smells of vodka and sawdust, which is suprisingly intoxicating.

"I told him that you'd cooperate, and if you didn't I'll get my own gun." He leans in and the inches become mere centimeters. I'm not sure if I want to push him away, or pull him in closer. So sit there petrified. Being around him always has done this to me; I don't know where I stand. And when you're a thief, not knowing could mean not surviving.

I feel a slight pressure on the small of my back, but it isn't his hand; it's the stone. I squeeze my eyes shut; his fingers brush a bit of my exposed skin when he grasps it. Once in his possesion, he rises back to full height and takes a few steps back.

It's then that I notice a broad shouldered figure standing in the exit. Jack. He walks up to Dimitri and glances haughtily at the stone in his hand.

"Well I gotta give you credit, I didn't think she'd see things our way if you know what I mean," he said with a wink, sounding half amused half dissapointed.

"I haven't exactly explained everything to her yet," Dimitri muttered; I pretended not to hear.

"She just gave you the stone before the deal? Too easy!" Jack scoffed. He took the stone from Dimitri and tossed it to me. I lurched forward, earning a chuckle from Jack, to catch it.

"Alright, princess, here's the deal: we are now partners. And since you are so greatful for us sparing your life, you'll give us the stone, or,"

"Or you shoot me," I finished. Jack smiled, I glanced at Dimitri, but he was avoiding eye contact.

"Alright, but I get to hold on to the stone." They exchanged a glance, and reached out to shake my hand. I smiled and shook their both simultaneously.

"Princess, I don't care how long you and Romeo over here were together, or whatever you were, but if you try to double cross us, I'll shoot you before you can say goodbye.

I rolled my eyes. "Alright, gentlemen. What's next?"

"Well this is our stop." The train did not even start to slow down. "Ladies first." I felt rought hands on my back shove me out the car door and into the Russian night.

Bryce

I never imagined this.

I never thought that something like this would ever happen.

Could ever happen.

And all I can think of right now is what I never got to say.

I can think of so many things now that would have made you laugh.

Smile.

Retort.

But it's too late now, isn't it?

I don't want to believe it.

I can't believe it.

Until I walk in the room and you're not there.

Why did you do that to us? To your team? To your family?

What was the last thought right before you pulled the trigger?

You can't answer me anymore, can you?

I could yell until my voice died.

I could write until my fingers fell off of my hand, cold,

numb

dead.

But you will never hear me!

You will never read my words!

You will never know how much this hurts me!

Why did you do that to us? To your team? To your family?

Why did you do that to yourself?

How could you?

I trusted you.

Depended on you.

Needed you.

What am I supposed to do now? Stop living?

You were a person to look up to.

And now you are six feet beneath me.

I always thought that you'd go far.

That was too far.

I never imagined you would.

1-800-SUICIDE, 1-800-784-2433, 1-800-273-TALK, 1-800-273-8255

Quality Japenese Poetry Time

Now I have more. But come on, who doesn't like some good haikus?

I'm not really sure what to name this one. . . .
Old Maroon Five songs
One Thirty in the morning
My heart and pen time.

Edit: But come on, who doesn't like original haikus?

His Glory
What do you expect?
Seventeen bare syllables
can't do Him justice.

You know, I think I might be the only one who bothers to name haikus.
Edit: doesn't like interesting haikus?

Why Not
Zap! Bang! Zip! Crash!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Count me, I'm legit.

Ok, seriously now. . . .


is it haikus or haikui?

Edit: doesn't like some haikus? Or possibly haikui . . . .

Six Six Word Memoirs

As authors tell it, Ernest Hemingway was once ask to write an entire story using six words. He responded: For sale: baby shoes never worn. And thus six word memoirs were born. And now that I was introduced to them by my former English teacher (he created a monster), I am addicted to writing them. Here are a few of my favorites that I have written:

Fighting, laughing, crying, hugging, loving; Sisters.

Crying myself asleep, feel better tomorrow.

Taking on life, chapter by chapter.

Where's my knight in shining armour?

Living is breathing. Breathing is bittersweet.

Please, just one day, drama free.

there

I am standing in a cold black shadow. I am running like a chicken with it's head cut off. Bouncing from one black corner to another. Never warm. Just scared. It isn't long before I trip and fall. I feel warm liquid running down through my hair, down my face. I get up, and run, stumbling through the dark. Eventually I sit down in the cold darkness and start to sob. My blood seems to have become cold; I'm so very cold, inside and out.

Then I hear a click. A soft click, as if a light has come on. I look up, and am astonished at what I see: there is a light, and somehow I know that if I could just get close to it, I would never be cold again. I think it's a dream, but I can't taste my own blood in dreams. I run towards the light, but I can't get there. The more I run, the more the light stays the same distance away. I can't get there. I run, and run, and run, and run until my legs fail and I fall on my face, causing my nose to bleed. I don't even bother getting up. I just lie there and cry pathetically.
Then I hear another click. The same click. I look up expecting the light that was my only hope of warmth and safe haven gone, but it isn't. It's even brighter than before, and this time there is a long wooden bridge leading to the light. About two-thirds of the way along there is an intersection. Hesitantly, I step out onto the bridge to the light. I expect sirens to go off, to be pushed off, anything, but I'm not. I step fully out onto the board. My wounds stop bleeding. I'm no longer cold. I feel for the sears, but they are starting to heal. They still sting, but they are healing. A voice, warm and kind talks to me. He calls me by name and says "Finally." We walk, slowly, but steadily along the path. When I am scared, He is with me. When I misstep, He is with me. When I do something right, He is with me.
But then fire erupts, and I am scared and run back to the darkness. It is much easier to go back, but nearly as rewarding. I cower in the dark, remembering the little taste of happiness on the bridge. I look at the dark, and I look at the light. Sure the walk is difficult, but I know when I get to the bright light it will all be worth it. One more glance at the hypnotising light, then once more behind me and I have my decision. What's yours?


If you want to know what I am talking about:
www.thedougandjonshow.com/god/videos/karas-story/

Purely Sour

I guess it's bittersweet. Ending.
Smile: it happened.
Face faltering. Frog clutching throat. Fogged vision blinding.
Go ahead sweetheart, cry; it's over. Done. Gone. Dead.
The laughs are done. Your new family: gone. A piece of you dies.
Saltwater burns as it falls to the ground, doesn't it?
Some people thing it's bittersweet. Ending.
I think life is bittersweet. Heartaches. Hope. Humanity.
Endings. They're just purely sour.

Glass

Ever since the day I was born I started to build myself a palace.

My palace, it's made of glass dreams. Dreams of escape. beauty. change.

It glitters in the sunlight.

Change gleaming. Escape glistening.

It's everything, perfectly shining.

But everytime you tell me that I can't, my palace breaks a little.

But every sunrise it rebuilds.

Dents and scratches can't destroy a palace.

Only mar.

My biggest fear is that someday

my palace will come

crashing

down.

And I'll be surrounded by pieces of colored glass.

And my heart will be cut open, bleeding, aching, crying.

But it won't die.

What if a piece gets into my heart

and lodges itself perfectly so that I will

forever have to remember while it continues to slice?

It'll throb so painfully that I don't think I can bear it,

but it'll keep bleeding.

Crushed palaces can't destroy a heart.

Only maim.

What can I possibly do with broken glass?

I can

cut my wrists

and create little white lines

of momentary release

But I can't rebuild my palace. Not from broken dreams.

If you have ever cut yourself, and need a better exit, visit this site. www.thedougandjonshow.com/cafe-de-kara/cafe-de-kara-videos/self-injury

Guinevere

Guinevere, my dear, I finally understand.

I used to resent you. loathe you. hate you.

Not now.

Never now. Now I understand.

Now I wish. pray. hope.

that I'll have the courage to follow my heart, not my head.

Because if I follow my head, my heart will shatter.

Now, it's being dragged

with every step I make, every breath I take.

So please, tell me what to do.

Tell me right. Tell me left. Tell me.

Let me stop suffocating my heart.

Let me tell it what to do.

Don't let me break it.

I can't loose that much blood.

Let me live.

But don't, don't, let my story end like yours.

Good One

Disney taught me what beauty was. small feet. clear face. small. delicate. flawless hair. blue eyes. red lips.
I'm none of those things....
I have duck feet.
Zits line my cheekbones.
I'm taller than all the boys.
My hair's a nest.
My eyes, comparable to mud.
Lips chapped as a desert after a sandstorm.
My tan lines, atrocious.
Everything about me is long and lanky. awkward. ugly.

You don't know how badly

I need you to look me in the eye

and tell me that I'm beautiful,

and mean every single sylable.

You don't know how badly

I want you to think I'm beautiful.

Not pretty. Not sexy. Not attractive.

Beautiful.

Simlply Beautiful. Elegantly Beautiful. Beautiful me.

But if you tell me that I'm beautiful, I'll only have one thing to say.

Me, Beautiful? Good one.

Summer Haikus

Floral Flings
Summer romances
Are pretty little flowers,
Pretty, but wilting.

Finally

One hundred degrees

Thrilled to be sun burnt and free

Finally Summer

Never Leave

Warm days. No dumb rules.

Late nights. No early mornings.

Never leave Summer

Journey

It's a journey.

Summer and sweaty summer.

Don't Stop Believin'

How to Be a Poet

(To remind myself)

i.
Make a journal. Get a pen that makes you feel free.
A purple marker. A feather pen.
A sharpened pencil with a chewed eraser, maybe.
Turn your music on.
Louder. Louder. LOUDER!
Whatever music that reflects your mood.
Let your feelings ricochet
Growing stronger with the music.
Depend on the music. Follow your feelings.
Listen to your heart, not your brain.
Anyone who understands your poetry, question their sanity.

ii.
Breathe.
Look at the world around you.
Close your eyes
Then see what you wish to see.
Write it down.
Let the words flow. . . .
Like that river that all poets talk about.
Cover every inch of water.
There is no where you can't go.
No where you have to go.
Just where you choose to go.

iii.
Accept what your heart feels.
Don't question, just write.
Write the words that come from places unknown
Growing on the pages like grass
Taller and longer and longer and taller
filling the page.
Let the words be as loud as the song
As powerful as you feel.
Make them be your ambassador to the world.
Have them speak for you.
And when you have them speak, have them yell.

*Inspired by Wendell Berry's How To Be a Poet

One Of Those Spring Days

It's just one of those days

where the weatherman predicts storms,

but there isn't a cloud in the sky.

and the flowers are finally sprining to life

and the sun is smiling

and the grass is exceptionally green

and the ground is damp with fresh dew.

It's just one of those days.

where you did nothing all day,

a much needed break,

after weeks of stress.

and you didn't have anything to do

and you feel accomplished even though all you did was breathe.

and you're tired, but not exhausted like you have been

It's just one of those days.

Those rare. exceptional. relaxing. days.

Wishing on Birthday Candles

On a star that glittered up above,
I wished for a fairytale.
On an old weathered penny,

Tossed into a fountain,

I wished for something called love.

That might sound slightly stupid,

And crazy, or childish,

But I hope and pray, still.

But I never tell a living soul;

My dreams, to the world muted.

When I am old by numbers,

I'll look back and reminise,

How my dreams became real life.

Until then I'll still wish on
Candles for magic summers.

Falling

Falling is easy. natural. beautiful.

You just got to let yourself go,

and take the jump.

leap then fall.

Fall.

No one's really afraid of falling.

The idea that one day you just might

soar is too hypnotic. entransing. beautiful.

for anyone to be afraid of falling.

It's the landing.

The crashing.

The burning.

The breaking.

The ending.

that everyone fears.

But I don't. I've jumped. loved. fallen.

Let me tell you, it's worth the risk.

Where I'm From

I'm not from where the red fern grows.
I'm not from somewhere over the rainbow.
I'm not from where the wild things are.
I'm from an old flowering crabapple tree, whose branches were
my steed,
my broomstick,
my motorcycle,
my wings.

I'm from short lived snowball fights,

and drinking hot chocolate to warm up our noses and toes.

I'm from clover necklaces and matching springtime outfits,

and homemade chocolate chip cookies.

I'm from swimming with my cousins after tennis practice,

punctated with watermelon breaks.

I'm from leaf forts, my grandfathers's homemade spinach raviolis,

and wishing I could travel south with the birds and be gone with the wind.

I'm from the land the government gave my ancestors,
The land of the Red Man;
I'm from the path they took on their way here,
The Trail of Tears.
I'm from the dirt that matches that man.
I'm from the hereditary rosacea on my father's face, and his father's face.

I'm from the bookshelf in the basement.
Through its shelves I have traveled
to Hogwarts, to be sorted into Gryffindor,
to Wayside Elementary, to read a story backwards,
to Boston to catch an art thief,
to Greater Greensward, to kiss a frog prince,
to Whoville, to save a whole town by using my outdoor voice,
and to Narnia, to defeat a white queen.
I'm from a line of bookworms,
and someday, my name will be remembered,
and so will where I'm from



*Inspired by George Ella Lyon's Where I'm From

Pretty Please

Tell me, pretty please?

No, you're just too young to

understand.

Am not.

You just don't see things
the way they should be seen.

Do so. The grass is green.

The sky is blue.

What else is there?

It's not that simple.
You just wouldn't get it.

A small pink tounge emerges

from a pink lemonade stained mouth.

The child turns and runs.

I'm left wondering when my childhood.
innocence. simplicity. dissapeared.

With first kisses? First drinks?
With seasons? With birthdays?

Can I go back?

Can I go back to the times where right

wasn't wrong, and wrong wasn't right?

Can I go back to a world where colored

reffered to crayons and paper?

Can I go back to the times when AIDS

was just something that came after the word band?

Can I go back to the times when the

grass was green

and the sky was blue?

Nothing in between.

No complications. No deportations.

No assasinations. No infestations.

No trepidations. No classifications.

No obligations. Only Disneyfication.

Just a blue sky and a green grass.

Please?

Pretty Please?