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.