July 29, 2011
July 26, 2011
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.
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.
July 21, 2011
July 19, 2011
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.
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.
July 17, 2011
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.
July 15, 2011
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.
July 12, 2011
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.
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.
July 07, 2011
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.
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.
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.
July 06, 2011
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."
"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."
July 01, 2011
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?"
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.
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