so here we go (from new to old, almost completely chronologically speaking)�.
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My affliction is
my addiction to you
to the small of your back
to the strands of your hair
that brush my ear
as you whisper
to the brilliance of your smile
which I will elicit
at all costs
including self-respect
you turn a blind eye to me
even as I call out to you
You are with another girl
and I hate her
as if she were my-
self. Loathing.
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Can't think,
except of you.
In my thoughts you are kissing me,
and in my heart I am mourning you.
Fell in love with you
only after you were gone.
Typical me.
Fell unreasonably hard for you.
That is just me again.
Please, come get used to me.
This Week
Oh how I love
when you laugh at me.
Check my vitals.
Look, see my chest heaving.
Listen, hear my air catch in my throat.
Feel my heart expand.
Am I breathing?
There's something
about your smile,
a secret that is somehow my own.
Maybe if I kiss you I will
taste it.
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Pools of Autumn-browned sunshine,
the tang that kisses my cheeks,
the clarity of a cool afternoon.
Each leaf that trickles down to lie beneath my shoe
gives me pause to think fondly on friends of mine,
and to wish the one or the other of them was present
to slush through leaves with me.
----------------------
I refuse,
but
you own me.
I want to buy me back.
But the price is so high.
Maybe instead I want to touch your face,
and run my hand up your inseam.
----------------------
You
unhinge me,
open wide my doors,
revealing what I'm feeling inside.
And I hide...
At the back of a closet,
curled up
in the arms of the dark.
And the closet
is a reality of my mind.
And I find...
That I am thinking of you all the time.
----------------------BR>
Goodbye
You will be missed,
are already so,
wish I had kissed
you once before
we parted.
For all times
we are friends
but this is where
we step no further
together.
The chance has passed
you are past
we peaked
as friends
and went our ways
and wend our ways
apart.
My heart aches
for you
for the future
and your inevitable replacement.
Why?
Oh why Heart?
I want to stay
forever
in the embrace
you never gave me.
In your beautful smile
In the friendship
that was never more,
Is nevermore.
Oh sweet goodbye!
The Rhythm of the Night
I sit here in the night
In the soft and velvet night
In the night that lasts forever
In the eternal velvet night.
I sit and think of you
As I sit and think of you
In the velvet of the night
I softly think of you.
I wish upon a star
On a falling strand of light
In the velvet of the night
On a softly sighing star.
I sing a song for you
In the softness of the night
With the harmony of night
I weave soft velvet songs for you.
----------------------
words
mean so much more
from the heart,
but my heart
means so much more
than words can
convey.
i offer you
my hand
in friendship
i offer you myself
in the hope
that you will understand
me.
someday
in the future
i will look back on
these days.
and i hope
it is with you,
over a cup of
coffee.
or some other beverage.
----------------------
Into my heart and
Onto my paper.
A flit in my thoughts
And in my dreams but a caper.
If only to capture the
Neck of your nape.
And examine the twinkle
In a glimpse of your eye.
To smile your smile and
Make it my own.
----------------------
Hydrogen dioxide condensing in the clouds
Lands gently in the dust.
A proven inspirational atmospheric condition.
Raindrops roll down the translucent veins of leaves
Like memories through my hippocampus.
I see the sky and think of you,
What nerve made that connection?
I�m stuck on you like one rolled up, sticky piece of athletic tape with another,
Inside somebody�s pocket.
Or maybe a strip that has been inconspicuously stuck to your back.
It�s drizzling out
Which is important to note
Because raining is not the same as pouring is not the same as drizzling.
----------------------
What was I thinking?
Oh wait, I wasn�t.
Sometimes it makes a difference
Sometimes it doesn�t.
Ode to Creative Writing Club
I wrote a poem at school today
While other kids went out to play.
I did not have too much to say
But went on writing anyway.
The poem began to grow quite long
And sort of rambled on and on.
Though forced to stop it by request
I myself was still impressed.
The teacher, though, was not amused.
My classmates grew somewhat confused.
The whole poem sounded quite fantastic.
My word choice seemed a bit bombastic.
As pen across the paper flew,
It finished lines, began anew.
Chaos reigned and gloom ensued,
Creating a depressing mood.
Not saying much in many words,
I joined the ranks of writing nerds.
And so I come to you today,
To light my path and show the way.
With notebook and my pen and ink,
Please teach me how to be succinct!
Not a Poem, Not even the whole Story
There he was, writing at his desk, head bent over his work intently. Lacking whatever force had pushed her into the room, she stood there staring at him. Features that were familiar, and yet as she watched they seemed to take on a new light. It happened every now and then, this revelation. She could look at a person she had looked at everyday for a year and see him anew. Looking at each part individually and suddenly finding that when she pieced them together again, they were the same whole, but she had a new appreciation for how each piece worked together.
He looked up at her, breaking the epiphany as she looked into his eyes and found his familiar self smiling out. And the smile spread outward, reaching his mouth and hands, affecting his posture in a friendly way. Pleased at the smile, she was disappointed at what else she saw. Now that she had put her finger on it, she could note the subtle indications that his defenses had gone up with the smile, and that, just like the smile, they were in place solely for her. And so she could return his welcome with but half a smile of her own, though her whole heart was contained in it. Nervously, she ran her thumbs up and down her book bag strap, comforted by the small black ribs that, under normal circumstances, she would not even notice. She shifted her weight slightly and took another step forward, resisting the majority of her faculties straining to turn and flee the room. But she would have no peace now until she said what she had come to say.
Now his smile became wearied and began to relax out of the welcome it had intiated. She found that it was still present in his lips and she could trace it back into his eyes, but he began to sense a meaning in her hesitation. Still, he waited for her to begin and as she did so, she could no longer face his eyes and instead looked at his hands. He still held a pen in one, it leaned against the space between his thumb and index finger. The other hand had somewhat flattened itself against his desktop. It drained strength from the desk�s solidity while she stood unsupported, facing his waiting features now half forming a question he would not put to her.
----------------------
"The Beginning of the Book of Normal"
Normal: adj. ordinary; usual; conforming to type.
I should warn you that because this book is about me, it won't actually be that interesting. If you're the average kind of person, it will be like reading about yourself. Or perhaps it will be more mediocre than that would be. In fact, I would almost assure you it will be, since most people are quite interested in themselves. Nothing wrong with that, I'm no exception.
My life doesn't have the excitement of living in the ghetto. It doesn't have the exception of being prodigious. It doesn't have the glamor of some dark or wonderful secret. And it doesn't have that special bond of closeness with friends or even family. Normal. Average. Ordinary. That is all I have.
Life began for me in some sunny Californian city. But since I moved at the age of one year, I can't tell you more than that. My parents were probably afraid I'd have something to write about someday, so they shot that problem in the kneecaps and relocated to a midsized city in the Inland Northwest. No small town gossip or scandal. No big time adventure. Normal, average, ordinary.
----------------------
Does a story need an introduction. How do you know when you have something worthwhile to say. That you're not just repeating what's already been said, not to make a point, but because you have nothing else to say. A story to entertain and please, that fails because everyone has heard it before. Not speaking for attention. Not speaking to be heard. But speaking because your whole self overflows with something indescribable, and you feel the need to control and direct that flow. If you try to stop it, it might become a raging river of destruction. Or perhaps it will die off at the suppressed source adn you will never find it again.
THis is not even a story, it has no plot, it wasn't meant to be enjoyed, it might not even have been meant to be read, but here it is. We can all write, we can quote the great authors and their invaluable life lessons, imparted through timeless works. We can expand on Thoreau's views of simplicity or nature, Hawthorne's theory on the individual and society, or Bradbury's warnings of impending doom. They are all worthy stories, passed down through the generations, gaining in importance and appreciation. But you will not learn any lessons. You will not find the maning of happiness or life. There is only one story from which you will learn anything, and that is your own. At sixteen, I can hardly have a story to tell. Stop now, before you discover that I have nothing to say but a story.
----------------------
I sat down to write yesterday, with my pen in hand. And as I traveled the road that winds along the river of creativity, imagination, etc., my tires went flat. After a moment of attempting to inflate my flats, I began again on foot. And as I walked along, I came upon a monster. And that monster buzzed in my ear, "Why?" It said:
"Why have you come here? What have you to say, with sixteen years of experience that hasn't already been said? What makes you think you can travel this road in a way that it hasn't been traveled before? What vanity gives you the confidence to tread where so many great footsteps have already echoed?"
I swatted the monster away, but it persisted:
"What do you know?" It asked.
I sat down to think.
I know insecurity and lack of self-esteem.
I know what it is to try to deal with people you can't stand.
I know what it is to dream about things you can never attain.
I know that the greatest thing about life is people and the worst thing about life is people.
I know what it is to try and fail, and try again. And fail again.
And when I finished my monster said, "You know nothing that everyone else does not already know. What makes you think you can write when you have so little to say?"
After listening so long to that depriciating voice in my ear, I went to bed.
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This story has nothing to do with me. None of it's events relate to me in any way. Nor are any of its characters at all representative of anyone I know. The reader definitey should not assume that the well-known writer's motto stating that one should write from one's own experience applies in any shape or form to what follows this introductory paragraph and presents itself as my story.
I suppose that in reality all normal people have a general affinity for other people, regardless of how they choose to disguise it. Some people are inarguably better at expressing this affection, those becoming the well-loved kind that everyone has no hesitation professing their own appreciation for. You may begin to wonder, as I do myself, where these "insightful" ramblings may be headed. But perhaps if we dug deep beneath these surface examinations, we will find a story. Perhaps it will be the story of a person troubled by their own selective affection, a person searching, and hungering, for the rare displays of affection from those he or she holds in esteem. I don't mean the surface kindness presented to the masses, but the moments when that top layer is stripped away and one knows that this person truly likes you. It may be that this kind of worry rides on the shoulders of only a few. Maybe the young are more vulnerable, perhaps many people choose never to question themselves. As an unbiased writer, and one not speaking from her own experience, I am presently unable to provide any satisfying answers to such pressing questions. Undoubtedly, readers may choos their own picture of the world, framed by their own experience or imagination.
Why is it that when wants something with all of one's heart, one becomes so careful in the obtaining of it? There is a fear that if this desire is tossed up into the flow of the wind, to be blown where it wills, that one will only catch bits and pieces of it when the wind dies down.
And so continues the story of our searching soul. In the beginning, she was ignorant, and it was bliss. As she grew, she changed, and so her perception of everything that surrounded her. There grew to be a barrier between her and the world. As life went on, an entrance was carved, and a special few admitted. Some were invited, but remained aloof. Some crept in, only to thrust their way out, leaving holes in her stronghold. Although internally injured, in it's rebuilding the wall gained strength and its builder wisdom. Then she reached the point in her life labeled by so many as some of the hardest to endure, the teenage years. Here our everyday heroine learned what seems to me to be one of the hardest lessons to learn--that one is forever learning--that there are many fake people in the world. That even people we knew and loved as children can be discovered hiding behind a mask. Now there is a difference between a mask and a wall. For in life, the wall is protective, but one can see through the wall and catch glimpses of the treasure within. But a mask is designed to hide that which stands behind it. A mask is eveil and oppressive. Love cannot shine in its beautiful entirety if its rays are unable to penetrate the surface. It is one of the true horrors of life to come upon a false person--one cannot be but repulsed by its existence. There is an inexplicable grossness about falsities that is thoroughly repelling to human nature. Who knows what horrible things might lurk beneath a mask? It is every child's nightmare brought to life. And so our story is a search for true people.
We join the subject of our story in her most trying of times in this never-ending battle against what is false. The battlground is spanish class. The foe is the spanish teacher, who we shall call "the maestra." The maestra embodies all that our heroine stands against, the pinnacle of falseness.
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