my Heart's a battleground

Fullstops and Green Pipes

2009-09-21T18:48:00.000-07:00

Here's to the red lines, light and clean
with unknown origins and make-believe reasons.
Thieves in the nightmares, carving out flesh.
Or small surrender in a tear-away joy.
And to the developing purple roadmap, with no real destination
in mind, whose start and stop ways are a mystery to me.
Here's to the brown and fading, those scars so numerous.
A small army written on my body. Some soldiers enlist out of passion,
a few out of anger,
and many out of frustration.
Those ones out of sadness, freak accidents, and the
burn
burn
sizzle
of cinammon flesh.
Especially to those
one two three that smile on my hips,
and the four five six that have nestled near my spine.
Thank you, to the green pipes that pumppump away,
gracing me with one more moment,
with another chance that putrid unlucky fox carcass never got.
To the little freckles, those faraway pieces, that stretch for each other,
like dear friends missed or lovers never-to-be.
The odd one on my lip
who, always kind, mirrors his own bow,
and to the one on the nubile curve, a final flourish at the end
of this song,
at the end of my skin.

Monstrosities Rest

2006-12-30T21:51:00.000-08:00

At long last, the monster's found a place to rest her weary little mind. Despite my many attempted journals, I've yet to settle on one. This particular journal is a compendium of all my nonsensical writings. Essays, short stories, and poems, basically. It is my goal to eventually write something worthwhile, something meaningful and profound.

Yeah, right. . .

Writing Demands

2006-08-01T11:26:00.000-07:00

I think I'm going to pick up "Sun of the Church"---that novel I finally started last November. It's a fantastic story, I know it. Just, telling it's a litte draining to actually write it. Anywho, here's what I'm thinking. Write (and type it up!) everyday--starting when school starts. Complete one scene, once a week, at least. That's pretty much all there is in writing news.

Hopefully this thing'll see a lot more updates, eh?

Weathering It Through

2006-06-21T14:38:00.000-07:00

Mrs. Cast eventually decided it was high-time the average Wiccan-seasons obsession kicked in. We were told to write a poem or essay about what sort of weather we'd be. I think this was one of the most challenging pieces I had, because I refused to stick to the normal sun-or-rain ideas. I thought of sand storms, flash-floods, and rain-less thunder. Finally, I decided that weather has depth, and so should I. . .or maybe it was the other way around.

Snowy Realizations

-classification: short essay-

Have you ever had one of those days where the sun shines blindingly bright and the sky shines nimble-blue? That same day, were, you put on shorts and a T-shirt, only to go outside and find the thermometer reading at a cold fourty-seven degrees? That one day describes me perfectly. Fake, cold, and unhappy. I make people act comfortable, even if I'm cold inside. I look sunny, maybe sometimes I'm even convinced I am. But I don't think that's who I've become. Sometimes I feel like my whole heart is freezing over. When I'm genuinely troubled, I try to keep it hidden. When I'm sad, no one will know. Of course, no one knows! Nobody knows but those four walls and me.

That Self-Serving Wave of Nausea

2005-10-27T22:37:00.000-07:00

Towards the end, I realized how pointless it all is.

Wadded up Girls

Plain girls don't inspire poetry. Plain girls don't inspire pain, they don't become muses, they don't cause lengthy works of art about beauty and ugliness--because they are neither. Plain girls don't do much, other than provide a safe place.

And even though I get my share of male attention (generally unwanted), I know that I am a plain girl. Because I follow all the plain girl rules. I'm not extraordinary, by any means, no matter which way I try. But the worst way to feel plain is to have something to compare yourself to, to have hard matter-of-fact evidence, and to know that at one point, yes, you were a muse.

When all those interesting, unknown things inside you die, you become a plain girl, the way brides become housewives and then to mothers. Useful, nurturing, kind, but unspecial to those who need them. But, the most disheartening thing about those things dying and becoming unspecial is that the only way that happens is when you become familiar and loving.

Today, tonight, I feel like a used up bride. A muse past her expiration date. Forgotten art in the foyer.

The worst part, however, of being a plain girl is that you have so few choices. To stay a plain girl is to continue loving another without asking for appreciation---because only pretty/fascinating girls (the kind who can afford a few flaws) are allowed to nag. Anyone else who does it becomes annoying. The other option, is to change to quite a different state of being. Those old loves, the one's no one forgets and pines over, but those are the ones who earn poems and countless writings as merit badges of their beauty.

And so.
Plain girls certainly face an interesting delimma.
The third option is for plain girls to stop thinking about themselves, whining, and thinking they deserve some special treatment for being plain.

Dear author:: please choose third option.

Thank you, that is all.

The "I Am" Poem

2005-08-11T19:41:00.000-07:00

Mrs. Westcott, my eleventh grade English teacher, had us write these awful, fill in the blank poems. To be frank, hers was horribley written. She seemed to throw in a number of random things about herself, nearly all of which would have sounding quite natural coming from a Miss America. None the less. . .

-classification: short essay-

My Tower on the Moon

I am a young astrologer who lives amongst her stars
I wonder if these comforts will keep, though.
I hear echoed words and half-formed thoughts flooding my head.
I see my world in technicolor, with an enthralled sense of curiosity.
I want to keep the jaded me locked away, when I can, behind the constellations.
I am a young astrologer who lives amongst her stars

I pretend that this lofty air holds no terror, no risk.
I feel undeniable, sensible doubts beneath my toes;
I touch this tower's top, in hope of sprouting roots.
I worry that without them, I will tumble down my celestial abyss.
I cry as the fear of me without my stars wanders past
I am a young astrologer who lives amongst her stars

I understand that a part of me feels reluctant to leave.
I say even planetary vagabonds must grow up.
I dream that my lunar home and heavenly ideals remain indestructible
I try to build these dreams out of ignorance and comforts
I hope to hold up my galaxy--and myself--despite gravity's pull.
I am a young astrologer who lives amongst her stars

Unend

2005-06-14T20:28:00.000-07:00

Unend
-classification: poem-

Falling all over again,
because you're on my mind.
Though familiar and worn in,
this obsession becomes a ravine
in which the end embraces my feet.

My window, my mirror
My compulsion.
You.
An aspiration for the empty girl
All of my fears, all of my hopes
Impossiblilty:
Breaking away from your face in my head
That smile lights me up inside
Those esoteric eyes transform my soul
A divinity, both inspiring and damning
Illusive, evolving, illustrative

Entr'acte

2004-10-22T22:44:00.000-07:00

After reading over an old journal entry of Michael's, I was inspired to write about performers onstage. This short story (could you really call it that?) was meant to describe and compare how I felt about our relationship and the one I am currently in.

Pirouette

--classification: short story--

The stage seemed empty, so wide and vast. Darkness flushed over the faces of the audience as a spotlight glared upon him. He could not see, for the harsh light made his eyes feel ready to bleed, and he could not hear, for the scraping of the rusty violas made his ears feel ready to cry. The steps, by now, would be second nature, the hardwood floor like old grass. Right foot here. Left foot there. Twirl. Spin. Leap. But something felt different this time. He had no body to case in his grasp. His arms wrapped around nothing and no one. His smile was not for a fellow dancer, but the murky depths of the auditorium. The show must go on! The dancer--the girl---had left in the blank night. Of a compulsion. She no longer could dance that simple jig. Every time she put her right foot here, it felt wrong. Every time she put her left foot there it felt incorrect. Each twirl, each spin, each leap, a small error that made all the difference in her sleepy heart. This tango became mechanical, required, right out of the instruction booklet.

The stage was empty, with only this spinning tin man. That beautiful dance once painted by two became nothing more than an independent terpsichore, with a downhearted soul. "Trip the light fantastic!" came the echoes in his head. He felt like nothing more than a metal box, his heart pillaged by a rag doll girl, the marionette who danced as a ballerina. That curtain. That lovely, crimson curtain to the side once felt warm and passionate. But now he found it bleeding lies. This music, soft and sweet, had a story to it. It had been snow, once upon a time, drifting down the sky, sliding along the edges with a smile across each flake. The snow softly crept on to the floor, on to the mud. Into the mud. Slush. Gray slush burst foward, with that sense of going nowhere that the audience could now feel by watching their shiny tin man. This melody, tonight, felt lonely, as did the danseur noble. His ballet slipper was missing, his second half of the act.

The stage was empty, save for that poor sad man. Drunk on his belligerence, on the bite of the rag doll wolf. That smile bled to death, and only a corpse--a grimace, remained in place. Tomorrow night, he knew, his show would be the same, but the sting would fade. That bee would have travelled farther into the night, more distance between them. The misfit, the miscast, the outcast would find a way to die, to be reborn, to find a different light. Stage lights can cause one's eyes to bleed and heart to cry, but only for the entertainer. The performer, the girl would know a new sort of light. A sequestered light, with privacy fences forming a square. The door of that fence would swing open and shut, but the light, the moon light, the sunlight. . .the star light would change all the steps. The ballerina would relax into a partner of a waltz to the strawman from a dream. Each footstep would seem perfect, each change in direction could be spontaneous and sharp.

The stage was empty, so wide and vast.

Finding Myself

2004-07-25T15:33:00.000-07:00

This was a long essay written to express all emotions from the past month.

Slow and Steady Horrors

--classification: essay--

Between my personality and my heart, I've come to think of my mind as a sort of library. You have the obvious front areas---the children's section and non-fiction. Basic facts and censored sides of me. Usually people that see those things of me are at least five years older or younger than I am. But you'd have to travel a long time to reach the back room, the classified section, all those old newspapers.
It's odd how I hide so much of myself without realizing it. There seem so many layers, it's almost pointless to peel them back for everyone or anyone. How do I tell people I go home and wonder the best way to go about creating a noose? How do I bring this up and when they ask why, simply come back with "Don't want to make a mess, do I?" But that's me, the real me, anyway. I'm just an angry little girl who knows all the facts, all the reasons I have to be happy, but at the end of the day, fear and anger keep me company more than anyone else. I search to find the knives to bid these unwelcome guests good-bye. And then I'd be alone with truth, and that may be what scares me the most.
One of the merciless facts that keeps punching me in the face is that I have a huge issues with being ignored or forgotten. It's not that I will, it's that I know it's possible. I know I'm not outstanding or different in any way, and I have a hard time trusting that just me is enough. People say it all the time. I'll never leave you. You're special. You're different. But you're still made to wonder if the person means it. How many times has this person repeated this mantra to paranoid people? Further more, how many times has this person meant it? It's basic human nature to compare one's self with others, despite the knowledge that the final answer always proves disappointing. So you end of berating yourself and being so angry. And anger is tiring, so you just cry yourself to sleep, and dream of a universe where you mean something.
I wake up every day wanting desperately to fall back asleep, to feel that sense of belonging somewhere, even if it's just a world my psychosis have made to keep me content. The colors there, even in my nightmares, are beautiful enough to entrance me but dim enough so I don't go blind. My latest nightmare is the oldest one. The same phantom of being unwanted. I see myself clinging on to someone who means so much to me, to the person who has been able to make me safe, if only for a moment. The person pushes me away, and asks me to stop being so needy. And there I am, devastated, and I come to find that I am not loved. I am incapable of being loved. I discover that I am nothing more than an inconvenience to anyone who means anything to me. Even the slightest remarks outside of my dream world send me into fits of paranoia that tear me down for days.
Last night, I watched, in my typical scrutinizing fashion, Joe hug Roxanne good-night. I overheard him reassuring her and saying "if you ever need anything, call me. You should be happy" and going into his usual speech that should mean something to her, and I know does have some effect. And I knew that she needed it more than anyone else, but this was an example of all my terrors, just a small even that reminded me of everything. I wanted to cry out into the world "What the hell!?! I cut myself open, I bleed and can't even feel it---and my pain is still just. . .nothing?" But then the mediator of my own creation shows up and in some sick sort of nonchalance says "Ashly, don't be ridiculous. Your pain is almost non-existent. Hers is constant, always, and has been there since the beginning of the end. Yours is worthless and meaningless."
I get so sick of mothering myself all the time. I know my attempts to soothe my aching head will continue to prove fruitless. The argument goes on infinitely. My brain has no good and bad. There is only paranoia and outside perceptions that I create. It would seem I lack optimism. How is it that with others I can see only the good in their lives, but in my own, I see dim alley ways and constant wanting? This is said to be human nature, that has proved true, but at the same time, I disappoint myself with it. In fact, I dangle the knowledge that I will never be happy in front of my eyes, like some twisted little cat toy.
But I cannot say that I never see the stars in my cloudy sky. There are some shining moments in which I am made to feel singularly special, those times in which I am led to wonder if I mean anything. Neglecting all neurotic thoughts that follow the memorization, I can still smile knowing that any ulterior motive is highly unlikely. Yes, it is possible that I serve only one or two desires, but it is also possible that I am special on my own. In fact, I know the old sayings that everyone means something. I've given administered this therapy before. Sometimes it needs to be said, but sometimes it's a kiss blown into this dim abyss. I dare you to throw something worth anything into a black hole. See what the oblique thinks of your love then? See what it means? Fact is, most compliments and words heartfelt have no effect on sad people. They, like me, will only see the potential bad. It is extremely difficult to reassure these people, which is one reason I think I'm wasting air.
Why did I cut? Why did I push this filthy metal into my skin? What was I trying to purge myself of?
Now you're asking the right questions. To say something without telling you too much, I saw an error in my way. I was made to not only look at a problem I fed, but I could truly see what I had done. No, in reality, I cannot take all the blame for this. So, I'm leading myself to wonder if this was nothing more than an excuse, or was it the final straw? I suppose in punishing myself, opening my flesh, and letting myself bleed, I did accomplish the simple task of introspection in a way no amount of alone-time could have ever allowed me. I was able to realize the mistakes I'd made, the people I'd hurt, and how uncapable I was of revising these problems. Although my reaction after seeing the blood continue to flow was to grab a towel to stop it, I found my eyes were open. Maybe I could not see all my underlying problems, but I sure as hell saw that they were there.
And now I'm letting my wounds heal, but at the same time erasing all physical defense-mechanisms on my body. I want this to scar. I want to look down and see what I did.
People keep asking me not to do it again. I won't. Not because I don't want to, but because I promised. I swore to so many people I wouldn't do it again. Yes, I know it was stupid of me. If anyone can point out my flaws in thought, it's me. I know the dangers. I know where they'll put me if I do it again---if they see me do it again. So, for now, I'm back to thinking of some truly horrible things.
In thinking over that last paragraph, I know just how positively psychotic I probably seem to you, at this point. But these are things that I feel should be put out into the world. You want to know me? Fine. Here are my insecurities that I'm always with. These are the thoughts I wake up with, eat with, see you with, love you with, go to sleep with, and will most likely die with. And I've come to accept that as part of who I am. It's not that I like them or anything about myself in general. Fuck, I hate myself. But this is just what I am. I can deal with these things.
The other evening when Roxanne spent god knows how long on the phone with Joe, I had a lot to think about. My first thoughts were things about the phone situation. If we were at my house, and one of the phones died out to where we couldn't all talk to each other, I would have said good-bye until the phone charged up again, not talk on the other one until three am, leaving the other person with nothing. I just think that's good manners and the nice thing to do. And then I mediated and remembered how often I'd been able to talk to him one-on-one, though never in person, and though never in front of her. But after that, and overall anger was suppressed, I went into the living room to sit in the dark. I could feel the usual companions with me. I knew that Fear and Anger were sitting there with me---in me, possessing me. I thought of past fuck-ups. I remembered the times I was happy and the times I was sad. All those times I'd pushed objects into my left arm. . .fingernails, push-pins, scissors, the sharper side of hair clips. . . I recalled the last few times I'd felt safe or taken care of, but the former memories of times Fear and Anger spent with me took over. So, I stood up, walked over to the front door. I listened to the rain outside, slowing down, and I opened the door. I stepped out into the cold air, and went to feel any rain on my skin or running through my hair, expecting to feel like some wild animal. I was already so cold on the inside, nothing mattered at that point.
I raced over to the black top, and looked upon the night sky. I watched more rain, and I couldn't feel it. One foot crossed the other, and I began to spin. First, steady, as to not fall down. But then it didn't matter so much, and I spun faster and faster, refusing to see the wet tar I danced on, and only looked at the rain clouds. One foot kicked up from all the momentum, and I fell straight back, putting out my arms to stop my head from crashing into the cement, thought it wouldn't have been so important if my thoughts and blood spilled out into the blackness. I stood up and felt awake. I crossed through more shallow pools, and reached the fence, and then the drive-way.
As I dived in and out of the rock-filled puddles, I heard Roxy call for me to come in, and I did so. She kept warning me not to go back outside, because she'd get in trouble if her parents knew she--or one of her friends---was outside at one o'clock in the morning. I reasoned with her, saying that she'd be in just as much trouble for being on the phone that late, but I really didn't mind so much anymore if I were excluded. I decided it was inevitable, and I should learn to be alone even when others were around. Joe wondered if I was "miffed" and I told him no. I suppose I did resent her a little for doing that to me, but really it just felt nice to see a world in which no walls harness you in. When I was out there, I looked at the streets and knew that I could run anywhere, if I so desired. I was free.
I'm not so sure how I feel on these insecurities or events. Sometimes I feel jealous, cold, and unwanted. And sometimes I feel appreciated, safe, and loved. It really all depends on how I percieve myself at the time, which side of the scales has been tipped and all. I once heard self-esteem is something that takes place inside a person, and I completely agree. I need to learn to not beat up on myself so much (though it is so well-deserved sometimes). I need to learn to accept all of who I am, which is why I want to be treated the same as if you had never read this essay. It's a "me" thing. If you're so inclined, reply or bring it up when you talk to me. Or do both. But treat me the way you always have.
There are still some words to be said, some questions to be asked, and some secrets written, but for now, this is all there is of me in the classified section. Newspapers are still missing, this I know. But enough are present for you to say you know me. Because now, I think you do.

The StraightJacket

2004-07-07T14:04:00.000-07:00

I finally managed to find something I wrote extra-curricular. This was written around November 2003, during my "Alice in Wonderland" phase, I suppose. A girl I knew re-ignited my interest in the classic tale, but it suddenly seemed so dark to me, which, in turn, lead me to write this bizarre composition. In retrospect, I think it had actual meaning, something along the lines of leaps of faith, mental disorders, and how sometimes people just feel insane, only to find out their madness is nothing more than natrual human confusion. No, no, nevermind. I think it was just me thinking of American McGee

The StraightJacket

-classification: poem-

Through the corridor, down the hall
she wondered when her feet would fall.
Her jacket held fast, her head hung low;
she wondered when the rabbit would show.

The pavement held a room, for her
a window, a chair, a blanket of fur.
Watches and clocks, mimes and clowns
tears and laughter, smiles and frowns.

The warden behind her, her madness in sight
her jacket held fast, the arms too tight.
Her heart beat quick, her head swam slow;
she wondered where her feet would go.

A door, a knob, an empty space,
a thought, a key, all found place.
Her arms were tight, but key shifted;
psychosis down, but spirits lifted.

The arms grew tighter, her mind flew lighter;
the door swung, the alarm rung.
But dear Alice saw the room, window and chair,
but as she jumped down, there was nothing but--

AIR

I Ask of You

2004-06-27T13:41:00.000-07:00

This essay--diary entry, really--came out exactly how I wanted it to, which is a first. It was written in December of 2003, about the time half of my friends took to slitting their wrists. In this, I confront my vanity and need to conform.

I Ask of You

--classification::introspective essay--

"Put the comb and mirror away, Morgan," my drama teacher tells a supercilious girl who just had her hair highlighted.

I've never understood how anyone could sit in a classroom, where at least twenty other people are judging, and groom herself. I watch people brush their hair, apply their make-up, pop zits, or just gaze into the mirror, and I, for one, am sick of it. I guess I have always harbored a secret fear of being considered vain.

The people in my classes, of course, wouldn't care or notice if I did this. I imagine they (and this includes me) are all too stuck in their own heads to notice anyone else. As part of them, I am no different and understand that. I am a hypocrite in every sense of the word. I am not special, not unique, not anything. This is a fact I have come to accept.

This fact was tested today. Just this morning, I was running late (as usual) because I became in idiot when confronted with a mirror and wasted thirty minutes curling hair and applying make-up, knowing that no one stood in the bathroom to judge me. After this, I was extremely late and began stuffing my books and trappers into my pink backpack. In doing this, I inadvertently sliced my wrist diagonally. It didn't bleed, and it hardly hurt. I was fascinated by this. Sitting there, letting what little pain I felt wash over me, like the cool air washes over the sour sea, I was consumed.

I thought about Erin and Nikki. I thought of Nicole and Zach. I wondered "if I cut, would it be due to minor depression. . .or a need for conformity?"

I wonder about this, still. I know I wouldn't need to bleed, and I might be able to survive without scars. . .scrapes are fine. This one won't scar. Like my current thought process, it has no depth.

There is nothing. No significance and no blood.

If you and I were sitting alone, maybe outside while the chill wind whips around our cold forms, or on your couch where the television would be too loud, I would ask of you "What good are battles if left are no scars?"

And you would say something to ease my moroseness, something along the lines of "Battles are fought for convictions, not glory."

But if I want scars, this is a stupid argument, and we'd sit in silence.

And bleeding, for once, would not be neccessary: I have your attention

Time and Existentialism

2004-06-21T14:50:00.000-07:00

This is probably the first poem I ever wrote and liked six months later. Written last October, while listening to a nature song in creative writing class. Seems to describe my future life as a squirrel-person, but without the acorns, eh Jedi?

Wooded Time

-classification: poem-

The water flowed in a dark whirlwind
as the surface draws nearer, the light
shone, afraid to break the fluid edges
searching for oxygen, swirling in the lucid glass
finally, the waves broke, as do I
away from the movement.
Morning emerges and the trees held tight,
the sun tries to shatter the forest
ceiling, but only puzzle pieces of shadow.
Inhaling forever.
Exhaling never.
The damp earth yearns to bear proof of life.
What comes natrual?
Arms out wide, feet crossing
body twirling,
hair swirling,
dress whirling.
Slowly, I see time moving
overhead, the day begins
the sun shines. . .warm, pink clouds diverge
the golden air spins
Inhaling forever.
Exhaling never.
The hems of my own white dress
reaching past the now,
swirling, dancing, as am I
lively clouds mimic the reaching
they pass overhead
as the day grows broad
down the damp earth path
toes tracing grass and dandelions
leaves swirl around my dancing form
the sky shines more
past the trees.
Inhaling forever.
Exhaling never.
a swirl of cloud--or dress?
dances about my knees
as I begin to lose breath
but catch up with the wind as
midday approaches, as does orange oxygen.
Forsaking the next moment,
feet race away from the torn trace
off the path, more dandelions and grass,
more leaves and more life
the afternoon dances with me.
inhaling forever.
exhaling never;
however--
the stars smile upon my dying
cloud, the twirling stops
to a halt,
as do I when I reached the road.
Inhaling forever.
Exhaling never.

Fear, and Coping With It

2004-06-21T14:20:00.000-07:00

For writing class, we had to write an essay over seven different topics. One of my better compositions was over fear.

Panic Point

-classification: essay-

I'm a huge sissy and everyone knows it. Erin, because I don't do half the things she does, Nikki, because I panic when she craves liquor, and Chelsea because I refuse to watch scary movies. In general, I've won the grand award in supreme cowardice.

But it's okay, because I've come to terms with it and have learned to just deal. Want to drink? I'll keep quiet. Sneaking out? See you in a few hours. My only real problem these days is being home, alone. Now, I feel fine watching my little sister, or mom going out for groceries at three o'clock on Thursday, but if everyone's out for the evening, I'm pretty far gone.

There have been points where I've needed to call people and tell them my address, if, all of a sudden, the person hears me scream. And the same goes for the internet. Just last week, I called Michael and sang to myself while I checked the closet for serial killers and rapists. And even when Mom or Dad stop into Quick Trip for laundry detergent, I slide down into my seat just knowing there'll be a mass shooting or hold up. When younger, I used to hude under the dashboard, hoping to become invisable to all kidnapping passersby.

But I keep it in check these days. I just peer into the closet before bed, call people when I'm on my own, and make sure the blinds are closed, so I don't advertise "Young, Vulnerable Girl, Home Alone."

But scary movies are just plain out.

Digging the Grave

2004-06-20T16:10:00.000-07:00

This "essay" was a journal entry I wrote about a year ago. I think I've felt this way my whole life, but right now it applies most. At that time, I had a huge issue with myself. I didn't know what was me and what wasn't. And now, I don't, either. It's amazing how life sometimes comes around, full circle.

Digging the Grave

-classification: essay-

I feel like something deep inside of me is tossing and turning, can't sleep. I feel like I've lost most of my emotions, and I'm angry because my life is reasonable. I'm angry because I can't tell if this complicated person is me or if it's me trying to find me. I don't even know what emotion I'm feeling. Some things are running so smooth, but as I look at what others have and what I wanted a few years ago, I feel cheated. I want to scream "it's not fair!" but I don't even know what 'it' is or if there is an it. What's wrong with me? What right do I have to feel like I deserve more? and more than what?

I find myself irritated at the smallest things. Obnoxious pop-up adds, stupid cartoons, self-rightiousness, those with an iron will. Stupid things. The worst part is the people I become angry at. Most of them are exactly how I was at one point or another. And I hate it when I realize how much I let people see. Why do I just openly tell people I planned a suicide in the winter of eighth? Why do I tell people exactly how I feel when I feel it? And I do the same where it's not my part. I have a really hard time biting my tongue, when it's not my business. I have no right to do those things, I know.

I guess I just want to feel anguished and wallow in the drama I create. I despise myself for knowing things. Sometimes a person will call me smart, and my automatic response is, "Oh, not really. I just read a lot," but some part of my mind is saying, "duh!" What I mean is, I know how silly it is to think my common teen-girl problems rock the world or to think I'm deep. I know that I'm going to care the most about my problems, and I know that I'm not an objective view on what's "deep."

I want to say "no one understands me" and that I'm "incredibley unique," but the truth is I'm not very complicated and most of me is copyright of someone else. Some say I'm trying too hard to think like an adult, and I don't completely disagree. You know, if I were to meet me I would become annoyed quickly. I'm one huge contradiction.

Crows and Cracklings

2004-06-19T09:56:00.000-07:00

This is the strangest scene I ever wrote. It was recquired that we write some "poetry of the bizarre," based on this thing another author did. I can't really remember his name, but I do remember he wrote something about sautaying his hat.

Crows of a Choir

-classification: scene-

The choir robes subtly turned to feathers as the spectators listened. The sopranos grew beaks as the altos’ arms grew wider, and before we knew it, the room had filled with the harsh caw of the crows. Crows are generally icky things, always flying over and making awful noises, which is why the audience began to scream in terror. And then the audience comprised of magpies.

The crows flapped their enormous wings and sang their raspy songs and the magpies cried horribly, trying to cover their ears. Crow calls are nasty enough, but to try to put a tune to it creates an effect almost as terrible as swallows singing! These particular crows truly had horrid songs to sing, most being in Latin. The song of each other weighed the crows down and the piano man would not let them fly, either. He strummed his fingers restlessly on the ivory keys of the piano. As the birds neared take off, he shouted the lyrics to them, and they quickly quieted down. The magpies could see him sobbing wildly as he hurried out in his humiliation. The crows looked at one another, still chanting the tangled lyrics and all at once took off, the sopranos and altos.

The feathers were turning to choir robes.

Strides With Wildlife

2004-06-19T09:51:00.000-07:00

Last year, Ms. Cast made us watch two scenes from Dancing With Wolves and write a poem over each one. I've never actually seen the movie, and I'm not sure I want to, but I almost like what I came up with. The first poem is the scene with the fire (I don't recall much of it, as you can tell). I remember there was a fire, then the white man danced around with a wolf. The second took place when the wolf was shot.

Crazed Sanity

-classification: poem-

Insane, as the onlookers know
Fire dancer, wolf chaser
Accepting the blazing psychosis
Watch as crazy consumes
Though lonely, not alone
Neglected Reason begs to follow,
But she is shoved away
Chased and tagged
Onlookers watch insanity

I Know Nothing of This Force

-classification: poem-

Shots and bullets graze life
Quiet bleeding after the sixth
Dull spoons filter out
The last of life
Blood breaks free but where from?
Question life as it leaves still temple
. . . am I dying?
Confused in the war zone
. . . .what cruel force?
Who tames you!?
Slowly, the world fades.
I know nothing. . .
Of this darkness. . .

Child-like Gaze

2004-06-19T09:47:00.000-07:00

I think I was rather energetic when I wrote this poem. I don't usually write when I'm so restless, but it was for writing class, so I didn't have much of a choice. I recieved a lot of weird stares after I'd finished reading this aloud.

Child-like Gaze

-classification: poem-

There is a brilliance in this shock
the loss of mouse for dickory dock
eyes shine wildly, mouth open tight
to awaken the stars at the switch of a light
new world were bore, from womb of sheep
the sun melted, the sky fast asleep
knowing there’s more than here, more than now
not minding at all, too lost in the “wow”
catching fire and finding them gold
watching the new age to the old
the burning shock of hot iron rod
feeling and touching the average and odd
watching the sky’s surprise from silver to blue
oh, to be in wonder at the world around you!

Depression

2004-06-18T22:08:00.000-07:00

About six months ago, most of my friends were clincally depressed. I wrote this in a futile attempt to keep them beside me.

Untitled

-classification: essay-

Depression is the most awful thing any one person can feel. It is a bitter pain that will eat away at one's insides and chill your very bones, and it will do it silently. Ask anyone who has experienced this, and he will tell you how much worse it is when nobody notices. You wonder if you're invisible and you tear yourself apart, whether physically or emotionally. It can be mild or severe. It may last anywhere between a week to several years. The worst part of it is not knowing if one has it. it doesn't really matter what you are so down about, but anytime you start to think of ways to seriously kill yourself or to purposefully hurt yourself (or even another) then it is time to seek help. A journal, a friend, a parent, a therapist, I don't care what or who. Depression will consume and destroy you if you do not fix it.

Another thing that can make it so terrible is not understanding it. "Why me?" "Why not kill myself?" "Is this really serious?" are some common thoughts. I personally believe that depression is a sad, but common, part of adolescent life and that when it happens to a person it is to prepare him for something to come. Maybe you will help someone else, maybe you will use it to start something, or maybe you will grow ten times stronger from it, but it is never the end of your world. Know that when you hit rock bottom and have nothing left, it is probably as bad as things will get. Know that mutilation (cutting, pulling hair out, burning, carving, etc) will increase the pain and make it more unbearable. Seek help in any way possible and when it's all over, allow people to know where you just were so they can help, if ever need be. Most of all, never ever give up.

Ever.

If I Could

2004-06-18T22:07:00.000-07:00

Not a great poem, but it does a decent job of expressing myself. This is the only poem I've written, latley, that rhymes. It's just a short verse to a friend who's going through a tumultious time.

If I Could

-classification: poem-

If I could give you anything,
anything at all,
I'd give you pure resiliance,
to bounce back when you fall.
If I could tell you anything,
anything I know,
I'd tell you it'll feel wonderful
when you come in from the snow.

You know these in your heart,
you know that you'll be fine.
But it hurts just the same,
because emotions aren't benign.

If I could show you anything,
anything I would,
I'd show you what I see.
In you, there's only good.

Yet, I cannot heal you,
I cannot close your cuts.
Just let blood run its course,
Without ifs, ands, or buts.

So let me tell you now,
what I always knew.
Things will be over in a while
and you will still be you.

Autumn

2004-06-18T21:55:00.000-07:00

This particular scene was written for my ninth grade writing class. Although most of these writings were as well, I feel that it is neccessary to state this, because it is not something I would normally write. The idea was to convey moments through the sense of smell.

More So Than Autumn

-classification: scene-

Slowly, the leaves fell. All around the trees, and array of warm hues--red, brown, yellow--fell slowly, like ashes still aflame. Childhood slowly slipping away with the summer sun, Jeremy made his way down a dirt path. Around him he could smell the autumn. The sweet apples mingled with the open pumpkins. Inhaling, slowly, he caught a whisper of an oak tree. The obvious age of the tree reminded Jeremy how young he truly was. Eleven felt older than it sounded. The disappearance of September seemed to heighten his sense. He could almost breathe the scent of metal off of his bicycle, the geese migrating, and the acorns dropping from the trees, as if to bow to the wind. Taking in the dying nature around him, he looked down to watch a squirrel hurry by the dirt road; he looked up through the aged trees to see the sun passing by the clouds.
Jeremy had always felt a sense of loss at the arrival of fall. Summer had barely begun when the leaves started to change. He would have no long days of sprinklers and ice cream until another year. An entire year! Twelve months would surely slay him. Soon he'd forget the playground and sandbox. He'd move on to music, cars, and saddest of all, girls. He had seen it happen to others, and now it was his turn.
Jeremy turned toward a playground across the street. It had been a long time since he’d really enjoyed the monkey bars, but he had nowhere else to stray but the dreaded adult world.
Inhaling once again, autumn smelled less sweet. Smoke came from a distant camp fire, geese left and awful smell, and the dying grass grew bitter. Childhood, Jeremy knew, was not like the monkey bars; he could not hold on as long as he wished.
And the leaves fell.