Grand Theft Poetry (blog edition)

Don't be afraid to look up say hello and wave. I can't remember specific thoughts or even specific conversations. Not one stands out in my memory as something significant or great. I can remember you. The way your eyes seemed to get brighter at night.  You are just a memory now. That's what makes my heart hurt the most. 

White rose petals. Closed eyes. Baths. My head underwater enough for my ears to hear the sounds of the water. Sometimes I wonder if I can actually get through a day with out crying myself to sleep at night. If my nightmares will ever go away.

A lot of people have told me that I have a lot of patience. But I feel I have never had the patience for myself.I walk through this life, and maybe one day, I'll see this world for all of it's beauty instead of it's insecurities. Until then, I continue through this life listening to my head and my heart, my brain and my blood supplier. The two places where I have found happiness, the things I turned to. 

I tried to push back the thoughts from my head. 

But the memories pushed harder. 

I guess the best poems come from the saddest moments.

When he said the thoughts in his head would eventually kill him. 

I broke.

 Like a sad story to a tragic movie that the ending didn't really have an ending. Just an unresolved plot line and a climax that not a single person could understand. An inception of my life that I never could figure out. I still can't.

I'm still in that half-dream, trying to adjust to the light as you pull the curtains apart and tell me to wake up.  And you're going to pounce on the bed and shake me awake but I've never seen the sun.

A man goes to a doctor and requests to have a cure to his sickness. The doctor asks the man a series of questions. The man answers truthfully to some, and lies to others.I try to be patient. To understand.

But this knife in my side is starting to take it’s toll. Memories washed out by the tears threaded through my veins. Looking in a mirror that’s shattered by disappointment.

And I cut myself picking up the pieces.

When you have spent all your life preparing for this moment, you haven’t appreciated life to the point where you realize the significance of its passing.

I remember.

I felt the life sliding out of me,

like a heavy load,

drugged perhaps by the hum of a long afternoon.

You looked me in the eyes.

I saw into your soul.

You told me you loved me,

Softly,

Sincerely,

The whisper of your breath on my cheek.

I believed every word that fell from your mouth.
I just didn't reciprocate.

The unknown is something you can not change. It is what makes you question yourself and others.

I'm afraid of the dark.
I'm afraid of crossing the street.
I'm afraid of time. Because I know that it will go too fast.

Someone in this world is crying right now because somewhere in this world they just lost someone and had to say goodbye.  People are saying goodbye to someone they love every second of every day..

time slipped through our hands. I spent a year trying to Remember THAT Dream, but I never could figure out how the pieces fit together.I wanna have those feelings again, the ones I have in my dreams. The ones where I wake up in a cold sweat cause I'm feeling so alive.

Love is just the way I think I feel when I look at you.

Love is what I think I feel when you smile at my terrible jokes
I thought love was when I kissed you on the forehead and you dug further into my chest. I thought love was learning that song on the piano, because it was your favorite and you, for some reason, begged to hear me sing.

I guess I was scared because I think I meant it, but I'm not sure you did. and I thought you did.

 But the truth is, I've lost love, and I never got a copy of the recipe.

Dora Wyatt, Feathers on Fish, Gray Evasion, Little Fox Girl, Peter Mckeller, Agnes Moorehead, Trevor Powers, Sampson Rox. III, I killed JFK, Dean Wolfe, you could see me now, Geez Louise, Canyyouseeme, Words from the peak, Jackie O, Use Soap, Alis Priddy, Witch of the North... Possibly others but I've forgotten exactly. You know who you are. I told you what I stole.

Among Stars and Other Things

I often wonder about the stars and how I fit into things. I'm not a philosopher, so I wouldn't be able to tell you. Philosophers only know what they know because they ask why, and I don't question things nearly enough.

Often I wonder if there's a person out there who knows my name.

And sometimes I wonder if there's a person that can hear me talk to myself, when I'm all alone in my mind. I don't feel very alone, so there must be someone listening in on my door with a stethoscope, and they're just waiting for the right moment--the moment when I'll figure my life out.

I know I explain too much, and I know I give out too many excuses; excuses are the flyers I give out to random people on the street.

And with all the trash that's lining the street, you'd think I would've learned my lesson by now.

There's a small intake of breath. My eyes widen as I stare at the stars, the moon--everything that's beyond my reach. (They're beautiful.)

Fun fact: every year the moon gets farther away, and in time the moon will move on to bigger and better things. It won't be around, and we won't survive. Don't worry, though. We'd all be dead by then anyway.

The drop in your stomach when the ground is no longer beneath you. Your mind shakes as everything is unfolded on lawn chairs. The breath keeps flowing in and it won't come out. It won't drain. The air is suffocating you.

I once heard that the dark side of the moon has a crater pattern that looks like the iris of an eye, and if the dark side was the side that faced us, we would think differently about the moon. 

I'm glad the side that faces us is the one that looks like a man's face. It makes it easier to talk to.

A Dear John

Dear Percival,

Well, you're not very dear to me—not any more at least. I've put up with your shenanigans for years now, and I can tell you that I've had enough. It's over.

Now, don't think I'm breaking things off just because you're thinking about replacing me. Oh no. I've been considering taking a hike (metaphorically, of course) and leaving you to take care of your book collection yourself for years now.

You didn't think about my feelings when you replaced me with that grand bookcase downstairs, did you? You took all the best books and lined them up so prettily on its strong shelves. Now the books on my shelf are slanting over because there's not enough to go around.

And what's with all the junk on my shelves? Did you think it was really necessary to put a jewelry box... Actually, I like the jewelry box. But I don't like the piggy bank! Not one bit; I think it's tacky.

You never dusted me. I'm starting to get a rash in my grain because of it. Don't be surprised if you hear me sneezing in the corner. 

The last straw, however, was when your mother frowned at me and considered having me replaced BECAUSE OF MY COLOR. I thought we were living in times that were relatively free of discrimination, but here we have an example of blatant racism. Equality towards all men and furniture? Wasn't that a thing?

Anyway, just wrote to say I can't do this anymore, and it would be best if we broke off our relationship cleanly and got on with our lives. 

Sincerely,

Your Bookcase

About My Heart

Sometimes I wonder if my heart is as mechanical as a clock, ticking on steadily with no regard to anyone in 

particular.

Tick tock, time for school.

Tick tock, time to say hello.

Tick tock, let's put on a show.

Living is my favorite pastime. My personality description says I seek out sad things, but the truth is I just like to prod my heart into beating.

Tick tock, you're not allowed.

Tick tock, you're not enough.

Tick tock, you've got it rough.

And right now I'm stripped of all my rules and reasons, and I'm staring down my pen because it's a friend that betrayed me. Or maybe I betrayed my pen.

Tick tock, here's what you write.

Tick tock, don't put up a fight.

But then there's those times when I'm doubled over, clutching my belly and gasping for breath. My cheeks warm, and my eyes widen. I look at you. Staring at you, I wonder if I'd even be alive without you here.

Tick tock, this isn't right.

Tick tock, this isn't right. STOP.

Suddenly I'm reminded of a time not too long ago where everything had meaning. They tried to beat it out of me with their fluorescent lights that starve my face of color. I still remember what it felt like to be alive.

Tick tock, speak quietly.

There's some people I want to scream at--to shout in their face to get a reaction, just to see if they're alive. We're human, despite what the world says. You're human, at least.

Maybe I don't know anything.

I thank the stars every day that you exist. You're someone to rely on, because while I don't know how to say everything perfectly, you can teach me how. You have a real, human heart.

Tick thump, thump tock,

thump thump.

The Five Loves

1. We met several times--more times than I can remember. Every time we met, I was in the shotgun of my mom's car. She was always driving, and we would always be going somewhere mundane. I would see you from out the window, and I would only look at you for a few seconds until I was certain that I saw all there was to see. I never liked what I saw, so I avoided looking at you. It wasn't until one cold night in December that I finally gave you the time of day. Curiosity finally killed the cat. I looked at you for a few more seconds than usual, and then I was captured--I couldn't look away. I stared. Your story made me feel alive. From then on I decided to never judge so quickly again.

2. You are a family friend, and I didn't know it until that fateful trip to that one lake in Washington. You and your family greeted me, and from then on the time spent with you became a cherished memory. I like to spend time with you, whenever I want to be reminded.

3. When I think of you, I think of that feeling you get when your favorite character in a book dies. I always knew you had a story, and that story keeps changing. Even though you make me cry, I still seek you out because we've known each other too long. I guess I like that feeling you give me, in a strange sort of way. You make me feel alive. Human, even. I always come back for more.

4. Every time I see you I want to throw something at the wall. I'm always so conflicted when we talk. You remind me of both good things and bad things. And yet, I wouldn't take back a single moment I spent with you. I remember singing in the car with you on the way to practice ACT testing. It was around October, and I was close to tears. They were conflicted tears. When I was with you, I felt like I was one with the human race. We were together in our sorrows--we were sad about the same thing. Thanks for being a story to rely on.

5. I pretend not to like you. I keep you a secret from everyone--you're the story I'll take to my grave. Even though I lie to myself and say mean things about you in my head, I don't always convince myself. We meet in secret more than we should, and every time we're almost caught it makes me feel like I just cheated death. My cheeks flush and I try to contain that joyful song in my heart; it's quicker than I gave it credit for, and so far it's been impossible to catch and keep quiet. I'll never stop loving that feeling.

Every one of you has changed me. I want you to know that.

This has been me describing my five favorite songs, five loves, and the memories attached.

1. Princess of China - Coldplay
2. Crooked Teeth - Death Cab for Cutie
3. The Scientist - Coldplay
4. Like a Song - Lenka
5. Diamonds - Steam Powered Giraffe

Dear People of Earth

To the people of Earth,

I am not sorry. 

We might as well get that out of the way. It's difficult for me to stay sane anyway, let alone the fact that a vast collection of intelligent beings hate me. I understand that. I would hate me too. 

But I'm still not sorry.

My line of work has two sides. I'm sorry to say that you're still stuck on one end, and it's difficult to be wise when life is all you know. Not that I know everything--I'm just being obedient. 

Maybe I should clarify. I'm not sorry for the people I take. I consider them lucky. I wish I could die, I wish I could stop, I wish I could rest. I'm in a sea of faces, but none of them see me, even though they all know me. I'm on the other side of a one way mirror, analyzing all you do. I'm taking notes.

But to those people who are left behind, I'm sorry. Often I wish I could say something to you, or at least let you know I'm watching your pain, but that is not allowed. It's hard not to look at you, with your weak knees and your drooping heart. The bewilderment of those left behind is enough to send anyone over the edge, and it happens again, and again, and again.

The people I like the most are the ones that aren't afraid of me, and weren't afraid of me. I like the people with stories. I like it when they understand that he who doesn't fear death dies only once. These people never regret. These are the people that keep me sane with their stories of life.

I know I sounded callous earlier, but please believe me when I say that I'm not a callous person. It is not my choice. I do not seek people out. I am merely a result. 

Though it's difficult to understand, I have faith in you and the human race.

I wish you the best of luck on your journey, and I bid you farewell until we meet for that personal, final time.

--Death

Why I Like Fear

Fear: The emotion that makes things fun. The source of thrills. A part of being alive.
Synonym: Exciting, exhilarating, terrifying

Things that make me scared (and I love it):

*Love
*Writing
*Writing about something you love
*Writing about something you love and then giving it to someone else (and then you freak out, regretting your decision but being proud of it at the same time)
*People liking my writing
*Drawing something new
*Liking the new thing I drew
*Inspiration (because I can never go back to my previous dimensions)
*Roller coasters
*Trying new things
*Turning off the lights (the dark terrifies me)
*Sharing my ideas
*People liking my ideas
*Every single person who writes things on their blog (yes, you. I read like a maniac.)
*Mr. Nelson

What is Real?

re·al¹

ˈrē(ə)l/

adjective

(of a substance or thing) not imitation or artificial; genuine.

"the earring was presumably real gold"

Synonyms: Genuine, authentic

I've been thinking about something for a while now--something that I think should be set straight. In a way, this post is meant for those two girls in Nelson's class all those years ago; the two girls who joined the class because they wanted to be novelists.

The art of writing a book can be learned anywhere. Most of what you learn of it is by reading, and the rest can be learned from the internet. Believe me, I've been to enough Youtube writing seminars to know. What I've learned in this class, however, is something that writers sorely need: a reason to create.

Yes, I have a thing for writing stories. It is my dream to one day write stories that will teach people about what it means to be human.

I am by no means an English lover. English class makes me cringe because they try to control everything. You can't teach people who don't care. Stop making it so obvious. They can learn all of this simply by reading, and then practicing.

But none of it will teach you how to be free, inspired and real. We as humans need real things.

We need your emotions to be real. We need to know if you're alive.

I can recite all you could possibly want to know about characterization, voice, the seven-point story structure and more, but none of it will really teach you how to write. Good writing comes from keeping things real--from speaking your mind in the most honest way possible.

And you all have taught me so much. I'm learning by reading still, but this time I'm reading something different.

Concrete and Pineapple Popsicles

My stomach muscles relax as I take a fetal position on the leather armchair. The armchair has always been wide enough for me to do this, and that is one reason why I loved it.

The memories of all those summer nights will be cherished forever. They make the top five. It was the perfect combination.

It's two o' clock in the morning, but I don't care because there's nowhere I have to be tomorrow. I can spend the entire night here, if I want.

Wide awake, I listen to the beat of the music in my ears. The tune is lively, fresh, and something I've listened to a million times. It reminds me of you.

The package in my hands crackles, and as I rip away the translucent covering, syrup clings to the popsicle in my hands like it only does on flavored ice products. It's artificial, but it makes me happy.

The first bite is hard, and it breaks away like stone. The taste is familiar--sweet. It reminds me of all those times when we sat in that armchair together and laughed. I always liked the part where it started melting best, because that meant that the next bite would come easier. It still stung my teeth, though. I learned to cherish that feeling.

Now I'm just chewing on the wooden stick left behind. I don't know why I always insisted on chewing things to splinters. Maybe it's satisfying to feel it come apart, even though the fibers often poked me.

The leftover warmth is dragging me under, and I can't help but let myself drift off while tucked in your arms. I'm usually scared of the dark, but with you this darkness is comforting--concealing, even.

I'll never let you get away from me.

P.S. I'm eating one of those popsicles as I write this.

Pictures I Stole

These are just some pictures I stole from people's blogs. I thought they were pretty.






Destiny Preach, Agnes Moorehead, Julianna Jane, Lily Ann Rose, Shania Edwards, Gray Evasion, Priscilla Belle, Sandra Reid (thinkings), Corinne Bailey Rae, Charlie L. Rose