Tuesday, September 17, 2013
I'm working on something that will take me a LONG time to write.
Here a tid-bit :)
Her glasses are fragile,
She is fragile,
Built of sowing needles and sweaters,
and the feathers found inside her favorite pillow,
She is the 8th natural wonder of the world.
Mostly constructed of tea, and mugs,
and the number of hugs she gets in one day.
Monday, September 16, 2013
Blogger needs to figure this out. I've had huge problems being able to post. I'll be sending a letter soon.
Anywhooooo, Here is a start to one of the first political poems I have ever written Not sure where it is going yet.
Our Wisdom Years
Too many people are measuring worth with time,
As if this time is any different.
As if a clock counts in dollar bills and respect,
Respect doesn't hold hands with age.
It has to be earned.
It has to be burned into our skin,
Cut into our tongues so we can speak loud enough,
Only be proud to say something worth listening to.
There is no need for ignorance as a petition,
There are already bigots signing bills and passing laws that put limitations on imagination,
Who restrict our rights to education and to love.
That sway the crowds to the motion of an ocean polluted with hate,
The dissonant sounds of generations losing sight of survival,
Losing their grasp on the reality of a car door,
Too often us children are being dragged and sat down in societies dentist chair,
They’re having their wisdom years pulled out from under tongue,
It is so sour to hear the sounds of innocence being pulled from ones mouth and mind,
The cutting of childhood from gum line leaves scars,
Only noticed when you smile,
And your smile has always been beautiful,
So show it more often,
Show them you’re proud to be young,
And that our innocence is not ignorance.
We've had it rough.
We've been told to grow the fuck up,
Given a rifle and jacket 5 sizes too big and told to fight someone else’s war.
Since first grade we've been handed sack lunches and prepackaged words from our parents,
Sentenced to listen to the repetition of how we should act, how we should act, how we should act.
We've had it rough,
Been given technology instead of love,
Brought up by a computer screen with lungs,
Ask.com only has so many answers.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
I never realized how hard it is to not talk about something you need to get out.
It isn't like I don't have people to talk to, I think I do, I just, need to say it another way.
To be honest, I just want to feel less.... like I do. Whatever that is.
So, second day of school, I walk into one of my classes and I found someone had taken my seat. Not entirely caring, I just sat across, and later found it to be a girl I hadn't met before. Not knowing her name for the whole first week of school, I merely made small talk, along with everyone else at the table. But then, about halfway through the week, it started getting hard to look at her eyes. I felt I couldn't move. Slowly, it got harder and harder to be calm around her, even though I wasn't being too awkward (I think). I fell for her. Stupid, huh? One week, not even knowing her name. Right when I started to admit this, I learned that she has a boyfriend.
That is how this happy story ends. Thanks, just felt like putting it up here. Needed to get it out.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
I have been having the most difficult times with ad-blockers on this website. It kept me from being able to post for awhile, but I have that figured out now.
So, school has resumed... I may have taken on a bit too much, but I expect to at least pass my classes.
Good luck to everyone else facing school.
Anyways, I started a new notebook on the first day of school, and I plan on taking small parts of it out and putting up here. In my English class, he gives us about 10 minutes of free time at the beginning of class to text/talk with our friends, so I just write instead.
Here we are.
The air in the room was warm,
Not an uncomfortable heat,
Just not so cold.
There was no tightness against my skin from the constricting pressures of ice stricken oxygen.
I felt calm.
It was white,
and not the bleak form of white that artists crave to change,
The kind of white you find against the back of your eyelids,
It wasn't dark there,
I could feel the water drip off of my tongue,
Sweet like honey.
But not the viscous, sticky, type.
The type of honey he found mixed into his sweet tea earlier.
She was also sweet,
Seated halfway between the door and her seat,
My feet were itching to leave,
to prove a simple point.
To make a stand,
I can't stand here.
There was a time this room wasn't shaking,
That my hand wasn't shaking,
My eyes never shake anymore.
I've settles down in my mind,
I've found comfort in your silence.
The walls were white,
Only covered in the sweetness of a forgotten smile.