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Sweep me up
Take me away
Pretend that time is no more
And we
Can stay here
Forever in this moment of heaven
Never moving on
To darkness
That waits with fearful claws
Cause haven't I ever
Told you
The sun rises and sets
because of your smile
And how hard I've tried
But can't let go
Of the thought of you
Tried but failed
And realized
all I want
Is to be swept up
So you
Can take me away

I saw you
That day my eyes were wet
With tears
Saw how she leaned
Into you
How you held her up
While I was falling
I saw you
Your hair so unkempt
The smile that you gave her
The touch of
Your hand
That was never
Meant for me.

Why do I feel so
unoriginal,
so fake?
I don't know
who I am,
I don't know
if I'm real.
Is this real?

Why do they walk out the door
Different people than they were before?
Why aren't they ashamed
Of their disgraceful words?
We all want to leave
To go away
It's true
But can't they see
They've made themselves fools?

I could see the tears
balanced on the bottom of your eyes
and I knew you were looking down
because if you'd met our gaze,
they'd fall.

You buried your face in your arms.
I didn't hug you.
I moved towards your huddled form--but
I paused--I stopped--unsure
if you wanted to be touched.
It was her who finally put her arms around you.
I rested my hand on your shoulder,
second-best.

I know how hard it was to talk.

I told you
what you each
wanted to know-
all while
staring into
my tea mug,
watching the
reflections dance
on the shalacked
surface-
you listened,
like I knew
you would
and we fit right into
one of those
teen angst books
that other guy mocked
or one of those
textbook cases.
But it's not a textbook,
it's my life.
And this is
the only way
I can deal.
I kept repeating myself
and kept waiting
for it to
be fake.
I guess
what scared me
was that it
never did.

"I am so
unimaginative."

"Why do you say that?"

"All of you are
talking
about seeing a
rainforest
and eating fruit that
tastes like pizza and
petting wombats."

"Well, you were
supposed to
close your eyes."

"I can't close my
eyes. I mean,
it's enough that we
already had to lie
on our backs
with our palms to
the ceiling."

"What do you mean?
You just have to
relax."

"That's the thing:
I can't relax,
and I can't
close my eyes
like that."

"Why?"

"Because then I'd be
completely defenseless,
vulnerable."

"Defenseless?
You're in a school.
What's going
to hurt you?"

"I don't know..."

I know it should be
"Untitled,"
but still, I
think there's something
to it,
a reason, any reason
that it states,
"Untilted."
Does the world
really
make that much more sense
if you flip it
upside-down
and back again?
Could it ever
become clear
so quickly, so simply,
as it does when I
place the lenses
over my eyes?
Is the universe on
a slant of sorts
and that's why
it doesn't work
the way it should?
That it doesn't make sense
logically?
Could we ever
untilt
our minds
so completely
that everything
slid
into place?
The possibilities are
not endless.
Where does all
existence stop?
The depth
of personification
rings a bell
somewhere inside
of my heart.
Is this where
I belong?

Everyone always tries to
Fill up my head with doubts
Make me second guess myself
And never be successful
But it won't work because
My mind is like that of
Everyone else
It works according to
What and only what
It wants to do
So to all those who want to
Try to make me doubt myself
You'll only be wasting precious air
And in the end you may even
Doubt yourself

You are dressed up
In a cute
Little
Pleated skirt

Your cheeks
Are pink

Your makeup
Is pink

Beneath the skin
You are pink

You smell
Like sweet
Strawberries

You are warm
And seem eager
To be cuddled

Soon
You're all gone

You were
A yummy
Cupcake

During my three month absence from the blog (sorry!) I've discovered the joys of flavored toothpaste, learned how to French braid, had a violent allergic reaction to Bounce dryer sheets, and begun to re-read all of the Harry Potter books in order. The most recent change in life has been the transition from school to summer job. As far as people watching goes, I hit the jackpot. Am now savvy, witty waitress at Bakery, working 7am -3pm serving the Colchester regulars and wayside sailors.

The girl who is training me is real sweet. She's about thirty, with two kids an ex-husband, and a little dog that she has to run home to let out every two hours, but none of that depresses her. Her name is Aaron. She's no taller than me, with a jaunty little pony tail and loads of eye makeup. She is very tan, chews gum constantly and calls you hun no matter who you are. Read more »

I stand in line, bare feet against hot sand and grit and dust.
Balloons spiral to the sun; a boy of three cries out, empty-fisted.
His mother hushes him. I step around a bottle in the dirt.
The man behind the counter takes my ticket. I slide into an empty seat.

---------Can you hear the click of the iron safety bar,
---------locking tight against your hands, against your chest?
---------It’s the same sound as I drop my notebook to the floor--
---------that slap, that too-late warning: can’t go back.

Metal teeth bite fast to metal ridges. I’m thrown back in my seat
as the car begins to climb. The little boy is far below, still crying.
---------Lights on me, eyes on mine. I scan the blurry crowd. Can’t see.
I reach the very top. An awful pause, a chunkk of gears:--I fall.

---------“One. Fuck.”

Down, and gaining speed; a stomach-lurching up again
and over and around.
---------I can’t make up my mind. Choose, damnit, stupid girl. Read more »

I laugh in your face writer’s block
I've found I'm not so occupied by trying to get away you
because I know
You play silly games with me
And I'm willing to play a while
Lets go dance for a while
While my pen lays motionless
Lets go on the swings while I leave my thoughts to them self’s
And take a break for a while
I'll play your games
But it’s my world
And I'm only playing with you
Until she writes back.

Essay for English on the symbology of The Museum of Natural History in Catcher in the Rye.

The Museum of Natural History as a Symbol

Holden Caulfield is a misguided teenager who swears, drinks, smokes, and hires prostitutes. To add to that, his younger brother has died and he’s flunked out of four schools; Holden’s life is not going too well so he adopts a vivid resistance to change. In J. D. Salinger’s novel, The Catcher in the Rye, the Museum of Natural History is a nice and peaceful place for Holden because it stays the same. To Holden’s dismay, even the interminably changeless museum succumbs to an evident transformation in the end. J. D. Salinger uses the Museum of Natural History to symbolize to Holden that change is a natural occurrence. Read more »

We had to set a poem to images in my English class this year. I chose Gwendolyn Brook's poem, To The Young Who Want To Die. Then, we had to choose the best slide and explain/analyze it. This is what I wrote:

Line 13 in To The Young Who Want To Die, a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks, is, “You need not die today.” I used a painting titled The Barricade, Rue de la Mortellerie, by Ernest Meissonier to depict the mood of the line.
The dark brown and grey in the painting reinforce the darkness and seriousness of death. Since the line is encouraging the reader not to die, I decided that adding a scene of death would be beneficial in the persuasion, as if to say, “Don’t die today, there is already too much death, too many dead. We don’t need to add another person to the body count.” The gruesome image also reminds the reader that death is dirty, it stains your clothes and isn’t fun to clean up. Read more »

This is as far as I got last year.

Chapter II Read more »

I started this story last summer. I never really continued with it but I want to start writing it again.

Chapter I

Heat rose from the field as the softball team began their jog. Corliss’ dirty blonde hair flew behind her as she began to run. The second baseman and Corliss’ best friend, Bridgett, ran next to her.
“Hey girl!” Bridgett said prepishly, “Like, O-M-G, isn’t it just the HOTTEST today?” Corliss stared at her friend until she began to talk normally. Read more »

This was also written in Eighth grade. As you will read, my gym teacher was a... bad person.

On a warm day in April, in the year of ‘05
A girl bounced down the stairs, her dismay much alive.
She was heading towards gym, with her new gym shorts
The only problem was that she hated sports.
Every Friday for gym, a mile they’d run
For most of the kids, it was way below fun.

Today was a Friday, and her next class was gym
‘The only pro,’ she thought, ‘is that I’m getting slim.’
So she was heading towards hell, like all of her friends.
But suddenly her bounceful-ness came to an end.
She tripped on loose tread, and fell noggin first.
She landed quite weirdly, so many tears burst.

From her eyes, from her ears, from her nose, and her chin
Though the principle was nearby, she did not hear the din.
Ariel, the young girl, crawled to the feet
Of the principle of the day, who had no wheelchair but a seat.
So she hoisted her up into the chair Read more »

I wrote this in Eighth Grade. We were only supposed to write 8 lines of Dr. Seuss-like poetry. Instead, I wrote this monster. [I did get an A+++ though] Anyway, I've been told it's hard to follow the speakers. If you die, follow the quotation marks and trace them back to a person!!!

In Mr. H’s room, this story begins.
It was during a class, there was quite a din.
The children were talking, not paying attention
Until a certain teacher, whose name I won’t mention
Began to tell a tale, a tale of a girl.
If you listen, you may hear the story unfurl.

“In this class, on the first day of school
A girl entered sobbing, and sat on a stool.
In the front of the room, she began to recite
Why? I know not, but it was quite a sight
To see a tear stained girl who committed to memory
A poem of love, it began in a cemetery:

‘A young man arrived at a quarter past eight
To visit a relative, his grandpa of late.
Once he found the grave that was marked
On the path behind him, his bike he parked.
He kneeled down on the grassy grave
And scraped off the moss covering the name Dave. Read more »

I wrote this one a few months ago. It was inspired by a poem writing thing we had to do for English.

My pants are droopy
The bottoms are ripped
My shoes don’t fit me
Off my feet they slip
My hair is tied back
Into a tight bun
My fingernails are short
They were quite recently done

I used to get made fun of
I’ve never really cared
Once upon a time
People always started
It used to really make me mad
“Why can’t they just see?”
Then I realized, there’s no way
Everyone could get me

There’s some guy walking down the hall
We’re wearing the same shirt
He looks at me like I’m insane
And yet, I don’t feel hurt
I don’t care what people think
Being different’s kinda cool
Who wants to be the same
As everyone at school?

The metronome is tapping
Deep, steady beats
My fingers press upon the keys
The rhythm’s taken over my feet
But staying in time is effortless
Way to0 easy to do
Sometimes you’ve got to improvise Read more »

I wrote this poem almost two years ago, but I thought I'd put it up anyway.

He is despised above all other things
But he is the only one who gives my heart wings.
To look into his eyes
Gives me butterflies.
So rude and uncouth
I must discover the truth.
On the outside he’s nice
But that makes me think twice.
He owns on the sax
I must uncover the facts.
My eyes are on him
My vision so dim.
When he looks at me back
I must gather my act.
He denies that he likes me
Should I believe him?

I'm amazed
At myself
At how much
I've written

A little over
Two weeks
And I'm
A freakin' poet

I can't stop
Poetizing everything
That comes to mind

That I think
That I feel
That I see

I'm an artist

My paintbrush
A blue ballpoint

My canvas
100 sheets of
Lined paper
In a spiral notebook

I'm a musician

Playing notes
With my keyboard
Keeping in time
With my heart

Screw the conductor
This is all improv
I don't need boundaries

They're restrictive
They're for starters
They're not for me

I like who I've become
I like who I'm becoming
I like who I am

I may not inspire others
Just by writing
But I'm inspiring myself
And trust me

That's the hardest of all

Sitting
In front
Of the television

It's 10:55 at night
And I'm crying
Like a baby

Watching
America's Got Talent
And all these people
Work so hard
Trying to be the best

They've gone through
So much
And they're
So great

It makes me weep

Everything in the kitchen
Pitch black
Except for the small
4 foot cone
Feeding off the TV screen

The colors from
The screen
Light up my tears
Make them visable

On my cheeks
On my eyelashes
On my arms

They're everywhere

I just sit
And cry
And smile
And feel happy

I've come to the conclusion
That

I'm human

i.
I wish you were
stronger.

You admitted that you're
weak,

but I know you'll do
nothing

about it.

ii.
I don't respect you any
more.

People know who I am, they just don't know my name
like that song you've heard a thousand times
but can't remember the name of
which gets really annoying
and drives you crazy
becuase you just want to know the name
but no one can remember
so you have to go look it up on google

i.
I can't:
you're not:
I don't know you.
You're a man on the other
end of the telephone.

ii.
"People like that just don't
understand anything.
they're blind. They're deaf
they don't even know themselves."

iii.
"I love you.
you know that right?"
Bullshit.

iv.
You're my father.
You make the plans.
If you want to see me,
You'll make sure you can.
You're the boss.
Get someone to work.

v.
If you were an alcoholic:
This poem might make sense.

I wrote this out of order, from a couple different perspectives,
mainly: it's to vent emotions of alcoholism: especially when affected by alcoholics within the family.

I examine my wide young face in the black-rimmed mirror.
Round cheeks, blue eyes set too close.
I know I'll never be called beautiful.
But this face--this skin--these bones--
is this what the world sees? Is this who I am?
I only know my mind, my feet, my hands--
long-nailed fingers, ink-stained
scrawling hurried letters in blue pen.
I am my words, not this mask of bone and skin.
This face is a stranger's, never mine.

I got your letter
it came yesterday
When I started reading I was so happy, to hear from you
but by the end
I was in tears
I was in tears
because of you
(again)

I'm not sure if I'm into writing for the correct reasons. I don't know if I enjoy it or if me writing about other things is interferring with my own life. I'm 17, haven't been kissed, I don't party, I don't drink, I hardly hang with my friends. Could it be that I use reading and writing as substitute for my life? For so long I've wondered this, I wonder if I'm afraid to step out of this confortable shell of my make-believe lives. Read more »

Red
Orange
Yellow
Green
Blue
Purple

Cherry
Orange
Lemon
Lime
Blueberry
Grape

Twizzlers
Gobstoppers
Sour Patch Kids
Skittles

Yum

Yuck

Filled with dye
Actually makes me cry
As I expell
The color
From my stomach
Feels like I'm in hell

I throw up
What I shouldn't have eaten
No real food
Just candy
All day
It's not the way
To spend your life
Getting sick
Causing strife

Go to the movies
Eat the chemicals
Half way through
Sprint to the bathroom
Hope you're not going to die

It sucks

Candy's addicting
Tastes so good
Hurts so bad
Uses all the ATP
Your body ever had
To get rid of the crap
Make sure it never
Comes back

Stop eating
You tell yourself
To what end?
You can't mend
The formation of tastebuds
That love
The sugary
Fruity
Goodness

Help

They want you
To taste the rainbow
All I'm tasting is
The up-throw