i do not wear this face because society wants me to. if anything, i persist in wearing the face i do because society did not ask me to. i do not wear this face because i think it makes me more beautiful. i wear this face because it makes me striking, dramatic, and slightly off-kilter. i wear this face because it affects how the world sees me and i like the way they treat me then. i wear this face because it brings me confidence. i wear this face because it is distinctive. i wear this face because it reflects me better, i think, than any other face would. but i do not know if this face reflects who i am. i do not know if it should. i do not know if it is even possible to. i know that it reflects me better than layers and layers of eyeshadow almost the precise color of my skin to make my eyes look bigger to change me into the model
You are one of the best things that has ever happened to me. You are the only one who's ever believed in me like this, Stayed with me this long, Whose ever loved me back.
I've never felt this before. This kind of connection, This kind of love. But I can tell you, It's what wakes me up in the morning. It's what keeps my heart beating. It's what keeps my lungs sucking in oxygen. It's what keeps my eyes blinking. It's what keeps me coming back for more.
When I'm with you, Every worry and stress melts away, Like how a raindrop rolls down a window. You make everything better.
When you touch me it feels like electricity is shooting from your fingertips And trailing its way down every inch of my body.
When you play with my hair, Everything freezes. Every cold breeze and odd sound, Stops. And I am filled with warmth
my internal landscape changes every time the weather grows colder. it's been true for years-- fall sets in, cold weather, long pants, all those lovely jackets. changing leaves mean groans about the inevitable onset of the leafpeepers. and emotionally, i... flatten. my mind hones in on something-- my writing, someone else's story, anything to keep me interested. i called it a cycle of obsession when i was younger and in its clutches looking out and knowing how preposterous i was but powerless to stop it. i love the cold. snow is beautiful, and i like sunrises, so waking up at a time when i'm able to witness them should be a good sign. it comes upon me slowly, enough that i never notice until winter is here and everything is grey and i am clinical and deep within obsession. i only notice
it's my first grade of the year. solid 100 percent and i feel a thrill as i look at it even though i hate this system. and it's not even a thrill because it's a good grade because god only knows that grade has a whole semester to go down. it was only based off of a few things anyway. no, that thrill came from the simple reality of having a grade. that curse of last year. that reinstituted prison. i hate having grades. i hate the way having your learning evaluted kills it. i hate how subjects i used to like are converted into numbers on a page and those numbers determine my future. i hate having to obsess over these, and i gloried in having a whole summer free of it. and now the prison is back, and i welcome it with open arms. because i no longer know how to evaluate myself without it.
i decided to do this way back in december. i guess when the future is far away enough, you think you can do anything. now it's the day after tomorrow and doing anything seems like a bit of a stretch. i travel well. i want to see the world, and i want to choose a new corner of it to settle down in eventually. but the future is always ahead of me. in the future, i am a badass, somewhat morbid, wise-beyond-her-years young woman who can handle anything because she's changed from now. the day after tomorrow, i am underslept, sweating, anxious, and unsocial. the day after tomorrow, i go flying off into only the semi-known ideally to get to know it better but it's frightening, to fly away alone-- or without anyone you know-- when you're staring it down instead of admiring it from months away.
The sun has gone to rest under the horizon, The Moon got up to play with the tousands of stars, The city grows vibrant with light in the steets below, People walk the path to return to their beloveds, This night was a special night, This night was chrismas night, For above the heights of the towering buildings, Were sparkles that gave people joy, The shimmering light was not the ordinary, They were angels who came from above, For it was this night and this night only, That an angel could begin to fly, If you heard the bell as sweet as a childs voice, Then an angel be thankful to thy, 'Cause you have done a deed, A deed that has someone thanking you for what you have done, So on this night and this night only, Everyone tries their hardest to let the angels fly.
in middle school i was told my grades didn't really matter that seventh and eighth grade were more a test of your ability to survive highly unpleasant social conditions than anything like academic prowess. that was all right, i didn't feel really compelled to fail-- school was easy, anyways. i tried to fail one class and scraped by with a 90. in high school suddenly i feel as if grades are everything. not because anyone's told me specifically, but because of the underlying sentiment. think of your gpa! colleges look at those. everything counts. it's meant to be motivating, maybe. i'm supposed to be encouraged that all of my work today is going to the purpose of sending me to college, even the mandatory, somewhat pointless health and diversity. really, it's just more pressure. i am fourteen years old. not even fifteen.
I get high on poetry; and drunk on creating. It's my drug of choice, Because the high it gives me is like nothing I've ever experienced before. My hands get shaky, My mind clears. I feel nothing, But also, everything. My heart pounds in my chest with passion, My bloodstream clogged with adrenaline. My mind works a million miles a minute, But my body works in slow motion. My pencil is a syringe, The graphite, the needle. The paper, my arm, and the words the drug. I roll meaning in paper, and light it with emotion. I inhale the concoction, Letting it settle in my lungs before I exhale my creation. I grind metaphors and similes into a fine powder before I snort them. Letting them mingle and match with the words drifting through my conscience. I ingest detail, Letting it seep through my being. Poetry is dangerous, Once you're hooked on it.
As an individual, I strive for first place. I live for the competition, the satisfaction of victory, and the look on my competitors’ faces when I inevitably win. As an American, I strive for first place. I thrive on improvement, power, and titles. I live for the competition, I can’t exist without it, and yet it’s tearing me apart.
My whole life I have been taught that winning is everything, that if I’m not first, I’m last, and second is the first to lose. But, what’s wrong with second place? What’s wrong with imperfection? I am tired of constantly being disappointed with second place, but I can’t stop striving for first place because it is who I am. In middle school, I was so competitive, that anytime I lost in gym class, I became angry. Irrationally angry, but it was just a game.
My life is a canvas, The paints of my palette are the experiences and lessons that I have learned, And my pictures are the events that come with living. I am the artist. I'm the only one who can paint my story.
So why do other people feel the need to paint my life for me? And why do I let them?
This is my masterpiece, why am I letting these amateurs deface it?
Their bold, sharp, jagged brush strokes stand out harshly against my own smooth flowing ones.
I paint with emotion and meaning. With veiled images and detail.
I learned to paint with a sharp eye to detail at a young age. A skill that is only achieved through living in the exposure to the cold, dark world. I've been through to much for a child.
But their brush strokes, They're stiff and cold. Void of meaning. Lacking in detail. They haven't been exposed to the world like I have just yet.
i get home from school 3:45 at the earliest, leave around 8:30. that's 16 hours and 45 minutes away from school. assuming that i sleep from 11:30 to 7-- then subtract an hour for insomnia-- that's only 10 hours and 15 minutes awake and at home and 7 in school. still more time away from school than in it; but three hours and fifteen minutes, that's not a big difference, and that's not even counting extracurriculars. add those on, and i'll bet the two would be about equal. it's not like that's really a very big deal, i might not like school, but i do like learning, and i'm not about to complain. but it makes me wonder, when i consider that when you're asked to picture a teenager, you either thing drugs and scandal and stuff or else you think school. and i'm anything but a raucous party girl, but i wonder--
i discreetly wrote this in science class, constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure no one was prowling around, ready to pounce on me for being off-task, which is why it's so short. if anyone was wondering.
weathering doesn't happen quckly, you can't wear a mountain down to a speck in a day. no, it takes a long long time, centuries of raindrops streaking the surface, centuries of gusty winds whipping at a raw nose, hours and hours of awkward stares of plaguing thoughts i'm wrong, i'm stupid, i am being judged. people talk about flames going out but a flame is snuffed in seconds. and it takes ages to wear a person down. so i say, i'm a mountain. buffetted by wind someone else's tears washing away my face. making a brave last stand that's slowly making me disappear into
Today while walking in the rain, You flooded into my mind, As the raindrops seeped through my hair. Images of you clouded my vision as I climbed our old apple tree. As the gentle cords of the violin I was listening to collided with the sound of raindrops on metal roofing caressed my ears, I laid my head against the scratchy feeling of bark on a decades old tree. Letting the rain drops filtered by leaves cascade down on me, Seeping into my skin. My eyes slipping closed as I got lost in the world of fantasy. Where we ran through a graveyard as the rain began to fall, We tumbled under an old oak tree. The rain still falling through a canopy of leaves. I leaned in and gave you a tender kiss dripping with love, And you returned it. But as the thunder rumbled in the distance, Pulling me back to reality, Somewhere where you weren't with me.
Apocalypses don't come smashing down from the heavens, destryoing civilization in one easy wave of fire and sending everybody into a frantic scramble to survive twisted political ideals and stay alive. They don't steamroll over people's lives, destroying political and social concepts all at once. They don't dry the Earth up all in one giant cloud of dusty red smoke, leaving us on a Martian desert land full of prehistoric beasts. Apocalypses don't scream their intentions as they slam down onto our heads, and they don't wipe out live as we knew it, not noticeably, anyway.
No, I think that in real life apocalypses arrive so subtly that people don't always realize they're there. One simple, reasonable step after another until it's too late. We go on and continue our regular lives, reading and writing, running and swimming and gardening because apocalypses arrive quietly.