Lawnmowing, Love, and Lilacs

Today was my last day of school before summer starts! It's about time, too. :P

Ah ha, another lawnmower poem. It's an inspirational thing, mowing the lawn, is it not? This poem's even about plants! Coincidence? I think not! I wrote this on Saturday and edited Sunday and Monday to make it the best it could be.

This is partly inspired by my boyfriend--yes, I said it: my boyfriend--who is a microbiology genius. Most the things he talks to me about go in one ear and out the other. He's working on curing cancer, and I think his team is close. Did I mention he's just about to graduate high school? Yes. And he's curing cancer.

Anyways, loosely inspired by him. He's very sweet, and he would never mistreat me in any way. The only similarity is the scientific-ness of this poem. What can I say? Relationships make for great poetry, even if it's a little exaggerated.

Are you in a relationship? Is it an... INSPIRING one? Do tell.

Summer Bloom

Suspend me, saint-like, from the ceiling,

Strung up beside garlic and spice.

I bet I'll look nice when you move from this shack to a lab,

And you can study me all you want, but I won't change.

It's strange how you said you wanted me,

Only to pluck me from my roots so I could die before your eyes.

But I'd rather be dried than condemned to formaldehyde,

Watching dandelions go to seed while you read medical journals

And observe my body decaying inside a jar.

I know where they are.

When their petals began to wilt, you pumped them full of preservatives,

Injected dyes so you wouldn't have to see them decompose,

A daisy;

A rose;

Locked in the dusty corners of your memory,

A sickening surprise for me to find as I search your mind,

Looking for the "Why's."

I only bloomed so you could tell me I was pretty,

And when you found me I told you I couldn't last forever.

You thought you were so clever,

Hanging me like Peter from the rafters,

Sealing letters, making charts,

Calling up forbidden arts.

And I know you're trying, but

I'm

still

dying,

And all your efforts just won't work.

By the time you find a cure to mortality,

I'll have gone to seed,

And I'll teach my posterity to laugh

At the silly charts and stupid graphs

You made to save your garden of hearts.

A summer flower made to bloom in spring,

I'll leave you to wonder if you did something

Wrong,

Because I can't bear to watch, with my dried-out eyes,

As the could-have-been seed

slowly

dies.

You'd Be Surprised Where You Get Inspired

You'd think mowing the lawn would inspire you to write about mowing the lawn, right? Nope. Not for me. Somehow mowing the lawn or walking to school stimulates my brain, I guess, because right after doing either one I have ideas for new stories or poems. I made up a joke the last time I walked to school. You wanna hear it? Of course you do.

What do you call a mob of brooms?

The mop-fia.

You're supposed to laugh now, just so you know.

Anyways, I was mowing the lawn on Saturday, contemplating stuff as always, when the lines for a poem came to mind. I'd already tried writing something with the same idea in mind, but it wasn't turning out quite right the way I was taking it. The title came about partly because of the poem's concept, and also because I was joking around with my sister and calling her names (we do that a lot, just to see who can come up with the best name). The first word out of my mouth was "Dummy." Isn't that a funny word? I had to use it somewhere.

Before I give you the poem, here's a question I'd like to know: What inspires you, and where (as in physical places) do you most often get inspiration?

Dummy

My ventriloquist moves my mouth to speak,

Though I swear it's not me talking.

My ventriloquist moves my limbs so weak,

But it's not me who's walking.

My ventriloquist makes my eyes to weep,

Though I swear it's not me crying.

My ventriloquist lays me down to sleep,

And now it's me who's dying.

Official Posting Schedule and a Poem That Is Apparently Worth Publishing

Because of some stuff and various other reasons, I will make blog posts on Tuesdays and Thursdays, except when I don't.

Aren't you glad to have something consistent in your life, except when I'm not consistent?

I know I am.

EDIT as of Saturday, 28 May, 2011: I'll probably post on Saturdays as well. Yay! :D

Today's poem is an interesting piece to be certain. An assignment in creative writing was to hold hands with a person we didn't know very well from the class and stare into their eyes for five minutes. We weren't to speak, look away, or let go of each other until the five minutes were up. Then we had to write a poem or prose piece about our experience.

I chose to "commune" with Ashley, a quiet girl (but an excellent writer). It felt odd at first, but eventually it became more comfortable and I was able to just think: what is she thinking about? What lies behind her eyes? And what is she seeing in me?

I sent in the resulting poem to a poetry contest a few months ago, and it is being published in a who's who sort of book. I'm not about to shell out $26 for a book with my name in it. The whole reason I entered was to get extra credit, anyways. But I'm in the running to win an actual prize, so I'm not complaining.

This is "Hazel."

Is it all right if we share?
Let’s take turns and chip away at the Walls we’ve built
Until we have nothing but ourselves,
But everything at once.

I never asked for anything before, so
Do you mind if I ask,
Where is your direction?

(Are you wandering like I do? Are you lost as I am?)

Let us be lost together
So someone can hold me through coming Disaster.

You’ve shown me flecks of gold, copper, bronze,
Rich soil rings around my reflection.
Let’s plant a garden in your eyes
And dandelions to choke out the Worry seeds.

Did you see my Ocean?

(It laps against my shivering soul)

Did you see the Embers?

(I Burned my heart for the sake of winter heat)

Did you see the Gardens rent with longing?
(Once there were forests filled with flames)

Please, come be lost with me. I feel so c o l d.

The Archives: Disgusting Sappy Love Poetry

I have to post these before I forget.

(sigh) And this is the embarrassing part of being a writer: love poetry.

Once upon a time I was not in love with boys, and then suddenly I was. It was kind of scary. I had this weird crush for some reason on this kid (he shall remain unnamed...), and I had this... shrine-like collection of things I made about him. Namely, two comic strips, a bunch of pictures, and two poems.

The only thing I can share without dying of embarrassment is the poetry.

And you know, the funny thing is that now I look back and can hardly believe I liked him. He was kind of... icky.

Anyways, these are two nursery-rhyme-type love poems of disgusting sickly sweetness. The first one is from me to him, and the second from him to me. And... I wrote them both. Can I say desperate?

Dear Moon,
You are the moon, and I'm just a star,
You don't know me, but I know who you are.
I wish to give you my deepest love,
For now I will simply gaze from above.
But you are the moon, and I'm just a star,
And all I can do is watch from afar.
I'm not near as pretty as others, it's true,
But someday I'll shine just as brightly as you.

Love,
A Star

Dear Star,

I am the moon, and you are a star,

You don't think I see, but I know who you are.

I know you are looking at me from up there,

Did you really think that I just didn't care?

I love you, I love you, I love you, my dear,

And with me around you have no need to fear.

You are one of many, but just watch and see,

You are the star who most matters to me

.I promise to cherish and to hold you tight,

Together our glory will surpass the night.

I love you, I love you, a thousand times more,

The heavens will sing with our ev'ning amor.

Come closer, my darling, my beautiful friend,

Come dance with me, and our joy will not end.

Love,

The Moon

Now I'm really a poet...

...because I have a beret, flown priority (with my parents) from France to my head. It's pretty French. ;) Yep.

Just thought I would share. Hopefully I will have something tomorrow. I wrote some good stuff in my English journals, but I had to turn them in before I could type them up. The first one involves my noisy head (it'll make sense).

Ta for now!

It's Been A While...

Well, well, well...

Look what the cat dragged in, eh?

It's me!

I'm still here. Working on lots of things, all of which are not yet finished, but still writing. Yes indeed.

I feel bad for not posting in such a long time (12 days, le gasp), especially since I left all you loyal readers with such a horrible short story for that time (shudder).

So I made something up in the last three minutes, which is somewhat appropriate after my week-and-a-half period of silence. This is called "Soft-Spoken," which is a thing that I am not. I was looking through my journals for English class today, and over half of them were stamped with the purple cat. The purple cat represents my having shared my thoughts on the topic in front of the class, and qualifies me for extra credit. That's seven journals that I've shared. Most of my classmates have three. Actually, most have none, maybe one. What can I say? I love to talk, and I have a lot to say! So here it is.

Soft-Spoken

I think that perhaps I will speak less,

So that when I have something to say,

People will raptedly listen,

And my words will have power to sway.

The Archives: A Really Horrible Short Story

I wouldn't post this if I didn't know that Rachel would kill me if I didn't, because really it's a horrible story. Rachel insists it's a really, really good story, but I have my doubts. So if you trust her, you can read it, but I would recommend you just skip over it.

But on the other hand, I guess it must have some merit if I'm posting it at all.

This hurts my brain. Here, just read it. Or don't. I don't care either way. And you can also tell me how wonderful it is or how much you hate it. Really, I'm indifferent. This is "Rat."

Rat

She was eight years old when she first heard the creature speak to her. Holding that slightly serrated kitchen knife in her hand, staring at her reflection in the blade, a spider on her shoulder whispered into her ear:

“Put the tip to your chest.”

The child bit her lip. "Dad said I shouldn't."

The spider tickled her cheek as it responded:

“I didn’t say to push it in.”

She contemplated the blade a moment and began to pull it to her ribcage, but stopped and shook her head. Mom and Dad would miss me. Slowly, she placed the knife in the cutting block and continued with her chores. The spider said nothing in protest, but did not leave her shoulder. It sat in wait for five years, patiently anticipating a tragedy.

When next it spoke, she was thirteen. Her father had just killed himself last week, and she was left lost and alone. Though her mother tried her best to console her daughter, there was a hole in the girl's heart that could have only been filled by her dad. A mouse put its dry fingers on her chin and wrapped its tail around her neck, lifting her eyes to look into its face.

“Put the tip to your chest,” it crooned. “You don’t have to push; just hold it right here.” With one claw, it pointed to the aching space in her heart. It smiled a yellow-teeth smile. “I promise it won’t hurt. In fact, you’ll feel better.”

Gulping back tears, the girl obediently brought the blade to her ribs and held it there, feeling the cool metal through her shirt.

“There…” the mouse purred, swiping a tear from her cheek with its paw. “Doesn’t that feel better?"

“Yes,” she choked out. “Yes, it does.”

“And if that feels good,” the mouse went on, “think how good it will feel if you push…”

She initially tried to protest, but the vermin tightened its noose around her neck so she could neither move nor speak. “It will make you feel better,” it insisted, digging its claws into her face, teeth like needles bared.

Crying out in fear, the girl swatted it away with her free hand, the knife clattering to the ground. She slowly backed away from the writhing creature, her face twisted in pain. “No, I can’t," she whispered. Gathering her courage, she screamed at the mouse, "I can’t do that!” She retreated until it was out of sight, never taking her eyes from the creature's.

It followed her, realizing that it had pushed too hard too soon. It would have her, though, even if it had to wait five, ten, thirty years.

Again a spider, the creature crept back onto her shoulder, stepping lightly so she wouldn’t notice its return. Every once in a while it spoke a few words, ever so quietly so as almost not to be heard:

“I know it hurts.”

“I can help.”

“You can feel better.”

Just as before, the beast’s patience paid off. She was sixteen, crushed under stress and on the verge of insanity. With trembling hands, she clutched the slightly serrated kitchen knife, staring at her tear-streaked reflection in the blade. The spider whispered into her ear:

“Put the tip to your chest.”

Without hesitation, she pulled the knife to the aching space in her heart.

“You can feel better,” the mouse hissed. “It won’t hurt. Just push.”

She tried to blubber something through her tears, but the creature couldn’t wait. “Just push!” The rat snarled, wrapping its claws around the blade and pulling it closer. The girl resisted, pushing it away, but her assailant only grew louder and larger.

“It will feel better! Just—”

The rat choked on its words, its hold on the blade slipping. A trickle of blood escaped past its needle teeth. As the creature fell to the floor in a pool of blood, the girl looked through her tears into the eyes of her mother, who clutched a bloody pen and her daughter's diary. She stared at the twitching body of the rat, then the mother gathered her little girl into her arms. A moan escaped the daughter’s lips.

“I didn’t do it,” she wept, clinging to her mother as a lifeline, her words almost swallowed in her sobs. "I didn't do it."

“Shhhh,” whispered her mother, rocking her back and forth.

New Posting Schedule

Now that I've got a few things up for people to read, I'm going to slowly start reducing my poetry/prose posts to once or twice a week, lest I run out of archives and new stuff. Okay? Okay. Good. I'm glad we had this talk. (Why am I still awake at this obscene hour, anyways?)

And Now To Lighten Things Up A Little Bit...

What with all this dark sad sadistic blah blah blah angst poetry, I thought I might make an interlude and post another poem today so you all don't feel so depressed and such. "Loony" is one of my newer poems, and also one of my favorites. Kudos to you if you can determine what it means. Here's a hint: Return to Oz.

Loony

I sure been sweet
Ever since that day in the candy sweet sweet shop,
Sippin’ up soda pop
Soda soda pop pop pop pop pop
Pop pop pop pop pop pop stop

Stop all this nonsense
No sense nonsense
Ha ha ha sense
Fine scents,
Nine cents,
I make mine sense.

Strawberry sweet pops,
Cool little cherry drops,
Suck em up until they’re dry
They are special just for I,
No one gets them ‘cept for I,
I am special,
So am I.

Pluck the feathers from the walls,
Tickle each other down the halls
Stop this nonsense.
This is fun sense!
Pull the stuffing from the floor,
I don’t want it anymore.

Tightrope-walkin’ on a high-barbed-wire fence,
Crowds look up with wide-eyed wonder-wow,
Come down quick, right now,
No how!
I’m the high-wire act for the Greatest Show on Earth
And can’t no one tell me what I am worth,
Cos I know I’m at least a dollar’s worth,
Steppin’ on pokies with a balance in each hand,
Smile to the grandstand.
Strike up the circus band!

And when the show is done,
Wrap me in a hug,
All warm, all snug,
Squeeze me tight until I’m squoze
The world is dang’rous, I suppose.
And when you leave I’ll hug me, too,
So I don’t have to wait for you.

Unsense

Nonsense

Ha ha ha sense
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha--

Dancing in the sun warm,
Got a poky in my arm,
Dandelion bubble seeds go pop,
Sun stops,
What is this place?
Whose face?
T’ain’t my face.
That is her face.
Whose face?
My face?

You got it wrong, ma’am.
I know exactly where I am,
Sippin’ soda pop in the candy sweet sweet shop,
Suckin’ on a cherry drop.
Stop this nonsense.
You make no sense!
I make fine sense,
This is mine sense.

Publication Celebration! Part Three of Three

For a long time I'd wanted to write something about an insane person, something with a maniacal edge; something chilling yet somehow beautiful. It took months of thinking and drafting and proofing before I came up with "Painted," and the more I read it, the more I think that it really reflects a part of me. This was written to be performed in a poetry slam, so I've included stage directions to paint a more vivid picture. Enjoy.

Painted

(Do not make eye contact with audience. Introverted, insane, girlish voice. Stare at the floor, twist feet, walk in circles, rock back and forth, twirl hair, bite fingers, etc. Look up occasionally but not at audience.)

I can’t share.
So I’ll put these words in a cage,
And lock them away,
All alone in my head,
Till they all become dead,
And not me instead.

I built a stronger cage this time.
I didn’t poke holes in the lid,
So the words will suffocate
Like ladybugs in a jar.
And it’s better they die
Than I.
I do not lie when I don’t want to die.
(Staccato words, short and clipped) I don’t want to die and I don’t want to lie...

Last time I tried to lock up my words,
They escaped through the cracks
But I kept a secret
All locked up in my head
Like a bird in a cage,
That slowly I strangled,
Slowly slowly slowly so it didn’t
Make
A
Sound,
And no one will ever have to know.
Now I can dream about the bird and draw it and paint it...

(sudden realization, look at audience, shocked)
As an obsession, a horrible horrible obsession,
Hundreds of crimson paintings of ice spikes and electrocutions,
Trapped, suicide, war, death,
I can show them to people,
I can think that they’re beautiful but I know the things they mean,
The hidden stories,
The painting I never finished because I never found what I was looking for,
And I (choke, gasp)

(return to first voice)
It doesn’t matter.
They never found the bird I killed.
They never found the cage I built.
I just told someone
But I lied.
I still have a secret.

If you listen close, I might share my secret,
But only if you promise not to tell,
And I’ll know if you’re lying,
So please don’t lie to me
(No lying please.)

(I don’t want to lie and I don’t want to die)

(turn back to audience, mutter to self, pace)
NO!
You can’t trust them
They’re going to tell,
They’re lying, you can’t trust them, can’t trust them,
Their promises are lies
I don’t want to die and I don’t want to lie,
Because lying is bad.
Bad people lie like the ones you can’t trust,
And if you trust your brain turns to rust,
So being alone is a must is a must,
Being alone is a must,
I’m alone in my head with the blood that is red and the bird that is dead--

(turn back around) (scream) GET OUT!

(look shocked, cover mouth)

Publication Celebration! Part Two of Three/AP Completeification Celebration

I took the APUSH test today and totally killed it. Rachel studied me into a stupor (literally) yesterday, along with Hannah and Alyssa. I really think I'm not cut out for the whole "studying" thing. We were supposed to study an hour and a half every day for the past month while we reviewed in class. I think I might have maybe studied an hour and a half total. Boberg (my teacher) was so proud! of me when I told him I'd studied half an hour by myself two days ago, lol!

Today's publication celebration piece is more on the heavy side, or the dark side, I guess you could say. Because of this poem and the one I'll post next, I'm notorious in my class for killing birds (and babies (but don't take that the wrong way. It's a lit mag joke). Actually, I'm pretty much notorious for killing things, period). Not that I've ever actually killed an animal on purpose (although I very nearly ran over this retarded pigeon who wouldn't get out of the road and then flew up into my windshield).

But enough blab. Here's the poem.

Release

I caught you from the sky,
{Little bird}.
Your heart beats so fast,

A thrum of [life]

in my palm.

I plucked you from the flock
And now you [s t r u g g l e] in my grasp

Try your best to escape, but

{Little bird}!

You are in MY control now!

And I’m not about to let you go

Because I want you to suffer...

[just like me],

{Little bird},

As I snap your feathers

one

by

one,

I leave you f l i g h t l e s s,

Leave you [grounded].

My fingers are stained in crimson,
And as my tears drip on your breast,
My light begins to die...

[just like you],

{Little bird}

It’s slowly that I realize
That as I take your life away from you,

Acting God,

Playing Reaper,

As the beating of your heart hits a

[r i t a r d a n d o]

And your eyes stare into mine and
Beg the question: why?

I’m not sure I know.

Because I’ve lost everything [else] in my grasp,
And I need to find some r e l e a s e.
I need to know that

something

else

is hurting...

[just like me].

Publication Celebration! Part One of Three

To celebrate the fact that the Lit Mag is done, I'm posting the three things that I have published in the former. First one is called "The Sea of Ashes," and if you can determine what it means, let me know. xD I still haven't figured it out.

The Sea of Ashes

There was once an ocean here in this standing place. I remember its waves which nibbled at my toes, telling stories of distant shores and fantastic other lands; its fresh-scent foam, the breeze laced with brine. We went swimming in the water and found shells in the sand, dancing across oiled feathers and blackened baby bones.

Oceans don’t drift away; they burn. They rage. This ocean blazed many months ago. This beach turned to glass, twisted and transparent, rising and falling like soft-lifting silk. The waves tore over each other, spiraling pinwheels of light as far as the eye could see. The earth echoes an anthem of burning; do you hear it?

Now the salt has been replaced with ash. It feels like a funeral, a great cremation of the entire earth’s teardrops. Listen quietly: you can hear a hymn whispered in the white. Embers lead a procession, and the birds speak a eulogy, but there are no tears. They, too, are ashes.

I can’t tell you what color your eyes are now, or what the sky looks like. Grey isn’t a color. But here is something I do know: you can see the earth’s heart today, under our feet. It is red, an anger, and it pulses and dances as though it is alive. If you look just right, you can see through the world, through the center to the other side. It is a great glass globe, an ornament on a cosmic Christmas tree.

Can you smell the smoke? On a certain day, you can still feel it on your tongue, but it might be the people, too. It didn’t take long for them to come creeping from their holes, the people. The fish-corpses hadn’t even finished rotting before the concrete went down. People couldn’t wait that long. They needed something familiar, something to hold them close and comfort them. All they had was cold, dead asphalt.

The moon is pulling strong today. It longs for something to hold, just as it once plucked at the waters like symphony strings. All it has left to cling to are the people, the fish-corpses and concrete. I hope someday it will pull me away with it, and I shall dance in moon ash to feel at home. Perhaps the stars will have stories to tell, of distant worlds and fantastic places.

Perhaps the moon was an ocean, many millions before, and the smoke caused the earth to weep an ocean. Perhaps the sun, too, and the stars are oceans, and soon we will spin in an eternity of glittering glass spheres, chiming in perfect harmony as we dance around each other and spread ocean ashes like snow, until the dark universe is coated white.

The Archives: Halfway Words

In other news: The Bingham Literary Magazine went to the printer today! Copies will be available in about a week and a half! I was published 3 times (once with a prose piece entitled "The Sea of Ashes" and twice with poetry pieces entitled "Painted" and "Release") and I put in one picture I photomanipulated called "Listless Wondering." Yay!

Now back to our scheduled programming: While looking through my GoogleDocs (otherwise known as my writing storage unit, or WSU), I noticed I have a bunch of poems I started but never quite finished... I'n't that a shame...

But I thought I might stick a few of them on here. Who knows? Maybe I'll finish them someday.

Free

Am I really free

When I have to watch what I say

The sounds from my throat

The words on my page

In case I insult someone:

“Dear Lord, how did you get so fat?!”

Or maybe I’ll say something wrong:

“I know, right?! I don’t know!”

I’m so limited by Propriety,

The things I can and can’t say

Because I shouldn’t drop my baggage on other people,

Even though most of us are smouldering from uncontrolled fires

And if you look beyond our empty words you’ll see

The pain and the hurt and the anger

And all the things we wish we could say to each other because

‘The truth hurts.’

I can’t trust anyone because I know I’ll find my mistakes on the airwaves eventually.

[untitled]

Please don’t touch me that way.

I’m trying not to care,

because caring hurts,

and I’ve had enough of that.

When you look at me with those satin eyes,

my heart wants to melt,

but my body resists.

It remembers what my heart does not.

My muscles ache when I think of you,

my bones break when I get close to you.

You’ve lost your chance.

As much as I love you,

It will never be enough,

Not after all you did and after all you didn’t do.

If you loved me, you wouldn’t hurt me,

and though my heart yearns for you I won’t fall again.

I’m caught in the loop between your indecisions, pulling one way and pulling another, and all it’s done is strangle me.

Words

Words are ugly creatures.

They slip over my tongue like serpents from an ancient curse,

They bite and hiss and spit and scream,

Slither around my teeth and on my breath,

Fly out of my throat and into your face,

And all they ever seem to do is hurt!

There’s no taking back these words.

Once I’ve released them, all I can hope is that they only get you,

And that they don’t end up back in my face.

Their slippery bodies are impossible to grasp,