forse

XVI and she’s alive.
With a lovely, detached feeling from those who know her.
And a slow, fragmented realization that she doesn’t yet know herself.
So what should she do, other than become a child of the darkest night?
What can she do but lose herself in cheap alcohol and stolen cigarettes?
A drawn in, choked breath through a filter can only make her feel better,
Even if it is with the awful taste of guilt because this might be the only (first) thing she has ever stolen.
But maybe she was meant to live this way, to taste the vicarious nature of life on the tip of her tongue as if it were her own to be swallowed.
And it is with this that she knows for the first time what it means to live through death, and see through the ghostly mask of something in your system that makes you feel and forget.

She’s so high…

It is with this that she knows for the first time the feel of someone else’s body too close to her own, and the helplessness that cannot be fully expressed through the burden of speech.
So she forgives and forgets, although she does feel regret at the sinking truth that she has just gifted away some small part of herself to someone who won’t even be back tomorrow.
It is now that she discovers that thrill seeking is not truly worth the result, because most of the thrill was lost in the seeking.
It is here that she knows what life is, but can only wistfully reminisce and wish that she had craved then what she craves now.

A/N This poem...has a very cliche idea and is not so unique, but for some reason, I really like it. The title is "forse", which means "perhaps" in Italian. Enjoy...all I want for Christmas is some comments!

For You

It's always better to be alone
Don't let anybody tell you differently
Maybe loneliness is the solution to your problems
Because you know it's not your fault you can't stand
The sound of her name
The thought of her face
The remembrance
The forgotten
Maybe it's because loneliness doesn't judge you
Maybe because loneliness will always be there
Waiting for you
Because it doesn't turn it's back on you like the day
Turns its back on the night
Because it doesn't discriminate against who it finds
Against the people looking for it, looking for something
Because it doesn't see you the way everyone else does
It sees past the fact that you have an ugly face
And at least pretends for a while that you are beautiful
Because it's always better to be alone

Is that a bird? A plane? No! It's an FAQ!!

Ahem. Me posting again does not give you an excuse not to comment on the last one, even if it sucked and you hated it. If you are reading this post, scroll down right now and write a comment...it can be a bullshit comment if you want...for the previous post.

Frequently Asked Questions:

Why are you such a comment whore?

Maybe it's because I have nothing better to do than sit at my laptop and continously wonder why nobody has commented on my post. Maybe it's because I'm too pathetic to actually do what I'm supposed to be doing, so I'm sitting at my laptop wondering why nobody has commented. Maybe it's even because I need some kind of reassurance that my existence does not go completely unnoticed. Maybe I'm just that sad. It's possible.

Why do you only write depressing things?

Let me put it this way. I'm inspired by my depression. That sounds awful. Let me explain. When I am feeling down (gods, that's corny), I decide that I should write a nice, sad poem, and in this way I am healthily expressing my feelings, if you catch my drift. Therefore, I write a nice sad poem, and then I feel better about myself, because generally I like to think of myself as a poet-in-the-works, and writing another poem always makes me feel a wonderful sense of accomplishment.

Why do you attach yourself to people? Do you not have your own body?

Unfortunately, I do have my own body, and it is strangely lumpy in areas that I wish it weren't. So, the answer to the first question is that I honestly just am clingy beyond belief. Me attaching myself to people is my way of saying "I have friends!", to myself even, if no one else is listening. Sometimes I wonder if people I think of as friends just put up with me because they have to, or if I honestly have a likeable personality. That last statement was me wondering to myself, please don't think of it as me asking you to comment saying that you love me oh-so-much. Don't comment saying you love me oh-so-much. Come on, be a little creative.

Why do you complain all the time? Does nothing happy ever happen in your life?

Yes, happy things do happen in my life, believe it or not. I don't know if I'm unique in thinking this, or nobody else has noticed or something, but happy things just aren't very interesting to talk about. I could bitch for hours about something or someone that I really don't like, or even someone I do like and am just slightly angry with, but it is very difficult for me to have a happy conversation. Happy-happy-joy-joy just really isn't my style. What is my style? A question to be answered by the gods. Or God. Depending on your religious belief (or lack thereof) of preference.

Why don't you talk to me anymore?

Believe it or not, I don't actually avoid people (with some obvious exceptions) intentionally. If I'm not talking to you, it's probably because I don't see you very often, or because I'm insanely busy with work, as I will be far too often this year. So honestly, don't worry about it, it's not like I hate you or something...usually...

Well, that's all the questions I can think of right now, so enjoy yourself reading and re-reading them, and most of all, commenting!

Lost it

And then found herself
Am I a record that can only repeat itself
Am I a pen which has only so much ink
And I'll turn myself inside out
So you can see the rawness I have
IN me, not OUT there where no one
Seems to notice that every person they pass
On the street is not whole
Is breaking
They are breaking
They are broken
Where are they going
Where am I going
I'm dizzy from spinning around and around
On my kitchen floor and then stopping to see
How blurry everything looks now

Tribute

While I normally shy away from sports related poetry, yesterday's event deserves something from me, regardless of how much it sucks. A tribute, no matter how small, to yesterday's incredible match - the Wimbledon Men's Singles Final, Federer vs. Nadal. It is full of subtle and not-so-subtle references, and some puns! woot!
By the way, if you didn't see the match, I pity you, it was the match of a lifetime...

He knew what he wanted
From the day he learned the
Rules of the game
And he loved it
He learned to
Love – All
He saw the gold
On his fifteenth birthday
And he knew it was more than the game
It was love at first sight
Fifteen – Love
He knew he didn’t have
Much time at eighteen
The time was now
He couldn’t wait until
Thirty – Love
It wasn’t about the gold now
But he could still see it out of
The corner of his eye
Five years was long enough to wait
But much too sudden, missing one ace
Deuce
Advantages are nonexistent for second-best
But who is the first?
And soon he is prising the gold crown from
Cold fingers, reluctant even in defeat
Game
Set
Match

Resignation

Now that I have resigned myself to the fate of only getting three (ooh! four!) comments on every post, I will post again. Here are two poems, with completely nothing in common, complete with additional commentary!

This poem has no title, so for now we can call it "Goddamn F-ing Rain"

I want to go outside and dance in the rain
But I know truthfully that it would end
Only in bitterness as my clothes stuck
To my skin and my hair would be damp
Making my discomfort a show for all to watch
Rather than take notes in Physics

A/N This is one of my really ADD poems...when I was like, why the hell is it raining in the summer, and then I was like, wow, I'm a hypocrite, because I pretend to like the rain so much, but then I was like, I DO like the rain, just not all...the...time...
Also, fun fact - the place in the United States that gets the most average rainfall per year, as well as seeing the least sun, is a town just north of here called Forks. Woohoo!

Passive Aggressive

you are passive
i am aggressive
you are still the one
that ends up killing me
i am passive
you are aggressive
together we make a bitch
who doesn’t know what is
good and what is bad
and so we decide that
the correct path is
destruction
mutilation
if only because it feels
so damn good

A/N I'm back to experimenting with simplicity here, mostly because I had some time on my hands, and I really wanted to write some poetry, but I had no inspiration whatsoever. So, I was listening to a song called Passive (by A Perfect Circle - check it out, it's frickin' awesome), and I was like, passive makes me think of aggressive...and here's where we ended up. I'm curious to know, do you think it's one person, or two people? I don't have the answer, but I want to see how people interpret it.

Poetry is so jokes

In English, we wrote poems today. They were written looking at different paintings. Here are the poems (yes, multiple poems) I wrote, along with the paintings they were based on. (ARGH! I'm having so many formatting issues with this post!)

3 Worlds - M.C. Escher





The branches of the trees only tickle the fish
But the leaves trap it in water
Imprisoning the creature in a world
That is only one of three

Nighthawks - Hooper

Sitting at the bar, each has their own story
The woman with a dress as red as her eyes
Recounts over a drink the story of her divorce
While the handsome man beside her moves closer
As if to comfort her, but only succeeding in comforting
Himself

And the mysterious persona sitting alone
Hears the tragedies of the others
Only to add his own, about the theft
Of his identity, along with his collection
Of solid gold Buddhas

The bartender only dreams of the day
When he is not required to provide comfort
For those who don’t know how to take care
Of themselves, but he remains quiet
And in his mind knows that he, also, would be
As they are now

Friedrich Rugen (I'm not sure what the name of this painting is)

She glances down the depths of the cliff
Wondering whether she should or should not
Take the leap of faith, faith that she will die
While he watches her with the eyes of a murderer

He is not a murderer, and she is only killing
Herself, but he does not take a step in her direction
Not to save her, and not to push her
Because he is only an observer, there to report
The scenes of tragedy that merely exist and are unimportant

Hotel - Hopper

She holds the directory loosely in her hands
Forgetting which page his number is on
She almost wants to call him and scream
Into the receiver because he did this

But it is all too familiar and she cannot bring
Herself to blame him too much for it is not him
That is sitting in a hotel room with nowhere
To go, and wondering where his lover went

He knows exactly where he is, and knows exactly
Who he is, because he only has to be the man
That left her in an unfamiliar hotel room