Thursday, September 29, 2011

We Had a Sun

I hate my busy schedule this month, and I hate how it has lead to almost no time to just sit and write, to blog, or scribble down a poem. In fact, I only have time to blog right now because I am in the computer lab killing time before my Intro to Lit class starts, even though I should probably be reading The Glass Menagerie instead. Bah. I hate reading plays.

They're not written to be read, anyway.

Anyway, I'm going to try to write a poem. Let's do this.


"Things are going well," she said,
"and when the company has spread
across the land, he shall be here.
And if he leaves, he'll reappear."

Then one spoke unto another,
"She says I'm not like any other.
She says I'm all she ever sees,
but I have never aimed to please.

In fact, I'm scared. I've never known
a lady so lovely to call my own.
Her soul is like a silver star,
as I watch with the door ajar,
streak across the navy night.
I have never seen such a light.
That is she. And in this case,
I'm the one too small for space.
For she goes. She flies away,
and returns the following day,
but makes a round. I still stand
with firm feet upon the land.
I look up; I wait for her,
but here I stand. I can't transfer.

She's more than I could ever want,
and after today, she will haunt
my every decision afterwards.
And in my future, if I push towards
anything worth my life, she'll sign
my signature on the bottom line.
It won't be me--she'll have my hand--
she's always had my horrid hand.
I cannot live among the stars,
or live that life which wasn't ours.
But I cannot live apart from her,
and so I'm asking you, dear sir,
to take my life. Let me die
before she knows the reason why.

Make it simple, make it quick
however way--I'll let you pick.
Just let her know it was by fate,
not lack of love or fearful hate.
Let her know she has a heart
that truly is a work of art.
Let her know that she has life
apart from being my future wife.
And sir, please say that she may pray,
but my soul was already gone halfway.

For I was nothing; I was dark;
I was too much for her cool spark.
And so, I'll leave for her and be
something she won't have to see.
She will survive without the guilt
of repairing the building she already built.
My dying wish--if only I
could stand and watch her star pass by
before I go. It won't be so,
for now is not her time to glow.

Instead, I'll go in midst of night
and darkness shall be my last light."

Then she said, "My darling, he
is everything I will never be.

He loves me for who I really am,
as if a lion could love a lamb.
He makes me happy and delight
fills my heart with such a light

that near him, I start to glow.
I shine bright so that he'll know
that always shall be in the day
when him and I had found a way

to turn our love into a sun
that shines as though it's just begun."

Sunday, September 25, 2011


I should not think of one again
      for he, alas, is gone.
And maybe he'd have thoughts of me,
      but those, I know, are none.
I cannot find a way without
      including our past plans;
excluding him--as he has I--
      through tiptoes and demands.
Treading lightly, step by step,
      away from him, and he
turned his back some time ago
      and treads away from me.
Not lightly, no, and not a glance
      nor glimpse caught in his eye.
He won't dare to think of me,
      and follow suit, should I.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011


I stuttered on a word today--
it was a simple sight.
My soul left bare was all it was
and all it bore of light.
 For darkness struck the frigid thoughts
prevailing after speech,
and laughter lit the lamps of all
my words could never reach. 


Monday, September 19, 2011

Murmuring of Bees

Last year, I bought a book of Emily Dickinson's collected poetry (I've mentioned this before) and began reading it. My goal was/is to get through the whole thing, and I got pretty far--I'm currently on poem 55 in the 5th and final section of the book. So I'm almost halfway through the last section. I got pretty busy in the past couple months and didn't really have time to read much, but now that the school year is back up and running, I have more time to read poetry than I do novels. And thus, Emily Dickinson has been taken off of my book shelf once again.

I was just flipping through it and read the last poem (CXI--her poetry isn't titled, so they number each one in roman numerals according to their sections) in the "Nature" section, and it made me giggle so I thought I'd share.

It says:
The murmuring of the bees has ceased;
But murmuring of some
Posterior, prophetic,
Has simultaneous come,--

The lower meter of the year,
When nature's laugh is done,--
The Revelations of the book
Whose Genesis in June.

I had underlined the first line and scribbled in next to it, "Thank the Lord...So.Many.Bees."
Because frankly, Miss Dickinson wrote about bees an excessive amount, and over 100 poems of that in a row was a bit much, haha.

Anyway, I'm glad I have more time for reading poetry. I had never given it much time before last year, and now I really enjoy it.


Thursday, September 15, 2011

She Knows

They say you are much more than that,
my darling, my love--where are you?

Today, someone else said the worse
and I can't believe--but I believe.

A vicious term that goes against
everything I had known of you.

You, oh you--my long ago--
my once upon a very long time.

Though I admit, it's not blind trust.
Indeed, you gave me first-hand proof.

Twice, I saw this. Once, involved.
Tell me, how do you keep it up?

How do you get by with a wandering eye?
You do it so cleverly.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Notre Dame.


Today, after my French Culture class, I decided that I really want to live in Paris at some point in my life.

Or at least speak French fluently.


The American Way

Momentous occasions, they do expect.
And for the living, we add for the hire.
We sit here dazed on a mountain of faces--
of Hamilton, Jackson, Franklin and Grant--
yet that is all. We bounce our feet
in the freedom of air our altitude grants--
for we are so far above the rest.
And of course--we have our own problems:
drawing closer to the ceiling, perhaps,
or what genre of music those speakers play.
A hundred-thousand to change that tune!
Promptly, now--patience is so old-fashioned.
Now, there are dogs outside. They whine.
Abuse! Abuse! Stop the madness--the unjust!
Those lab rats have feelings, afterall!
But those around the world? A lost cause.
They are dirty, and poor. Disgusting things.
They can't even afford a pair of shoes.
Why--I have nine pairs myself. Though,
I am American; therefore I am.

Monday, September 12, 2011

I Feel Like Death

An update:

I am sick. Nothing too serious (despite my over-dramatic title). Right now, it's mostly a sore throat that causes breathing or speaking to be painful. I'm also pretty dizzy and lethargic. 

Thus, I haven't posted in awhile. I'm just so tired. I've taken some really good pictures in the past couple of days, but I have no energy to upload them off of my camera and edit them.

And I have to work today and tomorrow. =(

Also, school is irritating. I spent 2 hours in the computer lab today trying to do my Micro Apps homework and it was just dreadful.

Please, please, please send prayers my way. I know I haven't been sick in some time, but it's already too much for me to handle alone.

(AKA The Super Complainer)

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Afterwards and Forwards---in memory


I.) Today makes note in the memory 
of the ones I knew--of who knew me--
and the day heaves out a heavy sigh.
I promised to live, and now I promise to die.

II.) Twelve months ago, the life that I know
as the soul who sat in a silent woe
became past-tense, and so hence,
know has been knew ever since.

III.) The boy who stays away from the grave
is a silent soul I sought to save
because you died--and this boy cried.
And with the day, each one sighed.

IV.) Much has changed and rearranged
and for this one, they would exchange
Their souls, they drive. They still survive
though on this day, one was alive. 

Sunday, September 4, 2011

Yeah, well whatever.

Oh, someone hit me with a brick.

This has got to be the worst, suckiest occurring week in my life.


I don't care anymore. I swear I don't.
I swear that I want nothing more
than to just breathe without constriction.
I want my own life.

And hey, it's okay.
He never loved me, after all.

He told me so.

But then again, he told me a lot of things.


I am such a liar.


Friday, September 2, 2011

A Year Ago

You took the life we were unable to give.
A year ago, you had a week to live.
And I forgive. I forgive.

If you had needed a reason to stay,
If there was something I needed to say,
I and we would have found a way.

A year ago you had a smile--
but that's been gone for awhile.
I keep it folded in a file.

My friend is dead. A year ago
I saw my world sink far below
our greatest fear. We didn't know

how close you were to letting go.

Thursday, September 1, 2011


Through the window beside me, the sun has fallen
and landed on a lady whom I've never met.
I have never before seen this girl,
nor can I see her face now.
She sits directed towards me a little, with her head
tilted over at the table. Homework, no doubt.
She scribbles away.
The sun winks at her--it plays for her.
It rolls against her arms. Oh, those arms!
I daresay I've never seen such arms
as that of this girl through the window.
They are not dark, but tan, as though
she spends her time at the pool, or beach.
I can just see her on a striped blanket
with her sunglasses on and a bathing suit.
She soaks up the sun like oxygen,
and those arms are wrapped and tangled in
and around another. A fine man.
A man--I hope--is somehow me.
They're all I can see of this lady,
but they are made from life and beauty.
And those hands, her left holds the pencil
and there is no ring. No jewelry in sight,
just the bare skin that was her birthright.
And I imagine those hands within another,
for they look as though they were made that way.
They were made to be interlocked
with someone else. And perhaps they have.
Perhaps she knows of a clever soul
that can match those hands--those arms!--with
a humble desire she so longs for.
My dear, I hope, that if I cannot
have her; see her apart from this moment,
may it be that she has someone worthy of love
that wraps her in with a comforting hold
and keeps her tucked within his pocket.
I wish it could be me,
though I am trapped like a zoo exhibit
behind library walls and windows.
Oh, the student--that he should be
so close to one, and yet
the distance decides everything.


I can't sleep.