That's it,
Keep reaching,
Just a little farther,
You've almost got it.
Don't open your eyes,
Just feel with your senses.
And keep grasping out,
You've almost got it.
Just a little bit more,
Your fingertips feel it,
So tantalizingly close,
Before it disappears again.
Keep clenching your fist,
At empty and desolate air.
Even though Einstein said,
This was insanity.*
Keep stretching and flailing,
In the blind darkness.
Just take care,
To not be bitten.
---
*Einstein had a quote about insanity. Check it out online.
Friday, June 30, 2006
A Message
A simple warning for each of you,
Not everything I say is exactly true.
With each word I'd add a grain of salt,
Believing in myths is your own fault.
If you expected to read my life at your leisure,
Then I'm sorry to say this is the wrong procedure.
But don't be discouraged just because of what I write,
Each poem comes from an idea - both of horror and delight.
Somewhere hidden in between the lines and phrases,
Is a message which once deciphered amazes.
But can you crack the code and see inside my mind,
Or simply read the face value with an Eye of the Blind?
These poems are the first step to knowing,
The real life that is otherwise never showing.
Will you return in the future or say Good-Bye,
Have I intrigued you enough to have you even try?
A simple warning for each of you,
Not everything I say is exactly true.
With each word I'd add a grain of salt,
Believing in myths is your own fault.
Not everything I say is exactly true.
With each word I'd add a grain of salt,
Believing in myths is your own fault.
If you expected to read my life at your leisure,
Then I'm sorry to say this is the wrong procedure.
But don't be discouraged just because of what I write,
Each poem comes from an idea - both of horror and delight.
Somewhere hidden in between the lines and phrases,
Is a message which once deciphered amazes.
But can you crack the code and see inside my mind,
Or simply read the face value with an Eye of the Blind?
These poems are the first step to knowing,
The real life that is otherwise never showing.
Will you return in the future or say Good-Bye,
Have I intrigued you enough to have you even try?
A simple warning for each of you,
Not everything I say is exactly true.
With each word I'd add a grain of salt,
Believing in myths is your own fault.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Questions
How do I fight my greatest enemy,
When it stares me in the face?
Through a rusty hub cap or glass,
Which is impossible to erase?
How do I ignore the thoughts,
Which won't seem to go away?
If I try and say I have control,
Then why won't they ever obey?
A blank white slate, a blank white slate,
I try to picture nothingness in my mind.
But the unstable thoughts fuse together,
And with my reason becomes entwined.
Thoughts and actions longing for marriage,
Floating through a life with no solution.
Forever seeking the proper tools,
To by my own hand inflict retribution.
Swift judgment against myself,
To try and get back in line.
Where everyone walks together,
As if we are on cloud nine.*
Will I make it back to the others,
Or float further and further apart?
Will I meet them at the end,
Or wind up all the way at the start?
---
*Look it up.
When it stares me in the face?
Through a rusty hub cap or glass,
Which is impossible to erase?
How do I ignore the thoughts,
Which won't seem to go away?
If I try and say I have control,
Then why won't they ever obey?
A blank white slate, a blank white slate,
I try to picture nothingness in my mind.
But the unstable thoughts fuse together,
And with my reason becomes entwined.
Thoughts and actions longing for marriage,
Floating through a life with no solution.
Forever seeking the proper tools,
To by my own hand inflict retribution.
Swift judgment against myself,
To try and get back in line.
Where everyone walks together,
As if we are on cloud nine.*
Will I make it back to the others,
Or float further and further apart?
Will I meet them at the end,
Or wind up all the way at the start?
---
*Look it up.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Shiver
People live life,
For the goosebump moments.
The end of a story,
Or closing note of a song.
When we meet that person we love,
At just a first moment's glance.
Or when we feel that person whispering,
Almost silently in to our ears.
I just thought you'd like to know,
That I wasn't simply cold,
But I did have goosebumps.
For the goosebump moments.
The end of a story,
Or closing note of a song.
When we meet that person we love,
At just a first moment's glance.
Or when we feel that person whispering,
Almost silently in to our ears.
I just thought you'd like to know,
That I wasn't simply cold,
But I did have goosebumps.
PearstraeH
I hold this pear in my hand,
And wonder how much pressure could it stand?
I suppose the pear gave me trust,
Knowing I could obliterate it in to dust.
It is soft and squishy but warm,
And might be to some an art form,
With its fragile curves and delicate girth,
To someone it must have unimaginable worth.
Yet if it is their's then where are they?
Did they leave it to me then run away?
Am I now responsible for this pear?
To cherish and hold it with loving care?
I look down at the defenseless fruit,
Which now that I see is kinda cute.
I'll keep it close and we'll mature,
And I'll always make sure it's safe and secure.
And wonder how much pressure could it stand?
I suppose the pear gave me trust,
Knowing I could obliterate it in to dust.
It is soft and squishy but warm,
And might be to some an art form,
With its fragile curves and delicate girth,
To someone it must have unimaginable worth.
Yet if it is their's then where are they?
Did they leave it to me then run away?
Am I now responsible for this pear?
To cherish and hold it with loving care?
I look down at the defenseless fruit,
Which now that I see is kinda cute.
I'll keep it close and we'll mature,
And I'll always make sure it's safe and secure.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Fog
As I stand on the roof of the Church and take in the early morning, a sadness silently spreads over me. The fog is beginning to lift, but at this moment in time is still creates a hazy barrier between me and the rest of the world. Between me and you, wherever you happen to be. The morning is quiet, with even the birds still resting peacefully in their nests. The streetlights still cast a dull glow which rebounds off the blanket of fog and bounces in every direction. I used to wake up early like this so I could wait for you, but you no longer come.
I remember that day you made the decision to not help the Church anymore. Instantly memories began to overflow my mind, overwhelming any existence of sensibility. We had been in this Church together for four years, and the separation back then was almost too much for me to bear. I holed myself up and made every attempt to hide my existence from others. But now, on every Sunday morning, I walk up to the roof of our Church. I allow the memories to swim around in my mind, and I feel them slowly drowning my composure. I feel myself on the verge of a breakdown every time thoughts of you enter my mind. It is because I know that you are still out there somewhere, but not here. It is because I know you will never be back at the Church with me again.
When I first came to Italy to visit you we were friends, and I still cannot discern where that exactly changed. Perhaps we were both left with no other avenue to display our affections. We were both still children when we began to have feelings. Perhaps both of us were confused, but since we had no other choice but to be together, we gradually worked things out. The wonderful thing about Italy is that the romance simply springs forth with little or no effort. All either of us had to do was simply exist, and let the atmosphere do all the work. I thought that we could stay there forever, but I still have the letter you wrote to me from that day.
You left it for me to find early in the morning, when you had already gone and left. You said you needed time to work things out, but didn't say what. Maybe it was something I had done, or maybe it was something I said. I can't help but regret whatever it is I did or did not do. If there were words to take back I would take them, and if there was something to apologize for I would, but you left me completely clueless and void. That's why I still return to the Church every Sunday, and sometimes every day of the week. On that roof is where we first confessed our love, and the sky had the same kind of fog that comes with every early morning. Every day of my life I wonder why you had to go, and where you went. If I thought that you wanted me to find you I would go looking, but I simply do not know if that is the case.
All I can manage to do now is sit on this roof, amidst the encompassing fog and dim streetlights, and attempt to recall memories of a time when my life was perfect. Letting go of them would be a betrayal of all that I felt towards you, so I protect them with everything I have. Finally a gentle breeze comes and softly caresses my face. It occurs every time I come up to the Church, and I take it as my cue to leave. Although my memories may have just driven me to a point of delusion, I like to think that you are sending the breeze. I like to imagine that it smells just like your favorite perfume, and on some days, I think that it does.
I remember that day you made the decision to not help the Church anymore. Instantly memories began to overflow my mind, overwhelming any existence of sensibility. We had been in this Church together for four years, and the separation back then was almost too much for me to bear. I holed myself up and made every attempt to hide my existence from others. But now, on every Sunday morning, I walk up to the roof of our Church. I allow the memories to swim around in my mind, and I feel them slowly drowning my composure. I feel myself on the verge of a breakdown every time thoughts of you enter my mind. It is because I know that you are still out there somewhere, but not here. It is because I know you will never be back at the Church with me again.
When I first came to Italy to visit you we were friends, and I still cannot discern where that exactly changed. Perhaps we were both left with no other avenue to display our affections. We were both still children when we began to have feelings. Perhaps both of us were confused, but since we had no other choice but to be together, we gradually worked things out. The wonderful thing about Italy is that the romance simply springs forth with little or no effort. All either of us had to do was simply exist, and let the atmosphere do all the work. I thought that we could stay there forever, but I still have the letter you wrote to me from that day.
You left it for me to find early in the morning, when you had already gone and left. You said you needed time to work things out, but didn't say what. Maybe it was something I had done, or maybe it was something I said. I can't help but regret whatever it is I did or did not do. If there were words to take back I would take them, and if there was something to apologize for I would, but you left me completely clueless and void. That's why I still return to the Church every Sunday, and sometimes every day of the week. On that roof is where we first confessed our love, and the sky had the same kind of fog that comes with every early morning. Every day of my life I wonder why you had to go, and where you went. If I thought that you wanted me to find you I would go looking, but I simply do not know if that is the case.
All I can manage to do now is sit on this roof, amidst the encompassing fog and dim streetlights, and attempt to recall memories of a time when my life was perfect. Letting go of them would be a betrayal of all that I felt towards you, so I protect them with everything I have. Finally a gentle breeze comes and softly caresses my face. It occurs every time I come up to the Church, and I take it as my cue to leave. Although my memories may have just driven me to a point of delusion, I like to think that you are sending the breeze. I like to imagine that it smells just like your favorite perfume, and on some days, I think that it does.
Como se dice, "It's the effort that counts"
**Ok so I haven't written anything in Spanish for like over a year now. And in my Senior year I hardly did much either since my teacher was really easy. So don't blame me if this is butchered or incorrect. Most of it should be somewhat readable by those who understand Spanish.
There really wasn't a reason that I wrote this (well, maybe there was, still not sure).
No es de tu cuerpo,
Ni tus ojos, ni tu piel.
These are simply things,
That are a part of you.
Como tu actitud o tu ceño,
Y todas las cosas desagradables.
I could not pick and choose,
Which parts I wish to love.
Quizás hay piezas,
Que no amo.
These are the parts,
Which will test us both.
Pero puesto que son tú,
Los amo.
Y espero que tu,
Los ames también.
There really wasn't a reason that I wrote this (well, maybe there was, still not sure).
No es de tu cuerpo,
Ni tus ojos, ni tu piel.
These are simply things,
That are a part of you.
Como tu actitud o tu ceño,
Y todas las cosas desagradables.
I could not pick and choose,
Which parts I wish to love.
Quizás hay piezas,
Que no amo.
These are the parts,
Which will test us both.
Pero puesto que son tú,
Los amo.
Y espero que tu,
Los ames también.
Fly Like a Butterfly
Your destination is undecided,
Your method of travel is wings.
Unlike those that walk the Earth,
You are not attached by strings.
You are free to go wherever,
And explore limitless bounds.
Attracting attention with beauty,
And not by your smells or sounds.
Displaying an intricate pattern,
That is unique to only you.
The world is your unconscious,
Filled with dreams to pursue.
Shy and cautious we'll fly,
Avoiding their grasping hands.
Until we find a worthy candidate,
And on their finger we will land.
Spreading our wings apart,
We will display ourselves without fear.
Because the moment just feels right,
On that finger so gentle and sincere.
Your method of travel is wings.
Unlike those that walk the Earth,
You are not attached by strings.
You are free to go wherever,
And explore limitless bounds.
Attracting attention with beauty,
And not by your smells or sounds.
Displaying an intricate pattern,
That is unique to only you.
The world is your unconscious,
Filled with dreams to pursue.
Shy and cautious we'll fly,
Avoiding their grasping hands.
Until we find a worthy candidate,
And on their finger we will land.
Spreading our wings apart,
We will display ourselves without fear.
Because the moment just feels right,
On that finger so gentle and sincere.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Standing on the Edge
He's been standing on the edge,
Peering in to the dark abyss.
He knew if he were to jump,
There'd be no way that he'd miss.
But the darkness disturbed him,
So he refrained from making a move.
He would listen to the whispers,
And hope the situation would improve.
They told him not to fear,
And to go ahead and jump right in.
But he was terrified of the dark,
And thus simply sat and hugged his shins.
Rocking back and forth he wondered,
If the dark could be as bad as this.
"You have nothing else to lose",
The whispers would insist.
Now standing on the edge,
With his toes curled over the ledge,
He closed his eyes to take a dive,
Wondering where he might arrive.
Peering in to the dark abyss.
He knew if he were to jump,
There'd be no way that he'd miss.
But the darkness disturbed him,
So he refrained from making a move.
He would listen to the whispers,
And hope the situation would improve.
They told him not to fear,
And to go ahead and jump right in.
But he was terrified of the dark,
And thus simply sat and hugged his shins.
Rocking back and forth he wondered,
If the dark could be as bad as this.
"You have nothing else to lose",
The whispers would insist.
Now standing on the edge,
With his toes curled over the ledge,
He closed his eyes to take a dive,
Wondering where he might arrive.
With Each Mile
With each mile that I drive,
Further away from my dream,
Something inside is pulled apart,
So slowly that it makes me scream.
I become dissected mile by mile,
Trying not to look behind at my past.
Yet I'll occassionally glance in my mirror,
And see all I love disappear so fast.
My heart begins to thud heavily,
As if it's trying to reach the brakes.
Yet my stubborn foot refuses to yield,
No matter how painfully that it aches.
Deep down I know it's best,
For both the dream I had and me,
To try and live in the unknown future,
And not in the grip of futility.
I never knew that saying good-bye,
Could ever be remotely as hard as this.
But I am glad that I gave you the chance,
To finally see that I exist.
I think you knew all along,
Sorry its become so prolonged,
I didn't want anything to go wrong,
And I think that I took too long.
Further away from my dream,
Something inside is pulled apart,
So slowly that it makes me scream.
I become dissected mile by mile,
Trying not to look behind at my past.
Yet I'll occassionally glance in my mirror,
And see all I love disappear so fast.
My heart begins to thud heavily,
As if it's trying to reach the brakes.
Yet my stubborn foot refuses to yield,
No matter how painfully that it aches.
Deep down I know it's best,
For both the dream I had and me,
To try and live in the unknown future,
And not in the grip of futility.
I never knew that saying good-bye,
Could ever be remotely as hard as this.
But I am glad that I gave you the chance,
To finally see that I exist.
I think you knew all along,
Sorry its become so prolonged,
I didn't want anything to go wrong,
And I think that I took too long.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Password
I was once in love with a girl,
Who lived in the southeast like me.
My heart was her playing field,
And she was my referee.
Sadly we had to part ways,
Shortly after 'Canon in D'.
Now whenever I turn on the radio,
All I'll hear is Vitamin C.*
But while in love I made a move,
At first I didn't realize it occurred.
But slowly and surely she entered my life,
With each and every additional password.
At first it was for my PC,
So I could log in and chat to her.
I'd type her name to access my account,
And with each letter my love would recur.
Then I included it in countless others,
It became my loving master key.
I even encoded it to my locker,
Using the sequence of Fibonacci.
Yet when her father became angry,
And split us both apart,
I knew the time had come,
To say goodbye and depart.
But her name still remained,
On my phone and bank account.
As well as my PC,
Or when I'd apply for a grocery discount.
Every time I punched it in,
And saw the seven stars appear,
I knew her name was hidden beneath,
And thus would shed a tear.
Then one day at the bank,
Shortly after entering "My Code".
I looked up to the teller and stopped,
And saw the smile on her face still glowed.
---
*Canon in D and "Graduation" by Vitamin C are both popular graduation songs.
Who lived in the southeast like me.
My heart was her playing field,
And she was my referee.
Sadly we had to part ways,
Shortly after 'Canon in D'.
Now whenever I turn on the radio,
All I'll hear is Vitamin C.*
But while in love I made a move,
At first I didn't realize it occurred.
But slowly and surely she entered my life,
With each and every additional password.
At first it was for my PC,
So I could log in and chat to her.
I'd type her name to access my account,
And with each letter my love would recur.
Then I included it in countless others,
It became my loving master key.
I even encoded it to my locker,
Using the sequence of Fibonacci.
Yet when her father became angry,
And split us both apart,
I knew the time had come,
To say goodbye and depart.
But her name still remained,
On my phone and bank account.
As well as my PC,
Or when I'd apply for a grocery discount.
Every time I punched it in,
And saw the seven stars appear,
I knew her name was hidden beneath,
And thus would shed a tear.
Then one day at the bank,
Shortly after entering "My Code".
I looked up to the teller and stopped,
And saw the smile on her face still glowed.
---
*Canon in D and "Graduation" by Vitamin C are both popular graduation songs.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
I don't like fancy explanations.
I like the simple explanations,
That explain the way life works.
I like the simple ups and downs,
Not the big numbers and words.
Pseudoscience tries hard,
To sway with falsifiability.
Switching teams ever quickly,
With that sinister science agility.
Why look so deep in people's hearts,
To find answers that already exist.
Instead of helping a troubled soul,
We label them things like masochist.
Who isn't lost in this life,
Where everyone's trying to find their way?
Let's use what we know for sure,
And not sciences of a varying array.
I'm simply asking you to stop thinking,
And for once try following your heart.
Glide blindly towards The End,
Which was destined from the start.
That explain the way life works.
I like the simple ups and downs,
Not the big numbers and words.
Pseudoscience tries hard,
To sway with falsifiability.
Switching teams ever quickly,
With that sinister science agility.
Why look so deep in people's hearts,
To find answers that already exist.
Instead of helping a troubled soul,
We label them things like masochist.
Who isn't lost in this life,
Where everyone's trying to find their way?
Let's use what we know for sure,
And not sciences of a varying array.
I'm simply asking you to stop thinking,
And for once try following your heart.
Glide blindly towards The End,
Which was destined from the start.
RANDOM.THOUGHTS.INCURRED.
Haven't done this in a while:
The sunlight peers through my rear view mirror and shines brightly in to my eyes. My eyes squint to filter out the light, much the same way my heart squints to try and salvage every last drop of love that might possibly exist within. Contemporaries are perhaps what I feel like the most. If even at all. Perhaps I am old-fashioned, and thus suffer because of it. I convince myself to hate myself, then convince myself back again. I look at the bright sides of situations, to avoid looking at the dark. I have two halves like every person, and am often fighting to see which one will reveal itself. My dark half has convinced myself that my life is not worth living, to the point where I wanted it to end. It convinced me that I shouldn't write anymore. I almost thought about making a message to you all saying how I was going to stop. My dark half wonders if anyone would have cared.
My light half peeks through once I am beyond the point of no return. Once I've gone beyond the point where I don't want to live, there's always a speck of light to save me. My inspiration is greatly derived from others, and thus any form of seclusion torments me. Sadly those who inspire me are miles away, and not in my backyard, so to speak. My life has become a constant effort to search these people out, and discover them. Then my next step is to indulge myself in them, and allow them to show me things I have yet to see in life. Perhaps it is love, perhaps it is friendship, perhaps it is a rivalry, or perhaps it is something else. I try not to look for any one in particular, although as everyone knows -that- battle is far from easy.
Perhaps you don't understand any of this. Maybe you're shocked to hear all of this (though I doubt it). Maybe you like reading what kind of person I am, since I'm usually just either goofy or quiet. But when do you get to see the serious me? When do you get to see the me that has fallen for something and is in so deep the only thing I can hope but do is try to go deeper? Where is that person? Right here, which is why I say I haven't done this in a while.
I write things or do things then look back on them later and think they were really stupid. Is that normal? I think it is, but I'm not sure. Like there's things that I'll have written that I hate so much I go back to change/delete them. I think because I try to figure out too many things at once I become overwhelmed and a bit confused. I think it is for this reason that alot of people don't understand me. Perhaps everyone feels misunderstood. If you can understand the very first poem of this blog (Butterflies), then you probably understand me. That poem is perhaps the most special poem I've ever written, because it captures everything about who I am.
I'm not a huge fan of butterflies, but I've come to convince myself that they are beautiful. They come in all sorts of pretty colors and are very attractive. They are quiet creatures and if you try and grasp one it is always one second away from your hand. They are much like dreams in that we are always chasing after them. Yet some people possess the ability to simply hold out their hand and have a butterfly land right on their finger. Do you understand the symbolism I am trying to portray in that scene of imagery? If so, then you probably understand me a little bit better. Welcome to a mind of borderline insanity and also a hint of misconstrued genius.
The sunlight peers through my rear view mirror and shines brightly in to my eyes. My eyes squint to filter out the light, much the same way my heart squints to try and salvage every last drop of love that might possibly exist within. Contemporaries are perhaps what I feel like the most. If even at all. Perhaps I am old-fashioned, and thus suffer because of it. I convince myself to hate myself, then convince myself back again. I look at the bright sides of situations, to avoid looking at the dark. I have two halves like every person, and am often fighting to see which one will reveal itself. My dark half has convinced myself that my life is not worth living, to the point where I wanted it to end. It convinced me that I shouldn't write anymore. I almost thought about making a message to you all saying how I was going to stop. My dark half wonders if anyone would have cared.
My light half peeks through once I am beyond the point of no return. Once I've gone beyond the point where I don't want to live, there's always a speck of light to save me. My inspiration is greatly derived from others, and thus any form of seclusion torments me. Sadly those who inspire me are miles away, and not in my backyard, so to speak. My life has become a constant effort to search these people out, and discover them. Then my next step is to indulge myself in them, and allow them to show me things I have yet to see in life. Perhaps it is love, perhaps it is friendship, perhaps it is a rivalry, or perhaps it is something else. I try not to look for any one in particular, although as everyone knows -that- battle is far from easy.
Perhaps you don't understand any of this. Maybe you're shocked to hear all of this (though I doubt it). Maybe you like reading what kind of person I am, since I'm usually just either goofy or quiet. But when do you get to see the serious me? When do you get to see the me that has fallen for something and is in so deep the only thing I can hope but do is try to go deeper? Where is that person? Right here, which is why I say I haven't done this in a while.
I write things or do things then look back on them later and think they were really stupid. Is that normal? I think it is, but I'm not sure. Like there's things that I'll have written that I hate so much I go back to change/delete them. I think because I try to figure out too many things at once I become overwhelmed and a bit confused. I think it is for this reason that alot of people don't understand me. Perhaps everyone feels misunderstood. If you can understand the very first poem of this blog (Butterflies), then you probably understand me. That poem is perhaps the most special poem I've ever written, because it captures everything about who I am.
I'm not a huge fan of butterflies, but I've come to convince myself that they are beautiful. They come in all sorts of pretty colors and are very attractive. They are quiet creatures and if you try and grasp one it is always one second away from your hand. They are much like dreams in that we are always chasing after them. Yet some people possess the ability to simply hold out their hand and have a butterfly land right on their finger. Do you understand the symbolism I am trying to portray in that scene of imagery? If so, then you probably understand me a little bit better. Welcome to a mind of borderline insanity and also a hint of misconstrued genius.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Dear The Floor,
I don't expect too many people to understand this.
While in my zone of solitude,
Consisting of towels and drapes.
You probably noticed tonight,
I wasn't in real good shape.
Maybe you all thought I was mad,
Since I heard that I never smile.
But I'd like to tell that person,
I haven't been mad in quite a while.
Perhaps you thought to ask me,
Each time you saw me walk past.
But you probably thought I was fine,
And that my mood wouldn't last.
The truth is I wasn't sad or mad,
Or trying to act big and tough.
I just felt somewhere inside,
That I wasn't good enough.
I drove off these thoughts,
As persistent as they are.
I'm sorry to say they stayed,
All the way to my car.
When I'm happy I think I'm annoying,
But when I'm quiet I think I am too.
I apologize for producing the latter,
I'm sorry to you all if I offended you.
The other "Red person" said something nice,
And I think that they knew "why".
Why I feel like I fall short,
No matter how hard that I try.
---
The Floor has some of my best friends, so I wanted to say sorry I guess...
While in my zone of solitude,
Consisting of towels and drapes.
You probably noticed tonight,
I wasn't in real good shape.
Maybe you all thought I was mad,
Since I heard that I never smile.
But I'd like to tell that person,
I haven't been mad in quite a while.
Perhaps you thought to ask me,
Each time you saw me walk past.
But you probably thought I was fine,
And that my mood wouldn't last.
The truth is I wasn't sad or mad,
Or trying to act big and tough.
I just felt somewhere inside,
That I wasn't good enough.
I drove off these thoughts,
As persistent as they are.
I'm sorry to say they stayed,
All the way to my car.
When I'm happy I think I'm annoying,
But when I'm quiet I think I am too.
I apologize for producing the latter,
I'm sorry to you all if I offended you.
The other "Red person" said something nice,
And I think that they knew "why".
Why I feel like I fall short,
No matter how hard that I try.
---
The Floor has some of my best friends, so I wanted to say sorry I guess...
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Pen-Pals
Starting out last Winter,
I began to write every week.
To a young boy in Iraq,
Who I was told was named Afeek.
I told him who I was,
And what I liked to do.
In a little less than a week,
He sent me a letter, too.
He was very funny and nice,
And soon became my friend.
Every week I'd get a letter,
And then write one to send.
Every day he'd play soccer,
Starting promptly at noon.
I wondered what life was like,
In his small city of Mamoon.
He always made me laugh,
And made good days out of bad.
It was like he knew just what to say,
Whenever I was down or feeling sad.
Afeek was a kid like me,
Who was trying to live and have fun.
We both liked girls and candy,
As well as an early morning run.
But one Friday after school,
I did not receive his letter.
I thought it would come tomorrow,
But I didn't know any better.
Early Saturday morning I sat,
Wondering if I should write him back.
When my dad walked in the kitchen,
And asked if I'd heard about the attack.
"The bombings in Iraq", he said,
In a tone that made him sound thrilled.
"Some city of Mamoon", he said,
"Forty injured and eighty killed".
Suffice to say I never heard,
From Afeek or his family again.
I wonder what our country's doing,
Going around killing all my friends.
The President speaks in a serious tone,
Spouting out fanciful diction.
It's just a shame Afeek was real,
And not a work of Fiction.
I began to write every week.
To a young boy in Iraq,
Who I was told was named Afeek.
I told him who I was,
And what I liked to do.
In a little less than a week,
He sent me a letter, too.
He was very funny and nice,
And soon became my friend.
Every week I'd get a letter,
And then write one to send.
Every day he'd play soccer,
Starting promptly at noon.
I wondered what life was like,
In his small city of Mamoon.
He always made me laugh,
And made good days out of bad.
It was like he knew just what to say,
Whenever I was down or feeling sad.
Afeek was a kid like me,
Who was trying to live and have fun.
We both liked girls and candy,
As well as an early morning run.
But one Friday after school,
I did not receive his letter.
I thought it would come tomorrow,
But I didn't know any better.
Early Saturday morning I sat,
Wondering if I should write him back.
When my dad walked in the kitchen,
And asked if I'd heard about the attack.
"The bombings in Iraq", he said,
In a tone that made him sound thrilled.
"Some city of Mamoon", he said,
"Forty injured and eighty killed".
Suffice to say I never heard,
From Afeek or his family again.
I wonder what our country's doing,
Going around killing all my friends.
The President speaks in a serious tone,
Spouting out fanciful diction.
It's just a shame Afeek was real,
And not a work of Fiction.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
In A Sec
Trudging through my day,
Partaking in the mundane,
I turn a corner and find you,
And my heart constricts in pain.
It ails because in that moment,
That brief one second of time,
I am overtaken by you,
And your ever-present shine.
In the first third of a millisecond,
My heart beats three times fast.
I wonder if yours does the same,
Or if it is me your looking past.
In the second third I see you move,
Raising an arm to wave me down.
I'm feeling acknowledged and pleased,
As my heart begins to drown.
In that last brief instant,
Before I go to say hello,
You manage to form a smile,
And it is then that I know.
I know that whatever else follows,
Will be a force with which to be reckoned.
I love each and every minute with you,
Even the first and longest second.
Partaking in the mundane,
I turn a corner and find you,
And my heart constricts in pain.
It ails because in that moment,
That brief one second of time,
I am overtaken by you,
And your ever-present shine.
In the first third of a millisecond,
My heart beats three times fast.
I wonder if yours does the same,
Or if it is me your looking past.
In the second third I see you move,
Raising an arm to wave me down.
I'm feeling acknowledged and pleased,
As my heart begins to drown.
In that last brief instant,
Before I go to say hello,
You manage to form a smile,
And it is then that I know.
I know that whatever else follows,
Will be a force with which to be reckoned.
I love each and every minute with you,
Even the first and longest second.
Forfeiture of Opportunity
I'm quietly sitting here,
And you're patiently sitting there.
I wonder, when will we be near?
I ask, exactly when and where?
It is probably from something unspoken I know,
That we probably feel the same way.
So when will either let it show,
It might be tomorrow but could've been today.
Maybe we're both waiting for a sign,
An indication that our intent is true.
But what if you will never be mine?
And if neither of us act on cue?
You will drift and wander away,
Where another world is said to be.
But it is here where I will always stay,
Even if your back is turned and you can't see.
And you're patiently sitting there.
I wonder, when will we be near?
I ask, exactly when and where?
It is probably from something unspoken I know,
That we probably feel the same way.
So when will either let it show,
It might be tomorrow but could've been today.
Maybe we're both waiting for a sign,
An indication that our intent is true.
But what if you will never be mine?
And if neither of us act on cue?
You will drift and wander away,
Where another world is said to be.
But it is here where I will always stay,
Even if your back is turned and you can't see.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Here's Another For Charity...Or Something
Yes the tree does make a noise, and no it doesn't. I'm speaking of course about whether or not a tree makes a sound if it falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it.
Yes, it does, because science tells us within a 99.9% certainty that things occur even if we are not aware of them.
No, it doesn't, because sound that we can not hear may not exist at all. Anything outside of our immediate reality is taken for granted as existing.
The truth is we don't know if the tree makes a sound or doesn't. We could place a recorder in the woods, but that would be breaking the rules, since the recorder would be an extension of ourselves and our reality. We would like to believe the tree makes a sound since that makes the most sense to us, and we like things to be easy. We don't like to think that the tree doesn't make a sound. Truthfully we don't know the answer, but we are led to believe one over the other. We like to think that trees make sounds when they fall even if we aren't there. It is the easiest explanation and one that we can comprehend. It is confined within our normal boundaries of explaining and rationalizing to explain phenomenon. But if someone said that the tree -didn't- make a sound, they would have to prove it. Despite the fact that neither side can provide valid proof without some form of extending our perception of reality, the side that is considered right is the one that believes the tree makes a sound. The side that doesn't think it makes a sound is considered paranoid and crazy, even though they may respect the other side's opinion as an equally valid explanation as their own.
I ask, who is truly the crazy one?
Yes, it does, because science tells us within a 99.9% certainty that things occur even if we are not aware of them.
No, it doesn't, because sound that we can not hear may not exist at all. Anything outside of our immediate reality is taken for granted as existing.
The truth is we don't know if the tree makes a sound or doesn't. We could place a recorder in the woods, but that would be breaking the rules, since the recorder would be an extension of ourselves and our reality. We would like to believe the tree makes a sound since that makes the most sense to us, and we like things to be easy. We don't like to think that the tree doesn't make a sound. Truthfully we don't know the answer, but we are led to believe one over the other. We like to think that trees make sounds when they fall even if we aren't there. It is the easiest explanation and one that we can comprehend. It is confined within our normal boundaries of explaining and rationalizing to explain phenomenon. But if someone said that the tree -didn't- make a sound, they would have to prove it. Despite the fact that neither side can provide valid proof without some form of extending our perception of reality, the side that is considered right is the one that believes the tree makes a sound. The side that doesn't think it makes a sound is considered paranoid and crazy, even though they may respect the other side's opinion as an equally valid explanation as their own.
I ask, who is truly the crazy one?
/sigh
The glass is half-empty if you are in the process of decreasing the amount of liquid in the glass. It is half-full if you are in the process of filling the glass. Thus the last action that you took - whether filling or emptying the glass - determines which term to use. If you have an empty glass and fill it to the middle, it is half-full because the last thing you did was fill the glass. It would make no sense to call something half-empty, and thereby giving it an emptiness quality trait, when in actuality its existence as a glass with water at the middle point was brought forth by filling it, and not emptying it. If a glass has liquid at approximately the half-way point and someone takes a tiny sip of it, it is being emptied, and thus is half-empty. If someone adds a tiny drop of water to it instead, it is considered half-full, since it is in the process of being filled.
Once again, saying a glass is half-empty after filling it with something is both illogical and nonsense. The liquid inside of the glass exists based on two actions - emptying and filling. The action which has most recently taken place takes precedence in arriving to a conclusion. Therefore the real question is in what way was the liquid inside of the glass altered last, was it emptied or filled? If someone asks whether the glass is half-full or half-empty, ask them in what way it was altered last. If they don't know, then ask for the five seconds of your life back. If they said they had consumed half of it, then say it is half-empty. When they say that means you're a depressed person, slap them.
Once again, saying a glass is half-empty after filling it with something is both illogical and nonsense. The liquid inside of the glass exists based on two actions - emptying and filling. The action which has most recently taken place takes precedence in arriving to a conclusion. Therefore the real question is in what way was the liquid inside of the glass altered last, was it emptied or filled? If someone asks whether the glass is half-full or half-empty, ask them in what way it was altered last. If they don't know, then ask for the five seconds of your life back. If they said they had consumed half of it, then say it is half-empty. When they say that means you're a depressed person, slap them.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Short Stories Blog
www.butterfly-high.blogspot.com
Putting some short stories based on a high school theme on this blog. Not sure how many I'll make, so check it out periodically.
Recently Added: Third Period History, Subculture
Next to come: Whenever I think of it
Putting some short stories based on a high school theme on this blog. Not sure how many I'll make, so check it out periodically.
Recently Added: Third Period History, Subculture
Next to come: Whenever I think of it
Would You...?
Would you paint a thousand portraits,
Even if no one gave you praise?
Would you write me pretty poetry,
Even if I hadn't seen you in days?
Would you give a beggar food,
Even if no one was there to call you nice?
Would you hug a crying fool,
Even if a pat on the back would suffice?
Would you give your time to others,
Even if your time is running out?
Would you lend a helping hand,
Even if you didn't know what the help was about?
Would you offer your seat to an elder,
Even if it meant you couldn't sit?
Would you make a promise to a child,
Even if you knew you wouldn't keep it?
Would you pretend to be someone else,
Even if you knew no one was fooled?
Would you lie to a priest in Church,
Even if over your life he ruled?
If not, then ask,
Why try at all?
Why dream without purpose,
And end up destined to fall?
Even if no one gave you praise?
Would you write me pretty poetry,
Even if I hadn't seen you in days?
Would you give a beggar food,
Even if no one was there to call you nice?
Would you hug a crying fool,
Even if a pat on the back would suffice?
Would you give your time to others,
Even if your time is running out?
Would you lend a helping hand,
Even if you didn't know what the help was about?
Would you offer your seat to an elder,
Even if it meant you couldn't sit?
Would you make a promise to a child,
Even if you knew you wouldn't keep it?
Would you pretend to be someone else,
Even if you knew no one was fooled?
Would you lie to a priest in Church,
Even if over your life he ruled?
If not, then ask,
Why try at all?
Why dream without purpose,
And end up destined to fall?
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
60 Seconds or Less
Unrhyming poetry.
I've read Stephen King novels,
exhilarating, enthralling.
Full of intellect,
And over one-thousand pages long.
I've unleashed the beast within,
Slathered in inebriation.
Heavy metal pounding off my chest,
Leaving a ringing in my ears.
I've downloaded soft vocal tracks,
Of sentimental nature.
Soft and caressing,
To a delicate and nurturing soul.
[A stanza used to be here but I took it out because I didn't like it].
I've read science fiction books,
Like Harry Potter and The Golden Compass.
Releasing the child somewhere inside,
And believing in magic once more.
I've fallen in love in an hour,
And out of it the next.
Now I'm waiting,
For love to fall in to me.
I've gone from a self-proclaimed agnostic,
To being a believer (of God),
In the short time span,
Of just a few weeks.
None of this is consistent,
But it is all me.
A Me,
That I wouldn't trade for anything.
I've read Stephen King novels,
exhilarating, enthralling.
Full of intellect,
And over one-thousand pages long.
I've unleashed the beast within,
Slathered in inebriation.
Heavy metal pounding off my chest,
Leaving a ringing in my ears.
I've downloaded soft vocal tracks,
Of sentimental nature.
Soft and caressing,
To a delicate and nurturing soul.
[A stanza used to be here but I took it out because I didn't like it].
I've read science fiction books,
Like Harry Potter and The Golden Compass.
Releasing the child somewhere inside,
And believing in magic once more.
I've fallen in love in an hour,
And out of it the next.
Now I'm waiting,
For love to fall in to me.
I've gone from a self-proclaimed agnostic,
To being a believer (of God),
In the short time span,
Of just a few weeks.
None of this is consistent,
But it is all me.
A Me,
That I wouldn't trade for anything.
Simple Haikus
Once again, some people say Haikus should only be about nature, and that its actually called something else (seriyu or something) when you do a 5-7-5 poem about something in normal life or whatever.
And once again, I don't really care :)
Dear Everyone
I can only be,
That which I have always been.
You don't like it? Leave.
Why?
'Cause I just don't care,
Even if you all leave me.
Atleast I'll have peace.
Peace?
Peace of mind once more,
Rather than trying to act,
Like someone I'm not.
And once again, I don't really care :)
Dear Everyone
I can only be,
That which I have always been.
You don't like it? Leave.
Why?
'Cause I just don't care,
Even if you all leave me.
Atleast I'll have peace.
Peace?
Peace of mind once more,
Rather than trying to act,
Like someone I'm not.
Cured
Every once a while,
Our eyes are opened wide.
So I won't miss this chance,
By sitting by on the side.
We only get the chance,
A couple times a year.
To let go of all our problems,
And everything we fear.
Something opens us up,
And gives us some insight.
And even though it is cliché,
It shows us a new light.
It might be a movie,
Or in this case a song.
Out of nowhere it cures,
Anything and everything that's wrong.
Another transformation begins,
And awakens my beast within.
Creating some miracles of Nature,
And some devils from men.
---
No idea if anyone will understand this. Oh well \(^_^)/
Our eyes are opened wide.
So I won't miss this chance,
By sitting by on the side.
We only get the chance,
A couple times a year.
To let go of all our problems,
And everything we fear.
Something opens us up,
And gives us some insight.
And even though it is cliché,
It shows us a new light.
It might be a movie,
Or in this case a song.
Out of nowhere it cures,
Anything and everything that's wrong.
Another transformation begins,
And awakens my beast within.
Creating some miracles of Nature,
And some devils from men.
---
No idea if anyone will understand this. Oh well \(^_^)/
Monday, June 05, 2006
Alone For a Night
She's got the house to herself,
Sitting quietly in her room.
Hoping that someone will come,
To take her away very soon.
A man enters stealthily,
But she does not put up a fight.
And he whisks her off her feet,
Deep in to the night.
Where was she going?,
She couldn't see it was so dark.
An abandoned warehouse for two,
Or a night-time stroll in the park?
Would he make her a true woman,
And expose a hidden intent?
Or drown her in a sea,
Where all ex-lovers are sent?
She thought back to her room,
Where praying is all she would do.
Praying this man would come,
And give her an 'I love you'.
---
Since I'm afraid no one understands what I'm trying to say most of the time, I thought I'd break this one down.
This poem is about a woman in her home who is wishing for the true love of her life to come walking through her door. A man comes in to her house, and dreamily 'whisks her off her feet'. Both we the reader and the woman are wondering if she is being kidnapped or something else. She can't tell if she's going to be taken to an abandoned warehouse (where she will most likely be raped and/or killed) or for a stroll in the park (a romantic thing, with someone you love). She wonders if she will fall in love with the man in one night and make love to him (make her a true woman), and by doing so confessing his own feelings (exposing a hidden intent). She compares this to drowning in a sea (something a kidnapper/murderer would do), but blends it back with the thought of having a lover (this "sea of ex-lovers" is the love that people once had for someone else. Much debate is taken place on what happens to love after it is gone, and where it goes). The woman thinks back to her room where she was praying to God for a person in life that she could have loved and also be loved in return. Taking in to consideration God's mercy, and also his mysterious patterns of intricacy, the man is to be guessed to supposedly be a man that the woman will fall in love with, and live happily ever after. When contrasted with the horrible fate that could've befallen her, however, we ask ourselves if such miracles can truly happen in life. Two people can wish to have something mutual, but if it is never expressed (certainly not by anything as extreme as barging in to someone's house, even if that is wished for by both parties) then it will never be.
Sitting quietly in her room.
Hoping that someone will come,
To take her away very soon.
A man enters stealthily,
But she does not put up a fight.
And he whisks her off her feet,
Deep in to the night.
Where was she going?,
She couldn't see it was so dark.
An abandoned warehouse for two,
Or a night-time stroll in the park?
Would he make her a true woman,
And expose a hidden intent?
Or drown her in a sea,
Where all ex-lovers are sent?
She thought back to her room,
Where praying is all she would do.
Praying this man would come,
And give her an 'I love you'.
---
Since I'm afraid no one understands what I'm trying to say most of the time, I thought I'd break this one down.
This poem is about a woman in her home who is wishing for the true love of her life to come walking through her door. A man comes in to her house, and dreamily 'whisks her off her feet'. Both we the reader and the woman are wondering if she is being kidnapped or something else. She can't tell if she's going to be taken to an abandoned warehouse (where she will most likely be raped and/or killed) or for a stroll in the park (a romantic thing, with someone you love). She wonders if she will fall in love with the man in one night and make love to him (make her a true woman), and by doing so confessing his own feelings (exposing a hidden intent). She compares this to drowning in a sea (something a kidnapper/murderer would do), but blends it back with the thought of having a lover (this "sea of ex-lovers" is the love that people once had for someone else. Much debate is taken place on what happens to love after it is gone, and where it goes). The woman thinks back to her room where she was praying to God for a person in life that she could have loved and also be loved in return. Taking in to consideration God's mercy, and also his mysterious patterns of intricacy, the man is to be guessed to supposedly be a man that the woman will fall in love with, and live happily ever after. When contrasted with the horrible fate that could've befallen her, however, we ask ourselves if such miracles can truly happen in life. Two people can wish to have something mutual, but if it is never expressed (certainly not by anything as extreme as barging in to someone's house, even if that is wished for by both parties) then it will never be.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Who Will I Be Today?
More unrhyming poetry.
When it comes to others I ask,
Who will I be today?
Bold and daring, shy and weak?
It seems to change so fast.
It's painful by myself,
When I have no form or shape.
But often in the company of strangers,
I feel afraid to let it show.
People tell you to be yourself,
And forget those who don't like you.
Yet when support is what you're lacking,
Facing rejection can be lethal.
I feel sorry for others most of all,
Who are trying to get closer.
I wish to tell them to step inside,
Where I am eagerly awaiting them.
Yet I know in the end,
It is ultimately up to me.
To go out and find them,
And try to make a friend.
Will this fear overcome me,
And my ability to step forward?
Will it hold me back and away,
From perhaps finding the best thing in my life?
Maybe it would be better,
If I knew how long I had.
So I'd have no regrets of being me,
And living my one and only life.
People weren't meant to live alone,
But in the company and arms of others.
So it is for these others I seek,
To help me live and love.
When it comes to others I ask,
Who will I be today?
Bold and daring, shy and weak?
It seems to change so fast.
It's painful by myself,
When I have no form or shape.
But often in the company of strangers,
I feel afraid to let it show.
People tell you to be yourself,
And forget those who don't like you.
Yet when support is what you're lacking,
Facing rejection can be lethal.
I feel sorry for others most of all,
Who are trying to get closer.
I wish to tell them to step inside,
Where I am eagerly awaiting them.
Yet I know in the end,
It is ultimately up to me.
To go out and find them,
And try to make a friend.
Will this fear overcome me,
And my ability to step forward?
Will it hold me back and away,
From perhaps finding the best thing in my life?
Maybe it would be better,
If I knew how long I had.
So I'd have no regrets of being me,
And living my one and only life.
People weren't meant to live alone,
But in the company and arms of others.
So it is for these others I seek,
To help me live and love.
Speechless
If you have about an hour and twenty minutes free, watch this video.
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-8260059923762628848&q=911+loose+change
I watched it last night because I was bored.
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-8260059923762628848&q=911+loose+change
I watched it last night because I was bored.
Friday, June 02, 2006
A Yearning
How heavy is your heart?
Mine weighs about a ton.
It's always reaching out,
Reaching like the sun.
But its rays go unnoticed,
And vanish in to space.
To distant lands of darkness,
A forsaken and lonely place.
Here and there they graze a star,
But it will not belong to me.
That love is meant for another soul,
Which will summon my jealousy.
I cannot buy it and I cannot dream,
To possess this crafty devil.
All I do is stare at others,
Who love on a different level.
Each part makes it whole,
I want to give each one a chance.
From the carnal passion of love,
To a beautiful romance.
But alas I dream in futility,
For dreaming is all I shall do.
When hope shines a ray on me,
I can only sit back and rue.
Perhaps if I was a sinner,
I'd be a bit more closer to Hell.
But atleast I'd feel a little love,
And have an "I love you" to tell.
Mine weighs about a ton.
It's always reaching out,
Reaching like the sun.
But its rays go unnoticed,
And vanish in to space.
To distant lands of darkness,
A forsaken and lonely place.
Here and there they graze a star,
But it will not belong to me.
That love is meant for another soul,
Which will summon my jealousy.
I cannot buy it and I cannot dream,
To possess this crafty devil.
All I do is stare at others,
Who love on a different level.
Each part makes it whole,
I want to give each one a chance.
From the carnal passion of love,
To a beautiful romance.
But alas I dream in futility,
For dreaming is all I shall do.
When hope shines a ray on me,
I can only sit back and rue.
Perhaps if I was a sinner,
I'd be a bit more closer to Hell.
But atleast I'd feel a little love,
And have an "I love you" to tell.
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