Dead Poets

Poetry is when you want to feel sorry for yourself. It's when you want to tell everyone exactly how you feel, with a disclaimer that reads,"Yeah, I feel like shit, and I'd like you to know, but I don't want to discuss it, because then I'd have to admit to myself how pathetic I am, and right now, I just want pity. Deal?"

Poetry is when you want to tell someone that they are beautiful. It's when you want to say exactly why you love them- explicable much, but with a disclaimer that reads," Yeah, I'm totally in love with you, and I'd love if you knew just how needy and weird I am, but I really suck at handling rejection, so right now, let's just 'pretend' that I 'dropped' this journal, okay?"

Poetry is when you want to take the sheet music you wrote, which just happens to be stashed between your favorite book and a jewelry box on your shelf, and put some lyrics to it. It's when you want there to be meaning behind that awkward hum of yours, silly song you tried to write on someone else's guitar, but with a disclaimer that reads, "Yeah, I know I feel like this, and it's really cheesy, and kind of awful, and doesn't even rhyme that well, but if you totally have an epic freak-out-throw-down when you hear it, it's real easy to stash, and of course, hey, it's just a song."

Poetry is when you spew out your most conceded, awful, shameful little feelings at high speeds, dishing out syllables in vicious slashes; speaking so quickly with practiced consonants that the confession dawns seconds after your silence is filled by rosy cheeks and straggled breathing. It's when you hide your thoughts with due warp-speed in an aimless attempt at swift mercy -unfound- with a disclaimer that reads," Yes, of course I'd love to tell you everything that I've ever wanted to hide, but based entirely on the fact that I'm not strong enough to handle a reaction of any sort, I've found comfort in confusing you with nonrhythmic slam poetry, because if you give up before I actually tell you, it's a much more merciful business."

Hey Morning!!

It's not late, it's early. Paul Simon told me so.

Hey, Morning! I'd just love to let you know that you're full of opportunity. You've yet to let me screw up Today and drag my feet into another Tomorrow. You, Morning, haven't taken away a thought. You haven't blacklisted a feeling; haven't drowned a word. Until a later Today will you fill me with caffeinated longing, and sit me down where you want me, letting me know what I was trying to forget. What a great kind of morning.

What I Don't Think I'll Say

I love it when people are trivial. I don't think it's annoying. I love the little insignificant things that people are thinking about so hard. You want to tell me that your grandmother sneezed thirty-three times this past hour, and that your cat has 437 gray hairs on his left foot? Go ahead. It mattered to you, and that makes it worth while to me.

I love it when people screw up. Go ahead, trip all over yourself. Stutter like a trooper. Look at the girl on the cover of that magazine, and forget what you're going to say. Be an awful kisser. Freak out that your clothes are inside out, shoes are on the wrong foot, sang a God-awful note, and screamed like a banshee when you slipped on the ice. It makes you really, really human, and I love it.

I love to disagree and feel the same. Today, let's argue politics. Throw a screaming fit. Let's talk about what's moral and what's not. Let's want to kill each other. But tomorrow, when we're done screaming, I want to know that we like the same artist, that we both sleep like cats, and can't stand the sound of nails on a chalkboard. I want to know that we met the same best friend at Girl Scout bingo. I want to know that we hate dryer sheets, or love being stuck in traffic. I want to know if we had the same 'Word of the Day' from entirely different calendars.

I love people with bad taste. Correction: it's not bad, it's different. You know that. And I want you to know that it's okay if you think orange and blue are complementary, or that baggy turtlenecks are a total turn on. I want you to know that it's okay if you like shallow, meaningless, screaming, taunting music, even if it makes me want to throw up a little. It's great that you like skinny, balding cats and flavorless food. It's okay if you want to date that creepy kid with the pedo-smile. Maybe he's secretly really sweet. And maybe you lose yourself in that kind of music, or found someone who really thought those obnoxiously clashing colors really bring out your eyes. It's beautiful.

I love it when people get lost. I want to see when you close your eyes in the music, only hum when your favorite song comes on (out of respect). I want to see it when you get lost in telling me something that only means something to you; why e is your favorite number, the Star Wars convention made your decade, and how you had an uncontrollable urge to make a snowman in nothing but your boxers yesterday. I love to see people passionate about something more or something so much less. 

I still just love people. And I love people who love people, too. 

Hey Journal

  Hey journal.
         I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I haven't written in over a month. I'm sorry that I picked Facebook over you. I'm sorry that I'd rather read next to the boyfriend than write to you lately (Ha! I'm not sorry... I just should be). I'm sorry that I've lost some writing style, some words, some thoughts, ideas, contradictions, oppositions. I'm sorry that every time I wanted to write, I pulled the notebook out of my purse,and I'm really sorry that I didn't put any of that in here later.
    Life's been busy. Don't get me wrong- that's no excuse. Life isn't ever NOT busy. It's not the Geometry, Biology, home-made theology warfare (nightmare, death stare) that's got me lost (weighted, cross, frustrated).
   I'm sorry about the half-fine, airtime that I've been giving every hobby, duty, forgotten, lost obsession, creation,mentality, and I'm still sorry, just to you, that my biggest priority has a y-chromosome.
   On the subject of regret.. I'm sorry that I spent three months trying to fix a four month run; that I let three and a half infidels tell me what's pretty; that not being enough scares me even more than what lies behind the shower curtain at 2 a.m.; and that I stare down that poor, undeserving phone like it's carrying a strain 2 of rotavirus.

         Apologetically,
                                         Vi

Confessing in 100 Words

 I am SO sorry. I thought, planned, dreamed, waited, figured on it. I was ready, sprang, pounced. I was prepared, defiant, steadfast, justified. And when I thought, counted on, waited for that something inside me that would pull me back, laugh at me, and let me know the chicken I am.... It failed, exploded, disintegrated, obliterated, was lost in translation; elation. The words slipped out, the meaning was lost, the crowd cheered, and I broke something that hadn't been dropped before. Not cracked or chiseled, chewed or chunked. It was so perfectly whole, solid, complete...

And we fixed that.

There's a Man

 There's a man in the biology complex. Everyday, on the same bench, he curls up and sleeps while we arrive. When we leave, he's finishing homework. This is a man who takes off his shoes, pulls a rainbow jacket over a little head, and bares some dirty-fricking socks for the world to see, as he sleeps, unprotected, surrounded, almost homelessly in a building crawling with college kids.

There's a man in the library. Everyday, behind the same counter, he dresses up. He has a tweed suit, a comb-over, and a glare to kill the happiest reader. This is a man who thrives in books, but lives in such a nasty illusion that he can't even enjoy working the library. Blasphemy.

There's a boy sitting next to me. Everyday, I try to talk to him about something else. This is a boy who can write an entire webpage about why he likes a single band, but stops short of conversing by a mile. It's a boy who can pull out some God-given charm of a smile, and stutters his way through a three word answer to anything I say because I'm the weird one...

People are strange. People watching is fun. And all those targets- those specimens- you study... they're surrounding us, unappreciated, just waiting to have someone enjoy their brand of weird. There's proof. There's proof and it wears dirty Hane's socks, curled up on patterned cushioned benches straight from the seventies. There's proof and it growls at me from the non-fiction section. There's proof and it smiles next to me in class.

Having Fun With Dorky Quizes

Name : Violette
Nick Name : Vi, Vivi, Short and Annoying, Hey You, That Nerd
Birthdate : April 16th
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color: Red
Height: 5'6
Weight: how rude!
Boyfriend/Girlfriend: Boyfriend (although I think I'm required to elaborate)
FAVORITES
Food: I'm not picky- but chocolate is good!
Candy: Hershey's kisses
Number: 8
Color: Blue
Animal: Rabbit
Drink: Coffee!!!
Perfume: Sweet Honesty- but not on me
TV Show: Paternity tests on the Maury Show
Music Album: S&G- Wednesday Morning, 3 a.m.
Song: Linkin Park, Shadow of the Day.....Sixpence non the Richer, Kiss Me.....S&G, Keep the Customer Satisfied.....3 doors down, kryptonite
Movie: The Princess Bride? Star Trek? Anne of Green Gables?
Actor/Actress: Taylor Lautner
This or That
Pepsi or Coke: pepsi
McDonalds or BurgerKing: BK has veggie burgers
Chocolate or Vanilla : Chocolate
Hot Chocolate or Coffee: Coffee
Kiss or Hug: Both! I'll be greedy LOL
Dog or Cat: Cat
Rap or Punk: Punk?
Summer or Winter: Summer
Scary Movies or Funny Movies: Scary
Love or Money: Love
YOUR...
Bedtime: 11:30....ish
Most Missed Memory: If I can remember, then I can't miss it
Best physical feature: I like my hair alright
First Thought Waking Up: The dream I just had
Weakness: I can't hold a grudge, drippy dark hair, and blue eyes.
Fears: Spiders, the sound of nails on fabric, things being overly uneven
Longest relationship: Didn't count...
HAVE YOU...
Cheated Your Partner: No
Ever been beaten up: No
Ever beaten someone up: No
Ever Shoplifted: No, I'm still boring
Ever Skinny Dipped: LOL- define skinny dipping
Ever Kissed Opposite sex: Yeah
IN A GUY/GAL Favorite Eye Color: Blue
Favorite Hair Color: Anything but red. Includes green. LOL-jk
Short or Long Hair: Long!
Height: Don't matter too much- although I hate feeling tall with a guy
Style: Long haired hippie
Looks or Personality: Both
Hot or Cute: Cute
Muscular or Really Skinny: Any, either, or neither LOL
RANDOMS
How do you want to Die: Not like Elvis- not like River Pheonix- Not like MJ. Poetically, please.
Get along with your Parents: Hah! I'm 14, 'member?
Health Freak: Define health freak
Believe in Yourself: I beleive in my ability to repel normal human life...
Want to go to College: Not in particular. Do I want a decently clean well-pying job? yeah...
Do you Drink: Chocolate milk? Iced tea? yeah...
Shower Daily: That depends. Hippies didn't!
Been in Love: Recently? LOL I'm pretty sure :)
Do you Sing: In the shower
Do you want Children: Not this second!
Hate anyone: Not a soul.

Bad Day

I'm going along with the song theme that I've had. Last time I sported an apocolyptic song by R.E.M. This time I was feeling more along the lines of Daniel Powter.

I lost my HOPE necklace. I went for a walk in the "less sunny" part of town (as Kris calls it- like St. Joe really has a ghetto). It fell off somewhere over there. I hope that someone found it- who needed a little hope at least. That'd be useful.

I also lost my happy thought. It's kind of like misplacing any other ordinary object, but it affects moods, too. I don't know here my happy thought went, either, as it obviously didn't hit anyone I know. Mom and I stayed home watching sappy love stories last night. It was positively dreadful. She keeps leaving me with the Grand Parents for hours. Eight hours of either hiding in my room, hiding at Sarret, or hearing stories about the Old Days. If I have to hear how great the war is, or another predjudice slur again, I may kill them. Particularly due to the latter. I've gotten to the point that I'll tell them that they're wrong. I'll explain it more and more forcefully until they let me free. If they punish Mom for me having an opinion later, all the better. She left me with the racist homophobes in the first place.

I'm babysitting tonight, and contrary to the original plan, I'll be dropped off alone at their house. Which is nice, because no one is babysitting the babysitter. I think it's for four or five hours. I'll have a baby, a four year old, and a six year old. Thankfully, the baby is old enough to sit with us, instead of constantly being held. You can even put her in the bouncer if you watch her. Not as tedious as watching Bobby, anyway.

Mom. If you comment on that, I'll let the Jahovah's witnesses know that the GrandParents are extremely interested in the Lord.

It's The End of The World As We Know It

(...I feel fine...)
The song lies. It's the end of the world, and personally, I feel like it's the end of the world. I guess that's what is to be expected, but I'm rather fond of pleasant surprises. I just keep track of how many days before The Time of The End, well, ends. For those who read this and don't understand, I'm not a conspiracy theorist. I think I'm a fourteen year old hormone ridden female. This, in most societies, implies impending doom bursting out at random. Oh, Lord.

I took a stupid test. Actually, it's not "stupid". However, I'm at a loss on how to portray the fact that I wasn't fond of the test, couldn't understand part of the test, felt "stupid" doing the test, and ended up being scorned by my mother for the B+ I produced. However, the "stupid" test cured me of almost three months in a class I didn't entirely need. This I do indeed consider an infirmity in itself. I'm working on the other three months of 9th grade Lit and Comp- reading Shakespeare and feeling like a million bucks. Cool.

The paragraph above is to ensure you in my general intellect. The complaint below is to undo this wronging. (Hmph.)

I hate mail. Mail is the root of all evil.Things I've received in the mail include,

*Two invitations to a beauty pageant looking for beautiful, independent girls. This I threw away.

*A couple report cards less than pleasing to my mother. Her child must receive all A's. (I was offered a tutor- which I consider highly offensive.)

*My SAT scores- which were 6 points short of the highest score in the Jr. High. Six, evil, evil points.

*An awkward birthday card from a teacher that really liked me (which was very sweet).

*An open, humbling invitation to summer school.

I didn't quite meet standards. Maybe I can blame that on not having material to study- maybe I can blame it on something like sheer dumb luck, or not enough standardized tests. I think that's what the goverment would do, anyway. This was for the Math + science center. This also served as further proof of just because you're good at something doesn't mean you're good at everything.I don't think I really excel at math. Nor do I believe I really excel at science. In fact, I pretty much disgrace myself with all things scientific. I beleive the appropriate teen phrase for the situation is I'm screwed. Funny, though. I'm still blaming something else entirely for the apocalypse. :P

P.S. Einstein was a pacifist. Something I found out last night. ;)

My Dream in 100 Words

He's left or leaving, gone either way. Somebody shrieks. Everything's empty, blank white. The scene changes. Psychedelic tunnel, so entirely dream-clichè. People talking,  fuzzy white noise. I'm in my backyard and seeing crows. I'm still mad that he's gone; that I'm stuck in this odd place alone, without him. I'm feel see-through, and the wind's blowing right through me. There's nobody to save me (from what? scenery?). An image of him appears, coming closer, looking as angry and afraid as I feel. His image smiles hugely, terrifying me, and gently whispers, "Stolen from SCREAM. Thanks." And then it all vanishes.