|
| A beautiful girl. I miss her, I guess. But she and I were never meant to be. She was in between boyfriends and was too pretty to go without. I was there like a number in a bakery. She pulled the ticket, glanced at it, and waited to exchange me for some loaf of bread or cake or pie or feeling that she was beautiful. But I gave her the slip. Came right out of her hands before she could claim the prize and I bet you, I bet you a million dollars, she doesn't even remember that number. She'll just pull another ticket, glance at it, and wait for them to call out her number. She won't remember the things I said and won't realize I had never said them to another girl. She'd heard them before and it all ran together like bad poetry. You could see it in her eyes when I talked to her. you could hear it in the way she said thank you when I complimented her dress or the color of her eyes.
It's funny how you think you need something but you really don't. I mean I remember feeling like if I didn't have this girl I was going to die. But I am not dead, and I feel fine, and I think half the time when I like some girl I am really looking for some kind of redemption, some kind of feeling that I matter or am valuable or am needed, and I don't think there is a problem with that, but it just makes you realize how much we use each other sometimes. | | |
| new haircut looks like this...
| | |
| This is a story, not a book
I.
Secrets seep from wounds too deep
To heal, beneath surfaces too soft for words
We are progressively regressive
Receding to the death black corners of life
Like every night when the sun scoops the horizon
II.
Confusion like recounting
One, two, three...
One, two, three.
Are we in
Are we out?
Oh, how I love you
If only there weren't so many stars
III.
If you were something a little more permanent
If things would stop moving
Always falling (into winter)
Always springing (into summer)
If only the leaves would choose
On or off.
IV.
If only I could make you love me
Cement you like a tombstone
But our lives are a story,
Not a book. | | |
| So I took me AP Lit and Comp exam today. I have to say, I am quite pumped. I think I did really well. I'm hoping for at the very least a 4 but really a 5 I think could be doable. Furthermore, sorry Brad if you are reading this, but I have REALLY begun to love this stuff. I really think I'm leaning towards a major in English in college. The problem is I don't think I want to be a teacher and I'm not really sure what other kind of job I could get.
Also, I'm getting kind of excited to get back to the States to get some driving in. I got my driver's license last summer but seeing as I've been here for the rest of the year I haven't gotten much of a chance to get any driving in. By the way it's a 1993 Buick Regal. I call it my Mexicar.
| | |
| Shirelle and I are going to try to write like a poetry compilation thing while we are in college since she'll only be like an hour away so maybe we can get together and collaborate and stuff. The compilation will be called "Secret Pacts and Hospital Beds." This is the first poem i wrote for it.
Let’s start this thing off with an Allusion: Like Israel in the Wilderness
If a leaf were to brown, shrivel, die
Before your eyes,
So would I be
Like a new-born,
Wrinkled skin,
Birthed only to stretch
Skin over bones
A walking drum
Heart pounding in cut time
Two beats per measure
Only to brown, shrivel, die.
Nothing but leather hide.
Like the moon
Magnet-pulled to earth
Polar-pushed to abyss
Swelling,
An eternal desire
“Let’s make something of this carbon,”
Then gone with the moon to space.
It’s more like writing on the wall if you ask me
“Carpe Diem”
If a leaf were to brown, shrivel, die
So would I,
This meager student,
Making his way through this jungle school | | |
|
