Silence

Sometimes,
all I want
is silence.
But it's nowhere to be found.
There's always voices,
always noises,
always whirring,
always sound.
And slowly,
Slowly but surely,
It's
wearing
me
thin.

A bit of writing

It's not really edited, so there are probably weird word choices and spelling mistakes here and there. I just realized I hadn't posted in a while and I wrote this about a month or so back...

The World According to Conserve School

Thor, a shaggy-haired, hyperactive, and possibly attractive freshman, peered into the lounge to find a little less than dozen of of us focused intently on a T.V. screen. Per the tradition we had established throughout the year, it was Friday movie night in Donahue. After his brief inquiry into what we were up to and our plans for the night, he was convinced that staying inside to watch a confusing anime simply wasn't worth the time on a warm spring evening. And rightfully so, I suppose.
He invited us to join him to wander about the campus of Conserve school, where the group of us resided for a little under ten months last year. I happily took him up on the offer and dashed out of Donahue house to Elaine, my own dorm. Much to my surprise as I stepped outside, the sunny day had been overtaken by a sheet of gray clouds moving in overhead. No matter, I thought, there's hardly been a storm all year. This will probably just blow over, and proceeded into Elaine for no more than a minute or two to drop of my things.
By the time I came out, it had started to drizzle lightly. A group of my best friends had congregated in the commons area just outside of Donahue, a little unsure of what to make of the rain. However, we were all still desperate for a fun Friday night, so we headed down to the soccer fields where we could sit beneath the pavilion and out of the rain if we so desired.
The storm fascinated us. As the rain came down harder and faster, we couldn't stand still. We wanted to be a part of it, we wanted to be free. Maybe it wasn't our brightest idea, but we sprinted out into the center of the soccer field amid the fury of the storm and let loose.
Lightning tore through the heavens in the most breathtaking display I'd ever seen. The ground shook with the roar of each thunder clap and lightning strike. I looked toward the sky, an orange and purple sunset provided nothing short of a spectacular back light for clouds. There was no denying it, this storm was brilliant.
We laughed and skipped and danced and acted like we were just little kids again. The rain was warm and pleasant, like it had come to wash away the troubles that had plagued us all over the preceding months. Without a doubt, this shower was overdue.
Suddenly, we saw a maintenance truck pull up to the pavilion area and stop. Not knowing if we were allowed to be out there, we instinctively froze.
"Don't move. Maybe they won't see us," someone suggested quietly. We glanced toward the truck, then towards each other, and waited.
During the period of silence that ensued, I looked around at the faces of my best friends, shadows of simles sitting on their faces and raindrops dripping from their earlobes and eyelashes. It was hard to face these brilliant, gorgeous, incredible people and remember our time was almost up. We'd been informed late in winter that Conserve School, a place we all called home, was transitioning to a semester program. All of the freshman had to leave. Most everyone else had a year left, if they wanted to take it. Our nightmare had gone from bad to worse when the lawsuit emerged and proved fruitless. We were helpless as everything that we had worked for in our short lives was swallowed up by some greedy businessmen. To us, they were no better than murderers and thieves because, when it comes down to it, they are.
This storm, I realized later, felt like an "okay, go" from the heavens. It was a sort of angelic revolt to the crimes of the dictators of Conserve. When I think back on it, that clash of heaven and earth was the god's way of mimicking and justifying our fight; it was a way of reminding us what we had to fight for.
Had it not been for the rain, maybe someone would've spotted the tears barely forming in the corners of my eyes. I hastily wiped them away as the truck drove off. We all heaved a sigh of relief. We were in the clear.
"Guys, guys, guys!" I chanted excitedly as we started to smile again. The lightning seemed like it was getting closer; like it was about to seperate earth and sky all together. "If you got struck by lightning and could have any super power you wanted, what would you chose?" A contemplative silence fell over the group.
"I'd want music powers," an angelic-voiced friend of mine, Opal, murmured.
"Yes!" I concurred energetically, "super awesome music powers." Then, somehow in perfect unison, we screamed at the top of our lungs, "super awesome lighting music powers!" and high-fived triumphantly. We discussed the finer points of what the aforementioned super powers would entail, with the others ocassionally interjecting their own ideas or super power of choice.
Much to our dismay, the truck then returned. This time, the driver got out to inform us that we were not, in fact, supposed to be standing in the middle of a big, open field during a massive lightning storm. Who would've guessed?
Put off a bit, we headed back to Donahue. On the way, Kegan, one of my companions, misheard something I was saying to Opal.
"Bacon?" came his inquiry from ahead. "I want bacon!"
"There is no bacon!" I retorted.
"But you just said there was bacon."
"There is no bacon!" Opal echoed.
I added, "There is never bacon!"
"Bacon... bacon is anti-matter!" Opal decided, and I agreed wholly. Of course, to disprove our theory, Kegan felt the need to make bacon the second we got back to Donahue.
Sitting on the steps of the house's atrium, we found Bill and Matt, two more good friends without anything to do on that could-have--been-typical Friday night. Ben and Diego, who had been with us since first abandoning our movie watching helped us inspire their sense of adventure. Collectively, we decided to go out one more time- just as soon as Kegan finished his damn bacon.
The eight of us knew going back to the fields was a good way to get caught, so the woods would have to suffice. We weren't allowed to stray that far after dark, but since the announcement of the closing of our school, we had adapted a collective mindset: What are they going to do, kick us out?
So, as nonchalant as possible, we filed out of the house and snuck back toward the rec center, where the most popular trail entrances were found. Quiet as can be, we darted around the building, fumbling over slippery leaves and muddy ground to find the off-shoot that would lead to one of Conserve's sacred places: the climbing tree.
The trail was only wide enough for one person at a time. It was a single track bike loope lined with partially rotting birch logs impossible to see under the cover of night. Tripping over my own feet as I went, I clung to Ben on the way out to the tree. I loved the woods, and I loved the dark, but something about the woods in the dark creeped me out.
We talked in hushed tones for a while, listening to the drip of rain onto the trees and the whisper of wind blown leaves. it was a kind of music that we heard often at Conserve, but took fro granted. This was a song that no one could write and a melody impossible to play. Arguably, it was the worlds finest composition. These were true super awesome lightning music powers.
The climbing tree was nothing more than a tall pine by the lake. During the day, I'd climb to the very top and watch the sun sparkle on the water until it sank beneath the distant trees in an awe-inspiring sunset. I'd never been at night before. From the base of the tree, I strained my eyes to see the familiar landscape, only to be startled when it was bathed in an instant's white glow by another flash from the storm. Even though I could hardly see around me, that place had an indescribably aura of beauty as our laughter echoed across the lake. For the first time in recent memory, I had felt safe. More importantly, I felt home.
It was getting late, we realized. We were soaked through and covered in mud, freezing to the bone, but happy. What would they think as we strolled back into our dorms? Then,we remembered, what did it matter?
Later, warm and dry as i tried to fall asleep, I was struck by a realization not unlike the spears of lightning that had brightened my night. That evening's events, with its carefree smiles and child like laughter, with its undeniable friendship and pure, unadulterated love, that was the world according to Conserve School, because there is never bacon.

Crossroads

These really don't have much art of language in them... I'm not sure if they are really poetry. But they are something, so here they are

Crossroads- Part One.

To a crossroads I have come,
it seems.
To the right,
one I may love,
familiar days,
and all I've hated
and all I've fought for and against.
To the left,
my freedom,
an unknown life,
and the chance to fail
and the chance to lose these chains
and myself.
You stand beside me now,
saying nothing.
For the first time in my existence,
there is total,
encompassing
silence.
It is not what I imagined.
There is no peace within me,
no stillness
to tame my conflicted soul.
This is not what I wanted.
I turn to look at you,
to cling to you,
to ask you:
what is right?
But all at once I realize,
if I go left or I go right,
I will be wrong
and If I go right or I go left,
I will be right.
This is my choice.
I am defining
my own
"right,"
either way that I may go.
Left or right
or wrong,
I do not know,
but I must choose
and I must go.


Crossroads- Part Two.

At this crossroads, I still stand,
conflicted.
I glance to my right,
with the same, dreary landscape
stretching as far as the eye allows.
And to the left,
the road is obscured,
along with any hope
of telling what's to come.
I turn to you once more,
the sadness
in your eyes,
a reflection of my own.
You know where you must go,
to the right,
you have no say.
But I do,
and I cannot follow you there.
The silence
still surrounds us both,
heavy with sadness.
"Goodbye, love,"
a break
in the stillness
as we break
and become two.
This is what I define
as right,
this way that I will go.
Left, now
right or wrong,
I do not know,
but this I choose,
so I must go.

Two related poems...

A Memory

It seems odd
that such a moving moment
stemmed from something as simple,
something as mundane.
as forgetting a hoodie.

But it did.

It seemed wrong
that I was leaving such a perfect place,
filled with such spectacular sights,
so unbelievably dream like
that it had become home.

But I was.

It was odd
that I was entirely alone
in this place where loneliness was a myth,
as were secrets,
as I seeked out my hoodie.

But that didn't change it.

It was wrong
to hear my sobbing slice the silence
in this place where i had laughed so much
and lived so fully,
as I looked at home for the last time.

But I cried anyway.

and said goodbye through blurry eyes.


Remembrance

I can't recall
the sound
of your
laugh.
I can't recall
the gleam
of your
eyes.
I can't recall
the safety
of your
embrace.

but I remember you.

Just another poem...

Kind of a different format, i guess, given that there is a rhyme scheme. It doesn't really resolve or tell any sort of story, it's just kind of a collection of thoughts from different periods of time that have been scribbled in notebooks and the like, some how, ended up here

There's something about rain on window panes,
those angel's tears that never seem to dry.
And shattered glass that's fallen to the floor
screams with godless grace at at the hands of time.
There's something about snow 'neath starry skies
that's like diamonds come and diamonds gone by day
and the rose that's wilting on the counter top
sings with gone-by beauty's ever dreamless voice.

Playing with Alliteration

I love alliteration... so I decided to write a poem with a bunch of it. It's not so great, but it's something.

Years ago,
I learned a love
a love of loneliness and some.
But all those years
I loved alone,
that lonely love was not a home.

Years ago,
I thought of thieves
thinking thoughts of stealing things.
And all those years
I thought of theft,
I thought not of things that I had left.

Years ago,
I saved a song,
so sorry, sad, and sinful,wrong.
And all these years
I've sang it sweet,
but his song seems to ever weep.

Alicia

A short story i wrote a while back. Hope you enjoy!

I slip through the shadows beside you, but you don’t see me there. I know you can feel me, though. The way you walk with your face towards the ground and a more hurried stride than normal gives you away. The brilliant red rose you hold loosely in your hand sways back and forth with the motion of your steps. Your jet-black hair wraps tenderly around your pale face in the bitter wind of fall, thin brush strokes scarring an otherwise flawless canvas.

You don’t talk much anymore, do you? I see you with him but no one else seems important. I don’t even think he’s important to you, Alicia. I can see it in your eyes when you promise him you care. You don’t care anymore, not about him or anyone else. I know you still blame yourself for what happened. I suppose there is reason for that. After all, you’re the only one who could have stopped this so-called tragedy. If only you could have seen it coming.

As I follow you down the street tonight, we stroll along the edge of a sunset. The sky is painted an array of oranges and pinks like nothing I’ve ever seen before; the visible hemisphere of the sun so vibrantly dyed that it’s almost as if all the color in the world has come together in one place for just a solitary moment. Somehow, you manage to ignore it. Watching your eyes trained so steadily on the lifeless sidewalk moving beneath you, I realize you are not the girl I used to know.

The house at 235 First Street hasn’t been yours for long, but it is as close to home as you've ever had. You hurry up the steps and sneak inside, eager to hide from the freezing wind. You scan the empty room; almost as if you are disappointed that no one is there. But who would be? You live alone, like you always wanted.

Before you head up the stairs, you set the rose on the counter. It’s a stunning contrast to see the red burst of life against the icy granite of the kitchen counter but again you miss the flash of beauty in your life. What has happened to you? You used to live for the moments of beauty, but now you’re as dead as any corpse in the ground. I can’t believe they let this happen to you.

You simply wander about for an hour or so. Your life seems normal enough. It doesn’t look like anything has changed much since the last time I came by about four months ago, but you knew I was there then. Back then you chose to ignore me, but the way things are now is my choice. I like to think that you’d do almost anything to change that. I like to think that, for once, you're the one who wants something more.That’s only wishful thinking on my part, though.

Around seven o’ clock, you leave the humble house again and walk down the street towards the restaurant on the corner. You always said you hated that place before you met him. They’d built it on the field you’d played on as a little girl. Watching that innocent childhood memory built over had shaken you up and you had sworn to never support it, but you 'compromised' for him. You didn't want to seem difficult, so you tried to get over the bitterness.

At a quarter past seven, he arrived. Looking clean-cut as usual, he did nothing special to greet you and you responded with nothing more. The two of you walked inside, hand in hand. Your face twisted slightly in displeasure, knowing the place you practically lived as a child had been turned into this. The restaurant is nothing special, just another cheaply decorated building that serves expensive, mediocre food.
I watched as the two of you talked over a plain dinner of spaghetti. At least he could get something right. Pasta is like your drug. We used to laugh about the amount of it you ate, but it doesn’t seem worth it now. You don’t laugh. I don’t laugh, so we won’t laugh together. It’s as simple as that. Laughter is a luxury, I’ve realized.

I have to hand it to him; he’s as blind as a bat. Every time you smile is so painstakingly fake that I want to rip it off your face; scream at you for doing this to yourself. I want to show him who you really are because the mask you wear isn’t nearly as beautiful as the girl underneath. I almost feel bad for him knowing that that’s a girl he’ll never get to see.

When dinner is done and it’s time to leave, he offers to walk you home. You accept politely, but the two of you walk in silence. I can tell you are secretly grateful that it’s not a long walk and you’re home in minutes. With a quick kiss goodnight, you watch. You watch him walk away, but you don’t go in the door. Instead, you wait until he is gone from sight then walk back down your front steps. You head away from your house, away from the restaurant, away from the night. Maybe there is one thing about you that is the same after all.

Like you always used to, you walked down to the shoreline. A clear fall night like this is absolutely stunning from this beach. The stars shine like diamonds against crushed velvet and the moon bathes the landscape in a pale white light. Kicking off your shoes, you walk along the sand and stare up at the sky. I watch the earth shift beneath your feet and the long grasses brush against your ankles in the wind. The life of the earth fills your lungs and your own life finally returns. You’re smiling, Alicia, and I believe the smile.

A half of an hour passes, and you finally decide it’s time go home. When you arrive and walk inside, you see the rose on the counter. Shockwaves ripple through your face and I know you can’t believe you forgot. I can hardly believe it as you grab the rose from the counter and run outside into the depths of the darkness. Is it really that important to you?

I’m struggling to keep up as you dash down the street. Up ahead, a dirt road splits off from the newly paved road. You don’t slow at all to turn. I’m struggling to keep up, but you sprint through the gates a hundred yards down the dirt trail effortlessly, like a wild animal closing in on its prey.

You navigate the twists and turns of the paths that run through the graveyard without thought. It’s easy to tell that you’ve done this many times before. Finally, you come to a stop. We’re in the far corner of the plot. A nondescript tombstone stands but feet in front of you. As you approach, a tear forms in the corner of your eye. Stepping forward, you set the rose neatly in front of the grave and say a prayer, though you hardly believe in any kind of god. “Beloved Son and Friend,” the inscription on the gray stone reads. The boy buried beneath it never felt that way, but as I watch you cry for him, I know he was wrong. He had a better friend then most people ever do. Eventually, you turn to go and I stand alone in the night, staring at the stone.

The name upon it is my own.

The Mainstream

This isn't a particularly brilliant poem, I can't really decide if i like it or not. So here it is, for you to decide

The Mainstream

He stood on the banks for days and days.
That river wound ‘round and right.
Twisting, turning, eroding the earth,
Changing the land. Changing the world.
From atop the hill, a mile back,
It looked so beautiful.
But everything is less majestic up close,
When everything is exposed
When everything is seen.

He watched the rain fall, slow but sure.
That river rose drop by drop.
Then ground gave way beneath his feet,
Pulling him in. Pulling him down.
On that bank, in the rain
It had been so beautiful.
But beauty can be malicious up close,
When everything is exposed.
When everything is seen.

More Poetry (Surprised?)

See this?

See this?
Man’s work returning to dust.
Masterpiece regressing
to forgotten life.
But see, too,
the breath that once was.
Brightness still glowing
from the glory of youth
that is all but forgotten.

Layers

Layer upon layer, painted on.
Laying lies over lies,
forgotten but remaining still.
“But such a flawless face!”
You protest,
“and such perfect grace.”
Indeed, so meticulously crafted.
Of course, so compellingly lively,
but hardly alive at all.


I know, not all that great, but it's poetry nevertheless.

Sleep and Angels

Just want to say thanks for the praise on my last post.
Here are two poems I composed in English class... while not paying attention to the english that was supposedly being taught.

Sleep

Sleep
Is but a fantasy
For those who love
And love
Is but a dream
For those who sleep.

The Angel’s Rebellion

The sky collides with earth.
Heaven and nature,
gods and men,
together
as one.
Their golden fury rains down.
Light and dark,
water and flame,
commune
in wrath.
And we, witnesses
to this angelic revolt,
rejoice,
celebrating the uproar
that mimics
and justifies
our fight.