johnny cash

dear johnny cash,

thank you for making my day a lot better than it started off

with your raspy voice

and straight-forward lyrics

love,

me

my favorite songs:

god's gunna cut you down

i won't back down

rusty cage

hurt

boy named sue

i walk the line

dear sweet children lean how to write a poem correctly please

roses are red
and (dear sweet children)
violets are blue
sugar is sweet
and so are you

as you cans see, it sucks and has no emotional depth
but hey, at least its submitted into my school's literary magazine!

poetry can kiss my over-it ass

ok, can i just vent for one fucking moment?
please if you can't stand bitchy moany blog posts just stop reading, get your self a cup of tea and read something interesting.

I HATE WRITING THIS DAMN POETRY

there, i said it. i hate even looking at my poem that i wrote (and yes, i'm still venting about hope and soul to ash) well, i don't even know if it should be called that anymore because its not even about that topic anymore. i have revised it so many times that seriously, i might as well name it, my lovely walk in the garden. how about, the birds chirp and wake me up each morning how fucking lovely.

so after revising it the second time (where devoe cut out every other word to give it a more poetic stance and not harp on the same thing over and over..) he looked at his creation and was like: (seriously)

"hm, now don't get me wrong, but still it's a little fucking morbid. like (making screamo noises) like it's pretty dark. i can't print it like this. the character was so sweet and innocent in the beginning and she seems to be just sucked into this as a victim from the very beginning. like we need to see her making a choice here. and what? so eating disorders suck, and so what? what's the point of your poem?"

the point of my poem:
dear my sweetheart mr. devoe,
the point of my poem is to experience the emotions of someone going through and eating disorder as i envision it, and in my own language. its pretty dark and morbid because it's a dark and morbid kind of poem. that's it. the point is to get across the loneliness and or depression of someone going through one, not to, as you said, "shine some kind of glimmer of hope throughout the poem just because the main character seems to be screwed from the beginning". my poem only covers a fragment of emotion that the character went through, and i'm sorry she not exited about her life being shot to hell. so yes, she is screwed from the begining and will continue to be screwed.

MY FAVORITE PART
(that i suprisingly am smiling at as i remember the irony of it all..)
one line in my poem used to read something along the lines of:
Her chains cut into their skin, the darkest place they feared
but he cut out every other word so it ran like this:
her chains cut into the darkest place
then he has the nerve to ask me, "so is this like a metaphor for a va-jay-jay?"

um- no. i did not write a poem about a "va-jay-jay" and submit it into my public high school's literary magazine, thank you very much. YOU cut it that way, so ask yourself, "what am i trying to portray by cutting out all of my students necessary words and twisting it into something slued and inappropriate? why did i feel the need to do that?"

this is becoming harder and worth more than i thought. now when i write poems i look through them with "devoe's eye" and i can't see them from their meaning point of view anymore. i see them as a bundle of tangled words that don't make any sense. because apparently when i try to describe loneliness it is portrayed like i'm talking about vaginas.

so yeah, you can see why i'm discouraged.

my sea paradise of teal and night

white beams stream into my eyes, bright and unforgiving

the first chilly breaths stab at my ribs, i am hardly living

with slits for eyes and mouth agape i struggle for the words that will not come

my tongue is dried to the roof of my mouth, my lips sit idly; numb

i hear beeping and smell sharp chemicals far far off; it brings me to this moment

clarity unfogs my slit eyes and creeks open my mouth

like unwinding a rusty hinge, coated in years of dust and grime

reality is moving so fast

the water poured out, gushing blue; the dam broke

sound igniting me like fire

feeling igniting me like wind

i have awoke

as my dream-life escapes me, a fast shard of white hot lightning,

i remember living in the corners of my mind, i was always fighting:

a sea paradise, floating and stretching out around me, everything is quiet

but through the pressure on my ears; my heart bubbles out a riot

the water swims fast pass me but i am suspended forever in teal and night

my body floats alone and i am only a cylinder of light

floating up in slow motion, for until the cylinder breaks through the surface:

i stay sound in my dreams

but things will prove that they are not what they seem

my mind tumbles and swirls through the layers on deep consciousness;

till i hear the small sob of a child dim in the distances

he runs slowly away from me, through the water until only a fragment is seen

i follow and take his hand, as i enclose on it, it turns to black ink, what could this mean?

the ink starts dancing and swaying to the surface of the great deep lake

i look around, the water is eerily quiet and a shiver runs up my spine,

i realize everything around me is fake

the roar of rushing water fills my ears,

and the beeping makes my head throb along to its beat

i clutch my head, still suspended in the water, which around me melts away at my feet

my eyes start to dance with my imagination, faster and faster till lightning strikes me down

and out from beneath comes a roaring bubbling sound

melting clocks, tick loudly around me

i grab at the year-hand but it spins my whole body around; bubbles are all i can see

up is down and down is up;

my reality is my imagination and my imagination is my reality

each hand strikes me at three, three, three...

and as i spin and spin in time with its rotations

the world around me becomes more and more peculiar at each strike of three, to my aggravation

my wonderland:

as i slip back from my awakening again, water the only thing in sight

the only enlightenment i have; my brain isn't screwed on just right

the child with the mild voice and eyes, can be seen in the distance

i follow him again, but my legs melt into the water around me, despite my insistence

i tumble; cartwheel slowly through the water

heavy and thick until i am engulfed in teal and night, reality is slaughtered

the calling of my name becomes dimmer

the cascade of blue caves into my slit eyes, which with one last look at the

child and at the forever melting time; close again, the light not even a shimmer

my body floats away in the water, and i am suspended once more

alone and floating in my sea paradise, somewhere between reality and imagination

somewhere between the beeping and the eerie silence:

somewhere in my mind

we're all looking for our person (stream of counsciousness part 1)

yes, i have already blogged today
but when you have some thing to say you have something to say, right?
i will be off on a random rampage
my steam of consciousness, i guess

you know when you meet someone, and you just sort of say to yourself:
i want to know everything about that person
like, i could defiantly sit and watch a sunset with that person and have a completely intellectual, mind-boggling conversation with him or her.
i actually want to sit and talk and tell everything about myself to this person:
and they would listen to you and you would have so much in common;
it would be magical.

not romantic, it doesn't have to have all the pressure sunsets have,
but you would connect and everything would align correctly in the world for once as you just talk and let the pieces of the intimate conversation fall out into the open, with no sudden urge to fill the silences, with no unquenching fear that the other person would be "weirded out". but you would use complete honesty and complete openness.

the saddest thing is that, throughout the years, (and im not that old)... there has only been a small [infint's] handful of people i would want to share my personal life with.

right now, there is this one person that i just want to run up to and be like "can we just please pass all this get to know each other/ awkward i only know you from this one party sort of thing, and just sit down and get to know each other?" but seeing as someone actually doing that is socially unacceptable, im "sitting waiting and wishing" that time flies and we pass all this unnecessary crap until we can get to the real thing.

what is the real thing though? i guess, im still looking for it, just as much as everyone is. everyone is looking for that one person, a best friend, a mentor, a lover, a sister that they can just sit down and be completely honest with.

why, do people never answer the phone on the first ring? why? so we look like we are super busy before the person at the other end of the phone hears us say "hello"? why do we all walk around pretending like our lives are this great american soap opera when we just have to admit to ourselves that stuffing our lives to the brim with all this unnecessary crap is never going to fill the void we have to have to connect with another human being.

we're all human, and we all desire to have that one person that we don't have to play games with. that we don't have to fill the silences with. that we don't have to feel ashamed in front of. that we don't have to pretend that we don't need them, when we do. its all games we play to comfort ourselves and remind ourselves tha we are not alone. but, why can't we just admit that we are alone sometimes?

im on a hunt. for that someone. that one person that i can be completely honest with, that i can say things like "hey im just not in the mood today" or "i missed you" to or "i love you" to.

no, NOT a boyfriend that we can send cutesy valentines to, or check off "5 MONTHS" on my calender about. im not looking for an empty romantic shitty relationship with this person (the Lord knows, i don't need one). im looking for someone to fill that void we all have inside of ourselves. that void that is filled when we have real conversations about things that matter, with people we care about.

damn, sometimes we need to sit ourselves down and admit we are all looking for a friend. someone that you'll know that when your in a coma, that person will be there holding your hand until you wake up. someone that you'll know when you get off that 14 hour flight, they'll be there waiting with a cardboard sign with your name on it like an idiot because they missed you so much. someone that knows how much you care about them because you feel comfortable enough around them to let them know how much you care about them.

we all need that someone that we can feel completely vulnerable with, and not worry about the consequences. no matter how much shit you confess, you know that they can handle it. and they know, you'll always be there for them. a unmoving irrefutable knowledge that keeps both moving in the same direction.

yeah, and while we're all writing in diaries, writing in blogs about our hopes and dreams, thinking about the future, and worrying about the past, we sometimes wish that the person (that person you want to be your person) is watching/reading/listening to what you have to say.

why? because you want them to know about you, and right now your too scared to connect, because you aren't sure they'll stay to listen to the end of your tale. so, in the mean time you waiting on the side lines. waiting to share yourself with that person that doesn't even know you think about them. simple things like, i hope she/he is doing well.
something as simple as that.

im looking for that person; we are all looking for that person.

in a language i cannot understand

i close my eyes

imagine the glitter and sparkle twirl and orbit around my face

imagine the sun warm my eyelids, yellow and heavy

the birds chirp lazily and i can hear you humming a song i don't know the words to

i open my eyes

i see you smile back at me, your smile crooked and very imperfect

i see lines in your face; years stretch out behind you, i can see it in the corners of your eyes

you open your mouth and out pours a language that i don't understand

you take my hand

your skin is rough, a tattoo; the color of the wind in your hand

i wish you'd hold my hand for a while, it's bigger than my own

your hands dance with the words you create as you speak

...

your song isn't for me, otherwise i would sing along

we can't run through the years together; you already bought a one-way ticket on a train

that won't come back

you hand leaves mine and the color of the wind lifts from my palm

-but the imprint of the hurricane is still seared into my skin

what if kafka just liked cockroaches?

so. on a complete whim i submitted a couple of my poems to lit mag at my school.
i submitted a personal favorite, hope and soul to ash (i think i posted it here...)
and my advisor told me that he wanted to see me about it

so we were talking, and he told me he likes the way my "brain works"
and my way of thinking, which i had no comment on and respond so with a muttered "ok".

well, he told me that there were a couple things that were preventing it from
being published this year:
1- it seemed "emo" with the death at the end.
first of all, i don't see myself as emo at all, i actually subconsciously cringe at that word- emo.

2-"we" (meaning some sort of secret society of writing gods) like the figurative aspects about it but that i should just cut out all the literal aspects

3- he then told me that obviously the main character is symbolic for something... and then he paused. so i told him that that main character symbolizes (...) which was the truth and it got a little quiet. now i feel really weird that now he knows what my poems about. the real reason i was uncertain of even turning this in was because i knew that people would pick it apart.
no, i don't care if they don't like it. i just hate when people say shit like "the author is symbolising this here..." or "obviously this is a comment on how the traumatic events of the author's childhood shaped his choice of diction here..." i mean. what the fuck. BUT i do understand sometimes it's true. the author did mean that there; but if he/she/i didn't don't pretend it does.

in my english class we're reading kafka's "metamorphosis". every time mr. k's is reading he tells us, "the author turned gregory into a bug because it showed his isolation as a human being. you can see his alienation here and here..."
SO BADLY i would love to be like, "UM. excuse me what if kafka just like cockroaches?"

i guess my point is, that not everything needs to have a point. the whole point of the modernist movement is that the authors wrote about things that didn't make sense. so, why dear teacher, are you adding all this analytical shit to someone's work? what if kafka just fancied cockroaches?

i'm revising my poem; i caved. he did give some good suggestions, i will admit. so my poem will be shined up, clipped up here, and figurative words added there. i'm guess "sad" because when i was writing it i just sat down and typed out how i was feeling at that exact moment. now, i'm writing while trying to remember that feeling. it's not the same thing.

ill post the "better" version here.

i only like grey's anatomy as a friend

reasearch sucks:

"on average patients with scoliosis have a shortened life span of about 14 years."

um, holy fuck?

so today, i did it

i finally admitted to my parents i was scared (...)

and i had a good sobbing embarassing messy mascara cry

and it was one of the best things i could've done

to be vunerable, and to admit: "i'm shitting my pants right now please help me"

is scary

but when you know you have the best possible people supporting you

and you have people who want to help you make the right descisions

it puts some to the worries at bay

my dad remeinded me that i watch too much grey's anatomy,

i know, how is it possible?

and not all surgerys are as dramatic and hectic as those on my favorite show

which basically made me smile

...but if anyone is operating it'll be christina yang, thank you very much

so, im putting these worries at rest for now

i'm going to stop watching grey's anatomy

and im going to get a good night's rest

hallelujah

...

pee-ess- maybe you should try this:

i (name) am/have ______ and i don't give a shit

mine would be: i suhleenuh myhoney have scoliosis and i don't give a shit

yours might be:

i (name) am gay and i don't give a shit

i (name) hate red heads and i don't give a shit

i (name) can't sing for my life and i don't give a shit

i (name) relized my mother told me to do the laundry and i don't give a shit

...obviously this is very liberating...

shakespeare makes me want to punch someone in the face

i'm joining theater at my school
i'm actually really exited
i can learn more and more everyday
that's something to look forward to, isn't it?

well everyone tells me the teacher is crazy
and she drains everyones time
but i need someone to drain my time
i have too much time, in my opinion
sure i'm always busy, but with stuff like math and chemistry i.e.,
stuff that "frankly my dear, i don't give a damn" about
(ahh, gone with the wind reference)

so she asked me if i wanted to join beginners theater or advanced theater
i told her advanced, naturally
not because i think im a good actress,
i have absolutely no experience...
except being little independent films that my father and his friends make
and of course high school musical 1 and 2- oh joy!
(i have so much more work to do it's traumatizing to think about it all)
but because i'm ready for something
that will finally challenge me in something i actually care about improving


she then proceeded to give me a list of things i needed to do
i am supposed to learn a monologue and audition for her in two month's time
she suggested shakespeare,
and if you know me you know about how much
shakespeare makes me want to punch someone in the face
(out of fright of acting it-
and frustration of my limited attention span)
maybe i'll do something from a chorus line, i love that play

well, it's a step in the right direction i presume