An Autumn Visit Pt. 2

The setting stands strong in my minds eye.

The air is crisp,
nothing is still.
The sun’s phases bring such change,
and as she moves into the pillar’s shade
tears well up.

She had been strong till 8:00 am,
awaking to the rise,
but the sun reminds her that he’s not here,
leaving only the empty cans and the bowls of tin
to echo his intoxicating touch.

I remember when things were different
When she would blush not knowing where to gaze,
and the way she peeled herself from his convertible.
That’s all gone now along with the waves and the stars we-
                                                          I’m sorry

Never mind
It’s not my place.
It never was.

I watched her change
and his smile turn to worry.
If only she could remember
to balance her desires.
She uses the stoppers to block what can’t be drained.
She tasted the fruit and tried to savor it
attempting to memorize each taste that touched her tongue.

“So what of her now?” you’ll ask me tomorrow.
I’ll tell you the same ‘till I forget.
For I remember when I was her, lost in perfection
In the air that was so crisp and the nothing that vibrated
with that which was forever still.

Please Hang Up And Try Again..

Do you ever pick up the phone, dial the number only to hear a constant dial tone? I feel that way about my Xanga. A meager attempt to connect and update with the people back home. It's no facebook, it's no creative blog. It's just my army green Xanga that always is a little more sticky than I think.

Do you remember the days when you would read my Xanga entries and know pretty much what I was talking about? Those were the days when everyone and their dog knew what was going on in my life. Yeah, those were the days. Writing was easier back then. I could carefully skew phrases and turn words, fooling with your understanding of what might have actually happened. And now I am presented with a challenge. People who read my Xanga aren't with me everyday. I can't just assume that you all can guess what's going on. Maybe that's why I have been so hesitant in writing. All I know is that to keep my Xanga alive and thriving I must be able to keep everyone who reads my lily pad colored page updated with my life factually as well as emotionally. But I must do that without the constant stream of boring stories and facts. The one thing that I like about my Xanga is that it has transformed from a preteen diary to an array of expressive entries; each one beautiful in their own quirky way. My Xanga made my writing what it is today and now it is time for the next step.

So, I'm at college, the next step. Everything's a bit harder. Everything is a bit rougher, tougher, and the bar set higher. Keeping touch, keeping everyone up to date, staying connected; it's all harder. You all know how hard it is to keep a conversation going online with me, so this is obviously going to be a challenge. May I ask for a little help? Keep me informed. Tell me when I need to call. Keep me in line. I'm going to need it because even after these two weeks I feel that I am already loosing touch. This is my attempt. My attempt at telling you how hard it is, telling you how hard it will be, and not to mention, my attempt at asking for help. Hey, it's better than a constant dial tone.

Rubber Stoppers

Guitars strum in the background.
as she twirls the soap suds in the tub.
Poke- one, two. Pop.
It seems those stoppers,
made of rubber, wont block that running water.

She steps out, towel dry,
to find paragraphs of goodbyes
plastered to their walls for the world to see.
For she once said she felt like writing.
He once replied "Write the world."
She knew what he meant,
at least back then,
but she hated what was true.
He was so slowly becoming far and too few.

"I bite my nails when the flashes come flooding"
"But nothing will hurt you" he calmly replied.
She knew it was silly but what could she do?
Cause she heard once.
Yeah, they told her once.
But her ears were too clogged for their cold warnings.

She tried to buy bottles of what she could not cry
but nothing came out for the world to see.
So she’ll end up running, ‘til the last drops drip.
‘cause he’ll say his warm words and scales of truth
that when the time comes, yes,
when the time comes,
Stoppers,
made of rubber,
wont block that running water.

Spent

The salesman once bartered
“Thirty-two Thousand dollars for a new life?”
I bought it.
He described the growth and the change
“New fangled rooms” he said, “New friends and fun learning.”
I bought it.

Who knew that the waiting would make it feel so overrated
And I, so overcharged.

The salesman once bartered and I once listened
But all I have is an empty stoop
And a kink in my neck from saying goodbye.

They told me I would like it.
“You’ll like it, you will!”
I bought it.
They told me it’s worth the work.
They told me. They did.

But I stand here at the curb
The smell of corn whisking me back.
“Don’t forget a coat.” I repeat to myself.

Who knew the waiting would make it feel so overrated
And I,
so overcharged.

The Forgotten

A dark wooded forest and an overcast in the sky
alone and distant, we stand.
In groves of shadows and
never-asked questions
we’re waiting and pondering for the times that were.

As I remember the laughter, I smile.
As I remember the jokes, I sigh.
But then, as if a hush came over the wood, 
my mind closes and there is
         no more. 

“Hello? Are you there?” I might shout
“Yes, I still am” You may reply
But our distance grows and as night falls our groves grow darker 
with the overcast still hanging in the depths of the sky

Embraces of love
and pain out of laughter 
No more are they present in my mind.
Cold worries and clouded fear now protrude forcing out 
           “Where are you? I need you…
                 Come find me”

If you could change, move, come
or if I could ignore and give
shadows wouldn’t seem so grim.
But their foreboding pits go deeper than they seem
So we stand center,
Scared listening to the wind push the leaves
Leaving us in our groves
Leaving us in our
                Loneliness

Goodnight Kiss

The night so humid
you can feel his sweat
Plastered to the leather, you peal yourself from his car
Don’t break the moment
Don’t breath too quick
Don’t talk, don’t step, don’t
Wait
Perfection

An Autumn Visit

The air is crisp
Nothing is still
And as you brush your arm against mine
my skin begins to pulse

I don’t mean to intrude
For such a delicate matter could break
But she doesn’t know
So I figured I’d drop by

“I’ll wait” you said
“As will I” I thought
But your presence is calming
And I know it’s worth every second

If it was me that your eyes danced upon
I’d slowly blush not knowing where to gaze
If it was me your lips longed
I’d quickly rush ruining each and every
Wait
Don’t leave I just thought we could lie here
Like the clouds in the morning
Or the stars we gaze at night
There’s no rush
I know there isn’t
But to taste that fruit would be something of a fancy
Something I’ve missed and longed for

“I’m sorry? Never mind”
You’re so wise
Calm and steady
If only I could fallow
I guess I’ll stay behind with the air
that is so crisp
And the nothing
that is forever still.

Like Diamonds In The Sky

What is freedom? What is independence? What is free will? Choice? Or liberty? I tell you I may not be able to identify and define each one of those words exactly because, as I connect back to Mr. Steven’s Identity class, its impossible; but I will say that as I come to the middle marker of my summer I know exactly how each one of those words feels. Its the feeling of you hair blowing in the wind. Its the feeling of a your abs hurting all too much from laughing. Its the feeling after you have been kissed. Its the feeling of waiting for a kiss. Its the feeling of a hesitation, a moment that stops and hovers for a little while. These feelings, they combine every once in awhile and as the fireworks, or the laughter explodes from their ports, it is a glorious and breath taking sensation, a drug you would never want to quit.

I guess I could say that I have started feeling all these emotions since the end of my high school career, which is ironic since that is an ending but we move on. Or maybe I started feeling freedom when I got my license. Either way it is a sensational surge. I can go wherever I want, whenever I want. I can care a little bit more for each and every person I love. I can blast my music or I can listen to just the whistle of the wind passing my ears, either way they are strong and true sounds that I constantly want to connect with.

But its not even the idea of going wherever whenever; it’s the idea of the summer. This summer. The idea of life, bright greens and blues and the idea that I am truly free from the usual limits and boundaries that I would have were I going back to Springside. I don’t have to worry about summer reading. I don’t have to worry about finishing my history packet. All I have to worry about is getting my campers to the right place at Springside’s Camp. All I have to worry about is finding the funniest way to present the next skit in the Cabaret. But even with those measly “worries” there’s the idea that I am not a high school girl looking for a boyfriend. There’s the idea that nothing, in fact, matters during this summer and its brilliant. To not have the usual pressures of being a teenage girl worrying about what people will think or who she should be with within the coming year. To gain experiences and to throw caution to the wind. Its amazing, its glorious, its something that I have never felt before.

So as I am slowing accepting aka flat out ignoring that I am going to college within the coming month, I will truly experience the way it feels to live life. To be strong, passionate, relaxed, loud. To be silly, to be beautiful, and to most of all be free.

Dear Sir,

So I'm just going to jump into this, is that ok? I mean then again I jump into everything so really me asking your permission isn't going to mean a god damn thing. Ok, so it's late on a Monday night; I just came back from an outing with my friend, Phillis. We had fun. We saw The Break Up, that cute romantic comedy staring Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston, who I personally think should have stayed with Brad but who am I to delegate? Anyway, that's not the point. The point is that yes, I saw a romantic comedy which means that my emotions are, most certainly, at a heightened point. But as I stated in the last update: it's always there, making it a blessing and a curse.

Right, so, down to business. You know I never really liked business. It's always so tiering and there you are at five in the afternoon, exhausted. Anyway, let me get down to the point. I am writing you to say that I'm annoyed, pestered, pissed. Ok, pissed is too strong of a word, but you get the idea. You see, I have found a flaw, dear sir. A flaw, not in the system, and not in you, definitely not in you, but in me. Yes, well, you see, within these past few months I have been leading both you and I on. It's horrible and I know that I shouldn't have done it. But you know with my ill step mother and my grandmother combined, my head was never really tightened to begin with. I also must say that by leading us on I have therefore lied to keep "us" going. It's actually quite funny really when you think of it. I mean, there I was, and there you were. And we were just there. Yes, quite a chuckle, I had, when I thought about it. As soon as it came to my mind, I phoned Phillis. And I said "Phillis you ought to here this!" Well yes, she got a good kick out of it too. But, anyway, that's not the point. The point is, I'm annoyed. Yes, annoyed. I just wanted it so badly. Do you ever see things in the movies? Things that you would give anything for? Well, I have never had those things. I usually draw the short straw when it comes to relationships. And when I saw it so close to my grasp I thought a little lie wouldn't hurt to get what I wanted. Well, as you could expect, the more the lie went on, the more that small voice grew louder. You know the small voice, don't you? Yes well, it seems to come out whenever you're doing something dreadfully wrong. And in this situation I definitely was. You see, dear sir, I was giving into temptation. And now with not a word from you and since our last words were some what bitter tasting, I feel as though I am allowed to feel upset. I know, it's very childish of me. But you can't blame me, a bit of everyone seems to stay in their adolescence. Right, so yes, I'm annoyed. I'm annoyed that you haven't contacted me, sir. I'm annoyed that I have lost your sweet words and your kind undertone. I'm annoyed that I haven't gotten what I have asked for. And that, dear sir, is another flaw I have found. You see, as I continue this act of childish behavior, I seem to become a mere five year old and whine whenever I don't get what I want. I seem to be throwing a trantrum without it. Even this measly letter is an act, hoping to get a small apology. When really, you are definitely not the one to be apologizing since I, in fact, used you like a dish rag (excuse the frankness). I guess, dear sir, that I miss you but for the very wrong reasons. So, I must say, what a gas I had, when I realized that you were doing the right thing and you are a little more than two years younger than me. Sometimes we never learn.

Well I hope that this will not effect or interactions in the future for I will certainly miss my bridge partner. Plus, the girls will be asking for you and what am I to say? That he has gone to bombay? Certainly not. Dreadful times, there are, in Bombay or is it Iraq? Oh well, that's not the point. The point is that I wish we could talk, man to man, or rather woman to man, or well you could go first which would make it man to woman. Oh dear, I seemed to have let my mind run away with me. So in the end my point is, I wish you would write or a possible phone. It would be a delight to hear. Plus, I'm to have tea on the fourteenth and what would I do then?

Sincerely and most lovingly yours
Nancy Bedagain

I'll Take A Little More Please!

Projects. A time period where you, a senior in high school, gets a glimpse into the real world and ultimately what college will prepare you for. I was excited and ready to take on the dedication and responsibilities that a job brings. Hanging lights, building set, and breaking new ground in my mind on the knowledge of what I love. It's amazing to learn and explore without fear. I love getting up in the morning, getting dressed for painting the set, bringing tools to work, taking the train and subway and feeling completely independent. I don't miss homework. I don't miss tests. I don't even miss writing which I am so excited about. But there is something do I miss. Friends, teachers, people who love me, people who I can connect with and love right back. I miss the jokes, the laughter, the conversations overlapping, even the drama. It is so hard to imagine that I am not going back to those hallways anymore and stoping people to talk about Players rehearsal, or the latest gossip. It's hard to imagine the teachers not being right behind me whether for a compliment or a D-form. It's hard to imagine me... not in the art cave.

I'm ready. I feel ready but I don't want to go. Going a week and not seeing Isabel's shining smile, hearing Ellie's soothing voice, listening to Hannah's insults with Lionel's music tuned in the background, and getting a hug from Michael, or a picture with Julia. I miss everyday laughing with Simone on our way for moments at the Rec I will never forget. I could try and squeeze every minute of my weekend with friends but all in all it wouldn't add up. And there I will be, 5 o'clock on a Sunday afternoon, wishing I had just one more hour with my friends. No, with my family.

There's nothing I can really do. Our time is coming to a close and I have to face it. But can't we just go to the coffee shop one more time? Can't we go bowling after school again? Can't we be caught spooning on my carpet? For old times sake? I know the summer is coming and we'll have three more months of limitless, homework-less, and curfew-less time. But those times will be here and gone soon, and then what? I'll go to college. You will stay in your world and I in mine, and there will be very few bridges. What a depressing thought. Eventually we will all be dispersed to our colleges and jobs and we wont have the art cave anymore...... Fuck you time, that's not fair! I want more time, I want more!

Well, fine, who needs time anyway? Not me?!


... I think....

A Lesson In Art History

She’s a sucker for modern art
And she knows where she comes from
A legacy of Smiths and Browns
She paints, filling numbers in
But no leaves are on the tables
Another day alone

And so on
And so it goes
Another day
Another walk
Another sound in the dark
And so on
And so it goes
Another day
Another walk
Another sound in the dark

See me, her invisibility cries
See me, she’s not the one who died
See me, in the prisms of the dark
But she steps away into herself alone

A boy selling figurines
He knows her favorite colors
Yellow gold and turquoise blue
He sells her the colored glass
For bills of tens and twenties
He’ll never dial the phone

And so on
And so it goes
Another day
Another walk
Another sound in the dark
And so on
And so it goes
Another day
Another walk
Another sound in the dark

See me, his invisibility cries
See me, he’s not the one who died
See me, in the prisms of the dark
But he steps away into herself alone

She’ll never know his touch until it’s way too late
He’ll never know the way she cries
Their backwards map lead feelings that wont reciprocate
So they pick up all their broken glass on the floor

She’s a sucker for modern art
And he knows her favorite color
But they’ll always be alone

Another Crossover

I guess it's simple to get lost in the crowd. It's simple to sit back and watch. That's not usually what I do but in this case, I am. Not because I want to but because I have to. You see, my life, as of present, is like a train ride. At least, that's how I explain it to my friends. I explain to them how I'm sitting on a train. The seats are standard, not too comfortable but not rock hard. If I position my butt in the right way, it feels glorious. The train isn't going at a high speed or anything, it might occasionally go fast but usually it travels at a leisurely pace. This is so that I can view the scenery but get there on time or, at least, around then.

As I watch the hills and valleys wiggle along the train's frame, I write poetry, sing a long with Mark (my slowly dying Ipod), and other various activities for the traveler. These with the exception of License Plate Bingo, since this is a train ride no where near the road. Occasionally I will glance at my ticket branded with the word College in dark letters, only to see the phrase arriving in remote future at the bottom. I look at the clock but its only a quarter past just the beginning.

As the train crawls along as we past the beautiful scenery which I coincidentally seemed to be looking down for because of a dropped pen or a song change. Therefore making me miss perfect opportunities for sunset shots and pictures of county fairs. Ultimately, though, you can see that I have no reason to complain. Yes, I'm missing the picture opps, but that's my fault. All in all, I got Mark so really I should be fine... or not.

I'm just sitting there, twiddling away time. No one else seems to be in my car, and all my mind can do is linger on my friends, who are probably out for Coffee back home. Joking, laughing, forgetting.

I can't stop the train, and I definitely can't reverse the train. So it is hard to find hope in seeing my friends soon. I'll have to get a round trip then, which coasts money and stamina that I might lack. So, I'm stuck, waiting for the ride to end. I shouldn't be complaining but the wait is grueling. Besides the want for something new, there is a bittersweet taste in the air like the taste of a not-yet-ripend berry of some sort. I have to take swigs of my water just to ignore it.

I have a feeling that within the next month the train will get faster but that's part of torture. The faster you go, the farther away you are, and the more you'll forget their laughter. And though you repeat the jokes and punch-lines in your head their faces become a blur in the grasp of time.

I don't want any of this, but its time. It needs to happen and I understand that. So, here I am with a train ticket, a dying Ipod, the word muffin rewritten more than 20 times in my notebook, and the conductor proclaiming the next stop...

"18th Station! 18th station neeext!"

An Arizona Dream

It was a normal vacation night for the O’Donnell, Canavan, Millard Family. Our close friends had just left our desert resort and we were out at a “local” though blatantly tourist, restaurant.

We had to wait five minutes to be seated but once at our table the family settled into our mannerisms. Mom began to comment about her great restaurant find, Casey began to brood over his menu, glasses off, and I listened to mom’s proclamation, getting ready to reply with a “Yes mom, what a great find.” We were ready to attack or basket of authentic salsa and chips when we heard “Hi my name is Parker and I will be your server this evening.” My mom and I looked up at our specimen and nodded in approval for this Parker couldn’t have be cuter. After our examination, we then proceeded to give him our orders with as much personality as we could, with the exception of Casey, who had no interest in showing Parker how fun our family could be.

Once he left the table, we proclaimed his hotness and continued to giggle for the rest of the evening which flew by substantially. As mom talked to me about the Indian ruins she viewed that day, I watched the waiters glide through the archways of the plastered Mexican villa, with hope that I would see Parker coming our way. Occasionally he would come straight to our table, flirtatiously smiling as he served me first. But don’t underestimate him. He had a job and he would gladly move past my table to the others with even more young girls like me.

Maybe it was the humid air but I felt I was hit over the head with his charm. There was something about the way he would breeze by our table singing along to the guitarist’s Blackbird or how he would say thank you when he squeezed past my chair as if I had moved it a mile so he could walk by. So, I immaturely twirled my hair, itched my neck, and looked down for fear that I would meet his eyes. Or maybe I was scared that I was just another tip. All in all, I knew is that I was blatantly feeding my inner-preteen dream with this cute, sandy haired, attention giving waiter.

The check came and thoughts came flooding:

This is my chance. Leave your number. Ew you sleaze! Okay how about your screen name. No don’t leave anything. Yeah that will be mysterious. But wait he wont…

The thoughts went on and on, but there I was a seventeen year old, still in high school, and out with her parents on a family vacation; and he was most likely twenty something and had a girl back home, wherever that was. Still, I couldn’t help but slowly walk out of the restaurant, hoping that something would happen.
“Night.” A voice called out.
I figured it wasn’t directed at me, but as I turned around there he was.
“Goodnight” Parker smiled
“Night!” I jolted out in the most thankful tone I could muster.

The ride home was a mind of regrets, plans, dreams, and the word DORK flashing repeatedly. It could be in my head, in fact, it probably is. Just another cute boy who’s niceness is mistaken for flirting that leads on another girlish dream. How pathetic! But here I am with a memory that wont leave my minds front and a receipt for $66.56 signed “Thank you so much! ~Parker”

I laugh at my lack of boldness and I laugh at the thought of it. Nothing would or will happen. So I sit here writing absurdly about a waiter, who makes me blush as I brood over my regret which I will most likely forget. Obviously if my actions were different, my future would be too. But who can tell if I was just another tip on the table? Who can tell if I was just another girl he served that night? But who can tell if he wasn’t my soul mate or a great love waiting to happen? I know, I know, I sound idiotic and prepubescent saying these things. I’ve known for awhile that I have been a hopeless romantic, but this has nothing to do with me wanting a boyfriend. Though it may help, this story is about untaken opportunities and what life could have been if you didn’t sit in the back seat but in the driver’s. Then again, maybe I’m just creating a moral, out of a story of an infatuation that lasted but a weekend, who knows? Take what you will from this story, God knows I wont.

The Smoke In The Wind

She dances ‘round the fire
Twirling colors that could paint the world.
As she kicks the ground to the fiddle’s tune
You watch her stories unfold.

She makes her mark
She breaks the bark
Weaving ribbons of tales untold
But she wont move into town
For folks would stare, clenching their daggers
Burn her alive for the legends of old.

She walked to town, pure
Once when she was eight
Exploring their coble streets
And their iron gates
    She hesitated
It smelled
Smelled of rot and rust
The stench oozing from their houses
Soon she saw the cages
And burnt platforms seen as stages
She saw the shadows moving for the light
And those who had never put up a fight
Stepping backwards she cried
She knew she would never be one of their tied

So she stayed in her world
Filled with gold’s and burgundies
Making poetry of purpose,
power and pity.
For words she will share
And rhymes she will sing
But don’t dare question her
For her words can sting. 

And every once and awhile
She’ll revisit that town.
Amused by their plagues
And their crowns to which they bow down 

You see her smile as she stirs her brew
For you know she is the wind.
A stallion not tamed, just true
She’ll never tremor or scowl or frown
For she is a gypsy traveling to the next town.

This Semester's 2 Hours

The other day I was in homeroom with my fellow seniors and we all sat around the room, strung over desks, bookshelves, and anything else that could hold our 115lb bodies. Our assignment was to listen and vote for two senior speeches. We listened to Alison's endings, and Maeve's PE requirement, Elspeth's love for teachers, Hope's fear of the school, and let us not forget Eliza's comparison with weeds, but one speech stuck out: Emily Mitnick's speech on service. Automatically, I thought of all the hours of service I never did because I was too "busy." All those kids I never read to or those packages of food that remain unpacked, all because of my lack of wanting to help. After voting, I went to MS Drama, drove home, did my homework, talked to my friends; nothing too special. Yeah, so I stood over some vents that night, but all in all, it was fine.
The next day I was burdened with worry and regret. Why? There is nothing wrong with you, it's everyone else who have the problems. And yet, I stand in the middle of court playing my favorite game for 4 people, alone. The score is 10 to 19 and we're winning but the other 3 people are on the side icing their sprains and pulls. And I would love it if they would just join in. Try to ignore their pains. But obviously this could lead to breaks or even worse. Or maybe they have chronic pain where they try to ignore the handicap most of the time, but sometimes they can't. Either way, there I am in the center of the court with the ball and a gloom about my body.
Obviously, if you know me, you know that I am a person who is passionate, and caring and someone who would give anything for her friends. But you know when people say they do service to "see the results." I feel like my life recently has been a service requirement. Ultimately, it's been fun. I have touched people's lives, and attempted to make a difference. But with this service project, I don't see any results. No one rewards me for how well I balance my career with Players and my studies. Instead Student of the Week goes to the girl who persisted with one measly math problem and stayed an extra five minutes after class.
There are gonna be times when you do stuff and you're gonna hope that you're doing the right thing. There are times when you're never gonna know if you really matter. But for once I would like to be recognized for what I do. Whether it be something I did for a friend at 2 in the morning or the MS. Drama program. I'm not asking for a plack, or a national holiday. I'm just asking for a "Thanks Lina! You do do a lot, don't you?" or maybe a "Wow Lina that is so awesome that you do all this."
But then the opposite side comes rearing it's head. Isn't the point of being a friend or doing a service project to do it because you love it and you don't need the reward. I feel selfish by asking for the thank you. I feel that it should be given. But at the same time I look to those who are rewarded and I feel that I do so much more than them.
So here I am with no problems, or a least none to the size of those sprains and pulls. And I am living with a jump in my step and a musical stuck in my head. But there’s everyone else, not moving at all. I want to belt "Move on," but I know that that is not what they need to hear. They need someone to listen and I was the one they confided in, and I'm honored that they picked me; but as time moves on and I'm always a few strides in front of them, I can't help but notice how ironic my life has been. I have been surround by poeple who are stationary while I'm moving at a lightning speed.
Moving on is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand you're living life and loving as much of it as you can but on the other you're torn by leaving everyone else behind. So I sit here at my computer, silently laughing at the irony of it all. Cause no mater how many times you move on from your problems there are always gonna be ends, PE requirements, teachers, fears, weeds, and service.

See Jane Run

Ok if you guys actually read this you'll find that you have heard a majority of this poem before. This is because it is the edited version of A Dream of Jane's. So sit back and enjoy the edited more intense, more pollished version... See Jane Run


It doesn’t seem right
you should have some of my height
But when you give me the ball
You make me feel tall

So here I am at the beginning of the story
Hoping it will end in guts and glory
With a dragon and a hero
Saving a princess who felt like a zero

I look forward a few pages
But there are no pictures
Only morals never told by the ages
So I sit back and I think
Grabbing my highlighter that’s pink

You have full faith in me
But no one else feels my glee
So I keep on reading
Hoping everything will come stampeding

But will things be right
When you have some of my height
Dick, you could weigh a ton
And that’s when you’ll see Jane run
That's when you'll see Jane run.

A Dream of Jane's

It doesn’t seem right
you should have some of my height
But when you give me the ball
You make me feel tall

So here I am at the beginning of the story
Hoping it will end in glory
With a dragon and a hero
Saving a princess who felt like a zero

I look forward a few pages
But there are no pictures
Only morals never told by the ages
So I sit and I think
Grabbing my highlighter that’s pink

You have full faith in me
But no one else feels my glee
So I keep on reading
Hoping everything will come stampeding

Out of Instinct

Don't ask, just observe
cause you know you'll be jealous when the rain falls down.
I'll be jumping in the puddles while you'll have to carry her umbrella.
Shut up. Don't complain.
You could do it too.
Just look in the mirror and step out into the rain.

A Meaning You Wont Find in The Dictionary

“Empty pockets.” Who knew that these two words would change my life forever? I was only eight years old and I had been going to GA’s Theater Camp for only one summer. The play was Annie and I wanted a part very badly. All the girls my age were trying out for the star Annie Warbucks or the cutest orphan Molly, but me, I wanted the part with the most laughs and the best songs. I wanted the role of cranky, drunk Mrs. Hanigan who really got the laughs in the show. Every night, I practiced what her voice and character would be like, going as far as wearing a white wig and strutting around the house in my ruby red slippers (courtesy of my previous Halloween costume) to get in character.
When it came my time to audition, I quickly stepped up onto the stage and shouted (no, I am not understating, I literally shouted) “Hi! My name is Carolina Millard and I will be trying out for Mrs. Hanigan.” Sadly enough, my seven-year-old self did not get the part; I was cast as a “Hooverville-ite.”
But this, what some might call a disappointment, did not deter me because the rest of the camp’s four weeks was a blur of laughing, singing, and acting from scripts. Yes, scripts. I had gotten a line, two words: “Empty pockets.” But to me, these were not just two words, but a monologue of conflict and character. I distinctly remember sitting outside of the theater with the counselor. The counselor would say the cue line, and each time I would attempt to say “Empty pockets” as well as I could. To me the whole show depended on this one line, and if I were to mess it up it would ruin the whole show. But don’t think that everything I did within this camp was done in complete intensity. I had more fun than ever singing, dancing, and learning how to put on a production.
After that brilliant summer of theater, I decided to pursue the performing arts as a career. Yes, this seven year old, raggedy T-shirted, and sloppy-haired tom boy of a girl had decided what she was going to pursue the arts. Hey, if you know what you love, stick with it. I then persisted to nag my mom, asking her to enroll me in dance classes, theater workshops and anything musical we could find. Little did I know that the acting world would help out even more than I thought.
When I was in the seventh grade my dad got cancer. Now I know what you’re thinking. “Oh no, not another sob story.” But I’m not here to make you cry, I’m here to tell you about acting and what it means to me. It was around my dad’s sickness that I got more intense with my art only for one fact: I needed to escape. I needed to escape the pressures of the family, the stress, and the tears of every week. I would go to the middle school drama program and be able to forget all the things that were going on at home. I was able to step into someone else and live their life for awhile, forget mine.
After the horrendous middle school years, it was those feelings of escape that got me involved with the theater in high school. And it was there that I felt something completely different when I was on stage. Not only was I transitioning from frivolous musicals to mature drama, but there was something else there, a different feeling.
There are some things in life that you can’t put into words. This feeling is definitely one of them. There is something about developing a character not only on lines but on instinct and gut feeling. There is something about working up to a huge performance, building bond sand making a family. There is something about putting yourself out there on a stage, not knowing if the audience will accept you or not. It’s a feeling of inexplicable intensity and emotion. It is something that is rarely tapped in life, but once it is, the flowing of this feeling never stops. And when the curtain falls on whatever you just presented to the audience, you feel content, whole, and complete.
So here I am in my senior year, looking for colleges, and the best programs all because of two measly words. Two words that gave me a taste of something that I could consume everyday of my life. Something that I have almost grown dependent on, something I’m addicted to. The feeling of completeness, the feeling of intensity, and the feeling of the theater.

A rebellion towards the loved...

Fuck metaphores

House of Mirrors

Tops of whirling dervishes
and tents of yellow and gold
in the corner I smile contently
for I know what you know.

I juggle your feelings on wire
and tip toe on stilts to and fro
but you’re perplexed by what I’m smiling
for only you know what I know.

Bearded figures
and toppling men scream
as painted faces laugh
and you begin to question why you had dreamed
to walk through the woods on that summer night.

As we laugh at your mothers and daughters
your tensions bottle up inside
for the mosquitoes are bighting the truth
those black facts that no one can hide.

So into the dark you leave us
our music still haunting
our rhymes all of crime
but there you’ll be broke in the clearing
on that dark and most humid
summer night.

My Tapestry

Clichés and marching bands and all my rants
make a word tapestry that shines on counts of three.
It lies on a train somewhere in Spain
waiting to be displayed
to wide-eyed children and their step parents.
Some people will clap and some people will cry
but as time flies by
I'll watch the crowd grow in size.
You look at me funny
a suspect of right
two years have I waited for
this mysterious, anxious, and mournful night.

Chorus:
Though my rhymes do chafe and slave
for you they are nothing but folly
Though my rhymes do chafe and slave
for you they are nothing but folly
A babble not worth reading though each lines pulls your pulley.

You're in it now.
In the tapestry so divine
In the song too long to sing for they say it will only waste your time.
So on that mysterious night
a child's eyes did widen and a step parent did gasp
but don't forget the obvious
they need money for gas.

Chorus

So I sit and sit
Sit and laugh- dark and deep
at what fools they all are.
For I know what I am
and I know what I know.
For I am the one with the coins in the pocket
Yes, I am the one with the coins in the pocket.

Chorus

Don't look so confused.
I got here first.
It’s you who is mistaken and have heard it all wrong
Don't look at me lost like a answer with no question
cause you're in it right now
You’re in it right now
My tapestry
you're in it right now.

Though you lie and chafe and slave
For me you are nothing but folly
Though you lie and chafe and slave
For me you are nothing but folly
A babble not worth reading though each line pulls my pulley

Don't Bother Getting You're Map Out

Do you ever have a moment where you stop whatever you're doing and step outside of yourself? Whether it's a good or bad moment, I am sure that you've done it. Within the past few weeks I have done this repeatedly. I would suddenly stop listening to the story that was being told or the game that was being played; and just take in the moment. What it felt to be with my friends, happy.
I guess since I have become a senior, I have made it my job to absorb every feeling I come upon. Whether it's the rush of adrenalin before you tackle someone, or the warmth you feel when your given a true hug, or even a wet kiss or two. I have been so busy absorbing every moment lately, slowly documenting life, I have lost sight of the negatives. I have reached a state of unexplainable happiness that I have only felt once in my life and it was with four people in a crowded field of worshipers. And I know that this feeling only brings two phrases to your lips. You try to say these phrases every second. You stress them as much as you can with "No, I really mean it" or "I'm completely serious" but some how the people don't realize your sincerity until it comes to the end. So it's here where I say what I've been trying to tell all of you, and hope that you take in the next moment you feel these small words running to you're lips, begging to be screamed.

Thank you so much for all you have done. I love you.

A Drive Back From The Manor

As droplets fall from the dark sky,
neon signs flash and blur.
And the puddles ripple as the kings drive past.

A peasant sings a lulling tune
only heard by those who stop.
A tune of the once forgotten,
a tune whose lyrics we fail to remember.

As the light dances in fogged beams,
I think of you, a legend
from a painting worn away.
And as questions reminisce in my head,
I step backwards, tipping time.

Eventually, these beams shatter,
hitting our concrete and pavement.
So, I gather what little I can
attempting to replace the popular tyrant
which brings us our prepackaged lives.

I hide them away,
the misted memories,
as I come from the demolished past.
I plan to save my knowledge and myths
for my dark and most dreary,
rainy nights.