Emaciation Proclamation

I
am
a red
balloon
and I
float
all
d
a
y.
w
a
i
t
i
n
g

for
my
prince
to
come.

i am tied by the base strings
&
i have seen bad weather
at its worst.
i have seen the
hails snows rains bolts cracks
whips and sneers.
&
;
its been mocking
and disappointing.


i
a
m
a
n
c
h
o
r
e
d

by the
%knots%
that whet
my stirs to revenge.

the cold raindrops,
they tickle me as i am tied to my
safe&&steady lifestyle,
rankling my disdain for the
emaciated and free
red
balloons.

and sometimes,
there will be:
purples greens oranges and blues
scattered around the lawn
in the sky,
in the cars,
in the lakes
and they hopelessly flounder
in sardonic jest,
on their wild escapades
with the wind
and the tiny frolicking cats and bees.

that is,
until they

l

o

s

e

i

t

,

madly, violently, outrageously, wantonly
parading on the grass,
impaled by the green, with envy,
plants that wish that they could fly,
too.

i
am
stuck.

i can be free,
but i have no choice
but to float in my pre-determined
Calvinistic
doom.

but when i see you have your fun,
and when i see you glide and stride
to your demise,
lonely and withering on the floor
that you used to taunt
so gaily,


i guess i'm not meant
to live that way.

---

Figure me out.

palabras

dubious:
–adjective

1.	doubtful; marked by or occasioning doubt: a dubious reply.

2.	of doubtful quality or propriety; questionable: a dubious compliment; a dubious transaction.

3.	of uncertain outcome: in dubious battle.

4.	wavering or hesitating in opinion; inclined to doubt.

whetted:
verb, whet⋅ted, whet⋅ting, noun –verb (used with object)

1.	to sharpen (a knife, tool, etc.) by grinding or friction.

2.	to make keen or eager; stimulate: to whet the appetite; to whet the curiosity.

–noun

3.	the act of whetting.

4.	something that whets; appetizer or drink.

5.	Chiefly Southern U.S. a. a spell of work. b. a while: to talk a whet.

emaciated:
To make or become extremely thin, especially as a result of starvation.

Criminal

The more we separate,
the more I retaliate
from myself.

Weak feelings begin to manifest
like the sun's rays seeping
from the seed of the Earth.

Mortification transfigures into relief,
insecurities become auspicious possibilities,
first prejudices transcend into first prides.

Sinfully&slowly, my heart melts
at the thought of you.
But as I realize this, I scoop up the drippings
and place my heart promptly into a
refrigerator.

Where, do I think I'm going with this?

The sun sinks sullenly back into its grave,
the moon shines only half-wise, with its illusory half-radiance,
and the seasons whittle away knowingly,
UNDERSTANDING the secrets of
the Universe
which are disclosed to the guild of Believers,
in that weary sense.

Abashed and timidly,
I am left in vertigo,
spiraling onto the cold sand floor
to feel the weight of the world crunching beneath me.

Feigned emotions can trick the fool.
Oh, I've been the Artful Dodger,
and the butt of the joke.
I've done the trickery and caused the foolery.
Now here's my sorry punishment.

You seem so simple and true.
I know it's not up to me to judge,
but the way you present yourself
and show the world
how Proud you are to be You.

You seem so simple and true,
that I just want to copy
and I just want to be there with you
and show the world
how Proud I am to be Me.

You seem so simple and true,
you do not bask in yourself.
And the way you defer self indulgences
and show the world
how Proud you are to be You.

this has always been with me.

Shoot.

I think I can do without.
But the inconsistencies are still parallel:
You want and beg for foreign need,
You despise and reject a familiar deed.

The equations just don't add up.

And, despite the mood,
the context,
the content,
the smiles and laughter
(and all of sorts),
I just can't say.

calculus.

I.
Don't.
Get.
You.

compliments can die

and burn for their cheating ways;
buttering you up for sweet
suffocations and spattering glimpses of
heaven that can only be transfigured as a
disguise.
they're really just a made up heaven,
but they're seriously
my own personal hell.
for giving me illusions that i trusted.
you cheater-
you gave me hope.
and now i'm mortified because i
BELIEVED.

is this your idea of pretty?

she was, basically, a walking closet--
her hair was swirly and turbulent
(like a mop),
and she wore a long and boring gray jacket
that hid any curvatures or contours that she
assumedly possessed;
her leather boots were much too large
and dangled with every stride
of lanky 'sticks', she called legs.

what a foreign mess!

where did all the priorities go?
besides stuffed away in my ass pocket,
like they didn't really matter...

i overshot the moon
yet only touched a glimpse
of the atmosphere!
if even.

-----------------------




eh, i despise the luxury of "trying again."

that mindset needs to mold.

but it's funny that i'm so apathetic

(because i was already foreshadowing my demise.)

they can only do harm

i wish you never told me.

words can only do harm

auspicious
1. promising success; propitious; opportune; favorable: an auspicious occasion.
2. favored by fortune; prosperous; fortunate.

Expensive shiz.

I bought:

$20 sheer cheek gel (Target)
$12 "rumor" lip gloss (Victoria's Secret)
$20 haircut + $16 hair product (Positive Image Salon)
$16 business slacks (G-Stage)

Oh mah gaaaah.

Teach me NOT how to break away from YOU,
per se,
but how to break away from the THOUGHT of you.

Sometimes I feel like I miss your persistence.
I realized, then, that that was it--

That's all I'm sincerely missing.

Mommy told me not to,
but I peeped underneath
Evening's skirt and saw
magnificent things.

I'll pay you to pray

The letter bill told me to pray
and obey
some laws conjured by faith and
imaginary devotion,

but I wait simply;
perhaps for an answer.

Yesterday was bleak,
today was iffy,
and tomorrow seems like a feigned promise--
made in vain.

Eh bien... It's a labyrinth of sorts,
and I'm just a player in this
privy conspiracy.

-long sigh-,

It's happening again.
I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE
(me be)!

But yet
(again)!
I have to find solace in my
electronic ink and passive memories.


Eh, fuck off.

Wells

I fell into her eyes
that spilled with crystal blue water--
like a well.

But her eyes were as bright
as icebergs that stand tall
and majestic
JUST to be noticed.

Those eyes they
grabbed me silently,
and discretely,
hoping to keep me kidnapped in those
lonely deep pupils.

privy:

1.	participating in the knowledge of something private or secret (usually fol. by to): Many persons were privy to the plot.

2.	private; assigned to private uses.

3.	belonging or pertaining to some particular person, esp. with reference to a sovereign.

4.	secret, concealed, hidden, or secluded.

5.	acting or done in secret.

feigned:

1.	pretended; sham; counterfeit: feigned enthusiasm.

2.	assumed; fictitious: a feigned name.

3.	disguised: a feigned voice.

Smile

For whether or not there were any unsaid implications,
or feelings of NECESSITY in order to act,
what you did had enticed me to smile
(inwardly, so I wouldn't seem like a dork).

I thank you for that, most ardently.

Gyspy

You've heralded me
"The Sojourner,"
doomed to transient fame.
Every situation calls for
miniscule feats--
tiny success stories that
I hold so dear
with such fleeting promise.

Call me
Wilted Tulip
or Decomposing Flesh;
something that was once
lavishly assumed and consumed;
decadently spoiled and cooed.

just glide over me its average and dont bother with words or structure your eyes are enough i can tell.

im just as useful as potting soil and perhaps a decorative fern: no distinct attraction no immediate appeal.

im just there really and theres nothing to remember me by so its okay to forget and its okay to acknowledge that

yes, yes i am no different than that one girl with that one possible hairdo that just passed you by.

but you see, you forgot about that already.

- - -


It goes like this:
I am that $5 sweater on clearance,
in the back of a lonely Mervyn's;
a drab cardigan with a
pallid sickly peach color
(so carefully matching,
with the wall that is)
that was out of season
five months ago.

Drag me

That was a sympathy drag;
a sympathetic sorry drag,
of what intent? I've no clue.

You kinda got me hoping, too.
That things were all right.

But you seem to forget--
(Oh, I get it now. It's because of your...
You Know. "This and That.")

I'm really just the average jane,
so plain that my name can't afford
any exotic letters or characters.

My real name seems all right.
But there's nothing else going for me, it seems.
And I guess that's it.

anticipatory socialization - learning that helps a person achieve a desired position (changing yourself so you can fit in)

resocialization - radically changing an inmate's personality by carefully controlling the environment

presentation of self - a person's efforts to create specific impressions in the minds of others (making the impression you want people to have of you)

fuck,

my

vanity.

words

-panacea: a supposed cure-all.
-impute: to attribute a bad action or quality to somebody

DNA strings weigh me down

DNA strings weigh me down:
An Anchor in the blue
abyss of nothingness,
except conniving grudges
that stack up (like sand sediments
crinkled over the ages).
Never again can I
wobble to the consent
of my indecisive curiosity.
There is no such thing as
a liberty to concede to;
only stillness (as instilled by Nature
and sojourn faith), that
dictates everything.
Oh Tyranny; I balk at the thought.
Yet my heart is charcoaled, and crispy.

hospital notes and things i want to remember

- apheresis cell separation
- nurse ramone
- j. salazar
- the beauties of montana
- the purpose of "sitters"
- my idea for "the hospital room." drawing/poem

words, part deux

- balk: refuse to proceed; stop short; defeat
- conniving: to conspire
- sojourn: temporary stay / sojourner: a temporary resident
- barrio: part of a u.s. city largely populated by spanish-speaking community

The tech guy.

HE reeked of cigarettes and electronic oil, dripping down invisibly upon his musty hands. Cursing under his breath here and there, he wiped the smudge on his nose and cheeks onto his black drab uniform.

"It's so slow," he groaned at the Intel Inside, boasting of a "Premium-4" status (whatever that means). "This takes forever to load."

I quietly nodded and said, "Yeah." In a sense, I felt like I shouldn't disagree with him.

- - -

*practicing the prose* This is based on one of the men I saw working in the library.

This is my Rosetta Stone.

*pending idea*

- - -

i m n V o U
i m n h r U
i m n d r U


(i am in "love" of you)
(i am in hopes for you)
(i am in dreams for you)

-- pending poem idea.

this is my rosetta stone.

---

an abstract conglomeration of my own "language" and hieroglyphics.

Beauty

i met Beauty today.
before i could meet her gaze,
she sprinted toward the light
hoping that the uv rays would
wipe off her scars and youthenize
her figure.

she would not speak to me;
her lips were taped with
ancient cassette film and dollar bills.

she could not hear me, either;
her ears were warped in awkward contortions
to forever never let her headphones
fall off her head.

- - -

(may revise later)

- - -

This is what happens when you wake up, suddenly, to find that "you've changed", and that beauty is only so delicate and transient.

YOU.

I can't tackle the problem since I'm already too entrenched in my old ways.
And I can't seem to look forward because I'm already drunk in the haze.
You can't flash away my blind techniques because, really, they are blind.
Oh how I wish I could understand you and me; especially your kind.

Is this the true meaning of strength? Bitt-er/ cold-er/ re-ality.
(thats what happens when i start to straye awaye)

Oh no, but I come back again smooth and strong, but perhaps weak all along.
The answers were useless to my plugged ears, I can't quite listen (though I'm learning).

i feel like an indecent monk,

robbed of morals and virtues
(but not really).

two weeks ago,
didn't strike a very close goal
(as in, goal-oriented).

but it's a lot better than
three months ago
(as in, goal-oriented).

----

Dear Lord,
help me as I get through this.
I know I can do this.

The waiting ends here.

Less talk, more action.
Let's get it started.
Now.

Starting at:

(dun dun dun)

TEN.
I'm working my way past my limits,
open-faced, willing, and furious!

Two weeks to glory.
C'mon, baby.

anyone lived in a pretty how town

anyone lived in a pretty how town
by E. E. Cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

see

saw.

- - -

Let's get out of here and glide on slides, into the clouds.
I have my kite, and you have your pizzazz.

(Now, I know the difference.)

Trials of evolutionary fixtures

Harden up your heart,
and become mundane,
to grow initial prejudices
into blooming indifference.

Chase away your subjections,
throw away your criticisms,
and mold your conscience to
be strong and careful (not to wilt).

Be trite and laconic;
yielding from the eye's biases
and the ear's lingering voices,
that is, of the common mouth.

Exhale your grudges and foolery,
then transfigurate from what is material
to something so profound and holy.
Mold, then, into innocence;
in its most physical of forms.

- - -

Basically, don't be afraid to TELL IT LIKE IT IS; yield from feeling emotions if the job needs to be done. Be honest. Be straightforward. Harden up your heart.

Aw, damn it. I'm still so weak it hurts. Don't muse about it, Charmaine. It's all in your head (obsessive possessive compulsive illness). How do you... give up on somebody, like it's nothing? I have a hard time accepting that, really. Make that two people, three. How many has it been now, just within this past year? 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Oh, gawd.

Words of the wise and learned--

"There is no balance to be obtained, just a truth to yourself. There is no happiness to be obtained, just an acceptance of contentment."

Words from a member of the fam-bam; how you enlighten me. 'preciate it, cuz.

A letter to THE president.

I just want you to know:
You've left an imprint on my life.

Thank you.

"To be THE facade queen..."

- stay quiet (for all due purposes)
- Dad says not to smile
- read more
- 'nd know your stuff

That is all.

Say it!

Youve cut my string
and lanyard
and now things are set
to roam about and freely
and free from your intricacies
and my delicacies
and free from your bemusement
my bad influence
tie me now
I guess somebody
so flying won't seem too fake
for new heights and zeniths
such that walls and gaps will be
sealed forever
& Ill tie the string &

- - -

It was then that I learned the truth.

The "hey" girl.

I'm not a "wow" girl,
but a "pow" girl.

I'm not a "hey" girl,
but an "okay" girl.

Sway, girl.

Awww, man.

Suck. It. Up! I've had enough of your pea splits.

My 2AM two cents at the romance scene

She adored him from far away; the way you do stiffly, subtly and concealed. So inconspicuous, thought she, in order to shirk away from his inquisitive eyes. But his smile, seen from afar that is, was so pleasant and dangerously disarming. It was ridiculous--a criminal's game, enraptured with the safe confines of his jail cell as opposed to the consequences of choosing to face reality. No, thought she, a prisoner should much rather decide to stay indoors and locked up in his own fantasies rather than be vulnerable to even more pain and suffering.

All this from a smile of a ... "somewhat stranger", the word she would use to denote any sort of love interest. For although she was in a mild "trance", of which she hopes IS in fact love, she is unaware of just who that stranger is. Friend, a little likely. But acquaintance is more like it, for there's always a risk. Who is that person you are immediately attracted to? And why? One might deem such nuances as mere trivialities, but not she. Trivialities were easily considered troublesome.

She snuck one more glance, softly, at his eyes then sped away before he could possibly see her at all. And then she sunk against the wall, eyes, mouth, and heart drooping in relief and satisfaction to the floor. She made it in one piece, and she celebrated, and she cried. For once again, she didn't have the nerve to say anything. And she wept.

Don't bring me down.... "Bruce"!

mondegreen
shirk
dictation
clemency
pretentious

I love the old!

I love the old!
And am bored with the amateurs:
low-ranking pirates
stealing my adventures.
Yeah, well boredom kills;
but not the old!
Strong and bold-willed--
they're heavy-hearted and satisfied,
Like swans that surf the turf
unlike lanky pelicans that
d i v e
into their own demises.

I don't want you,

but I gotta have you.

I don't need you,
but I want you.

I don't touch you,
but it feels oh-so-good.

I fluff the truth,
but it feels oh-so-good.

- - - - -

This is written in the perspective of somebody else, not from my experience!

My list of "You Are":

MY Prince-of-Peace, My Idealized Soldier clad in snowy-white brilliance:

You Are:

Dashing,
Smashing,
Exuberant.

You Are:

Ticklish,
Diabolical,
Phenomenally (cool).

You Are:

Enigmatic,
Bemusing,
Peculiarly eye-catching.

- - - - -

The narrator is a woman listing down all the expectations she has of her lover: she expects him to be a perfect "prince", denying any flaws he might have. She overlooks his faults by not including these imperfections on her "list of YOU ARE" and chooses to continue her relationship in ignorant bliss.

groundbreaking & foreign

It's that time (080808), but I'm feeling kind of... odd and, hm well--"intrigued". There's so much on my sleeve.

I am officially empty-handed.

I have nothing to hide;
and I feel better this way.

Thanks for snapping me back into place

RES (1:18:17 AM): ehh
RES (1:18:23 AM): it's okay
RES (1:18:28 AM): there are more opportunities to raise your GPA

Thanks.

And now to post a lovely song that is eerily relevant to the moment:

Falling Slowly
Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova

I don't know you
But I want you
All the more for that
Words fall
through me
And always fool me
And I can't react
And games that never
amount
To more than they're meant
Will play themselves out

Take
this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your
hopeful voice you have a choice
You've made it now

Falling slowly,
eyes that know me
And I can't go back
Moods that take me and erase me
And I'm painted black
You have suffered
enough
And warred with yourself
It's time that you
won

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you had a choice
You've made it now

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you had a choice
You've made it now
Falling slowly sing your melody
I'll sing along

Yeah, we've still got time.

It's okay

I'm feeling a bit excited right now. This "morning", I woke up at 1PM. Groggy. "Sore-throated" and all. I was also alone in the condo for once. After taking a quick shower, I looked at myself in the mirror and just started singing a song to myself. (I always make up random tunes to sing if there's no song that comes to mind at the moment. Yes, I am quite the bathroom singer.)

So I started spurting out random words about self-realization and basically being your own person. I sang it quietly and slowly, until I began picking up a coherent tune that I configured into a chorus. And once I finally made out that sturdy tune (and picked out a phrase to keep repeating), my voice elevated to the top floor. Maybe it was because no one was around. Or maybe it was because I felt so powerful having the whole room to myself. But my voice definitely bounced off the walls and into my heart. I felt SO strong--I sang louder and louder and as loudly as I could (I was also trying to make the words uplifting... an inspirational song is what I'm aiming for).

The lyrics are VERY rough since I only thought of them on the spot (I should be a rapper). But I'll post up the lines I liked. (It's not a very creative piece yet, either. I will rewrite the lyrics when I think of something better.)


...

'cause I know it's okay
To laugh at a stupid joke

...

I counted your sentences. I rehearsed your refrains. I frowned at your inside jokes. I mustered up a smile. I inhaled your ego. I choked on your ignorance. I was ashamed of myself. I was afraid of the situation. I chuckled at your bliss. I cursed you in the dark. I said things behind your back. I stabbed myself in the back. I felt all these emotions. I took them in, and breathed some out.

I can't take it slow

Note: I was originally going to curse and spoonfeed you. But I'm better than that.

- - - - -

You,
of whom I felt loved to death.
Upon our first meeting,
You
embraced Me like a close friend,
when I was still unfamiliar to touch
and grossly deathly afraid of the
skintoskin.

Oh
You.
I loved that,
and I loved how I met
You
under no special circumstances.
When
I was I,
and Me was Me.

You,
of whom I was drawn.
But you discovered the secret of Me.
(MeplusMe)
It was no lie; I couldn't hide it.
My contents spilled and leaked,
and I was there limping
on the floor of the counselor's office,
drenched in foreboding lingering regret
etched onto a memo pad:

Your Sophomore Schedule,

and it was done.

You
and Me split.
(we split kindly; the way that lovers do NOT do.)

You
discovered my secret--
my name is anonymous;
unknown and devoured by Your sumptuous lips.
my heart spilled that day,
and it rained of purples, greens, and reds.
and personalities, and characteristics, and apparently
our forgotten memories.

Your
mind had been reset;
and
You
asked me years later,
about how we had met.

I am sorry that I told You.
And I am sorry that I really know now,
that all that we had in the past is perfectly null.
Because...
You
can't notice me.

Envoy.

I'm not a messenger for my sister.
Nor,
do I know how she feels
about EVERYTHING.
(Her conscience is her OWN.)
If you want to know something about her,
ask HER yourself.

love is a place

love is a place
& through this place of
love move
(with brightness of peace)
all places

yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skilfully curled)
all worlds

-E. E. Cummings, 1935

- - - - -


I still don't know what to make of this. But that's my goal. To make a poem that seems so profoundly awkward that once you finish reading it, you just say to yourself, "What the eff??" Yet it can still kindle commotion and explications.

What I DID make of this: love is a place that people want to "go" to, where they feel secure (like home itself). I guess sort of like how people want to go to heaven. Love is not created, but just THERE, and can be discovered.

"Yes is a world." And when you live in a world where everyone is granted all their desires, all people (assumed as "all worlds") will thrive in unity.

But I could be wrong. I seriously don't know what this is about.


My source: How to Reduce the Ego

that's what bio does to you

in situ
in vitro
pathological
calico mosaics
gingerly

- - -

These words are just for reference in the future. I like how they sound, and I want to include them in my writing sometime.

Number 64...

I want to write a story that takes place in a restaurant. Not a fancy one (fake, but fancy). But just a relatively simple place (perhaps a sandwich shack of some sorts). And then it'll be a relatively ... typical day. Everyone conglomerated right next to each other, immersed in their own conversations, yet forced to mix and mingle out of their comfort zone.

And then a big commotion connects everyone together in a less than melodramatic way. A simple commotion? Or should each scenario be private? I'm not quite sure yet. But ... I would like that. Maybe even for a script, or a short story.

It begins simply, ends simply, but lasts memorably. I will think about it.

disclaimer:

What was written in the past
can last,
but the feelings that were felt
can melt;
and they dissolve into space
and chase
other places, other times
and rhymes.

She wears the perfume

Since this blog is mostly my "poetry blog", I wanted to put "She wears the perfume" here but never got around to it. So I'll just post it now... I want to keep track of all the poems that really capture something I felt (so vividly) at the moment (although I usually jot things down randomly on random canvases). This poem is one of them.

- - - - -


She wears the perfume,
and she wears it nicely.

It's hard to tell at first,
but there's definitely something

beneath initial wafts
and first impressions

of her.

I don't know how to describe it--
(let me gather myself, let me gather my thoughts).

She's an interesting person...
someone beyond her years.
I really see her differently,
and it's not just the scent that defines her.

Her courage to question a system
that she thought could be so flawless, and so
unshakably, unmistakably

Perfect.

She wears the perfume,
and she wears it well.


So well, in fact, that she's choking
on the illusions that the witches have brewed,

contained in a ... glass
ever so lucidly.

the drugs have synthesized with oxygen--
circulation running amuck in her cherry "snow white" heart.

And it pumps--beats--pumps--beats--,
all the way to her feet,
and her arms and her legs and her stomach.

Slowly, she's ingesting the surreal,
digesting the unreal,
and protesting the real
and learned.

She wears the perfume to cover all this. lost in
figures and places that used to be familiar, but
are really just trapped in foreign vortexes of her once
familiar mind.

And this is how she copes with it,
on the real,
dressing herself for false attention and
setting herself up for a dinner date with
disappointment and heartbreak and stomachaches.

And this is just her countenance,
her cathedral facade--perceived as high and mighty
and royal and INVOLVED.

The truth could not be so distant.

And she's crying, begging to me,
to ME,
to help her through this and to mend her
sprained ankles over missing these
FOUR IMPORTANT STAIR STEPS
to identify, and
to reach that achieved state of mind.

Minus the truth.


Finished: Monday, June 23, 2008


- - - - -

There are lots of allusions I've made significant to my past. In this poem, however, the narrator is a friend expressing his/her point of view of me. This poem describes my uneasiness with my faith (as a Catholic) and how "wearing the perfume" is a front, basically. I give the impression that I'm a very devout and religious person, while inside I'm actually having mixed feelings with my faith. This was written around finals week of Spring quarter... when I was very confused about what I truly believed in. But, as my disclaimer says, these were feelings I felt at the time, though I'm still willing to explore more about my spirituality... much more.

[Also, as a sidenote, the poem starts off simple on purpose and expands into more and more eloquent lingo. Like how perfume is emitted (subtly, at first), then inflates with a bolder scent ... like a balloon expands as it swallows helium.]

Going through this questionative stage in my life made me realize just how little I knew about what I believe in. What is Catholicism? And who is God? What has He done for us? Who is Jesus? There are so many questions I have that I initially would not be able to answer, should a "non-Catholic" be inquisitive about my religion. I'm still "semi-moratorium-istic", but I'm searching. And learning.

A personal note:

Stop writing, and
MAKE YOURSELF PROUD.

Yummy.

I love sand buried beneath my toe nails.

By the by, I almost ran over a family today. I hate driving sometimes! Augh.

trepidation

---
is the only word
i can remember
at the moment.
help me, top chef!

When I'm with you,

screw the complaining.

I'm proud to be me, and I don't give a damn whatever the hell it is you say.

I just wish I knew when you MEAN whatever the hell you say.

(But you make me want to be skinnier to please you.)

But to HELL with it--

I'll do what I want. You would-be-but-not-so-much-fatherly-PRIEST-figure. You're so blinded by propaganda, it's sardonically amusing and disappointing at the same time.

Perhaps I'm just bitter. Or maybe I'm longing - longing! - to be in love. I don't really know. I see so many people get into and get AT it. And I see them smile and laugh and cheer and hug. And then I see them break up, and I feel so heart-broken inside. It's always a risk, a risk that...can be scary. And them some people are terribly exclusive. Am I jealous? Hm. Whatever. Some people are TERRIBLY open. Am I shocked? Kind of. Others, I think they need to show MORE. Ironic, isn't it? I'm so judgmental--it's ridiculous.

Dayem yer argot 's hell'r annoyen.

I heavily advise you to kindly cut the crap.

I will

"privatize" my life and leave it for the DOGS to vandalize. In the dark? We're living on the surface, not beneath the sea! Not underneath the core, to sunken misery.

It's despicable. Impeccable. And throughout freshman year, I realized how much of "the cold life" I've been living. And it's smothering: how OFTEN I see people speak of "the high life" (quite literally, I must add), and how OFTEN they appreciate that.

I'm ... barren to foreign contaminants, seeping through my skin. Through my pores. Well, more so in the field of the senses: a warm, foreign, secret, forbidden touch. (And it's all in my mind--it's all made up in my cherry wooded mind, glazed with honey and amber.)

I'm curious. And this blog is really random.

Must my life always live in metaphors? I prefer it to be that way. But why? That conflicts with my decisions, surely. My way of "handling" people (as if they didn't have feelings, m'dear).

I write better when I am NOT seen.
But isn't that contradictory?
Writing something that no one will read?

Unbelievable. Make up your mind already (it's 3:16AM, fool!).

I will.

I want to be alone sometimes. (Not the hermit way.)
Just so that... Finding myself is easier.
For me, and for them.

I've rusted overtime.

I'm crusty.
And toasty.
And musty.

It's official

My bones are elastic,
fantastic and transformed,
the kind of way your bread molds into
fungus overtime,
sitting there patiently
to rot away without activity.

My veins? They creep their way,
through my legs and
sumptuous thighs,
webbing and threading their EVERY which ways
to the sky, and perhaps to infinite.
Manifested infinite.

Geez, I am so misinformed,
by habits that I've forced
upon-my-self.
The easy way out easily becomes
the easiest way to be suckered in and engrossed
to a pulp.

And now my poor joints
bounce, reflecting my dear mother
in snappy, crackly redundance.
And they dance, and dance, and dance
out of place.
Banished into space.

one new nue

I hate the yellow lights!
It's day, but it feels like night.
This room - it feels so tight;
condensed with screams and fights.
I also find it impolite
to sneak into bed by twilight.
Isn't it my right?
To ban you out of sight?
Jesus, where's the might
to bask in this earthly delight?
And to whom I may invite:
Prepare for the mundane and trite.
A startling impression's my fright;
to see your face cherry white.

All talk and all play

I'M ALL TALK. And I'm not doing anything about it.

But she came with the chills,
and he came with the coughs.

She was so weak,
he was so angry.

And here I am.

Not doing anything about it.

I'm trapped and I don't know where to go nor exit nor default this child's play it's killing me in a way (sort of) and it's trashy rough tough talk love hate fish (not sure what I'm saying)

[[breathe in, breathe out]]

It's a mess! It's a mess! I'm sorry to say, and I'm sorry to DO (I don't know what to DO, i don't know what to DO DO DO).

I'm not really sure WHO is in control anymore
(minus 2 minutes
minus the minutes)

NO FEELINGS HURT, PLEASE!

I don't want to shed any ... needless, unnecessary blood.
Blood? That's being to forceful if you may.


1NK.


And that's why I'm being cowardly and 1NK1NG it up right now.

Yeah, maybe I'm running.
And tumbling away from ... your pouty lips and dirty eyes.


STOP!


STOP --

block it off and away!

I can't, I can't.
But I don't want to.
But I want to.

shadow girl

I looked at her thighs--
boney thin and erect;
dim and graceful and
everything I wanted i
n myself and in my m
ind. Her legs, so slend
er and civil and classy
. Her arms, sleek as b
arbed wire, cold to th
e touch (her touch wa
s ever so vague and c
omplacent). She looke
d once familiar to me,
like a mirror rebound
ing off the asphalt ins
tead of glass. The "s
ilver" girl, (gold is exh
austed). Her face was
meaningless to me; a
clean slate--as clean a
s the chalkboards that
leave vague imprints a
fter furiously trying to
erase any lovely mista
k es. She is me, yet
I am not her.

I am so jealous.

I want her. I wa
nt to be
her.
.
.
.

- - - - -

Inspiration: A young girl once told me, "I wish I looked like my shadow" as we were walking outside one day. She was telling me this as she was looking at her shadow stretching across the concrete as the sun was setting (yet in this poem, I stated that the shadow is running along asphalt, not concrete). At such a young age, this girl was unhappy with her body weight. This poem is trying to reenact that dissatisfaction, yet I think it goes so much deeper than words can depict.

My super-ego forbids it

this forbidden tango,
the uncoordinated
left-footedwaltz.

one step:
We loved each other.

second beat:
We almost kissed.

third turn:
you stepped on me.

fourth twist:
i truned aawy

fifth step:
i lsot my pcale

My super-ego forbids it,
my id says to LEAVE,
to find another twist-and-turner.
Someone who won't merely
"Carry you
(with
Footsteps
in theSand)."


but,

I want to dance.
I want to tango.

My ego says yes,
my heart says no.


It's paradoxical.


- - - - -

Just to clear up things... This poem isn't about love. It's about making an important decision... And if you caught this, I bolded the "t" in "tango" on purpose.

The rogue transcendentalist. Solidarity isn't the trick.

This isn't what I really call poetry, but more so... a collection of thoughts. Random thoughts minced from scribbles of so long ago, somewhat merged into one piece. I don't really TRULY know how a poem should be, but nevertheless this is a rambling production.

- - - - -


"Break-wall-shatter,
stones of glitter and ice."

I've used that metaphor all too often
to head me in "vultur-ific" circles
that are cast overhead in my
brain.

Mallets might do the trick;
but what's enough to break The Wall?
The barriers are ESPECIALLY thick
(made of sturdy steel).

I've said it before:
glass porcelain is easy to shatter,
but not encased in dead sycamore.

Stop your dancing, you drama queen:
Get out of that dream box and learn a new tango or two.

This is not poetry.
(I repeat: this-is-not free verse anymore.
Only structured,
perfect rhythm.
For once, maybe, you should just go along
and disappoint Thoreau.)

I am not,
I will not,
complain.

The situation room.

Let's start the debate:

I'll be an axon,
and you'll be the brain.
And we'll duel
(to a certain extent).

Conscience says:
"Hear me,
hear me.
You're the good girl;
now do as I say and get drunk
on sodium-potassium waves
raging through your vulnerable bones.
Your spinal cord is mine."

Heart says (meekly and soul-driven): i dun haf ta lissen ta yah blasfemic propeganda alla des wurds alla deese dots dey are HEART-drivin--MINE for da keepin'.

(and, from heaven descents, an Eagle of tumored proportions
perching on the pedestal with defiant radiance and quiet,
yet entrenched, Position! Authority! Ethos!)

He said to the duelists (strictly and hopefully as a MEDIATOR):
" 'Relax,' said the wise man.
Approach with rationality,
but abandon practicality
if your fight ends to the
death. And when all
other things fail,
choose wisely."

......

Alas, my friends. The duel is on, but the flame isn't extinguished.
The torch is burning and running nationwide.
The battle isn't ending. It runs in circles and circles.
When will it end? This debate?
Oh, how I hate arrogant competitors.

if i could choose anything,i'd say you were a magician.you give the "illusion of truth",masked with a wonderful disguise.how wise of you.and if i could choose anything,i'd say i'm the invisible man...maybe i can get close,but i choose not to.there's still a barrier between meand all the others.i often hide and shy away,and i don't know why(even though i'd be happier if i didn't).introverted tendencies, i guess.but it makes me feel so selfish.(and it's all for the wrong reasons.)i should feel ashamed, maybe.but it's the disconnection thathardens up my heart.

i'm crawling in Fairydust,
Apprehended by the scent of my
Tall cigar,
wondering and waiting for the day
he'll smile,
(as i'm)
wailing on my sailboat
for luxury suites,
and bars.




Love handles.

Zelig (song lyrics)

Your eloquence amazes me;
fancy diction.
Structured vocab.

Who are you?

A human chameleon,
you adapt to change,
but you're never the same.

Simple conversation isn't so bad.
You seem the same,
for the most part anyway. But...

Who are you?

A human chameleon,
you adapt to change,
but you're never the same.

I fell in love at first sight,
but was it all a facade?

A facade, a facade.
Too many faces,
too little traces
of a genuine soul.

Who are you?

A human chameleon,
you adapt to change,
but you're never the same.

Talking about a certain someone I used to have a crush on in high school. But this can apply to almost anybody who acts differently in front of different audiences (I would say that everyone does this, including myself). Zelig is the name of a Woody Allen film about a man who is a "human chameleon" and changes physically (and perhaps mentally?) in accord to the people he is around. I never watched it, but I want to.

Endymion

My gorgeous

Endymion

.

Rest now, and forever,
and hold your tongue until then.
Your youthful demeanor is too fragile,
too stunning
to be marred by the disasters of humankind.

The dirt from my soul
may very well soil your pores
and clog your pure countenance.

Don't look now!
Rest. Sleep, and be peaceful.
Beauty is a gift, correct?
Isn't that what we know?

But poor you,
you gorgeous

Endymion

.

Sleep and ignore the world,
and let time turn its tables without you
so that you may flourish without the burdens
of the hourglass sand grains.

Fortunately,
my love is saved for another,
so as to be careful not to mar your
assumed-to-be SUPERIOR defiance (of society, of life).

And he, oh he is gorgeous.
Not quite the way you are,

my dear.

His heart is stunning,
he radiates with cheer.
He brings me absolute joy,
just by being with him, breathing with him.

But you.
You can stay asleep,
piece of artwork that you are,

Endymion

.

Let anybody observe you and delve in your seductive contours.
And wait for that one moment
when you will dream
(a nightmare, hopefully),
and awaken to the one who will smile at your heart.

At your Heart.


Endymion is a Roman pagan mythological character who was a beautiful youth, rewarded with eternal and undisturbed sleep. But does beauty matter most when it comes to love?