I know it hurts when love leaves. I know sometimes that crushes you down and you feel as is you can never get up again. But is it not so much better just to have the chance to love? To know that, even for a little while someone felt that way about you? People today are mainly to focused on the splat at the end. We never bother to see the miles and miles of free falling thrills that await us before that. Often, we even sabotage ourselves with parachutes, that prevent the fun, but do not take away the hurt of the landing. So, people, lets take a chance, and jump.
'Cause if you jump I will jump too
We will fall together
from the buildings ledge
never looking back
at what we've done
well say it was love
because I would die for you
on Skyway Avenue
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Can not, Will not
This friendship
Can not
Will not last.
My soul is splitting
Right down the middle.
You traitor of friendship,
Villainous fiend,
You sold me for scrap
And then walked away.
What more can there be to say?
The trust is gone.
It will never come back.
Pack your bags and leave,
I am calling your bluff
of perfect honesty.
The worst is I trusted.
Trusted with all my soul.
This friendship
Can not
Will not last.
My soul is splitting
Right down the middle.
Between forgiving
And condemning.
Can not
Will not last.
My soul is splitting
Right down the middle.
You traitor of friendship,
Villainous fiend,
You sold me for scrap
And then walked away.
What more can there be to say?
The trust is gone.
It will never come back.
Pack your bags and leave,
I am calling your bluff
of perfect honesty.
The worst is I trusted.
Trusted with all my soul.
This friendship
Can not
Will not last.
My soul is splitting
Right down the middle.
Between forgiving
And condemning.
A constant state of chaos
The sheep live
In a constant state of chaos
Never finding peace,
Always making mistakes.
The Shepard cannot save
This restless brood
From itself.
They shall never find
A home that feels true.
The sheep can not help themselves
Out of their enslaved deprivation,
The wolves are too close.
To find true love,
A house a home,
Are just dreams
In the young lambs' minds.
We are the sheep,
Lost without hope.
Too stubborn to cry out
And stop the island of mercy
Before it passes us by.
In a constant state of chaos
Never finding peace,
Always making mistakes.
The Shepard cannot save
This restless brood
From itself.
They shall never find
A home that feels true.
The sheep can not help themselves
Out of their enslaved deprivation,
The wolves are too close.
To find true love,
A house a home,
Are just dreams
In the young lambs' minds.
We are the sheep,
Lost without hope.
Too stubborn to cry out
And stop the island of mercy
Before it passes us by.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
A exercise from the happier, and more hackish days..
There was only one way to put it, the bus driver was scary. The cheery grin spread across her face couldn’t even help, five missing teeth and counting.
“Come on, dear, we haven’t got all day.” I’ll get you and your little dog too, I added to her words in my head.
“Sorry. I guessed I’m just sort of stunned, new school and all.” Every teacher or whatever was a sucker for that line, it almost guarantee favoritism, or at the very least acceptance.
“Of course, well just come on in the bus and we’ll get you over the jitters soon enough,” Hook, line, and sinker, “Sarah back there on the last row is real nice, why don’t you go sit with her?”
“Oh Gosh, thanks Ma’am! I never would have figured out where to sit!” My grimace was answered with her toothless smile, and I hurried to the back of the bus. The old lady had at least pointed out an empty seat, and I was completely read to take it; no matter who was in the one next to it. I never got to the end of the bus though. Halfway to the empty seat and I was yanked around and pulled down next to a rather surprising girl.
“What in the name of My Chemical Romance were you trying to do!?”
“Waa?” That was all I could get through the surprise.
“Please, please tell me you weren’t going to sit next to Sarah Smith. No, not even a newbie could have made that mistake; everyone has a bit of self preservation. But you were weren’t you? Ugh, I should have just let you embarrass yourself. Almost deserve it too. She would have ripped you to shreds without even chipping one of those talons. You are so lucky I’m a generous person-"
“Who are you?” Waiting for her to take a breath was obviously not a good strategy.
“Oh, I’m Dilana. But everyone just calls me Di. Dilana is just too much of a mouthful ya know? And your name? No! Wait, wait, let me guess. Catherine? Leah? Shelby? Emily? Ashley? Lauren?”
“Close,” I said laughing. “Its Alex.”
“Yeah really close to Lauren.” She rolled her eyes at me, “Hey , Alec, another one that’s just one off!” Brown hair, green eyes the guy that looked at me over the seat was a ten or higher. Alec, that was a cool name, very macho. “He’s forever trying to find anyone that has his name.” Di added to me “Makes you feel like a freak not finding anyone who has your name don’t it Alec?”
“Your one to talk Dilana, course we already knew you were a freak so it doesn’t make much difference does it?”
“Come on, dear, we haven’t got all day.” I’ll get you and your little dog too, I added to her words in my head.
“Sorry. I guessed I’m just sort of stunned, new school and all.” Every teacher or whatever was a sucker for that line, it almost guarantee favoritism, or at the very least acceptance.
“Of course, well just come on in the bus and we’ll get you over the jitters soon enough,” Hook, line, and sinker, “Sarah back there on the last row is real nice, why don’t you go sit with her?”
“Oh Gosh, thanks Ma’am! I never would have figured out where to sit!” My grimace was answered with her toothless smile, and I hurried to the back of the bus. The old lady had at least pointed out an empty seat, and I was completely read to take it; no matter who was in the one next to it. I never got to the end of the bus though. Halfway to the empty seat and I was yanked around and pulled down next to a rather surprising girl.
“What in the name of My Chemical Romance were you trying to do!?”
“Waa?” That was all I could get through the surprise.
“Please, please tell me you weren’t going to sit next to Sarah Smith. No, not even a newbie could have made that mistake; everyone has a bit of self preservation. But you were weren’t you? Ugh, I should have just let you embarrass yourself. Almost deserve it too. She would have ripped you to shreds without even chipping one of those talons. You are so lucky I’m a generous person-"
“Who are you?” Waiting for her to take a breath was obviously not a good strategy.
“Oh, I’m Dilana. But everyone just calls me Di. Dilana is just too much of a mouthful ya know? And your name? No! Wait, wait, let me guess. Catherine? Leah? Shelby? Emily? Ashley? Lauren?”
“Close,” I said laughing. “Its Alex.”
“Yeah really close to Lauren.” She rolled her eyes at me, “Hey , Alec, another one that’s just one off!” Brown hair, green eyes the guy that looked at me over the seat was a ten or higher. Alec, that was a cool name, very macho. “He’s forever trying to find anyone that has his name.” Di added to me “Makes you feel like a freak not finding anyone who has your name don’t it Alec?”
“Your one to talk Dilana, course we already knew you were a freak so it doesn’t make much difference does it?”
Granny
Granny smiled up at me, patted my arm with a hand that was nothing but bones, and handed me the doll she had made twenty years ago for my father’s first daughter. I was happy to have it, but there was one problem I could think of with her giving me the doll. I was not my dad’s oldest daughter. That did not seem to matter, though. Granny’s mind had deteriorated at a scary pace; she probably would not even remember giving it to me tomorrow. My sister was so far gone that she only saw dollar signs when she looked at her family and my other relatives just wanted Granny to be happy for a moment. That left me, staring at my hand as it took the doll, and not knowing if I actually wanted it. The doll already symbolized so many memories and emotions.
The doll found its new home on my dresser, where it stared at me for a year, night and day. Finally, I was ready to mail it to Emily and forget the fact that it had been given to me in the first place. Granny’s passing kept the doll on my dresser, where it is today. I knew the Alzheimer meant she could not even remember her great-granddaughter, when she passed quietly in her sleep, but she had given it to me and I trusted her to know what she was doing. When my dad, brother, and I left for Florida and the funeral it stayed.
The open casket was horrible; I would not have gone up to see her in that state if the masses of my relatives had not pushed me towards the unforgiving wood box. They remarked continuously on how beautiful she looked, and how much like her sister. A few even snapped pictures of her, my dad included, murmuring excuses about emailing the pictures to so-and-so who could not be there.
I did not know Granny’s sister, and did not care to comment on her beauty, because it was not present. The faint blush that had always been on her cheeks, even in the worst sickness, was replaced by a chemical glow; her hair was styled in a way that never could have fit her strong, hectic personality. She was not beautiful, because it was not her, it was just a corpse.
Many of my aunts and uncles had been raised by this strong personality. Even some of the old neighborhood children had found in her house a haven that was never closed to them. The funeral was filled with these people, and they all broke down sobbing or were reduced tearful hiccups. I was enlisted, with most of my generation, to help dry tears and reassure everyone that Granny would have been proud of all of us being here together.
Two of my favorite aunts, Gigit and Bobbin, had kept Granny’s old house when she got sick, so her doors were still open. Fifty of my relatives came to this house after the service, a small percentage of them really. They crammed into the living room or kitchen, while more spilled out into the backyard. Stories of the old days were being told in every corner, the tellers meant to cheer their audiences up, but more tears were being shed than there had been at the funeral.
Alcohol started to flow, which brightened the mood considerably. Not everyone drank, but those who did not were drawn in by the sparkling attitudes of those who were drinking the most. The house was abandoned for the muggy Florida air. Smiles started replacing tears. Jokes started flying around. Accusations about who was the biggest troublemaker in the family started a serious contest to see who would really be considered ‘the worst of Granny’s children.’ Red emerged the victor, his red hair and lean body coupled with his martial arts training and numerous arrests put him at the front of the pack.
I laughed with them all as I sat in the corner, wondering if my great-grandmother could have possibly been happy with this drunk, volatile brood. I sat and watched my young cousin’s chase around a dog, watched as my uncle hit his grown son in the back of the head for smarting off, and even laughed when my dad made lame jokes through his grief. Yes, I finally decided, she would have been very, very happy being with this group of her children, liquor and all.
A helicopter started circling the neighborhood at about eleven. The whole family looked up in collective wonder as it swept back and forth. They whistled at how close it was, shouted about being able to see the pilot. People who should not, by all accounts, have been able to stand with so much alcohol in their systems said they could see the very whites of the pilot’s eyes.
“Bet their lookin’ fur summun who’s runnin’!” A watcher called.
“Uh-oh Red, it’s time to split!” Another cousin of mine started pushing Red towards the door, “Can’t let um catch ya!”
When we left Florida the next day, my dad and brother were still somber. I missed Granny, of course, but I was happy. My family had deeply influenced me with their impossible personalities, and the obvious love they shared with any one of ‘Granny’s kids.’
The doll found its new home on my dresser, where it stared at me for a year, night and day. Finally, I was ready to mail it to Emily and forget the fact that it had been given to me in the first place. Granny’s passing kept the doll on my dresser, where it is today. I knew the Alzheimer meant she could not even remember her great-granddaughter, when she passed quietly in her sleep, but she had given it to me and I trusted her to know what she was doing. When my dad, brother, and I left for Florida and the funeral it stayed.
The open casket was horrible; I would not have gone up to see her in that state if the masses of my relatives had not pushed me towards the unforgiving wood box. They remarked continuously on how beautiful she looked, and how much like her sister. A few even snapped pictures of her, my dad included, murmuring excuses about emailing the pictures to so-and-so who could not be there.
I did not know Granny’s sister, and did not care to comment on her beauty, because it was not present. The faint blush that had always been on her cheeks, even in the worst sickness, was replaced by a chemical glow; her hair was styled in a way that never could have fit her strong, hectic personality. She was not beautiful, because it was not her, it was just a corpse.
Many of my aunts and uncles had been raised by this strong personality. Even some of the old neighborhood children had found in her house a haven that was never closed to them. The funeral was filled with these people, and they all broke down sobbing or were reduced tearful hiccups. I was enlisted, with most of my generation, to help dry tears and reassure everyone that Granny would have been proud of all of us being here together.
Two of my favorite aunts, Gigit and Bobbin, had kept Granny’s old house when she got sick, so her doors were still open. Fifty of my relatives came to this house after the service, a small percentage of them really. They crammed into the living room or kitchen, while more spilled out into the backyard. Stories of the old days were being told in every corner, the tellers meant to cheer their audiences up, but more tears were being shed than there had been at the funeral.
Alcohol started to flow, which brightened the mood considerably. Not everyone drank, but those who did not were drawn in by the sparkling attitudes of those who were drinking the most. The house was abandoned for the muggy Florida air. Smiles started replacing tears. Jokes started flying around. Accusations about who was the biggest troublemaker in the family started a serious contest to see who would really be considered ‘the worst of Granny’s children.’ Red emerged the victor, his red hair and lean body coupled with his martial arts training and numerous arrests put him at the front of the pack.
I laughed with them all as I sat in the corner, wondering if my great-grandmother could have possibly been happy with this drunk, volatile brood. I sat and watched my young cousin’s chase around a dog, watched as my uncle hit his grown son in the back of the head for smarting off, and even laughed when my dad made lame jokes through his grief. Yes, I finally decided, she would have been very, very happy being with this group of her children, liquor and all.
A helicopter started circling the neighborhood at about eleven. The whole family looked up in collective wonder as it swept back and forth. They whistled at how close it was, shouted about being able to see the pilot. People who should not, by all accounts, have been able to stand with so much alcohol in their systems said they could see the very whites of the pilot’s eyes.
“Bet their lookin’ fur summun who’s runnin’!” A watcher called.
“Uh-oh Red, it’s time to split!” Another cousin of mine started pushing Red towards the door, “Can’t let um catch ya!”
When we left Florida the next day, my dad and brother were still somber. I missed Granny, of course, but I was happy. My family had deeply influenced me with their impossible personalities, and the obvious love they shared with any one of ‘Granny’s kids.’
Death by Lifesaver
My Grandma shoved yet another lifesaver into my hand. She always loaded me up with candy in a predictable attempt to link church and happiness together. She knew I hated going to church, and tried often enough to put more God into my life, while spending time with me at the same time. I went to a Christian school, though, bible stories were a part of my everyday life, and my teachers could say them so much better than the minister who dragged on and on about going to Hell. I always thought that pastor needed to be more optimistic, now I just think he skipped the semester on happiness and peace in favor of more earthly pursuits.
I took the candy and filed in behind her in the line. Forty or so people were going to sunrise service that day, and we all trudged into the churchyard with a definite formality. The pastor started his usual rave about this and that verse saying none of us could last a second during the tribulation, or some equally happy topic. He stood before of a statue of Jesus caring after the lambs with a kind, gentle look on his godlike face as he bent down to touch the nose of one unmoving sheep. A ray of pink morning light escaped from the fringe of woods and lit up Jesus’ hand as it stretched for the lamb.
I sucked in a breath of delight at the beautiful scene, and then gagged as the lifesaver made for my windpipe. I coughed as quietly as I could, but the lifesaver stuck and I panicked. Pulling in on myself I coughed and hacked the lifesaver up so I could breath. I must have made a bit of noise, the whole congregation was staring at me and the pastor still had his hand raised in an angry gesture.
Warmth spread across my cheeks, and I looked down in shame. The pastor attempted to restart his tirade, but could not get back on track. The service ended a half an hour early and I never had to go back to that church with my Grandma again.
I took the candy and filed in behind her in the line. Forty or so people were going to sunrise service that day, and we all trudged into the churchyard with a definite formality. The pastor started his usual rave about this and that verse saying none of us could last a second during the tribulation, or some equally happy topic. He stood before of a statue of Jesus caring after the lambs with a kind, gentle look on his godlike face as he bent down to touch the nose of one unmoving sheep. A ray of pink morning light escaped from the fringe of woods and lit up Jesus’ hand as it stretched for the lamb.
I sucked in a breath of delight at the beautiful scene, and then gagged as the lifesaver made for my windpipe. I coughed as quietly as I could, but the lifesaver stuck and I panicked. Pulling in on myself I coughed and hacked the lifesaver up so I could breath. I must have made a bit of noise, the whole congregation was staring at me and the pastor still had his hand raised in an angry gesture.
Warmth spread across my cheeks, and I looked down in shame. The pastor attempted to restart his tirade, but could not get back on track. The service ended a half an hour early and I never had to go back to that church with my Grandma again.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Hypocrites get on my last living nerve.
Let me set this situation up for you. I have gone to a Christian school for my entire life, and until I dared to enter the outside world I never realized what was wrong with the picture presented to me. No, I do believe in God. With everything in me I believe my Savior lived died and lived again. What rushes in to my awareness now is the fact that so many Christians are hypocrites.
The Bible tells us to love one another, but when you look at any controversial video on YouTube, the Christians are dishing out the insults just like any other person. I do see that maybe they are trying to bring people over to Christianity, but my Science teacher said it best last year, "The way to bring someone over to your side does not usually include calling them a retard." So, hypocrites bug me. And when I see a person nodding their head in church when the pastor calls for us to love one another, when that morning they were cussing someone out on myspace, somehow the image just does not sit right. The right to love does not end at the boundaries between religions, loving is universal. Truth is universal. Respect is universal in some form or another. People other than Christians manage not to respect these things too. But when a person knows the God they live for calls for love and they give hate anyway, something has gone seriously wrong.
The Bible tells us to love one another, but when you look at any controversial video on YouTube, the Christians are dishing out the insults just like any other person. I do see that maybe they are trying to bring people over to Christianity, but my Science teacher said it best last year, "The way to bring someone over to your side does not usually include calling them a retard." So, hypocrites bug me. And when I see a person nodding their head in church when the pastor calls for us to love one another, when that morning they were cussing someone out on myspace, somehow the image just does not sit right. The right to love does not end at the boundaries between religions, loving is universal. Truth is universal. Respect is universal in some form or another. People other than Christians manage not to respect these things too. But when a person knows the God they live for calls for love and they give hate anyway, something has gone seriously wrong.
Why wont the memories stay down?
Just when I think I'm over it
The world crushes me back down
Over and Over the cycle continues
Why wont the memories stay down?
The good are tinged with corrosive loss
driving out every sensible thought.
The bad are bitter, dark holes
into which no sunlight can penetrate
the debts of my sins
will surely drive me insane.
I realize every cruel word
every taunt
found a mark and sank deep
into my forgiving friend's heart
And the others? One is the worst
the thought of her lonely is physical pain,
condemning me in my heart.
I am happy but can she be?
By giving myself this chance
have I hurt her?
Please forgive I can not
my actions will haunt,
will burn me for the rest of eternity.
Why wont the memories stay down?
The world crushes me back down
Over and Over the cycle continues
Why wont the memories stay down?
The good are tinged with corrosive loss
driving out every sensible thought.
The bad are bitter, dark holes
into which no sunlight can penetrate
the debts of my sins
will surely drive me insane.
I realize every cruel word
every taunt
found a mark and sank deep
into my forgiving friend's heart
And the others? One is the worst
the thought of her lonely is physical pain,
condemning me in my heart.
I am happy but can she be?
By giving myself this chance
have I hurt her?
Please forgive I can not
my actions will haunt,
will burn me for the rest of eternity.
Why wont the memories stay down?
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