|
Free Writing #1
|
Jun. 24th, 2008 @ 12:31 pm
|
|---|
|
Playwriting
If you had eyes, would they look like mine? I imagine they are blue. You’re a pretty baby girl and I rock you to sleep every night. I never knew how to properly say I’m sorry. I never really ever thought I needed to, until now. I have this idea that you’re still there, inside of me, that you melted into my blood stream and are running marathons through my veins. You see the world through my eyes, my blue eyes, and you speak with my voice, and you think my thoughts and you breathe my air. You are everything I am. And one day I imagine that I’ll meet you face to face, and there will be no tension between us, there will be no anger or fury, just understanding, because you have been inside my head, you know my situation, and you will just be glad that I was finally in a place to let you out. Let you live or die in whatever way you see fit. You exist in me, I can feel you singing every day. You never lived, you never died, but your spirit is still trapped inside of me. I need this to be true. I need this to be real. Because if it isn’t, I’ll fall to pieces. If it isn’t—then I killed you forever, and you’ll never come home again.
Flamingo Exercise
Under the cold cloak of darkness, the three brothers jumped the fence to the zoo, mischief lingering on their adolescent minds. They were searching for the zebra enclosure with the intention of spray painting the striped animal red, however as they passed the menagerie, Alex developed a better plan.
He convinced Mark and Tony to follow his lead and they eagerly obeyed as they sneaked into the jungle of birds. Alex claimed it would be much more amusing to paint a white cockatoo, which were also probably easier to deal with. However it was dark in the menagerie and the brothers could barely see anything, let alone a diurnal white cockatoo, which was probably away sleeping.
There was the ruffling of feathers and a loud squawk, and then, Tony, who was the youngest, let out a riotous scream, which made Alex and Mark wheel around to see what was wrong. A furious flamingo was defending its territory by pecking at little Tony’s face and shoulders. The young boy was bleeding profusely and wailing like a coyote in the dark of night. Alex quickly unsheathed his pocket knife and launched himself at the beast to protect his baby brother. Mark uncapped the spray paint can and aimed it at the bird. But Alex had underestimated the strength of his blade, which cut straight through the flamingo’s neck and rolled onto the floor. In his shock, Mark convinced himself that the red oozing forth from the open gullet was just the spray paint.
And then, more birds flew to the aid of their deceased comrade and attacked the three boys, pecking violently. The menagerie was in an uproar. Alex slashed viciously at any bird that came near them. Even Tony, through his bloody tears, seized one of them by its neck and relentlessly shook it until it was still and cold.
And then, they were surrounded by feathered corpses. Panicking, they dropped the spray can and the knife and ran as fast as their feet would carry them out of the park.
Perspective Exercise
There was a vast expanse of green around the tiny farmhouse, stretching out to the horizon with a large oak tree with lanky branches just at the edge of the property. The sky was blue with a few scattered clouds as the girl sat beneath the tree and swung back and forth, kicking her feet in the dirt. She was all alone, or so it seemed, but she was particularly content if the slight smile on her face was any indication. She was humming a song that no one who heard it recognized, though she had sang it all her life.
Her name was Isobelle, and she was a song-writer, although she had only ever written one song in her life. She was convinced it was the most beautiful song ever written, mostly because she had always had it in her head, ever since she was a baby, ever since the womb. It was her song, and her song alone, and it kept her company on the lonely farm while her father worked in the fields.
She didn’t know that it wasn’t her song. She didn’t know that the song had been written, or at least conceived, long before she had been. It was the song of her long lost mother, who had hummed the hymn to baby Isobelle every night as a lullaby before she had abandoned her small, humble family But Isobelle wasn’t even aware that she had ever had a mother. She was born from music’s womb, and when she died her body would become the melodies of nightingales and crickets that sang at sunset. Or at least, that is what she had convinced herself, after years of sending letters to the address her mother had left behind, and never receiving a response. So on days when the sun was high, she rested beneath the shade of the large oak tree, singing to herself, imagining that the music had birthed her, as it had certainly raised her.
One day, she would learn that her mother had died only a few months after her quick exit. One day, Isobelle’s father would tell her that her mother loved her very much, and she couldn’t bare to have Isobelle watch her die.
One day, she would understand that the music was her mother after all.
Seven Deadly Sins Exercise
She applied her lipstick carefully, so as not to use so much that she’ll look like a whore, but not to use too little to look like a plain coworker. Her mascara was lightly applied, and her soft purple eye shadow highlighted her eyes. She blinked and grinned at herself in the mirror, adjusting her thin white blouse which was only slightly see-through. Her dark blonde hair was in a tight bun atop her head, not a single one out of place.
She exited the bathroom and walked down the hall, her head held high as she saw her boss arguing with his wife again through the window to his office. Finally, the Mrs. Burst out of the room and stomped right past Angela without even a second glance.
Angela frowned. She didn’t put this much time into her appearance to be ignored.
She slinkily crept into her boss’s office and closed the door behind him. His face was buried in his hands, but he looked up upon her entrance.
“Hello, Angela, what can I do for you today?”
She smirked, knowing he could hardly resist her soft crimson lips. “Trouble with your wife again?” she asked confidently.
“She thinks I’m cheating,” he said. “She always thinks I’m cheating.”
Angela knew for a fact that her boss always was cheating, with everyone except for her. And he was a mountain she intended to conquer, a prize to be one. No one ignored her.
She worked her charms expertly, and soon enough, he was devouring those lips that he was always staring at.
Detail and Sensory Description Exercise
The moist plastic bands of the lawn chair seem to fuse themselves to her thighs, back and shoulders as the Egyptian sun beats down upon her already bronzed skin. Someone plunges into the pool nearby, sprinkling her with a soft and welcomed cool mist. A soft breeze, carrying echoes of the recent Khamaseen, slither across her naked belly. The disturbed dust particles riding the wind dance random ballets over her skin. The sticky tanning oil trickles into the crevices of her closed fingers, blending with her own sweat. Her thick, silky obsidian hair is scorching to the touch.
Her tongue leisurely slips out between her chapped lips to moisten them, and she tastes the salt of her sweat mingling with the over-cooked hamburger she has recently finished. The humid air tastes of sand and dust, bitter and ancient like rust on an ancient artifact buried in the desert. Her mouth is damp, but quickly drying, and she contemplates a stick of gum as the stale tang of her last meal begins to irk her.
The musty scent of chlorine drifts into her nostrils, mingling with the charred smoky odor of the barbecue on the patio. The sickly sweet aroma of her cheap coconut tanning oil evaporates rapidly in the sweltering air. She smells the crisp clean towel, recently dried, that rests beneath her head. The typical musk of car exhaust and general fumes of air pollution taint the air, and yet add the signature comfort that reminds the Egyptians and expats alike of their Arabian home.
Children are laughing boisterously as they shout “Marco Polo” and splash around carelessly in the water. Feet smack against tile as a drenched child runs by her, spraying her with another wave of delicate droplets. The shrill life guard’s whistle sounds, and the pattering footsteps slow and halt just as an eager and smug little girl cries, “Fish out of water!” A boy growls miserably before falling into the pool with a slapping splash. The wind rustles the dry leaves of the date palm trees that droop over the fence. The stray marmalade cat by the patio hisses and the beagle yelps and whimpers. In the distance, the Adhan echoes across the streets of the small suburb of Maadi, calling all the faithful to their early afternoon prayers.
Smoke from the barbeque curls into the clear blue sky, tinged with the lightest shade of transparent tan; Cairo’s omnipresent haze hovering over the public pool. The classic heat of the desert is so strong, it is visible in waves as it energizes the molecules in the air. The sun, bright and white, a constant ball of energy in the cloudless sky, makes her squint, though she refuses to reach for her sunglasses for fear of “raccoon eyes.” The children are swimming in brightly colored bathing suits. The petals of the azaleas by the fence dance in the wind as their vibrant whites and pinks catches the eye of one of the stray tomcats, the one with a broken tail. The old tabby pounces and catches the flower beneath its worn-down claws and lets it go just as quickly. Amongst the frolicking children and westerners, a humble Muslim man who works at the pool kneels in the corner by the azaleas. He faces Mecca and his lips move silently as he completes this daily ritual.Feelin':  intrigued Chilling to: Scott Hafso, Playwriting Proff |
|
but what if she didnt
|
Feb. 20th, 2008 @ 11:03 am
|
|---|
|
but what if i dont
she spluttered and what color is
the ocean when it bleeds and when
will the floor crack and swallow me
her
if she
i finally do
i want to know she floundered and i want
to see the sky from under black waves and
why is the sky fractured like
i stole his glasses i remember now sorry but
its just an object pretty thing
it doesnt mean
hes mean
and what if i dont will you
throw me in the sky instead and maybe i
will fall through the cracks
im a fish i live here i breathe water
so i know i wont
she spluttered and then he
hand over mouth
and she inhaled |
|
She Must Have Been Flying
|
Jan. 24th, 2008 @ 10:54 pm
|
|---|
|
She Must Have Been Flying She sees the world through the lens of a camera
but her memories are all in extended exposure
and over exposed.
The corners of the eyes are curled, like the damp pages
of an ancient yellowed tome
whose Maker had wept over
Joy and laughter and anguish and Joy and…
She can’t remember.
She must have been flying.
Her husband was a pilot and one day he flew away
and left her on the ground behind, afraid of heights
“You’ll never get me in that contraption!”
One day, he never landed
the next, she got her pilot’s license
and now she is always flying
she is always seeking
Him.
She sees the world through the tube of a flat screen TV
that her children bought for her
and sometimes, she sees her children in its too-too-bright LCD light.
They wave to her, tell her stories of a world
that she imagines in sepia.
She tells her daughter she’s been flying
and the sweet thing naively smiles
because she knows her mother rarely leaves the house these days
and is afraid of heights.
Her hair is the way cotton candy is when it’s fresh
though she is ripe as bananas ready for bread
She’s ready for bed.
She sets down the pen and closes the tome.
She’s out of tall tales.
But she smiles at her children
chiming laughter in the wind
and friends she knows or doesn’t know, she can’t remember
She must be flying. Feelin':  tired |
|
The Princess and the Frog
|
Oct. 21st, 2007 @ 02:46 am
|
|---|
|
The sonnet I ghostwrote for Sara (like the ones I wrote for Emily) so she wouldn't fail Creative Writing.
Upon a silver lilypad he sat
A secret Prince who never shed a tear
Content to lounge, grow lazy and quite fat
No dragons, dungeons, crazy girls to fear
But then, came she, a-skipping 'round the bend
His future ball-and-chain with whiny voice
A fettish for frog princes she did tend
Leant down and kissed the prince who had no choice
By morning light the couple soon was wed
Our frog was now a stout and lazy man
"Where is the charm and grace???" the princess said
Said he, "Girl, you kissed me, I had no plan."
So when you see a frog upon a tree
Perhaps it's best for all to let him be. |
|
Six Short Stories in Six Minutes
|
Oct. 14th, 2007 @ 10:09 pm
|
|---|
|
For my Creative Writing Class
The Faith Healer
He said to her, “I can cure you.”
Wide eyed and desperate, she believed him. She had been to doctors, and hospitals, and oncologists galore. And his hands were soft, and his eyes inviting. She trembled in his embrace as he tried to soothe her aching fears.
“I’m tired of waiting,” she breathed, her chest rattling with effort.
He kissed her forehead and stroked her hair, holding onto her as if his own life depended on it. She pulled her arms up against her chest, her pallid skin moist with cold sweat as she buried her face in her shoulder and he sang to her, in honey-sweet harmonies, and she felt her agony dissolve into a black pool onto the floor. He laid her gently onto the bed when he felt her stop trembling, but he didn’t let her go because her chest was still rising and falling in a steady, slumbering rhythm. He continued to sing, his amber coating her in a blanket of warmth. She had faith, and she trusted him like she trusted God. And soon enough, her chest rose and fell for one last time, and then she remained still.
And he kept his promise.
Haunted
She said, “You know why you’re doing this, don’t you? Because you can never let go otherwise.” But he just closed his eyes and looked away, pretending not to see her. She persisted, but never touched him. “Years and years of devotion. I love you. We had vows. And now, you can’t even look at me. Because you will never let it go.”
She won’t let me, he thought bitterly, but merely shook his head, continuing to ignore her golden hair and piercing gray gaze. He collected his papers and licked his chapped lips, straightening his tie.
“This is our home,” she begged. “Our life. I lived and died in that house. Gordon, please, you love it like I do. I just want to go home again, Gordon. If you do this, I won’t have anywhere to go.”
The sooner I do this, the sooner she will be gone, and the sooner I can mend the pieces of the soul she shattered, he insisted. He took a deep breath and smiled, straightening up in his chair.
She touched him and he felt her ice cold hand on his. “Gordon, you can’t do this to me, to us. We’re supposed to be together forever. Forever is a long time.”
For an instant, he remembered her, how she used to be, young, sweet, free, alive. He remembered the house, the first time he carried her over the threshold, the first time they made love on their bedroom floor because they hadn’t moved in yet, and the time he came home and found her motionless with glass eyes on the couch, staring at something he would never see. And that was all he needed.
He yanked his arm away from her, stood up abruptly and threw the papers down on the table. The men looked at him curiously.
“Burn it to the ground,” he said and left the room.
Bus Stop
She was just sitting there, waiting for the bus, kicking her feet back and forth on the bench as she bit her lip and folded her arms, trying to keep warm. She sighed, and the smoky tendrils of her warm breath lingered momentarily in the air before disappearing. She was sitting on her math textbook in order to avoid touching the bench.
And then he sat down beside her.
Her eyes darted sideways at him, but when he turned his head, they darted away. She felt his eyes lingering on her shoulders, so turned her head tentatively to glance at him bashfully, and he looked away sharply. She’d skipped breakfast. He offered her a granola bar. She suggested they split it.
They smiled.
Soon enough, Eric, who was in the sixth grade, came a long, and started to tease them both. He moved a little further down the bench and she hung her head low, her face burning as Eric called her a nerdy little fourth-grader with a puppy dog crush.
And then, the bus came. She looked up at him, but he avoided her eyes. Eric got on the bus first and she followed, tears welling in her eyes. But as she took her first step on the bus, she felt something small and cold slip into her bare hands. She looked down and saw that it was his raw, pink hand that was clasping hers.
They smiled.
Ambulance
It started very simply. I crashed. It was eerie… and then all I could think of was the pain. Yeah, they say you go all spiritual and see bright lights and noises, have your life flash before your eyes… No. You feel the pain. You’d think there’d be more. I wanted to see my life flash before my eyes, I wanted to see a light at the end of the tunnel, I wanted to hear crazy voices. But it hurt too much to think.
“We need to take him upstairs.”
“I’ll call surgery and get them ready.”
You see, I can’t tell you what it’s like right before you die. Maybe it’s the same, maybe it’s different for everyone. But it’s personal. I can’t tell you because… Well, I’m not really here to do that. If you think about it, I’m not really here at all.
“I don’t know how much more this kid can take. We may need to call it.”
“No. Not again.”
You see, I’m not really talking to you. I can’t be. I guess I’m a figment of your imagination. Because I’m dead, Mom. You can’t really talk to me anymore.
“What do we tell his parents?”
But you know, it’s not so bad. Just don’t worry about it, Mom. I left you a poem in a drawer in my end table. It’s not very good, and it’s only one line, but it’s all I’ve got. It says, “I love you.”
“That’s it, we’ve done all we can.”
“Call it.”
“Time of death, 12:03.”
El Salvador
Jessica packed her bags at five in the morning with a few changes of clothes, her passport, her toothbrush, and a photograph of her dead father. She crept downstairs to the kitchen where she turned on the light and saw her mother sitting there, in a blue terrycloth robe, nursing her coffee as she watched Jessica. Jessica swallowed, but held her head high as she repositioned her backpack and headed to the fridge where she took out a loaf of bread, two apples, two oranges and three bananas. When she had packed all this in her bag, she turned to her mother and asked her for money.
“What will you do with it?” her mother asked.
“I’m running away to El Salvador,” she said.
Her mother blinked, her face inscrutable, and she slid an envelope across the kitchen table. Jessica took it and put it in her backpack. As she headed for the door, her mother called after her. “I’ll miss you, baby.”
Jessica hesitated for less than a second before leaving without a second glance at her mother.
Several hours later, the sun had risen, and tired and tearful, Jessica stumbled through the front door tripped, landing in her mother’s arms, who held Jessica tightly as she cried.
The Charlatan of the Charleston Theater
He was the best actor they would never hire, or so he claimed to everyone who bothered to ask why he sat outside of the charred, dilapidated building. It had been abandoned for decades, and yet he always offered to take your tickets as you passed by. Most walk right by him without a second thought. I used to do the same.
And then one day, he called me Isabelle.
“My name is Claire,” I told him simply, quietly, discreetly, hoping that maybe I could be on my way. He made me nervous, this shaggy vagabond that reeked of old milk.
“Isabelle,” he repeated, latching onto my arm. “You walk by me everyday, and I never told you I’m sorry.”
There was desperation etched deep in his arctic blue eyes, and it reached out frozen hands and gripped my stomach, tying it into knots. “Let me buy you a drink,” I muttered, suddenly overwhelmed with compassion as I enveloped his hand in both of mine.
And so he did, and I asked him the questions no one dared to ask a dangerous vagrant. He told me how after his tenth audition, he had set fire to the theater. Three people sustained severe burns, and one had died, but to this day he had never confessed, and had never been convicted of arson. At the bottom of the bottle, he gazed at me, with softer eyes and a sweet smile.
“Thank you for forgiving me, Isabelle,” he whispered, his voice haggard and rough. “I remember the line you said in rehearsal as Joan of Arc, before the fire started. You said, ‘No one could ever love anything as much as I love God.’ Well, I just wanted to tell you, Isabelle… God could never love, as much as I love you.”Feelin':  chipper Chilling to: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory-- the ORIGINAL! |
| » Cool Your Jets |
|---|
Song Lyrics For Adam
Cool Your Jets (A Work In Progress)
You’re a secret sort of lonely and I love how well you know me
But I know you’ll never hold me to be true
So cool your jets ‘cause I’m not taking any bets
I’d just fall deeper into debt with you
You know I love you truly, and you’re like a sister to me
But you’re my anchor in the wide open sea
I want to sail off into the distance and I don’t want no resistance
It’s time for you to let me be me
You’re a lovely sort of silent but you’re kinda like a tyrant
When you refuse to let me roam wild and free
And it’s oh so very chronic that it’s bitterly ironic
You think it’s more than just platonic with me
Mar. 10th, 2007 @ 01:17 am
|
| » Promise Me That You'll Give Faith A Fighting Chance |
|---|
Originally posted October 5th, 2004 18:26 in my other livejournal ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) jewelrain
When you look up at the sky, don't do it just to see if it's raining
When you find it is raining, don't run indoors and hide
When you get your hopes too high, don't say you're overrated
When you walk down by a river, don't be afraid to get your feet wet
When your fire goes out, don't blame it on the wind
When you watch the sunset, don't think the day is over
When you reach out to help, don't be deterred when you're turned away
When you feel that nothing's right, don't be afraid to make it OK
When you love someone, don't ask them to love you back
When you sing, don't forget to sing it loud
When you smile, don't forget to be proud
When you dance, ignore your two left feet
When you close your eyes, don't forget what you see
When you hate your job, don't hate your life
When you give advice, don't expect them to take it
When you get advice, don't be afraid to take it
When you play a game, don't do it just to win
When you patronize a child, don't forget how young you are
When you disrespect your grandparents, don't forget how old you are
When you hear a robin's song, don't take it for granted
When you lose someone, don't mourn them-- remember them
When you see a bright star, don't be too skeptical to make a wish
And mostly
When you say "I love you," mean it
When you make a mistake, learn from it
When you find home, stay there.
Inspired by LeAnne Womack's "I Hope You Dance." So sue me, I listen to the random pop/country song. Hell, look at what I'm listening too NOW!
Feb. 7th, 2007 @ 10:12 am
|
| » Fountains |
|---|
The sprinklers are all fired up over my front lawn
Shimering and splintering the sunlight in the dawn
It used to be I'd run and sing out in the sunlit rain
But since the sins of yesterday I've never been the same
I'm not living like I oughta so I've gotta take this chance
And even though I don't know how I'd really love to dance
And promise me that if you ever see a fool as lost as me
Tell her she will never live until she can learn to breathe
So when the water's deep and dark you have to dive right in
When you swim with whispered words you wash away your sin
Just pour them in a bucket and take them to the mountains
Then shout them out for all to hear; the secrets fall in fountains
I'm not living like I oughta so I've gotta take this chance
And even though I don't know how I'd really love to dance
And promise me that when you breathe you will inhale the sea
Sigh it out through nose and mouth until it sets you free
Feb. 5th, 2007 @ 02:22 am
|
| » A Pirate's Life For Me |
|---|
So I got good grades
And I went to college
Thought of finding a nice guy
And settling down
And getting a job to pay the bills
So I conformed
But what I really want
Is to win the lottery
And move to Florida where
I'll live in the Pirates of the Carribean
Ride in Disney World
And then
I'll jump out and scare
All the boates that float on by
That's the life for me.
Dec. 9th, 2006 @ 12:53 am
|
| » Never in Neverland |
|---|
a breath caught in an Urn
minding its own business above the fireplace
... So this is what God's future holds
a head ripped off a teddy bear
cartoons that teach us to be ignorant
and Weapons of Mass Destruction being sold at Toys-R-Us
the moon hides behind electric lights
and the sun is chased away by smog
Let Me Fall
fly back to a year before Never
when heads stayed on the teddy bears
and it was actually worth it
to get up early to watch Saturday Morning Cartoons
my little pony was a girl's favorite toy
and boys would rather play with GI Joe than Be him
when stars shown brighter than the street lamps
and the sun was proud to call the earth his home
validating the promise of heaven
a promise farther from this world now
than it ever was
in the year before Never
Nov. 15th, 2006 @ 09:46 am
|
| » Fuck if I know, my poetry's so cheesy these days |
|---|
Queen Victoria
Lazy caterpillar, sitting on a branch
Never knowing he never had a chance
With the crazy witch who always knew about
A thing or two
But she never knew a way to brew
A song for me and you
Silly caterpillar, never felt alive
All this time was always so deprived
She slapped him in the face
Never left a trace
But she never knew a way to brew
A song for me and you
Queen Victoria, tell me your story
You threw it all away, hungry for glory
You told us lies about our lovers
Just foes who’ve blown their cover
That caterpillar, never learned to try
Never knew a thing or two of the love of you and I
Silly little witch with broomstick up her ass
As she laughs at you
But she never knew a way to brew
A song for me and you
Queen Victoria, tell me your story
You threw it all away, hungry for glory
You told us lies about our lovers
Just foes who’ve blown their cover
And a man will learn that a woman is a dungeon
In which he’d be glad to drown
And a woman will learn that a man is a hero
Who will always let her down
Queen Victoria, tell me your story
You threw it all away, hungry for glory
You told us lies about our lovers
Just foes who’ve blown their cover
Queen Victoria, I’m fighting for your lie
Never knew the right way to say goodbye
You told us lies about our lovers
But now, I’ve blown their cover
B-Rated Horror Movie
Kiss me in the dark with your fairytale smile
Bite my neck with your fangs so white
Cheesy twist ending, we keep on pretending
This means more than just one night
We’ll paint this town a bloody shade of red
Like the color of the moon
But when the ghosts come, then we will run
And drown in the black lagoon
You’re like a b-rated horror movie
So bad, but I can’t get enough
So kiss me again before the movie ends
I need that taste of something rough
Our car breaks down at the foot of a hill
Where cardboard cutouts stand for trees
Someone is dead, but we think instead
We’ll just make out in the back seat
Because we know there’s something out there
But we don’t want to face it quite yet
So let’s wait awhile, ‘til that fairytale smile
Grows furry with a werewolf’s debt
You’re like a b-rated horror movie
So bad, but I can’t get enough
So kiss me again before the movie ends
I need that taste of something rough
We’re in a b-rated horror movie
Chasing circles before the night is done
Our funding is crap and we know we’re trapped
But for some reason we think we can run
You’re my b-rated horror movie
So bad, like redrum in mud
So kiss me again before the movie ends
I crave the taste of your blood
We’re half-sedated,
Somewhat hated,
Celebrated,
Not-yet-rated,
Regurgitated,
A b-rated horror movie
Sep. 12th, 2006 @ 12:24 am
|
| » Revenge of the Ugly Duckling |
|---|
And we watch the stories on the TV
Hear the morals in fairy tales
And comic books teach us right from wrong
We learn how life is supposed to be
At six years old, things will be wonderful
So long as you eat your string beans
But you know life’s not as simple
As storybook endings
And loose ends get frayed and tattered
Until it’s impossible to tie them in knots
Not that you need more knots
You’re busy enough trying to untangle the ones in your hair
Not knots but nautical miles
Lost in an ocean of concrete and steel
Where life is full of accidents and ambulances
Pills and caffeine, cubicles and paperclips
Second bests and “satisfactory” marriages
And the good guys don’t always win
There’s no happy ending for the ugly duckling
And sweet tempers don’t get what they deserve
The villain always gets away
But the hero survives to fight another day
Tell me why good people die in accidents
While CEO’s sip cocktails in the Hamptons
And there are people out there who are simply unloveable
Not ugly or boring or mean or stupid
Just average
And no one’s looking for average
Not even the ugly or boring or mean or stupid
This is the life of the ugly duckling
Who never became a swan
This is the call of the ugly duckling
Who always played the pawn
This is the secret of the ugly duckling
Who tried to catch the dawn
This is the lament of the ugly duckling
As you tan on your manicured lawn
This is the truth of the ugly duckling
Who was never hard to con
This is the revenge of the ugly duckling
Whose tolerance is gone
Aug. 25th, 2006 @ 09:45 am
|
| » Is |
|---|
What do I know of love?
A sickness contracted by the fickle
A syphilis of the mind
A contortion of the spirit
Indeed, what do they know of love?
“I love you”
And as I do
I love to lie to you
And in the depths of a jungle
That tangles their minds
They declare, “I die proudly, save my love!”
What do I know of love?
A fool’s parade, a fiendish prank
A carcass to be consumed by the ignorant
And in the heat of a battle
That mangles our minds
We declare, “I fight loudly, die my love!”
And a man can learn that a woman is a dungeon
In which he’d be glad to drown
And a woman can learn that a man is a hero
Who will always let her down
What do I know of love?
A word that holds no purpose
An excuse to act as fools
A favor we ask our friends
And when I see him standing there
It is not love I feel
It is not roses and wine, or thread and twine, or six children and a dog
It is not dreaming
It is not fluffy foolery
It is not sickeningly sweet or savory sour or hideously halfhearted
And when he touches my hand, it is not butterflies
That make me feel ashamed of my chipped nail polish
And I have no inclination of heaven or angels
And I have no need for metaphors.
I see in his eyes a deep brown and white
No secrets, no pools of mystery, and no soul is in sight
But between the secret glances
In the negative space before we touch
In the hidden limbo between Midnight and Morning
It simply is
Unmentionable
Jul. 4th, 2006 @ 11:40 pm
|
| » Bridge-less |
|---|
bridge–––less
They met at the river
Doe and Hart
Bend to drink
Brown eyes meet
Across the way
But trot away
Look away
Do not follow the drowning fawn
Fading in the reflection of a future
Like a ripple in the river
Their love is bridge less
Jul. 4th, 2006 @ 11:35 pm
|
| » The Rot |
|---|
Once upon a time, there was the rot
From which sprang the fruit of our generation
We are blamed, we are burdened, we are wrong
They tell us we are stupid
And set us on our tracks to success
How to learn and churn their world
Leave our mark, like a cigarette burn
Which they snuff out with their shoe
A drunk teen, spoiled rotten
Ranting about Jesus
Regurgitating the words his Mamma told him
Be seen, not heard.
Children come from storks.
You’re wrong.
Free thought is the terrorist’s weapon
Diversity their mask
Religion their alibi
They persecute and prosecute
Anyone who can hold a note
Of that half forgotten song
And the stupid kids.
Young, hostile, broke and raw
But not stupid.
Once upon a time, there was the rot
Which our heroes claimed was perfect
Their grass can’t be greener if we scorch it black
And then, it won’t grow back again.
I am ripe with ideas, dreams, songs
But the fruit of our generation
Blossoms and falls away
Poisoned by the rot.
They blindfold us
They gag us
Wrought with thorns and vermin blood
We are digested and regurgitated
Until we become the rot
Jul. 4th, 2006 @ 11:24 pm
|
| » A Series of Paradoxes (A work in progress) |
|---|
When we try too hard we miss the meaning
If we fall short, then we learn to lose
When we love, we fuse our flaws
If we're indifferent, then we cradle our cowardice
When we know too much we endanger our existance
If we know too little, then we waste our world
When we care too much, we're easily injured
If we care too little, we offend ourselves
It seems to me that when we bleed we tell ourselves
Do I die and live?
But as you can see, that never can be
As you're either one or the other
May. 9th, 2006 @ 11:48 pm
|
| » Death Never Ends A Damn |
|---|
I buy the roses and the wine
In which we marinade our convenient rhyme
And I pay for the classes and the time
She spends to put things back in line
But she doesn't know you're here
By the window sil in your favorite chair
And she didn't move your things
From where you left them last
Including the tie that you always draped on the mirror
Which she used to always hang up for you
She doesn't do that anymore
I try to say the same things
That you said to give her wings
She smiles, but she never sings
What bitter harmonies the spring brings
But she doesn't know you're here
By the window sil in your favorite chair
And she always celebrates
The anniversary of your first date
She counts the one where you two met
When her jacket got caught in the doors
On the subway
And when I try, I try to say goodbye, goodbye
Because when she looks at me she sees you in my eyes
And I want to be so much more than just her lie
But I know it's the reason she married me, that's why...
She doesn't know I'm here
Won't let me sit in your favorite chair
And she always forgets the date
Of our anniversary these past three years
And I know she's just passing the time
With me, her favorite pantomime
Until she can be with you
And I'm content to stay with her
If only because I would die for her
She loves me just a little less, I'm sure
If I can remind her of the way things were
I'll be happy just to be right by her
Though she doesn't know you're here
You're always in your favorite chair
And I see you everywhere
And you always have that same hard stare
Just know I never meant any harm
Just wanted to find where I belonged
I'll borrow her for a little while
And soon she'll return to you
May. 6th, 2006 @ 01:12 am
|
| » and We thought We knew (re-write) |
|---|
We thought We covered all Our bases
We thought We knew they were wrong
We thought We could absolve their sins
by making them feel alone
We thought We were the lucky ones
We thought We knew what's best
We thought time would save her soul
And put her lustful sins to rest
We thought We had to help them
We thought they needed saving
he just can't do those things with him!
so We fell to Our knees and started praying
We heard one day she ran away
We heard one day they died
She and She in a loving embrace
beaten by blind pride
We heard one day that he escaped
We heard one day they wed
He and He had kissed that day
And finally, they were blessed
and when we heard this we knew
our fight was not worth fighting
and when we learned this we knew
Their secrets weren't worth hiding
we thought we were the lucky ones
we thought we knew what's right
but it was Them who took us by the hand
and led us to the light
Apr. 15th, 2006 @ 08:45 am
|
| » Castles of Sand |
|---|
Up there on the nation's stage
He dances, singing songs of rage
And you know he never meant to kill
Regardless of his good intentions
All the misdeeds he never mentions
The chief has some heavy shoes to fill
While we know that it will never end
We still decide to put the blame on him
Though really the blood is on our hands
And if we ever make it past Calvary
Without calling in the Cavalry
We'll build our castles in the sands
We weep as it comes tumbling down
All the sweat and blood in which we drown
The sands made our mouthes dry
So we reach into the sky
Tear down clouds and sew them up
With the help of a bald man and his big ol' truck
We built a nation out of air
And it floated there for a little while
The Prince looked at it with his big ol' smile
Until it all disolved in autumn's fiery flare
I hope I never see the day
When we'll sell our dreams to find a way
To live how others tell us so
And we need to take back our home
Tell other souls to leave things well alone
And walk to where we want to go
We shall not weep when walls of sand
Come crashing down and free our fellow man
We'll take their hands to show
We'll help them when they go
Apr. 12th, 2006 @ 08:02 pm
|
| » Epiphany On The Aurora Bridge |
|---|
Epiphany On the Aurora Bridge
There's a troll lurking under the north end of the Aurora Bridge. It glares with its hubcap eye southward at- what? The end of the bridge. All it sees are the cars that drive by it. And the people who jump.
We think we're unique, you see. A little too unique. We do this to connect with those who leapt before us; the spirits of tormented creatures, who were too skinny from anorexia, or two cut up from scars on their arms, or too sunken from insomnia for the troll to want to eat. We are… an unattractive sort. We feel ugly. The poison on the inside oozes out through our pores, our ears, our nostrils, our eye sockets, and taints us. We are the unlucky ones. No one understands us. It's hard to relate to anything when you're drowning in the poison.
I lost my mind to an abusive father when I was fourteen. He tried to beat the Gay out of me. I lost my health to a heroine dealer when I was nineteen. He tried to buy the pain from me. I lost my heart to an artist when I was twenty-three. He tried to paint the poison away from me.
He was HIV positive. And he was in my life for one euphoric instant. We were unique, you see. We were the lucky ones. We were… a beautiful sort. We felt alive. We understood.
I poisoned him. As I tainted his paintings, which adorned the walls of his hospital room as he laid there, spotted and scrawny, still trying to cure me. He was there for one euphoric instant, and then, as everything inevitably does, that moment ended. And I was still there, poisoned.
We think we're alone, you see. We do this to connect to those who leapt before us; the spirits of the ugly ones, who were too twisted to fit in.
The wind feels colder when you stand naked in the rain. And when it washes over your rubbery skin, it cannot touch the poison inside. Still, its slippery silver stings and chills. And you're ready to jump.
I give one last look around, to see if anyone wants to stop me. The road is empty. Except for her.
She's standing on the opposite side, her hair plastered to her neck and shoulders. She's facing the air, standing on the barrier of the bridge, but her head is turned, her brown eyes wide as she stares right back at me. I have seen her before. A nametag enters my mind… Julie. She was from my support group.
She was HIV positive. And she was in my life for one euphoric instant. We were unique, you see. We thought we could change the world. We were… a hideous sort. We felt dirty. We understood.
And in that moment, I stare, and I stare and I can see it; the poison leaking out of her eye sockets, the bruises left by her spouse who called her tainted, the rips which held up her skin like an umbrella from the bulimia.
She is… an unattractive sort. She is a radiant sun.
I smile at her. She smiles back. The rain pounds the pavement. I cross the street. I stand next to her. I take her hand. We don't have to be unique.
And I thought, as the wind whipped my face on the way down, and her nails dug in tight, with a clarity that comes only in the light of a sunset… We were never unique to begin with. We are, all of us, exactly the same.
Mar. 31st, 2006 @ 12:01 pm
|
|
|
