Ohhh, if I could make sense of it all.

An ironicaly sea-foam green bottle bobbing on the frothy waves of a dream. Inside the bottle, a message scribbled in a rare moment of clarity: Don't have much time (I never know when I'll change back). Call for help. I need motivation to get me off this island. Where do I find it? How do I make it mine? Oh no, I'm going back...

The English language is a labryinth Sometimes, I like to think I've found my way into a deeper chamber than I really have.

While we were young and growing up, the sun was old and going down. As we danced the tango 'round and 'round each other and side-stepped our obligations, the daylight grew fainter and the twighlight grew ever the more radiant. Somewhere between the first slow dance and the second Electric Slide, the sun shattered, leaving behind a million radiant stars: one for each moment that we let slip through our fingers.

Kelly hold your water tight.

Comebacks are always hard, whomever said they were glorious has obvious never gone away and then tried to come back. I write my last high school English paper tonight. Here's to hoping for an 'A.'

I don't know but I think.

I think things are going to work themselves out. I know they won't be perfect though. I think there are hard times ahead. I know I'm strong enough to get through them. I think I'm starting to miss you. I know you miss me too. I think I should have started my Comparative project earlier. I know I'm gonna end up pulling an all nighter. I think I'm going to cry at graduation in May. I know they'll be bittersweet tears if I do. I think I'm going to make a "Happy 2006" playlist. I know there'll be at least one Belle & Sebastian song -- maybe even two. I think I finally know what "a poetry seziure" is.

the floor under my desk is a mess

I remember that day last May (the 15th or 16th if memory serves) when I woke up from my lust-induced sleep and realized that I was all I needed I remember sitting at my desk, windows wide open listening to Belle & Sebastian eating a bannana popsicle and wondering if this was what God tasted like I remember feeling like I was dying of thirst, not for water -- but for knowledge that I knew I could only find in the pages of Ferlinghetti and Keroauc I remember trusting myself and feeling like I could catch whatever sort of curveballs life threw no matter if I saw them coming or not Once upon a tomorrow, I will sit here, remembering these memories and writing this poem

Maybe?

Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was the state of mind. Maybe it was the inspiration. Whatever it was -- I loved it, and I still do. It may not be a constant I may not always stop and think to myself "This is why I'm here, this is why I'm doing this," but somewhere inside of me, I know answers to questions that have never been asked.

Christmas time is here again.

A snow-covered ground plays host to feet rushing off to buy last minute presents while cookies bake in ovens and egg nog sits in frothy glasses. Santas on every corner, misletoe in every doorway, garland on every rail, bulbs on every tree, gifts hidden away in every closet. Children counting down the days, mothers reading stories, fathers wrapping presents, dogs and cats playing happily by the tree. Is it I and I alone who walks with a heart of lead and nary a thought of yultide joy?

goodbye my sweet, sweet youth, goodbye

The dawn is breaking and youth is fleeting. A new life is on the horizon, but memories wander the edge of these new and uncharted lands, much like ghosts wandering between this world and th next. They circle 'round me, begging for one last walk. I gladly accept and we head down the path, snow crunching beneath our feet. We've taken this walk before: in happiness & in sorrow beneath the burning sun & below a clouded sky both alone and with our dear, dear friends. Halfway there, we meet our dear friend music. He's been with us (my memories and I) for as long as we can remember, but even more these last few years. Memories & melodies keep me warm; I am grateful for them both. We reach the stream, its frigid waters sparkle with reminisence. The ghosts of my memories take the shape of a day in early spring: a picnic with a friend. I blink and they reform: A frustrated evening spent on the swings alone, sorting through teenage angst. Images fade to nothingness and melodies give way to the chirp of birds. My memories glide toward me & the melodies of my youth hold my hand. It is time to go home & in the morning, we will move on.

untitled musing #1

The girl watches the cursor, scouring her brain for the right words. The words that will convey this oh-so-familiar sensation of longing that has met her here on this chill November night. The wind sends thoughts billowing round her mind. They settle and wait patiently for release. A sigh escapes her lips as she tries once again to make sense of the feeling that despite her best efforts to achieve freedom, to cast off the fettering ties that call themselves fear, it is she and she alone that will not allow progress. Yes, progress -- that's where she will begin. What is progress other than the steps we take to move ourselves down the seemingly eternal path toward happiness? Be it introspective or interpersonal, progress is rarely achieved with little effort. To truly achieve progress, one must cast aside all of the little white lies that form the cataracts that blind us to who we really are. Why, you may ask? Because we can go nowhere until we know exactly where we are coming from. No more excuses, no more broken promises -- those are the things that leave us standing in the past while time kisses a mouthful goodbye, turns it's back and walks away leaving us with a mouthful of bitter words and a heart full of regret. It's not a bad start, she thinks to herself. But there could be more feeling. Where to go from here? Fingers drum absently upon the cherry-oak desk as she tries to think of what emotion to put to words next. Eyes are closed and a chair reclined. The edges of consciousness grow fuzzy with daydream. Six months ago, her heart was overflowing with hope and the future held so much beautiful promise. Success was hers -- the future was waiting at her doorstep with arms wide open. She ran toward it; six months and she's still running. Out of breath, muscles aching, but not out of drive. Eyes snap open. Next up: drive. Progress and drive walk hand in hand; two lovers who'd be lost without each other. Journey into the deepest corners of your soul and there you'll find what moves you. How will you know it? When you think about it, you can feel your heart dancing with joy and your mind come alive. It's the voice that gently sings you to sleep at night, the touch that you swear lingers upon your skin day in and day out. Harness this, control it, and it will guide you toward your progress. Writing reminds of her of what she wants, what she longs for, what makes the sleepless nights and the exhaustion worth it. She knows she hasn't been honest with herself. Times have been hard, she needs to work harder if she wants to have the things she wants the most. She knows she'll never quit. But will she ever give it her all? If she wants this as badly as she knows she does, why isn't she working harder? Why isn't she forcing herself to excel, to shatter their expectations of her? Questions that her mind can answer, but her heart cannot. "It is all a matter of laziness and fear of change." states the cool mind rationally. The heart shakes with fear and remains silent. It can attribute no reason to what is primarily it's action. Fearing rebuke, it burrows deeper within the thoracic cavity, hiding. The mind steps forth yet again: "If the heart cannot explain its actions, I shall." No matter what we want and no matter how badly we want it, there will always be something that lies within us that makes success impossible. This thing is different for each and everyone one of us. For some it is fear, for others it is a false sense of complacency. Despite these obstacles, we are all free to succeed as we choose to. But first, we must free our potential from the pernicious grip of these obstacles. She decides to end it here. There is nothing more to say.