A bad poem I attempted to write about the boat scene in "The Dark Knight"
The Joker and The Boat
Your smile,
Like time,
Makes us realize,
How little time we might actually have left.
I watch the smile on your face.
Time wastes.
Happiness upon your face,
As you told me my effort was wasted,
I couldn’t save the world
Before you destroyed it.
I watch the smile on your face.
Time wastes.
People were contemplating lives,
People that shouldn’t be,
Couldn’t be.
Time was wasting,
One of the boats possibly about to explode.
I watch the smile on your face.
Time wastes.
You wanted to tear me down,
Have me see the world through your eyes,
Suffer in every moment,
Laugh at all of the pain in the world.
I watch the smile on your face.
Time wastes.
The clock ticks midnight,
Both boats remain.
I smile.
Humanity is left in the world.
I have won.
Friday, December 11, 2009
My Attempt At Emo Poetry
This poem has been completely revised about a billion times, but here is the first draft. It's dedicated, in part, to Jess G.
Christmas Ornament
The girl looked up into the sky.
Today was going to be a new day.
She would find a way to sweep up the shattered pieces of her heart,
Which, thankfully, were on the inside, so she wore her smile.
No one could know who she was:
The girl who had pulled the razor blade
Across her forearm until bright beads of red blood splattered
Her perfect pearly white skin,
The girl with the severely concave stomach
Who forced herself to not let food be a comfort
Until the only sound she knew were growls of hunger,
The girl with the tear-stained cheeks
From staying up all night
Until her tears eventually sang her to sleep.
No, she was supposed to be perfect.
She was going to pick up the shattered heart by herself,
Let the glass from it tear up her hand,
Instead of the hand of someone else.
She was planning on doing it all alone,
Life – that is.
She used to be happy,
Used to let the only person who was okay with her imperfection
Hold her in his arms,
While she cried the tears that proved she was flawed.
He compared her to a Christmas ornament,
His Christmas Ornament,
Everyone saw them as beautiful,
But no one ever thought about the dangerous process
That went into creating that beautiful blown glass decoration,
The glass so boiling hot and threatening to burst at any moment.
People just assumed it was perfect.
He left and her world tore apart,
Like a piece of paper being cut with sharp scissors.
The Christmas ornament was shattered.
It fell off the tree and was swept into the trash,
Only to be forgotten by its owner,
Until they stepped on the one piece that was left behind,
Complaining about their own pain,
But not caring that they might have broken the ornament even more.
The girl looked up into the sky.
Today was going to be a new day.
Christmas Ornament
The girl looked up into the sky.
Today was going to be a new day.
She would find a way to sweep up the shattered pieces of her heart,
Which, thankfully, were on the inside, so she wore her smile.
No one could know who she was:
The girl who had pulled the razor blade
Across her forearm until bright beads of red blood splattered
Her perfect pearly white skin,
The girl with the severely concave stomach
Who forced herself to not let food be a comfort
Until the only sound she knew were growls of hunger,
The girl with the tear-stained cheeks
From staying up all night
Until her tears eventually sang her to sleep.
No, she was supposed to be perfect.
She was going to pick up the shattered heart by herself,
Let the glass from it tear up her hand,
Instead of the hand of someone else.
She was planning on doing it all alone,
Life – that is.
She used to be happy,
Used to let the only person who was okay with her imperfection
Hold her in his arms,
While she cried the tears that proved she was flawed.
He compared her to a Christmas ornament,
His Christmas Ornament,
Everyone saw them as beautiful,
But no one ever thought about the dangerous process
That went into creating that beautiful blown glass decoration,
The glass so boiling hot and threatening to burst at any moment.
People just assumed it was perfect.
He left and her world tore apart,
Like a piece of paper being cut with sharp scissors.
The Christmas ornament was shattered.
It fell off the tree and was swept into the trash,
Only to be forgotten by its owner,
Until they stepped on the one piece that was left behind,
Complaining about their own pain,
But not caring that they might have broken the ornament even more.
The girl looked up into the sky.
Today was going to be a new day.
A Poem that I am never going to do anything with
Starbucks - I'm still pissed that the salted caramel hot choclate was taken off the menu...
As the front door opens,
The cocoa-ey mix of coffee and chocolate fills the air
And I step inside.
I see the familiar couches and chairs that surround the counter.
The pastries are in their designated trays waiting to be served.
People walk out carrying their Mocha Frappaccinos,
I order my Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate and sit on the couch.
The noise of the blender fills the air,
Then, the noise of the whipped cream can.
I watch the familiar barista drizzle the caramel sauce over the whipped cream.
They set the drink on the counter and call out my name.
I pick it up and walk back to the couch.
I stare at the abstract photo directly across from me.
Old Simon and Garfunkel songs blast from the radio,
Only making it seem more like a coffee shop.
The caramelly-chocolate tastes smooth.
This is what I have been craving.
This is home.
As the front door opens,
The cocoa-ey mix of coffee and chocolate fills the air
And I step inside.
I see the familiar couches and chairs that surround the counter.
The pastries are in their designated trays waiting to be served.
People walk out carrying their Mocha Frappaccinos,
I order my Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate and sit on the couch.
The noise of the blender fills the air,
Then, the noise of the whipped cream can.
I watch the familiar barista drizzle the caramel sauce over the whipped cream.
They set the drink on the counter and call out my name.
I pick it up and walk back to the couch.
I stare at the abstract photo directly across from me.
Old Simon and Garfunkel songs blast from the radio,
Only making it seem more like a coffee shop.
The caramelly-chocolate tastes smooth.
This is what I have been craving.
This is home.
Monday, December 7, 2009
My Heart Sits on a Table in Starbucks
We sat down with our coffee and talked. It was the last time we ever talked face to face, and, honestly, it almost felt like the first time, it had been so long. But it was comfortable. And I fell for you a little bit. I kept telling myself I didn’t have feelings for you, but that was a goddamn lie. You were leaving. You were going away to some other place, off to start your own life, and I was probably never going to see you again.
As a going away present I gave you my heart, but I don’t think you really cared about it. When we left, you left my heart sitting on the table. You didn’t want to take it with you. I searched the lost and found, it’s still missing.
So, now, I have to know, if my heart is lost, how am I supposed to give it away again?
Explanation, I don't know what is on my mind... It was just a random thought and me over-analyzing life...
As a going away present I gave you my heart, but I don’t think you really cared about it. When we left, you left my heart sitting on the table. You didn’t want to take it with you. I searched the lost and found, it’s still missing.
So, now, I have to know, if my heart is lost, how am I supposed to give it away again?
Explanation, I don't know what is on my mind... It was just a random thought and me over-analyzing life...
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
End of Religious Power Struggle
Okay, for anyone who has actually read my blog, I know you are like, "okay, I got the Hell thing, and maybe a little bit of the Heaven, but not enough to know... and where the hell did purgatory come from? and what is this Earth that you belong in?" I know there are a lot of blanks, I will try to fill them in. I just feel like it was important to write this because this actually pertains to real emotions right now.
Heaven. Hell. Purgatory.
Earth.
Normalcy.
This is where I belong. It frightens me. But this is where I belong.
Heaven. Hell. Purgatory.
Earth.
Normalcy.
This is where I belong. It frightens me. But this is where I belong.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The Determining
I was always a very studious person, more studious than the average kid. From a young age, I knew I wanted to be successful and have straight A’s.
My struggles with reading comprehension and writing would soon bring those dreams crashing down. When I was little, I always did horrible with Language Arts, but I loved it. I hated math and science, but it was definitely my strength. I always scored off the charts in state testing for math and average for English.
From the day I realized I struggled with English, I pushed myself even harder until I was good at it. That was when I started sucking at math, and I classify that as the best moment of my life. I knew my parents would no longer pressure me into doing anything math or science related.
I really didn’t realize my weakness in English until fifth grade. In my fifth grade class, we had these newspapers we had to read and do assignments with. One assignment was a creative writing thing where we had to create a new continent and describe the people that live there.
I spent forever writing this story and I was so incredibly proud of the piece I’d written. I called it “Hanterstein,” and everyone lived outdoors and raised Bengal Tigers. It focused around two people, Kirsa and Bryan, best friends working to save the tigers from evil hunters. I thought it was clever, original, creative, and was very proud of the piece I’d written.
Unfortunately, my teacher, Shirley Lee, did not feel the same way. I was expecting all of these congratulatory comments to fill the page. That didn’t happen. Instead, there was a big fat “C” on the top of the assignment.
She didn’t even give me any reasons why, there were no comments on the page or anything. I was offended.
It was the most painful feeling I’d felt in ten years. First of all, it was a “C” and second of all, I’d tried so super hard at this assignment.
That was the moment I decided I wanted to be a writer. I am usually one of those people who when you tell me I did something wrong, I never do that thing again. I give up. But with writing, it was a different story. I enjoyed it.
I struggled with it, getting lower scores in it than anything else, but I eventually pushed myself up to AP level English. I joined the newspaper at my school and got an internship at a local newspaper, getting an above the fold story before age 17. It was then that I crossed journalist off of my list. For a while I didn’t know where that left me standing as a writer. I still don’t necessarily know where I stand as a writer, but I am curious to see where I will go with my writings.
To this day, I don’t think I deserved to get a C. Maybe if I hadn’t, however, I wouldn’t have realized I wanted to be a writer and I wouldn’t have pushed myself so hard. Who knows? Maybe I would have accepted math and science as my strengths and pushed myself harder in those subjects.
So, in a way, I really have to be thankful to Shirley Lee for giving me that C on the assignment. Without it, I’m almost scared to know where I would be.
I still have the intentions of making my “continent” into a story. It’s a little different now, there are no tigers, for one, but I am still just as proud of my creativity as I was back then.
My struggles with reading comprehension and writing would soon bring those dreams crashing down. When I was little, I always did horrible with Language Arts, but I loved it. I hated math and science, but it was definitely my strength. I always scored off the charts in state testing for math and average for English.
From the day I realized I struggled with English, I pushed myself even harder until I was good at it. That was when I started sucking at math, and I classify that as the best moment of my life. I knew my parents would no longer pressure me into doing anything math or science related.
I really didn’t realize my weakness in English until fifth grade. In my fifth grade class, we had these newspapers we had to read and do assignments with. One assignment was a creative writing thing where we had to create a new continent and describe the people that live there.
I spent forever writing this story and I was so incredibly proud of the piece I’d written. I called it “Hanterstein,” and everyone lived outdoors and raised Bengal Tigers. It focused around two people, Kirsa and Bryan, best friends working to save the tigers from evil hunters. I thought it was clever, original, creative, and was very proud of the piece I’d written.
Unfortunately, my teacher, Shirley Lee, did not feel the same way. I was expecting all of these congratulatory comments to fill the page. That didn’t happen. Instead, there was a big fat “C” on the top of the assignment.
She didn’t even give me any reasons why, there were no comments on the page or anything. I was offended.
It was the most painful feeling I’d felt in ten years. First of all, it was a “C” and second of all, I’d tried so super hard at this assignment.
That was the moment I decided I wanted to be a writer. I am usually one of those people who when you tell me I did something wrong, I never do that thing again. I give up. But with writing, it was a different story. I enjoyed it.
I struggled with it, getting lower scores in it than anything else, but I eventually pushed myself up to AP level English. I joined the newspaper at my school and got an internship at a local newspaper, getting an above the fold story before age 17. It was then that I crossed journalist off of my list. For a while I didn’t know where that left me standing as a writer. I still don’t necessarily know where I stand as a writer, but I am curious to see where I will go with my writings.
To this day, I don’t think I deserved to get a C. Maybe if I hadn’t, however, I wouldn’t have realized I wanted to be a writer and I wouldn’t have pushed myself so hard. Who knows? Maybe I would have accepted math and science as my strengths and pushed myself harder in those subjects.
So, in a way, I really have to be thankful to Shirley Lee for giving me that C on the assignment. Without it, I’m almost scared to know where I would be.
I still have the intentions of making my “continent” into a story. It’s a little different now, there are no tigers, for one, but I am still just as proud of my creativity as I was back then.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Eye Patch
My dear, dear sister... This isn't what I think of you in. You did, however, convince me that you worked for Santa Claus... and I believed you up until the point that I didn't believe in Santa Claus... (If mom and dad read this - I STILL believe in Santa Claus. Ha.) If this offends you, I am sorry. That isn't its purpose. Its purpose is to keep me at an A in English... So, I am posting it on my blog... it's okay, no one reads it anyway.
P.S. I am sorry... sometimes the name is "Marie" and sometimes it's "Mary." I think I caught all of the mistakes (I switched the name halfway through) but, if not, I know that I may have this issue.
The Eye Patch
My sister and I were watching an old episode of “Recess.” I’d just gotten home, and it was a tradition that we did together every Wednesday.
My sister, Mary, was the older one. She definitely understood more about the world at the time then I did. Now, I believe it’s quite the other way around, but that’s a whole other story. But at the time, Mary was 13, a teenager, and therefore I believe she ruled the world and knew everything. I had been so in awe of her that I believed there was no one greater than her.
I was a gullible child too. I always believed everything, as long as Mary said it. I had been so gullible, that she was able to convince me that she worked for Santa Claus and that she lived in another dimension as a dragon.
I had bad eyesight as a child. A lazy eye, which they had caught early. At the time, I thought the fact that they’d caught it early was the worst thing that could happen. The optometrist had sent me eye patches in the mail that I had to wear with the ugliest glasses. (It didn’t help that I had a huge head and a skinny body and was already teased on a daily basis for looking like a character out of “Peanuts.”) They tried to make them appealing by putting a cat and other patterns on the front of it, but it didn’t help. During “Recess,” I didn’t have to wear the patch.
I didn’t understand why I had to wear the eye patch. I didn’t even understand that my eyesight was bad. I could read and see just fine. They didn’t explain to me that only the muscles in my right eye were developing and the muscles in my left eye weren’t. These are things that they should tell the 7-year-old. All I knew was that I was the first kid with glasses in the class and it had just set my path for life. I would be forever-four-eyed and never chosen first in gym.
Maybe I looked more forward to not wearing the patch than I did hanging out with Mary. Sometimes, when Mom wasn’t looking, Mary would even let me take off my glasses.
That afternoon, we were sitting on the cool leather of the very lived-in green couches, looking at the old television cabinet, Mary with her Pepsi and I with my Juicy Juice. This was our only sister time.
I looked forward to this moment every single Wednesday. I even wore a red baseball cap, like the character TJ, to school so I could be ready to watch the show.
The episode of “Recess” dealt with TJ and his gang of friends getting into trouble yet again. I believe the teacher was named Ms. Gokey. Well, Ms. Gokey was meditating on top of her desk and Mary pointed out that she didn’t shave her legs.
I didn’t understand this at the time, but I nodded and shook my head and laughed. Mary was my cool older sister and I just wanted her to like me. I always did this. She usually didn’t catch onto my act, but this time she turned to me.
“Riley, don’t laugh, you don’t know what the heck that means.”
I was seriously offended. My sister had just crushed my heart. I think at that moment, I would have rather worn the ugly patch over my eye.
P.S. I am sorry... sometimes the name is "Marie" and sometimes it's "Mary." I think I caught all of the mistakes (I switched the name halfway through) but, if not, I know that I may have this issue.
The Eye Patch
My sister and I were watching an old episode of “Recess.” I’d just gotten home, and it was a tradition that we did together every Wednesday.
My sister, Mary, was the older one. She definitely understood more about the world at the time then I did. Now, I believe it’s quite the other way around, but that’s a whole other story. But at the time, Mary was 13, a teenager, and therefore I believe she ruled the world and knew everything. I had been so in awe of her that I believed there was no one greater than her.
I was a gullible child too. I always believed everything, as long as Mary said it. I had been so gullible, that she was able to convince me that she worked for Santa Claus and that she lived in another dimension as a dragon.
I had bad eyesight as a child. A lazy eye, which they had caught early. At the time, I thought the fact that they’d caught it early was the worst thing that could happen. The optometrist had sent me eye patches in the mail that I had to wear with the ugliest glasses. (It didn’t help that I had a huge head and a skinny body and was already teased on a daily basis for looking like a character out of “Peanuts.”) They tried to make them appealing by putting a cat and other patterns on the front of it, but it didn’t help. During “Recess,” I didn’t have to wear the patch.
I didn’t understand why I had to wear the eye patch. I didn’t even understand that my eyesight was bad. I could read and see just fine. They didn’t explain to me that only the muscles in my right eye were developing and the muscles in my left eye weren’t. These are things that they should tell the 7-year-old. All I knew was that I was the first kid with glasses in the class and it had just set my path for life. I would be forever-four-eyed and never chosen first in gym.
Maybe I looked more forward to not wearing the patch than I did hanging out with Mary. Sometimes, when Mom wasn’t looking, Mary would even let me take off my glasses.
That afternoon, we were sitting on the cool leather of the very lived-in green couches, looking at the old television cabinet, Mary with her Pepsi and I with my Juicy Juice. This was our only sister time.
I looked forward to this moment every single Wednesday. I even wore a red baseball cap, like the character TJ, to school so I could be ready to watch the show.
The episode of “Recess” dealt with TJ and his gang of friends getting into trouble yet again. I believe the teacher was named Ms. Gokey. Well, Ms. Gokey was meditating on top of her desk and Mary pointed out that she didn’t shave her legs.
I didn’t understand this at the time, but I nodded and shook my head and laughed. Mary was my cool older sister and I just wanted her to like me. I always did this. She usually didn’t catch onto my act, but this time she turned to me.
“Riley, don’t laugh, you don’t know what the heck that means.”
I was seriously offended. My sister had just crushed my heart. I think at that moment, I would have rather worn the ugly patch over my eye.
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