The start of a new story.

Prologue


It’s not like anyone cares about the musings of a seventeen year old, but I’ll still talk as if you and I both care about what’s going on in the world around us. If you’re still a minor and going to school, then you know the structured lives we live. Bell at this time, lunch at that time, the bus takes this route, etc. etc. It’s painful when all you want to do is grow up and finally reach that level of personal pride you’ve been waiting for all your life.
It’s unfair; sitting in history for ninety-six minutes everyday, taking notes off of a PowerPoint that was haphazardly put together the night before after your teacher got done having certain relations with their husband or girlfriend or whoever the hell they happen to be screwing on a Tuesday night.
History is death.
Mr. Abrasley doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. He comes in everyday after the students arrive, trying to catch papers as they fall through the gap of his open briefcase. His glasses fall down constantly, to which he responds with a “huff” and the classic nerd, finger push up on the brim. The new student looks like she’s either disgusted with his unorganized mannerisms, or slightly aroused.
For my sanity, I am going to go with disgusted.
The sad thing about Abrasley is that he is a young man- just out of college, has a really attractive voice- just not the personality to fit it. The new chick just sits, perched in her desk like a baby bird, watching him, waiting to be fed. Her hair swoops across her stone face creating a wall between her eyes and his.
While she gazed in his direction, I watched the second hand tick around the radius of the clock. The blue outline was glowing in the florescent moon of the classroom.
The bell rang with delight. School is out of session. People who cannot speak coherently are out of my hair; people who are afraid of a self-expressive teen have dispersed; seniors and freshman can be separated based on the ability to drive rather than the thin line between maturity levels; I can return to my cave that awaits for me in the afternoon heat.
The halls empty quickly except the drug dealers that are left standing around waiting for their appointments. I walked back down the long corridor to a previous class to retrieve my ride from the holds of her fourth block teacher. My shoes hit against the linoleum floor like a cricket’s musical wings. I found myself standing in the threshold, starring off into an abyss while I watched my best friend converse with her teacher as if she was an adult. They talked about the class and the progress some students where making while my presence became less and less important, as if I too were an invisible man.

Untitled

I lie awake

wishing

for a way
to be two places
at once, so
I
could just

touch you--

to outline your face,
memorizing the curves.

To feel

your touch
again
would be like

honey

that collects
the dry wheat

that hangs

in my
burning
throat.

Some recent poetry. Long time no post.

1. Risk

Venom
of trauma spreads
through the veins
of fallen soldiers
because of
the loosely thrown
di
that gambled away
lives
of families and friends.
Men stand ready,
perched on still land
next to the
black and white bodies.




2. Daily Symphony

“There is something to be said about consistency.”
–D. Winston Brown

The familiar sting of spearmint.
Green shirt.
Black Pants.
Nametag.
Drive: holding a cigarette,
Poisoning the surrounding air.
Bagging fish.
Answering the phone.
Waiting on a crowded table.
Vending machine lunch.
Traffic: sitting still,
Listening to the same radio host
Who never changes.
Return home, to a diner for one.
Then, again: the familiar sting.
Sink into the caved mattress.
Wake up: do it again.


3. As I Recall

“He didn't even have the satisfaction of being killed for civil rights. it had to be some silly little Communist.”
-Jackie Kennedy

It went off, like the click
Of his heel
against the morning tile.
I climbed from the backseat,
To save his pieces;
To put him back together.
His head falls into my lap,
Roses splattering against my
Pink skirt, like the pedals
That line the aisle
To the altar.


4. Letting Go

Blackbird, blackbird why do you sit
and torment me with a flash of smile
over my friend’s over grown grave?

Pack up all my care and woe.
Here I go to my sanctuary
where the cool stained glass
flickers against my clothes
as I beg a metal cross for peace.

I’m like a flower that’s waiting for a vase.

No one here can love and understand me
excepts for that blackbird in the sky
that can see my blackened self
but bye bye blackbird.
blackbird, bye bye.


5. Not So Secret Life of an Nintendo 64 Controller

A cold hand, bathing in melted ice cream
Moves across my smooth, plastic landform, gripping
My curves, pressing against the yellow buttons
That point to every direction. Like Woody—
Spoken for and moved by Andy—
The hand pulls against me, thrusting me
Against an undeveloped chest, pulling the budless
Vine from the fence where I start and end.
Then, the hand throws me down, my vine,
Forced by anger, follows through the air,
Freezing the generated machine gun—
Putting an end to the war.


6. Sheriff Woody is Demoted to a Second Shift Mall Cop After Having Tea With a Convicted Gangster

His shirt and pants fall into his black boots,
As he stands on the rubber platform of his
Grey and blue segway. The wind blows
Under his brown toupee, revealing his forehead.
The passion fruit air freshener hangs
from his plastic nose.

He passes a man with orange hair like
The tips of Al’s Cheetos-covered fingers;
A woman whose stomach protrudes from her body
Like an egg from the carton;
An old man whose snake-skin boots slithers
Along the linoleum floor (reminding Woody
Of his once snake-bitten foot).

He picks up trash,
Peeling the “Made in China” stickers from the
Bottoms and sides, resting them against his hands
Until he can add then to the “Made in China” wall
Of his security locker.

Obsession

Obsession runs within my veins,
charging everything I do with
hatred, passion and intrigue.

Obsession runs my life,
changing me, making me, forcing me
to be a vindictive soul.

Obsession from neither hate nor love,
but obsession from knowing that
it's not tangible for me:

The obsession of you.

ISHEYOURSOULMATE???

There comes a point in every human's life where he/she has to look at their life and ask themself, "is this really what I want to leave behind?" But, what is it that people truely want to leave behind? Everyone wants to leave their "footprint on the sands of time," but not everyone achieves the ultimate goal of immortality. I? I leave behind to you, and the rest of cyber space, this blog full of thoughts and what not. But, hey, for all I know, in thirty years, the internet won't even exsist because something better will take it over. And books? Why, yes, I do still hope to write a book and become super awesome and have lots of fans, but books... Who still buys them? I guess you do, and you, and you. I guess as long as Barnes and Noble is still open, I'm good. Right? Bands and writers leave something behind. Simon & Garfunkel will live on. William Shakespear has lives for thousands of years already and I'm pretty sure he will continue. But, you know what? No one can leave anything behind unless something happens. Like a cap gun explodes and blows your hands off and you go to the doctor's and they magically find a cure for cancer somehow without realizing what they've even done ((yes, that is likely to happen)).

And, by the bye, hello. =]

In a Week

The cell phone was cold against my heated skin. Her voice came crackling through. I walked with a heavy step across the parking lot, book bag weighting down on my shoulders. Her breathing skipped. “Harley?” I asked while I pulled the keys from my pocket. Some friends called my name as I slung the door opened and threw my book bag over to the passenger’s seat. I ignored them, still hoping to get a response. I climbed into the rusty van and slammed the door shut.
“Lacey—“ she said, breaking into a sob.
“What about Lacey?” I asked, face flushing.
“She’s dead,” she said softly.
My jaw hung open. A tear rolled down my check, and my phone slipped to the floor. I broke out into a deep sob and a group of senior repeats laughed from across the parking lot.

I drove home, music blaring, speeding. Tears hit my lap one after another. I could see her smile, feel her hug, and despite the music, I could hear her faint laugh. I flew past cars, pulling myself together before I returned to the all-too-cheery house hold I lived in.
I speed into the driveway, parked my car half in the grass and half in the drive way, and ran inside with my book bag barely hanging on my shoulder.
“Laurie?” my brother called after me.
I threw my things on the floor next to the door and ran for the kitchen, knowing I was about to break down again.
“Did you know that girl—“
My tears escaped. He looked at me apologetically. My neighbor stepped past my clueless mother to hug me. The kitchen fell silent as cried, standing in the corner, trying to avoid eye contact.
“What happened?” my mother asked in her mother-preacher tone.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. Died in her sleep.”
I ran out of the kitchen crying. I escaped back out into the night air and I stood, starring at the stars through my tears.



I showered early. Threw on my kaki pants, a dark maroon shirt, and black shoes. I dried my hair. The house was warm. I sat stiffly on the couch and waited.
A knock on the door brought my mind back into reality.
I opened the door. Harley stood there, staring at her feet. Her hair was slightly wet. Grey sweater.
I hugged her tightly. I moved back and shut the door. She sat in the chair. I walked into the kitchen to grab a water bottle.
“How are you?” Harley asked out of habit.
I shrugged. “You?”
She said nothing.



The funeral home smelled of tissue and perfume. Red faces walked the hall. Numb bodies roamed the halls. We resorted to the back of the chapel. Step one done. Tears hit again and I felt my face join the redness of other’s.
We slowly and daringly walked to the casket, afraid of how death would look.
She laid silently. Peacefully. A scarf kept her cold neck warm. She was as beautiful in her death as she was in life.



We returned to my house after the service. After the tears. After our brains finally accepted her unexpected death.
My mother walked through the door. She looked tired.
“Hi,” Harley and I mumbled.
“Laurie?” Mom asked quietly. “Can I talk to you?”
She walked into her room. I followed automatically, not aware of her current state of being.
“Look,” she started, looking me in the eyes. “I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but—“ She stopped. A tear formed in the corner of her eye. “Matt passed away this morning.”
I fell back into uncontrollable tears.



The ride to Birmingham was excruciatingly long. We drove out to the same funeral home my grandfather was buried at. The parking lot was full.
My mom, my brother, and I stood patiently in line, talking to other church members that were there to honor Matt.
Two hours later, his casket was visible. The noise faded to silence as I neared. My body felt as if it was being controlled by someone else. My own soul had fell to numbness.
The three of us cried together over him. He was a youth director, a mentor, a friend.
We were forced out by the crowd that was trying to reach him. We stood outside of the car, crying like babies in the winter’s night.
And it was all within a week.

The Worst Part About Dying (poem)

The worst part about dying is not the
sadness or grief that suffocates your soul,

but rather the life that continues on,
leaving no time for death to sink in.

It's having to live on even after you watch
your friend covered by dirt and flowers
resting forever in a bed marked by a painted rock.

The worst part about dying is knowing that
your life will continue without them to laugh at you
or to help you along the beaten path.

The worst part about dying is living,
because they had to live to die,
and we have to live even though they said goodbye.