Last Minute

It's funny how this sort of thing works out.

It's 6 am, I'm tired, I should be asleep, and the last day in creative writing is less than two hours away.

But I suppose it's fitting considering how much I've procrastinated, that the last assignment I'll ever do in high school I'll have procrastinated the most.

Now, at first, I was going to apologize for not blogging more, until I realized I'm not sorry about that at all.

The blog was never as much my Paris as it was for some of you. I wanted it to be a place where I can go to when I needed it, not because I was expected to. I didn't want to be artificial.

No, I think it a lot of ways my ticket to Paris was the slams.

Confused? Maybe, just hear me out.

For me, when I was performing was when I was in Paris. Up there in front, whether I'm reading a poem, or just being dumb.

I am a performer at heart, which is odd, considering how mind-numbingly introverted I can be.

You were my audience, my peers, and my friends.

For me I was always more comfortable writing a poem on the stage, rather than alone in front of a computer screen.

Getting applause, or even a confused look, was what did it for me. I don't know if I was incredibly narcissistic or I desperately needed attention. Maybe both, maybe neither.

I'm sure you understand what I mean. What is the best part of writing on the blog? Writing something, or getting comments on what you wrote?



Sigh... I'm not entirely sure what I'm trying to say right now, I'm too tired.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the writing too. I still want to write a book one day. But writing is not the only part of creating a great work, and I'm glad I was able to remember that.

I'm glad I had a chance to be reminded.

I'm glad I got to enjoy the last hours of high school in a class that's something different, that taught different, with all of you.

And now these are the last minutes, the twilight of high school, but not for Paris.

No there is no last minute there, unless we choose to leave.

Find ways to extend your stay, no matter what it is, I look forward to seeing you there for many more minutes to come.

Love is not Romantic

Love is not Romantic
Why do we think it is?
Romance needs love
But love isn't romance

Love is flashing a smile
it is telling a dumb joke
it is a kind word

Girls can tell each other "I love you"
Why can't boys?

Love is giving service
it is spending time with them
it is lifting them up

Do we understand love?
No, but yet
We feel it, we live it

Love is a hug when they are sad
It is being there when are grieving
It is listening when they just need someone

You don't need to be in love to love someone
We tend to forget that

Love is doing everything
Love is doing anything

Love is wanting nothing more than for them to live

If I ever tell you I love you
Please don't take it lightly
Because I'm not.

Another

                                 I'm not going to be bitter
                               
                                 But I don't know why I bother
                               
                                 I thought it was getting better
                               
                                 Then you said there was another

The Monster in the Closet

I have a monster in my closet

It is a disgusting creature
large and foreboding yet frail and lanky
It is forested from top to bottom in thick thorny red fur
which excretes a rotten tar-like oil
Its feet are stolen from some poor mutilated goat
Its tail hard and leathery is spiked and bejeweled
with tarnished gold and amethyst
Its eyes, black as the moon's shadow, have a sadistic glow of scorn
Its snout a boarish unceasing grin

I try to fight it
scare it
ignore it
but always just stands there
demanding it's presence

Its afraid of others
It slinks back and hides if you draw near
But I know its there
waiting watching plotting

I lie awake at night with tear stained eyes and hands upon my ears
listening as it scratches upon the door
with chewed up and molded nails
It teeth clash as it speak
dripping odorous venom from its broken lips

It is a demon I'm sure
sent from Hell to destroy me
and I fear...

It is succeeding

Ghosts of the Living

This is a poem about many people I know, it may be about you.

This is about a boy I know

Who appears to show an aura of confidence and success

one who makes all wonder and admire

but lives under the mountain of expectations

which he tries to carry like Atlas holding up the world

but is instead getting crushed by it.

He is a ghost

This is about a girl I know

Who spends all of her hours working and studying

giving all she can and achieving much

hungering for approval and love

but all her father can see is that it's an A- not an A.

She is a ghost

This is about a boy I know

Who despite having having friends who support him

refuses to believe in himself and speaking up

and is trapped in between the need to make new friends

and the fear of talking to strangers.

He is a ghost

This is about a girl I know

A true friend, one who could brighten the day of any she met

no matter how dim

but she is scorned and despised

because one day she made the mistake of saying

"I'm not mormon."

She is a ghost

This is about a boy I know

Who is wondering how he fits into life

and how life fits into him

who sees his only friend as a bitter bottle of beer

plagued with memories of regrets

as he watches his sibings accomplish what he thought he never could

while ignoring what he has done and helped along the way.

He is a ghost

This is about a stray cat I know

No more than a few months old, the cutest thing you will ever see

left to die on its own in death's winter snow

all attempts to help and shelter are met with fear

until the snow makes it to weak to run

it experienced warmth and caring

but ran away from the first love it ever knew.

That cat is now a ghost.

This is about a boy who is tired

Tired of self loathing

Tired of seeing opportunities pass him by

Tired of not know if his love is mutual or unwanted

But most of all

Tired of seeing the ghosts of the living

And of being one of them.