Miranda Poem (2011)

Wrote on: 8/17/2011

Marvelous, adorable one.

Intelligent, bright as the sun.

Radiant, a lovely smile.

Angelic, a beautiful woman.

Natural, a one of a kind.

Darling; special to only one other’s heart.

Affectionate, a gift from above.

I am Miranda. I am me.

Into The Darkness (2008) Poem

wrote on: December 11th, 2008

Into the Darkness

Miranda Smith

Like a string bow, I pull back and smack.

Slinking and panting, I rowdy run rushing to the fox pit.

With only small cuts, a bruised ego, and low ammunition,

I helplessly stare at my comrade.

His leg is smashed in two like a twig.

He has glazed eyes, unable to comprehend the figure that was me in front of him.

Urgently, I place my gun down, careful not to make too much noise, and wrap his arm around my neck, and sling him over, emitting a ghostly groan from him.

I whisper sweet sayings silently to soothe him.

“We’ll make it!”

“Squelch, squish, squirt!” oozes out the blood.

Across enemy territory,

Through the thicket,

And into the darkness where I, the woman soldier, came through, back to safety.

Breaking The Odds (2008) Poem

wrote on: December 11th, 2008

Breaking the odds

Miranda Smith

We walk together holding hands,

Proud and mighty,

Ignoring the stares haters give,

Ignoring the whispers haters give,

Ignoring the confrontations,

Our kisses should be proof enough of our relationship.

I am as free as a bird.

His warm embrace is a security blanket to escape to.

We love each other even if we are the same gender.

Our passion supports and holds us.

So to all who believe we are not meant for each other,

You know nothing.

Christmas Plane (2008) Poem

wrote on: December 11th, 2008

Christmas Plane

Miranda Smith

“Ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk” went the rollers form the suitcase onto the plane.

The flight attendants greet the passengers,

With fake smiles and pleasant hellos,

Just like cheshire cats,

With rosie cheeks and snow white teeth,

As the passengers begin to take their seats.

No worries, no scurries, no hurries,

Blankets and scarves and cuddles to go around,

Look out the window and you can see flurries,

No one knew the events bound.

The plane rolled off into the night air,

Bouncing and shaking,

So far so good,

Only bumping.

An hour into the flight,

There’s a terrible rumble,

And a loud explosion,

And suddenly the plane is vibrating violently.

Panic and screams are hollered out,

It’s only when the captain’s voice is heard,

That the passengers quiet down and follow instructions to remain calm,

And pray.

It’s almost Christmas, and the captain must get everyone home safely,

With a flick of a few buttons,

And a harsh turn to the right,

The captain lands the plane,

And all is alright.

Because the Forbidden Fruit Tastes Sweeter (2008) Poem

wrote on: December 11th. 2008

Because the Forbidden Fruit Tastes Sweeter

Miranda Smith

Pinching, picking, and plucking,

Pinching, picking, and plucking,

That’s what the slave man does.

All day and even through night,

So much pinching, picking, and plucking.

But one day during his daily plucking,

A woman that caught his eye kept him still.

Her fragile, frail face that only kept the blush of her make-up framed her beautiful cheeks.

The two exchanged looks, both intrigued by the other, but quickly returned to their activities when the porcelain skinned woman’s fiancé walked outside.

Her shy, growing smile that was once for the man out in the field marred into a small frown at the sight of her prickly fiancé.

As time goes by, the slave man out in the field and the beautiful porcelain skinned woman’s interaction grew.

As time goes by, the slave man out in the field knew that his close relationship with the porcelain skinned woman was too dangerous.

The two would have to run, run, run,

To be able to have their son, son, son,

So they did what had to be done, done, done,

And they knew the crowd would cry, “Shun, shun, shun!”

Duties To A Master (2008) Poem

wrote on: December 11th, 2008

Duties to a master (personification)

Miranda Smith

Ever since I was a young pup,

I would always nip, yip, and skip,

And you would hold me close,

And rub my fur,

And speak to me,

And I would holler like your baby.

Training to work by your side,

To bring down the bad humans the reeked of sin,

Was a thrill and a pleasure,

To keep you and the public safe.

So as you hold me close,

And rub my fur,

And speak to me,

Remember that I will always nip, yip, and skip,

To keep you and the public safe,

Even after I have served my years.

The Easy Way (2008) Poem

wrote on: December 11th, 2008

The easy way

Miranda Smith

Do not give up,

Get out of that water,

Swim back up,

You don’t belong there.

Jump out from that dark place,

The crevice in your heart you sank into.

Don’t stop losing hope,

I’ll save you.

Like a gapping fish on shore,

You struggle to breathe as you realize,

Giving up your hope,

Giving up your faith,

Giving up your chance at happiness,

Is not the best way to go.

Keep trifling though your troubles.

As you flutter through the day,

Keep your courage and do not sink back.

You will make it, begin by trusting me.

Fire Soldier (2008) Poem

wrote on: December 11th, 2008

Fire Soldier

Miranda Smith

“KA-KRACK!” snarls the flames of the furious fire.

The fire soldier only had seconds to spare to save anyone left abandoned in the burning building.

“Make a noise so I can find you!” the fire soldier screamed.

His uniform slightly deafened his ears, so listening over the roars of the fire may be next to impossible.

But fate blessed the victim, for the fire soldier heard loud cries over the blazing fire, and made his way like hell's angel to the helpless soul.

He kicked a door down with a mighty boot, and spotted a figure huddled, and he scooped the person up, and hurried back through the falling logs of death out into the night, where paramedics waited to treat the injured.

Close Call (2008) Poem

wrote on: December 11th, 2008

Close Call

Miranda Smith

My vision is blurry,

My mind is foggy,

My speech is slurry,

But I can drive.

I slam my keys in the ignition,

Bringing the car to life.

Like a speeding bullet, my tires skid over the street and I zoom off.

But I can drive.

Driving is boring.

I drive with one hand.

Soon I am snoring,

And I roll onto land.

But I can drive.

I grew conscious as I swerved off land and into the wrong lane.

I jerked the steering wheel to the right and I heard the honking of the angry driver I almost collided.

But I can drive.

My buzz kills away as I realize what just happened, or rather, what almost happened, and what could have happened.

I hyperventilate and begin to weep.

No more will I drink poison and think irrationally.

I admit my mistake,

And I can’t drive.

Confusing Crimson (2008) Poem

wrote on: December 11th, 2008

Confusing crimson

Miranda Smith

(Based off of true events of Kody Kindever)

Like streaming rivers, blood flows down my head, through my hair, over my face, and drenching my clothes.

It’s like nothing is real, and my wounds were all just an illusion.

Was I on a movie set?

Was this really happening to me?

I feel as though my mind has left my body as I lay there unmoving. I can feel myself becoming very cold, but too weak to shiver.

I can see a black tunnel itch its way closer and closer.

Wait, something isn’t right.

I can’t give in.

What happened?

Am I dying?

Why?

I don’t want to go.

It’s not my time!

I remember groaning and twitching my fingers,

Then slowly raising my arms to push up and off the ground.

The black tunnel slowly receded.

I sluggishly ran towards a phone.

My neck felt weird.

I remember feeling for my neck with my hand,

But it seemed like I wasn’t touching anything, like the sensation from when your hand goes numb and you touch it with your other hand.

The black tunnel crept its way back over my eyes,

And my legs were about to give out.

But I don’t want to give in.

Not now.

Not yet.

I reach a payphone.

I stumble in,

And flipped the phone off the receiver,

And dialed those three blessed numbers.

I won’t be alone, help is on the way.

I slump down,

Thanking who ever is up there in the sky.

I’m not dead.

I have survived.

Memoir of a frighting experience (2008)

Wrote on: October 9th, 2008

   I expected my piano practice to presume just like every other day.

  

   I am eleven years old at the time, and my piano teacher has just been fired from her previous job since it was no longer as popular around the town as it had once been. Because of that, my piano teacher, Ms. Garris, has now moved her job and her principal investment to her house, where there for the remaining time of my Piano “hobby” I will remember.

   To be honest, I have always felt that taking piano lessons is dull and surely uninteresting, especially since I have taken piano for seven years. I find myself remembering that I haven’t complained to my parents much about why I am being forced, every Saturday evening, to go to piano practice and learn the beautiful ways of how to stretch my fingers and hit the right notes with this finger and not that at the right moment to perfectly imitate the way the actual song plays.

   The reason for putting up with the tedious deed first started out as just a little girl of seven years old just listening to what her parents had instructed her to do in hopes that the musical lessons will somehow help me in my future. As I came every Saturday to that little, cramped, complex music store, before Ms. Garris had moved her job to her small cozy house, we would more and more often do less practicing, and a little more chatting, the faster she and I grew a friendly relationship.

  

   Now Ms. Garris was a truly kind and smart woman and very talented at playing the piano. She loved to talk and share her thoughts about what problems you have been having and give some advice, or numerous things that have been happening to her, specifically about her children. Ms. Garris was not the healthiest woman though. She was extremely passionate and knowledgeable in her Christianity religion, and would hold her piano recitals at her Baptist church every Christmas.

   When she had moved her job to her house, we began to slack off more increasingly and trailing our thoughts out in exchanging words to one another. We had been frequently, one way or another, talking about Christianity the most.

   Ms. Garris is responsible for having an impact on my life positively, and in a way negatively, that has changed my life.

   I have never in my life, have been to church more than four times at least, and knew slightly about God, and even less about Jesus, other than he was an important idol for Christians. That does not mean I am not Christian to this day.

   When she had talked about God and Jesus I would be attentive and would draw my attention to her like a mosquito sniffing out for blood. Since I had not even a grasp of information about God, learning so much about important life lessons and principles the Bible had provided out because of God and his son Jesus was most intriguing, but that wasn’t the only thing she would tell me.

   Ms. Garris would tell me frightening stories of how demons would grab hold of people’s lives and even kill people. She would tell me of how she preached and prayed a powerful evil demon out of her own child.

  The Bible and the demonic stories changed my way of thinking, and made me transform into a much better person towards others out of fear, and respect for God.

   I began acting out of character at school and at home. At night, I would stay up severely late pass twelve shivering and wondering when the demons would come to drag me to hell.

   My father had enough of my bitterly quiet nature and nocturnal habits of sleep. My mother had told my father that one evening, after hearing another one of Ms. Garris’ hellish tale during my “piano practice”, I walked to the car from her pebbled driveway in shock and as soon as my mom had began driving the vehicle to home I had cried and began muttering for God’s forgiveness on my unclean soul.

   Hearing of this tale had angered my father so much, that he had called Ms. Garris right after that appointment. I still remember the words clearly.

   “Hello?” Ms. Garris said.

   “Ms. Garris,” my father’s bold tone stated. “I would like for you to know that Miranda Smith will no longer be doing any more piano lessons from you.”

   “Why is that?” she questioned.

   “My daughter has no more interest in playing the piano,” he said curtly. The anger in his tone could not be heard, but the look in his eyes said other wise.

   I went through a three year depression, an extremely dark hole in my pre-teen life, and that has given me to this day quiet a fear called Stigiophobia.

   I do not blame nor hate Ms. Garris at all for the affects she had on me, rather I accept all of the memories, even the scary ones.

   I am thankful for the things she had told me, because that has changed me as a more concerning, and most understanding person, and has given me a better conscience. That experience has certainly opened my eyes from an illusion to a larger world and made the best out of me be seen.

    Every night since I have met Ms. Garris, I always pray to God and Jesus, and that has made me happier.

Amanda Sutherby (2010)

((AN:// On September 2nd, 2010 a special girl I know needed help with an autobiography for a class in highschool. She sent me a message and asked for help. So I told her to tell me about a memory she had of something important that affected her. This is her story written by my fingertips.))

Momento Mori

Rest In Peace

     “When life gives you lemons, make beef stew” – Andy Milonakis.
     When I returned home to escape the reality of the day, I went into the kitchen to at least get something solid into my stomach, since I neglected to eat much all day. It is difficult to have an appetite for anything, when you just returned from your mother’s funeral.
     I grabbed a few crackers and sat in one of the wooden chairs that gave off a squeak when sat upon, in the kitchen. I wiped some of the crumbs on my nimble black dress. Oddly, I noticed there was a DVD carelessly sitting on the kitchen table. I read its title, and I honestly didn’t know whether to cry, or just laugh. I saw sitting on that wooden counter the movie Death at a Funeral.

     How ironic.

     I quickly averted my eyes from the DVD and my gaze floated across the poorly painted room until they fell upon a mirror facing me.
     It was, and still is, hard to look at myself in a mirror without seeing a little bit of myself dying, and a little bit of her growing in my features. We have the same hair, although she bleached hers since she was about my age. I have her eyes, a golden shade that's never quite brown but that no other color can compare, that is, until we cry. Then our eyes turn green, bright green. Mine were looking greener everyday and the bags under my eyes kept getting darker. Maybe the bags helped my eyes to look greener. With the summer wasting away, so did my tan, but the ever so prominent freckles were still there. They were her freckles. I felt like they polluted my face; a never-ending toxin that would not let me forget my pain.

     I like to imagine what more things we could have possibly done together. There was so much more to do. She had so much to do in life. A woman in her forties still has much life to live. Her wedding would have been yesterday; married to a new husband. I would have been her maid of honor. I glanced over to the calendar on the wall, and a cheetah gleamed at me from a branch somewhere in Africa.

     My mom loved cheetahs.

     Her wedding would have happened yesterday. I'm losing track of the days passing by. But now, instead of a happily ever after, there is mourning and melancholy at this once planned event turned sour. It is hard, but sometimes I imagine how her fiancé feels, about standing over his beloved’s grave.
     I stopped living with my mother and little brother in Tennessee, after she got arrested, when I was about thirteen. I had to live with my father in Florida, and I quite enjoyed it there, much more than with my mother in Tennessee. My mother and I bickered tremendously, and I realize now she was only trying to give me some life-advice, but I basically lived a solitary life not run by anyone but myself. I guess I see now how close I can compare my mother to myself, just from that. I used to feel so isolated and alone in her house. She constantly had to work or sleep to support herself, my little brother, and me.

     I did not have a bond with my mother. I did not console to her, much less give her insight about who I am as a person; what I think; what I feel, unless we are arguing. Maybe the reason I did not go back to live with her was because I did much less arguing with my father.
     The only times I felt somewhat at peace around her was when we went out on car drives in downtown Clarksville looking at the old architecture. I think that is when I grew a love for stick-shift cars. I have not realized how much I craved her affection and attention until now.

     Too little too late…
     If I could change something in the past, it would be that I would actually listen to her more, and maybe abide to what she had to say. I am positive I am walking in the same path as she did in her youth, and as a mother she only wants the best for me.
     I picked up the binder full of all her paperwork off of the table. I had been avoiding going through it for the longest time, I guess it is now or never. I turned the binder sideways to look into the never-ending contents. I did not quite understand how that much paper could fit into such a small binder, but that's my mother for you.

     Unattached to any legible piece of paper, a silver star fell from the contents, I picked in up and stared at it. It was a small star pin with a carved heart and the word “Service” carved just below it. This was the pin she was given after her time spent as part of the U.S. Army in Germany.

     I broke down right there.
     I just wanted to truly make her proud of me, and she is not going to be around to see my graduation from high school, leaving for the Marines, getting married, having children, and most importantly of all, bestowing upon me her genuine grace of approval, and love. I could give up just about anything to have at least one day with her. To fix this gap filled with problems, I feel I created, between us.
     After mourning for several days, I was still depressed and just a complete wreck. I could not accept the shock that my mother is dead, and there is no sugar-coating that fact. I learned I have to know the consequences of each choice I make. Now, I have to live each day with no regret, because life is too short and nothing can be expected not to happen. I feel closer to my family than I did before, and now I truly value the extreme importance of family. I feel so lucky to have them.

Hanging Tree Poem

((AN:// This is a poem from 2008 I typed from the novel "The Hunger Games." It was not written by me.))

Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where they strung up a man they say murdered three.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where the dead man called out for his love to flee.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where I told you to run, so we’d both be free.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we both met up at midnight in the hanging tree. 

Defending The Death Penalty (2009)

Wrote on: November 30th, 2009

Defending the Death Penalty

   The Death Penalty, also known as “Capital Punishment,” is the process by which convicted criminals are executed by a governing authority (Issit 1.) Within the United States, the Death Penalty is one of the most controversial and debatable topics of discussion. Debates over the legal, moral, and ethical turmoils regarding the Death Penalty are not only held in conferences in America, but throughout the world.

   Capital Punishment is needed to save innocent American lives. Capital punishment produces a strong deterrent effect that saves lives. Between 1977 to 1996, Professors Hashem Dezhbakhsh, Paul R. Rubin, and Joanna M. Shepherd found in a study that in over 3000 counties each execution, on average, resulted in 18 fewer murders (David 2.) Between 1960 to 2000 executions and murder incidents could be and were compared before, during, and after the U.S. Supreme Court’s death penalty moratorium. It was found that executions had a highly significant negative relationship with murder incidents (David 2.) Criminals are no different from law-abiding people who make their own decisions by their own self interest, so an increase in the risk of apprehension and punishment for crime will deter individuals from committing crime. Furthermore, in a 2006 Gallup poll, 71% of Americans approved of the death penalty and 65% believed that the use of the death penalty is not immoral (Issit 2.) Furthermore, alternative punishments such as life imprisonment only had 46% believing that life in prison is a better alternative (Issit 2.) There is a consistent 2:1 ratio in favor of Capital Punishment. It is proven that the Death Penalty does, in fact, deter crime.

The opposers of the Death Penalty bring up that minorities are treated unfairly. According to Professor Berk’s re-analysis in 2005, he states that for both capital charges and death sentences, race either played no role or a small role that is very difficult to specify (David 2.) It is very difficult to find convincing evidence for racism. “Race may have a small influence because cases with a black defendant and white victim or other racial combination are less likely to have a death sentence’” (David 2.) The decisions to seek the death penalty are driven by characteristics of crimes rather than by race, as it should be. There is little evidence to suggest that minorities are treated unfairly.

Also, opposers of the Death Penalty add that innocent men could be executed. The fear of accidentally executing an innocent person is a valid concern. However, less than half of all individuals are actually declared innocent of their crimes; most are released on technicalities (Bowman 1.) Out of the 6930 inmates on death row in the U.S. between 1973 and 2000, only 34 were released with claims of actual innocence which represents less than .5% of death penalty cases – hardly enough to justify claims that capital punishment is unfair and in any serious danger of claiming innocent victims (Bowman 1.) In 2004, Congress ruled that all inmates on death row are eligible to receive further investigation when DNA evidence is available, in order to prevent the execution of a wrongly convicted innocent (Issit 3.) States cannot carry out an execution until an extensive review of the case has been conducted. The chances of an innocent being executed are extremely small.

If all else fails, some states even commute the death sentence. Commuting death sentences is deadly and dangerous. It gives hope and encourages terrible crime to the criminals outside and inside the jail bars. For each additional execution, on average, according to a state-level data from 1977 to 1997, about five murders were deterred (David 2.) Unfortunately, for each commutation, on average, five additional murders resulted (David 2.) A removal from death row is associated with an increase of at least one additional murder. To further support the deterrence effect of capital punishment, Paul R. Zimmerman conducted 2 studies. He found that each additional execution, on average, resulted in 14 fewer murders (David 3.) In his second study, he found that executions by electrocution are the most effective deterrent (David 3.) Each additional execution appears to deter between 3 and 18 murders. Commuted sentences and death row removals appear to increase the incidence of murder and crime.

The opponents of capital punishment will face an internal struggle of morality. If each execution is saving lives, the harms of the death penalty would have to be extraordinary to justify its cause.

Justice is only achieved when a crime is met with the proper punishment. Each execution is associated with at least three fewer murders which includes both crimes of passion and murders by intimates. Executions deter the murder of whites and African-Americans alike, and there is little to no evidence to suggest that minorities are treated unfairly. Shorter waits on death row are associated with increased deterrence and a life is saved. Capital Punishment ensures that murderers never murder again, and provides justice for murder victims and their families.

Reference Page

Bonnie Szumski, Helen Cothran, and Scott Barbour. The Death Penalty. Thomas Gale: Farming on Hills, 2006.

Bowman, Jeffrey, and Tracey M. DiLascio. “Counter point: Crime and Punishment.” Points of view: Death Penalty (2007): 3. Points of View Reference Center. EBSCO. Web. 29, Oct. 2009.

Cass R. Sunstein, and Adrian Vermeule. Capital Punishment Is Moral to Prevent the Taking of Innocent Lives. Current Controversies: Capital Punishment. Ed. Paul Connors. Detroit: Greenhaven Press, 2008.

David B. Muhlhausen. The Death Penalty Should Not Be Abolished. Opposing Veiwpoints: Criminal Justice. Ed. David M. Haugen. Detroit: Greenhaven Press, 2009.

D. J. Herda. Furman vs. Georgia: The Death Penalty Case. Enslow Publishers, inc. 1994.

Issit, Micha L. “Death Penalty: An Overview.” Points of View: Death Penalty (2007): 1. Points of View Reference Center. EBSCO. Web. 29, Oct. 2009. http://search.ebscohost.com

Nancy Day. The Death Penalty for Teens. Enslow Publishers, inc. 2000.

Roger Smith. Prisoners on Death Row. Mason Crest Publishers. 2007

Why Should I Care? (2007)

Wrote on: April 1st, 2007

((AN:// I wrote this after a stage in my life where I was very angsty and hateful. This is an autobiography of an intense experience I had in 2007.))

I felt like screaming.

The anger I felt then was something so, unreal at the time.

I thought of myself as a different person, but the look on her face said otherwise, that in fact, I was the one who did that.

I who caused her the pain.

Who told the truth to her face so she could realize what she really became.

What society and herself allowed and controlled her to do.

She became someone I know longer knew, she let the few deadly sins that takes peoples lives destroy hers, with my words.

I felt like a jerk.

But I didn’t care right know.

Tears started to form at the corner of her eyes, and then flooded over her lids.

She dropped to her knees, then on all fours so her face couldn’t be seen. Soft sobs started to escape from her lips. Her delicate fingers with those well filed nails dug into the carpet floor beneath her. And she felt pathetic.

I towered over her cowering body. She looked helpless.

How pathetic.

She was the one who did this to herself. I just told her exactly what was seen through my words. What everyone thought of her as. I don’t care what she thinks about me now.

But it felt good to let those words out of how ungrateful and selfish she had become.

Her sobs became heavier. Her attempts to stop crying became harder, the hot tears became abundant.

She kneeled down, head on her arms and curled up in defense from my voice, trying to block me out.

But I already invaded her mind with my venomous sayings. She was already lured in.

I glare at her, and continued what I had to say about her. What everyone had thought and already knew, but couldn’t muster to say.

But something I said had struck her, and she looked up at me, and I saw her eyes.

Eyes, that glimmered new tears ready to burst, and could remind anyone of the sparkling ocean with her deep azure colored eyes.

Her eyes, widened and fear struck, stopped momentarily to look at me. To see what I was saying was really true in my eyes.

“Why do you let popularity manipulate you till you’re nothing but floating rumors? Because people thought of you as some kind, cute girl, you just let that pride; lust, anger, and envy take over huh? You wouldn’t even try to start acting better would you? You’d just crawl back to society and cry your little heart out to get attention.”

Tears returned spilling over her eyes. It seems every word I said struck a cord in her heart painfully.

Because she knew I was right, and she couldn’t help herself, so why should I.

That’s why I gave no words of comfort to her if she really did want to change herself.

That’s why I left her there alone to cry in her misery, her self-pity of what she is.

She will never have the intelligence of what few possess that I know of.

I walked past her, not uttering a blink, and kept my face as impassive as it was when I started this dialogue with her.

Her cries echoed after me, trying to haunt me, but I ignored it, thinking of it as a small nuisance to not worry about.

“Hey what’s u-!” I heard the words of a friend.

But one look that she took of me explained everything that I just did.

She was also friends with the girl who’s kneeling away grieving, and she knew, just by looking at my face, what I had done.

She rushed past me, and down the hallway from the room I just came out of at the very end.

All I did was turn back around, exit the building, and left to go home, letting the sunshine that bloomed in the sky welcome me into the light.

Why should I care if she didn’t even want to help herself?

Sundays (2007)

Wrote on: April 22nd, 2007

It’s a very nice day out many would say.

The sun was high in the baby blue sky and no clouds could be seen for miles, and the sun light has as ever to hurt a gaze when stared at.

Summer’s glimpse in spring has begun to appear. Evidence shows the dark green leaves on the trees. The shades of grassy green and such on the bushes in my yard, and the amethyst colored stems and leaves on the budding crimson peddles of roses, along with the long light green leaves with white lines coursing down the leaves on the orange tulips. They all sprang up at the early signs of summer time.

The wind even complemented the sunny, hot day.

Cool winds blew over the hills and through the strands of my hair continuously through big gusts and soft, low ones. The sun was even starting to burn my skin red, but the oil and lotion I rubbed on my soft skin would keep me safe for awhile.

No one except me and the birds singing in the distance were outside, and I was completely content with that. Silence doesn’t bother me.

I always seem to forget what the warmth from the sun’s rays is like.

Yup, Sundays always seem like the perfect day, to do nothing.

Something to Myself (2007)

wrote on: April 14th, 2007

Something to myself.

(Estimated time wrote, middle of seventh grade 2005)

During the change

I sat in my mind, an empty room with no shadows with light all around on a wooden stool, until a sudden moment of darkness pried its way into shutting out what light there was.

To me, I was lost and confused and felt alone in my own trap.

But, there would always be light all around me, even if I couldn’t see it. I felt at peace with a since of tranquility blinding my innocent eyes.

But I’d never forget the darkness I slipped into.

~

(Sat. April, 14, 07)

After the change

And so here I am, back at square, eh, I’d call it two. I’ve been myself, not thinking too much about religion, and not thinking too little, and that can take an effect on anyone.

But I don’t believe I’m slipping into any oblivion or darkness, well, maybe a little, but really, I’m not really bringing that up in my head as “darkness.”

So I know what many are thinking about religion, as going into more of Christianity. I know how your thinking pattern is, what you believe about a certain subject, and how you’re even changing, even if you hadn’t really noticed it yourself.

I know what people are like by just looking at them, and observing their interaction with one another, and even by themselves. I suppose my sense of observation I get from my mother.

But now, I sit in my mind, a room full of a light colored grey, almost too light, sitting on a smooth wooden stool, with a foggy cloud flying and morphing all around me like an angry lightning storm, changing different shades of white, grey, and black.

To me, I feel content, calm, but really, no matter which way you look at it with your eyes, I felt unemotional in my mind. Like I really, don’t care anymore.

I almost forgot how I felt in the room I had a year or two ago, that use to be just, pure white, a sickening white like a hospital for the crazy.

Never will I forget the event, but the emotions one can feel, can be easily forgotten, unless that experience is redone.

I don’t even know if my Stigiophobia is as bad as it was.

That’s the way the human mind works. Whenever something is too unpleasant, too shameful for us to entertain, we reject it. We erase it from our memories. But the imprint is always there. Nothing is really forgotten.

Separate Lives (2008)

wrote on: July 4th, 2008

I waited for you, but you never came.

Today it rained, and tomorrow it has a 50% chance of raining.
My friend and I, and my parents, won't be able to go out on the boat tomorrow, but I really love to watch thunderstorms.

I like standing on the porch or in the garage just hearing the thunder and watching the rain.
It's pleasing to hear the rain splatter against the pavement of the driveway. Listening to the soft and loud rumbles of thunder is like music in my ears, and when I see a flash of lightning, I slowly smile, and think of you, and that time we spent together on that rainy day.

Do you remember?

~~~~~~~~

Two teenagers quickly run to find a place for shelter from the heavy rain that began to sink into their clothes. They have just finished watching a movie, and were walking back together to go back to their warm homes and sleep the night away secretly thinking about one another and what plans they could do.

But unexpetingly, they both encountered a rain storm and quickly ran into one of the abandoned homes that was near the dirt path to the urban side of town, where the farmer girl lived, away from the path that the rich boy lived.

They both had very different lives, and were the exact polar opposites of one another.
This drew them together like magnets when he laid his dreamy eyes on her, and she rolled her annoyed eyes at him.

She was laughing and giggling as her boyfriend rushed her into the house and quickly shut the door behind them.
When he turned to look at her, he just couldn't stop staring at how beautiful she looked, even when wet to the bone.

She just looked at him and rolled her eyes, but gave a small shriek when he ran over and picker her up in his arms and kissed her.
She widely grinned and kissed him back.

And then, they made the ultimate bond with one another as true lovers.

When they were spooned up next to one another on the dirty couch, and he was lazily drawing circles in her smooth hair, and she was sleeping peacefully cuddled up next to him under his gaze, did the unexpected happen...

The door suddenly burst open, startling the two lovers and she was violently ripped away from his arms and wrapped up in a blanket given to her by her mother.
He was thrown a pair of pants by his father and also given a disgusted disapproving glare at him.

Her father rushed in and slapped her face yelling at her while dragging her out of the house and back into the pick-up-truck her parents used to get to the old house.

Back in the old abandoned home, his father turned his head away from his son and lectured him about what he said about staying away from that "poor filthy tramp farm girl"
The teenager kept silent, holding in his anger and humiliation another time.
He kept his fists clenched, tight enough to draw blood.
He picked up his shirt, and followed his father to the sleek black hummer vehicle.

While he was sitting in the passenger seat looking out the window, he sadly stared at the deep tire marks made by his girlfriend's parent's truck, and wondered if he'd ever meet her again, knowing that this, would be the last time his father would have of him dealing with his teenage lover.

But then, his eyes became determined, and he had to call her, and make arrangements to meet secretly together, but then as if reading his thoughts, his father stated that he was going to begin the arranged marriage he was thinking about with another wealthy father to his pretty girl that had one noticeable crush on the handsome boy.
The teenager though, detested her.

Later that night, when he was banned to his room, he took his cell phone and himself into the closet and called her, praying that she would be the one to pick up.
Luckily she did.

He told her everything about the marriage he was being forced into, and no matter what he loved her and only her.
But she had her doubts;
she believed it wouldn't work between the two of them. She was just a farm girl, and he was everything she wasn't, and could do everything she couldn't, and could have everything she can't have.
He was shocked to hear those words from his love's sweet lips, but he couldn't let her go, and he wanted her to be with him, forever.
She said they were too young, and they didn't know what love was, and that she couldn't live with being looked down upon by his family.

But he would have none of it, and asked her to meet him tomorrow at the back ally of the movie theater, where most teens go to make-out or do other things with one another.

They agreed.

~~~~~~~~

You never came, and I waited that whole day for you in this back ally getting rained on and violently shivering because of the cold.

And now, I'm writing this note, and I'm saying that I am breaking up with you.

This is for the best, you have your life to live, and I have a separate life from you.

Please,
Don't chase me.

Dragged Out Problems (2008)

wrote on: February 18th, 2008

I grinned at the feeling this drug was giving me.

I felt totally out of it, but aware and familiar with what’s going on, and what I’m doing.

My body was limply lying against the cold wall of my room, and my head was titled to the side gazing but not seeing, too lost in the sensations of….nothing.

I heard footsteps outside my bedroom, and heard the squeak of the hinges of my bedroom door open, and I saw him looking disappointingly at me.

“Get up, you look pathetic sitting there like your doped up.” His deep voice boomed out at me. I didn’t move, and that led him into a long lecture of listening and being polite to others, which led me to wonder why I am so hungry all the sudden.

“Hey, would you listen? I said get up.” He said a little more sternly.

I deeply inhaled before groggily kneeling on one knee and standing.

“Good, now help me out with some boxes, you still need to help me.”

We both walked to his new house that he bought. It was two houses down from mine, and I promised I’d help him move stuff in, I’ve known the guy since elementary.

He was talking about how better this neighborhood was then the previous one he lived at. I just nodded and said a few things.

A flash of some sort of discontent was in his eyes when I decided to look over at him.

When we finally reached his house, he turned on the radio and picked up a box filled with who knows what, and kicked his cracked door open to get inside.

I followed suit, only I had a hard time grabbing a box thinking there was 2 or 3 of them.

When I entered his house, his parents were already inside and greeted me as I did to them before returning to organizing their house.

“Hey!” he shouted from up the stairs, “that box goes in my room!”

I walked towards the stairs and watch him wait for me before we both walked towards his room down the hallway.

He sped up a little bit and entered his room, followed by me, and dropped the box he was carrying on the wooden floor, emitting a loud BOOM. “There was carpet in my last house, but I think wood may be better, less chance of getting stains huh?” he grinned at me before leaning back and popping his back.

“And what stains did you put in your last carpet?” I asked bordly.

“Oh you know,” he replied, “the usual food stain or drink stain a friend would accidentally knock over.”

He sat down backside towards me on the mattress that was in the middle of the room, it didn’t have its bedpost yet. His back slowly drooped till his shoulders were slumped. “How do you think she’s doing?” he asked quietly.

I sighed before walking over and sitting next to him criss-cross-applesauce style on his mattress. “You need to stop all this thinking; it’s screwing your brain up.”

“Oh and like drugs aren’t fucking yours up?” he snapped back.

What the hell?

I just dumbly stared at him. His face was a bit scrunched up from that anger accused accusation about me.

Well then if he acts like that, let him sit here and act like a pussy over her, he needs to learn when to let go.

I quickly stood up, making my head spin a little bit and made my way to the door.

“Wait, I-I didn’t…mean to say that.” He called out.

I stopped moving where I was and looked back at him, his eyes were glistening with water, and his torso was turned towards me.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, must be tough right now, your probably right anyways.”

I again walked back to him and sat down, and pulled out a box of cigs and lit one up.

“You’re gonna set off a smokin’ alarm with that.” I ignored him and puffed out a drag. Realizing I ignored him, he asked for one too and I complied.

A long silence between the two of us came; we continued to flick the ashes in an empty box that was already in his room. When he was done and only had a bud, and I still had some way to go, he abruptly stated, “She fucking hates me.”

Dammit, not this again.

 “So what? You said it yourself; she doesn’t even deserve a guy like you.” I quoted.

He turned away from me. “Yeah, but…it still hurts to know she just,”

I heaved another sigh, smoke emitting out of my mouth from the cigarette.

“Look, girls are just like that, they’ll like, maybe become overly obsessed with you, call it love, and be yours until they find another guy. Bitches like her,” a grimace was earned from him, “always pull off shit like that because they’re just confused hoes out for pleasure. Most of the time they’ll keep that shit up till their adults and live like the dirt bags they made themselves out to be.” I finish my statement with a long inhale of my cig.

“Please don’t call her that, it’s not helpin’ right now.”

I frowned at him, “you need to move on, no matter how hard it’s on you, it doesn’t matter, and you’ll find a better catch yeah?”

He shrugged a small shrug, and asked for another cig to calm his nerves. I gave him another.

“Hey, let’s unpack this last box you have.” I wanted to get off the topic of his ex.

“Why do you always do that?” he sharply asked when I rose up from sitting. “Wha?”

His voice, irritated from emotional stress, grew a bit higher. “Why do you always change the subject, especially when shit like this happens?!”

I gawked at him, this guy never yells, and he’s always grinning or laughing at something, why is he acting so bitchy and snappy just cause of a girl?!

“I’m not good with words, I usually say something wrong.”

He stood up too, so I’m now being looked down on, he’s standing too close, uncomfortably close for the “anti-social” like me.

“What the wrong is you not comforting me or helping me out! What happened to you?! You use to always want to play or talk or want attention from everyone, now you’re just a plain, unfriendly, jerk! Your nothing like the girl I-“ He stopped mid sentence.

And I feared the words that wanted to follow that unfinished sentence.

“Shit happens, it changes people.” Was all I countered before stepping back, leaving a comfortable distance between him and me.

“I miss the girl I played with at recess.” He stubbornly said, glaring at me like I wasn’t the same person he was talking to.

“I miss the guy who wasn’t a pussy for shit like this.” And then, I made my mistake.

I called him a pussy.

He widened his eyes and opened his mouth stunned at me. I never called him a pussy.

He felt utterly defeated just by the way he turned from pissed, to shock, to discomfit in a matter of seconds.

“So I am huh?” he sat back down and gurgles of noises could be heard afterwards.

It only took me to call him a pussy, out of all the words I’ve probably teasingly called him, to make him…cry?

Sure enough, he was kneeling over, shoulders shaking, softly crying, and trying so hard to be silent.

Aside from him falling and getting hurt, I have never seen him cry.

Subconsciously, and I don’t even remember walking over to him, I wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and let him cry on my stomach.

I let him cry his little beaten heart out, even when I felt the hot boiling tears soak through my black shirt. ‘Thanks goodness I wore black’ I thought, before returning my comforting duties to my emotional friend. He wrapped an arm around my waist and grabbed my shirt squeezing it for some kind of relief.

I just pat his back and rubbed soothing circles, all the while smoking my cig to the bud.

Disney Land (2009)

wrote on: April 16, 2009

Disney Land

I enjoyed that place so much when I was little. I believe I was at least six years old, and the visual images that impacted my mind that day, was something that I’d certainly never forget.

My mother was smiling a lot that day too. Her thin lips curled in a fresh warm smile. My father laughed and grinned, showing his dimples that I inherited, along with my cheery giggles from sitting atop of his shoulders with my candy in one hand and the other pulling his ear playfully.

My purple Mickey Mouse hat was twisted to the side, so only one of my bright blue eyes peeked out from the shade that the hat created. I was so happy to see Mickey Mouse walking down the street along with Miney and Donald duck. It was so exciting!

I, my mother, and father were all in line for a roller coaster ride, one that I had picked that day, and were ready to rock! I was so happy I was hopping in place, jumping on one foot to the other, and I remember saying, “When we gunna get on mumma?!”

My mother only smiled down and said, “Soon Wubby, we have to wait.”

Wubby, or wub, is a family nickname I’m called, it’s origins on how it was formed is still unknown. My speaking pattern was also very awkward, and I didn’t know how to say a lot of words. I spoke my own language. Mom said, that one day when my godmother Carrie took me to a grocery store, I was talking in my “baby” talk (mind you I’m six or seven) and some lady thought I was speaking Korean!

Anyways,

I looked over at the tall building next to the ride, (I think it may have been the hotels) and I saw a man cleaning the windows.

I saw him bending down, and his hat fell off his head, and when he tried to grab it.

He slipped, and he was trying to grab a hold of the edge of the wooded floor that was connected by two chains, but even he couldn’t pull himself up, and his fingers couldn’t grasp on any longer.

He fell.

And he screamed while falling all the way down to the bottom.

I was in shock. I couldn’t speak to warn anyone, not like I really had to since he was screaming bloody murder.

SMACK!

A sickening, bone popping noise hit the hard pavement of the road. I even saw the hat, flipping in the wind of the air, fall in front of the hotel rooms.

Blood seemed to have immediately exploded out of the man and flowed out of the skull down the pavement in a deep crimson color, and his arms were in the wrong positions. They may have been out of socket.

One of his bones in his leg was piercing out of his skin, blood gushing out of that wound. His eyes were wide, and blood trickled down his cheek.

And all I did was stand there. I don’t even remember what exactly I did, maybe I screamed, maybe I passed out, or maybe I tried to run over to help him.

It was so real it looked fake, like something you’d see from a movie and laugh at, until it actually happens.

Whatever I did, my father quickly twisted me around so I couldn’t see anymore.

And I remember no more of Disney Land.

A Cloudy Day (2007)

wrote on: April 12, 2007

The scenery outside that day was gorgeous.

The small blossoms that smelled that sweet stinky scent filled the trees as if they have just been snowed on.

The wind outside blew wonderful cool drafts of air on the warm, cloudy grey day.

Inhaling a deep breath of fresh cold air, I began my jog running down my steep driveway hill and onto the rocky street taking a left.

The music that was being played in my ear gave me a spiritual feeling, like I could just run forever and feel peaceful, like a full acceptance of myself and not care about anything that had happened recently, or what I still needed to do, or just, any of that.

I haven’t felt this way in a long time.

I should get out more.

Being by myself, feels good right now.

The wind starts to pick up and glide against my body, trying to push me away from the direction I’m going in.

My music player, tucked under my dark navy sweatshirt and T-shirt, began to play another song, slow at first, but picking up more dramatic and action feeling music.

I begin to pant a little, but my will to suddenly run never weakened.

I picked up my pace a little more, from a jog, to more of a canter, like a horse. It’s neither a run nor a jog, just right in between.

I make another turn on a street that begins to lead up a small, but long hill that curves the earths crust perfectly.

The sky brightens up in a lighter grey, but keeping that eye piercing light that seemed as though heaven was trying to peek through.

The cloudy sky’s metallic light reflected against my mirror eyes, which made it change color, from a light bluish-green, to a light bluish-grey.

My eyes reflected the mood of the day.

Now I began to slow my pace down to a small jog, to a walk, determined to make myself a goal for that day.

Beginning to turn from the stop sign onto another street made the direction of the wind change. Instead of in front of my face pushing me back, to now behind me leading me on.

But the wind’s harsh treatment on my skin never let up.

The skin on my legs felt numb, but I didn’t care. It really didn’t bother me that much, but as many other girls would say, I’m definitely going to be ashy.

I felt a grin ghost over my face over the thought of some girl who only cares about her looks and personality fondling over something like that with all of her other little friends.

I’m almost at the next stop, the octagonal red sign never leaving the sight of my eyes.

My body began to feel a bit heavy now, and I began to breathe harder.

But I didn’t want to give up yet. I wanted to run all the way to another stop, without collapsing.

Right when I passed that stop sign, did I break into a run.

I looked straight ahead at the other stop ahead of me. And now, the wind was testing me too, because its winds flew at me in big gusts, determined to make me stop.

My body at this point felt like pounds of brick weighing me down. My own breathing grew even heavier, almost like a choking wheeze.

My steps began to sync out of shape. I take longer heavier strides to try to reach my goal even faster.

And then, when I felt like I was just about to collapse right there, did I pass the red stop sign.

Immediately, I sat on the road breathing in all the oxygen my lungs could take. I felt very, very tired.

So I decided to lay down, right there, on the side of the road, with my arms crossed behind my head acting as a temporary pillow and my legs crossed comfortably together.

My music player kept playing great tunes too, some that I felt like at that moment, and that made me let out a small smile.

I gazed at the sky in fascination and wonder.

Cloudy days were always my favorite.

My mind began to drift off freely, since I had nothing to worry or care about.

Cars would continually drive by me, but none seemed to have cared about me, as I could them. Doubt they even saw me anyways.

But it wasn’t long till fate said I had to be disturbed from my thoughts.

“Excuse me? Are you okay dear?” a woman’s voice asked.

I sat up, trying to get the light-headedness that clouded my head away.

I shook my head, “I’m fine.” I say, so she wouldn’t have to worry.

The woman’s plump, round cheeks warmed into a gentle smile and nodded her head before driving away in her car, turning to the next road.

I watched her leave over the hills that curved the earth before beginning my walk home, up that steep hill to my house, and subconsciously walking in my house, in my room, and collapsing on my bed, and dozing off to a quiet nap.