The Right Words

I get excited when I find the right words,

cause it takes me so long to come to a point,

when they come freely,

the rest of the time I'm drowning,

in a sea of half-formed ideas and concepts,

and all them flowing down my throat,

blocking my air, filling my lungs,

cutting off the connection to my brain. 

....it's ironic...cause it's my greatest fear....is that the right word? 

You'd laugh at me if you saw me,

when the words come out correctly,

because I instantly fill with joy and my eyes go blurry,

I say the things, say the words,

then eventually they stop...because there's no more to say,

and you're just standing there laughing,

and suddenly it hurts, the way you're laughing,

because once the words are gone, there's nothing left,

there's only empty space being battered by laughter.

piece

when you find a moment of peace,

in the midst of everything,

you find a minute of still,

a piece of your heart falls to the ground,

you pick it up and look at it closely,

inspecting the frailty of the detail,

how the light passes through,

then carefully, so carefully, you fit it back in place,

and the moment is over,

the stillness breaks and you go on living.

Realisticity

I,

can't,

see beyo–nd,

I hate using words like cannot,

only in its short form,

because it,

sounds,

so,

cheesy,

if only cheese was real,

then I could eat it,

for whenever I chat with a friend,

that I really,

want,

to talk to,

–

–

–

why do I refer,

to them like its?

That was silly,

I shouldn't do that again,

it was silly,

now i'm in class,

like ninth grade,

when I was,

first,

introduced,

to free-writing,

because that IS what I am–

doing,

I am writing,

freely,

in here the now,

presently,

I am so tired,

sitting here,

sitting here is a cliché,

so why do I keep clichéing?

If... only.... cliches were real...

and then....then I could get rid of them...

Hammers on Strings

When I play,

I do not know that the sounds made,

are coming from little padded hammers striking taut strings that make a single vibrating tone,

all I see are keys struck by fingers,

my mind passes over information and looks to see how many different keys,

my fingers can strike at once,

and in which order they should be struck,

my mind, eyes, hands look and listen for the complex combinations,

and I play them,

I cannot see the hammers on the strings,

I listen to how long the vibration continues,

as soon as it is over, time for a new note,

or perhaps there needs to be silence for a time,

but now I can go faster, faster,

and put another pause,

now I can make one, two, three, to three, two, one,

and now one/three, two/four, one/four, one/three/five,

one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two...two....two...one...two...

depending on how many a time is needed,

I cannot see the hammers on the strings,

that needs to sound more blue,

and that must sound more light brown,

more like sand,

more like flowers,

more like starry water,

These are not the names of the sounds, of the keys, of the notes,

they do not have names,

they only have meaning,

but even the meaning cannot be verbalized, in or out,

I see no hammers on strings.

He Says of My Path

Faith – faith my own.

Fear not what can't be conceived,

Will you follow, follow, follow?

Will you chase the world on feet?

Will all that I say become filth in your mind?

Will you sweep it away and forget it was there?

I have so many, many delights,

Take them,

uncover the mystery surrounding the blur

A day in the life of a fourteen-year-old...

Okay, so i wrote this when I was fourteen, and I have left it alone since then, never going any further with it. I have not edited it or changed it in any way. It thought it would be fun to show my mind as fourteen-year-old, plus it really is a peep of my life at that time!

Ginny sighed in frustration as her bag slipped off her shoulder and onto her elbow with a painful THWUMP. She stopped walking and rearranged her self once again. Her P.E. bag went on her shoulder, her backpack went on her other shoulder, and she clutched her math and science book in her arms. Taking a deep breath she set out once again.

Trudging down the street, she tried to forget school for a moment, and make up some stories in her head. Ginny loved stories. There were many things she loved, but writing was one of her favorites. She had a file on her family’s laptop that was all to herself. It was filled with pictures, school stuff, and stories. She wrote tales of fantasy, as well as modern day. There were pirates, princesses, dragons, and girls just like her, as the heroes.

Walking to and from school was the perfect time to imagine, create, and dream, (so long as she walked fast enough not to be late!). She glanced behind her and saw some Palmgarten girls laughing and chatting about twenty yards behind her. Palmgarten was a nearby girls’ dorm. Ginny’s school was relatively small, (about 350 students), and almost half of the students boarded in dorms scattered in surrounding towns, Palmgarten being the one near-campus dorm. The other dorms were Wittlingen, (girls), Storch, (girls), Blauen, (girls), Sonne, (boys), Maugenhard, (boys), and H.B.R.(boys). All of the other dorms were located in surrounding villages, (most were named after the village they were in).

Ginny looked up ahead at the clock outside the hair-parlor. Eight thirty-five. She quickened her steps, hoping to make it in time to chat with Sarah Beck for a while. Ginny liked getting to school early, just in case something needed to be done before going to class. She was a freshman at Black Forest Academy, and in that point of adolescence, where one knows when she’s acting immature, and tries to act older.

She crossed over the little bridge and glanced at the creek passing by underneath. There were parts of walking to and from school that were special, and made her love it.

It took about four minutes to reach the long stretch of road that ran by the school, and then on towards the soccer fields. She walked a little faster, seeing her friend Becca up ahead. She whistled but Becca didn’t turn. Ginny smiled to herself. Becca could be so intent on what she was doing that other things completely went over her head, even if they were placed right in front of her. It was one of Ginny’s favorite characteristics about her.

She whistled again and this time, that blond head twisted around to find the source of the noise. Becca’s mouth split into an embarrassed grin, and she stopped walking to wait for Ginny, who jogged up towards her.  

An Actor Practices His Monologue

Violins, violins,

He paces, paces, paces,

Up and Down the low brick wall,

Woodwinds, woodwinds,

He glides–he glides–

Across the lake, green and rippled.

With a flourish he bows.