Today she toils just as she toiled before
On her knees, on the floor
Without stopping for breath
Working forever ‘til the arrival of Death

Many anticipate the rest that he brings
But his scythe simply sings
Of dreams crumbling apart
As it slices her hope and with that her heart

Tomorrow she’ll toil just as she toils today
Without a chance for pay
Struggling all but in vain
Working forever for a hope that won’t wane—

That is, until the arrival of Death
When she will let out her tired breath

Status - Complete, ?


posted - 1:45 PM



Shining eyes in a hidden face,
Short blessings but eternal Grace.
Stars glitter in the darkest space,
Fine dust scatters without a trace

Sweet melodies from a silent fife,
This world bound with endless strife.
The seeming futility of your life,
Everything balanced on the edge of a knife.

The withering of the grass still green,
Things you say that you don’t mean.
A shadow’s shadow can be seen,
Evil and good on an edge so keen.

Ice that burns and flames so cold
God’s shadow and Lucifer’s soul
Blinding rage passed on from old
Did you listen to what the darkness told?


posted - 6:55 PM



It was Thursday morning and students’ impatience hung heavy in the air. The yearend slideshow had already been postponed a day and time was running out. Then came the curt voice over the intercom declaring that the event had been canceled.

We bristled. In our minds, the showing of the Associated Student Body slideshow had been akin to the distribution of yearbooks and the last issue of the school newspaper, the Accolade. It just could not be canceled. This brusque announcement foreshadowed worse events to come.

I could only piece together patchwork details. Officially, there were technical difficulties and it just “hadn’t happened.” Unofficially, the slideshow had not been finished in time, but no one seemed willing to admit it.

When my adviser asked me to write the story, I was shocked; I had never written a deadline story on such short notice. I accepted the assignment after only a moment’s hesitation because I knew that it would be a good experience for me as I prepared to be the next year’s copy editor. I quickly jotted down questions and made my way to the ASB room, where I found a bigger problem—and person—awaiting me.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” the ASB adviser huffed with terse finality, his walrus mustache stiffening.

For him, that was the end of our conversation. For me, it could have been the end of my story. I flinched. Everyone, especially the seniors, who only had one month before they graduated, wanted to know what had happened.

This was not the first time the adviser had attempted to censor a story. Earlier that year, one of the ASB presidential candidates had used a copy machine to make some of his campaign paraphernalia when the rules expressly forbade it. In response, the adviser forbade the ASB class members from speaking to anyone, especially from the Accolade, about the incident although the school already had a general idea of what had happened.

I was in a state of disbelief as I left the room; I knew I still had to write the story, whether he would talk to me or not. I tried to call the assemblies commissioner, who had been in charge of the slideshow, but was unable to reach him. I was stumped. Where was that journalistic instinct I’d spent the past year developing? I considered abandoning the story, but I discarded that idea as soon as I thought of it. I wracked my brains for answers that evaded me much as celebrities flee the paparazzi; then I struck gold. If he would not talk, I would have to step over and above him. I berated myself for not thinking of it sooner.

When I arrived at the main office, the principal motioned me into his office and I took a seat as he folded his hands on his desk. I prepared for the worst.

“I think I have the answers you’re looking for,” he said after a long pause. He proceeded to confirm the rumors that the slideshow had not been finished in time to work out all the technological glitches that went along with it.

So I did get my story despite the ASB adviser’s restrictions. After I spoke to the principal, I had the assemblies commissioner verify what I had been told, though he did not want to comment directly on the fiasco. The solution to my dilemma was so simple—all I had to do was be persistent and not let one rejection destroy my resolve. And later, when people would wonder aloud what had happened to the ASB slideshow, all I had to do was say, “Read the Accolade. It’s right there.”


posted - 10:50 PM



A small smile
Dances in your eyes
Eyes turned towards
Not me, but
Them.
You say you
Love me, cherish
Me, care for me
Above all others
But you reject
Me, abandon me,
Ignore me when
Faced by
Them.
I call out
For you
Beg you
For just a bit
Of attention and
Love towards me
Not
Them
You smile at
Me, assure
Me that all is
Okay
Then you turn
And walk
Away from me
To
Them
I cry and mourn
The death of a
Friend who didn’t
Die, a friend
Who didn’t trust,
A friend who
Didn’t leave
I wept for you
In your stead
And made
Your tears
My own, that
You don’t have
To cry
Anymore
But as soon
As
They
Beckon, you race
Back to them,
And you don’t
Ever
Look
Back
At the girl you
Left behind
The girl who loved
You
Then when
They
Leave just for
A little while
You come
Back to me
And promise
That everything will be
Alright
Because you took care
Of everything
Stop lying to me
I once looked into a
Mirror and saw
Myself in different
Colors
Now I look into
A mirror and I
Do not see
Anything
My shadow is
My companion now
My reflection is no longer
Mine,
But
Theirs.


posted - 6:21 PM

Tears that felt like rain streamed down from my heart
Colors turned to gray,
the world faded away,
and it all fell apart.
My life has shattered into sparkling tears,
each blood-red raindrop a reflection.
A crimson reflection of what once was, and cannot be again.
Shining tears and life-blood falling together,
falling, falling, falling.
Splashes of red in a hazy gray world,
alluring sparkling gone.
Shards of mirrors, dimmed by age,
each crying for a world gone within their depths.
Shielded by white and overcome by black, melded to shades of gray.
Blinded by loss, reach out for the screaming cries of the children,
torn by the hatred and by hatred overcome.
Cry out, all, for a lost world.
Cry out in this hazy world of falling rain, crimson splashes, and falling tears.
A falling world,
a doomed nation,
a cursed race,
fall, fall, fall.
Burn, in the inescapable gray,
burn in the name of Christ and Lucifer!
The Apocalypse is coming, the riders calling, the demons screaming, angels singing.
Will your crimson tears tell of lost hope?
Or will they tell of life broken?


posted - 6:18 PM

Author’s Note: This is my baby as a result of drinking too much coffee and observing people. It makes absolutely no sense and is not supposed to—draw your own conclusions where they all are. This little blurb came out of my observations and the oddly poetic thought that popped to mind about how beautiful all of these men were while I was watching them.

Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust.

He was collapsed on the ground, curled up tightly and convulsing with desperate laughter. His eyes were squeezed shut, mouth opened wide as he choked back silent screams. His usually sheet-flat hair was matted and disheveled, a result of his banging his head fruitlessly against the floor. As I grabbed his upper arm, I could feel that his muscles had tensed into bands of steel, causing him immense pain at my touch.

“David?”

His thrashing grew worse at the sound of my voice, his hand desperately clawing at the air in my direction. I grabbed it and brought it down to his chest. He held onto my hand tightly, knuckles straining white. “Shh, David. Shh…it’s not your time yet,” I told him softly.

David continued to roll on the floor, bashing his head continuously. Little moans of pain escaped from his throat against his will, and he began to sob even while laughing. “Shh…have peace. It’s not your time yet.”


He was a silent angel, soundlessly helping the fallen with healing in his hands and prayers on his lips. His brown eyes were unreadable, unnaturally calm in the flickering light of the inferno around us.

“Mike, shouldn’t we try to get out?”

His quick gaze was cool but sympathetic. “We were the ones left behind; there is nowhere to go. All we can do is pray.”

There was a long pink welt on his cheek from a burning wire that had snapped into his face. He knelt beside one of the screaming girls, and held one stiff hand in his delicately. She immediately paused in her shrieks, panting for breath. His other hand rested on her forehead, long fingertips barely brushing her hair. She let loose an audible sigh of relief, relaxing a bit into his cool touch. He closed his eyes and began to pray.

“Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world…”


He was sitting in an abandoned corner that nobody even glanced at, his weeping girlfriend in his lap. Her head was tenderly balanced on his shoulder, and he held her protectively close.

“I’m sorry!” she sobbed hysterically, burying her face in his shoulder, one hand holding onto his sweatshirt tightly. “God, I’m so sorry!”

His face was filled with concern as he stroked her hair, murmuring quietly into her ear to calm her. When I handed him a tissue box, he flashed me a quick glance of thanks.

She flailed her arms when he tried to wipe her face; another girl and I restrained her so that Arthur could clean away the traces of snot and tears from her face. He did so with a single-minded intensity and care that sacrificed all selfishness for her sake. I noticed that his shoulder was soggy, his new shirt ruined from her crying.

“Arthur, your shoulder—”

“It doesn’t matter. Only she matters.”


He was watching from the sidelines as the others flit around like dying butterflies, weeping and screaming and healing and praying. His usually immaculate hair was plastered with sweat, his stylish clothes ruined with soot and singes—but he was starkly beautiful still. I knew he wouldn’t help us.

I had barely shifted my attention from Will to the others when I saw a heavy metal shaft swing loose from the ceiling and fall straight at a boy who, unaware of the danger, was silently praying the rosary.

“Oh my God, watch out!” I cried in warning, along with some others who had noticed the same beam. He’s not going to make it! I wanted to turn my face away and not watch, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The boy still did not notice that it was him that we were screaming to.

In a blur of denim and black Will leapt across the floor, tackling the boy out of the way to take the full brunt of the blow himself. There was a sickening crunch and Will screamed as the metal roll crushed his right arm. I turned away when I saw its mangled state. I knew that Will would never play his beloved guitar again.

“Will, come on, let’s get you out of here.” I motioned for some others to help me lift him.

“No.” His eyes were pained but determined as they fixed on the fainting boy he had just saved. “Help him.”


David read out loud the note he wrote for Hannah. “Thank you for being the wonderful, beautiful, fabulous, brilliant girl you are—”

Mike rolled his eyes. “The picture would be funnier if we were acting gay. Like this.”

He gracefully swooped in, as if to kiss Tony. When Tony backed away, eyes wide, Mike laughed.

“As if I’d really kiss you, man.”

Arthur caught his girlfriend as she skipped carelessly down the hill. “Dude, be careful. You trip over everything. You shouldn’t do that.” His eyes were earnest. “Be careful.”

Will sat on top of a tabletop during break, eyes closed and head bowed. His fingers thrummed out some impossibly complex series of notes on his guitar.

Then he struck a dissonant chord.

Ashes to ashes.

Dust to dust.

Status - Complete, ?



posted - 6:11 PM

Author's Comments - I made a sincere effort to simplify, simplify (ironic considering my subject). I dislike the shallowness of this essay, and the very crude "he mentions" or "he says" or "he remarks," but that's the consequence of writing in class.

In Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, the death of Captain Beatty, brought about by his own desire to end his world-weary existence, frees Montag to find his place and meaning in life.

First, because of his superior mind, Beatty cannot be a part of the society whose ignorance he protects, and finds mediocre equality only in death. Beatty demonstrates his scholarly sense by recognizing the history and significance of, “We shall this day light such a candle…” that the old woman utters in her distress as the firemen prepare to burn her books. This sort of learning is privileged information and “only fire chiefs remember it now”; Deathly tired of the blank “soap-faced men,” tired of knowing so much when others know so little, Beatty spurs himself on a course of self-destruction like “a wax doll melting in its own heat.” The Captain mentions to Montag that a “fireman … purposely set a Mechanical Hound in his own chemical complex and let it loose,” professing not to understand the desperation that would ignite such a suicide. But having been John before turning Judas Iscariot, Beatty knows, better than anyone, the futility of the existence he maintains. Though Beatty is in league with those who spin the earth like a top, faster and faster to nowhere, his very knowledge and position set him apart from the ignominious masses. At the last, the Captain baits Montag to “pull the trigger,” using Montag’s beloved books to crystallize the fireman’s confused hatred and direct it at him. Beatty brags that “life has become one big pratfall” through efforts of men like him, and he finds he cannot live in the world he so effectively helps to preserve.

Second, Beatty’s suicide forces Montag to fully accept his role as a rebel against the system. Beatty acts as the devil quoting scripture, confounding Montag with hails of disjointed quotations, of illogical sense as he “parried every thrust.” Montag can never achieve his or society’s freedom so long as Beatty lives, for the Captain will set out to foil him at every point. Though he calls a book “a loaded gun,” Beatty stirs Montag’s thoughts with this double-edged sword, “muddying the waters” until they “whirl sickeningly” and Montag cannot think further. The roar of Beatty’s words “bombard him at immense volumes,” deafening Faber’s quiet humming and the thundering of Montag’s own feelings. Faced with the ruin of his life, Montag turns on Beatty, transforming the Captain into “a shrieking blaze, a jumping, sprawling, gibbering manikin.” The nonsense of his quotations and his fascination with the “beauty” and “mystery” of fire culminates in his disintegrating into a burning testament of his ashen truths and fiery lies. Now a man hunted for the murder, Montag flees from the city to search for safety and acceptance in a group of men who share his dreams. Through his killing of his worst enemy, Captain Beatty, Montag realizes the true weapons of his war against society and the government—he has learned to fight fire with fire.

Those “who are a little wise, the best fools be,” Beatty warns as Montag hesitates at this stage of curiosity and longing, at which threshold Beatty surely lingered once. Beatty, despising his former “weakness,” succumbs to a life of “automatic reflex” rather than feeling “bestial and lonely” because he tries to think beyond. Twisted envy and hate smolder in him as he recognizes the signs of his own past delinquency in the recalcitrant fireman, sees the bloom of promise he has forsworn. The protégé Montag uses the master’s teaching against the Captain as he obediently “destroys responsibility and consequences.” Beatty would have stifled Montag’s inflating hopes and ambitions had his death wish not destroyed him first, leaving Montag a savior without an antichrist.

Status - Complete, Free Comments

posted - 6:56 PM



Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost information? - T.S. Eliot

“Can anyone answer the question?”

When silence greeted him, the professor mentally groaned. He wondered what was wrong with young people these days and whether his class had been the same. “You,” he said, pointing to the young man sitting directly in front of him. The student in question sunk lower in his seat. “You explained this concept perfectly in your essay—the only perfect paper I have ever graded, I might add.” He paused while the class broke out into polite applause and the student nearly disappeared under his desk. “Would you care to reiterate what you wrote for the benefit of your classmates who had difficulty with the assignment?”

“I—” the student began.

“Don’t be shy,” the professor interrupted. “Stand up, there’s a good boy.”

The student rose slowly. “I would explain it, professor, but I—”

“But you what? Speak up so we can all hear you.”

“But I do not remember what I wrote, sir,” he finished lamely.

The professor was startled. “You could not have forgotten everything overnight. You just turned the paper in yesterday.”

“I knew it when I was researching it, sir. I understood it perfectly. It took me almost all night to finish it up. But as soon as I was done …” his voice trailed off.

The professor inwardly sighed. “I understand. But tell me this, if you were just going to forget what you wrote instantly, why did you write it?”

The student shuffled his feet. “It was an assignment, sir.”

“But why did you do the assignment?”

“Because—because you said to, sir.” The class laughed and the student turned bright red as he quickly sat down.

“Is that the only reason?” the professor asked. The student remained silent. “I want you all to listen carefully,” the professor said, now addressing the entire class. “You cannot just bring together a slew of information into an assignment and not absorb any of it. That is not the point of coming to school or doing homework. In fact, there is no point in coming to school, not if you are not going to learn anything. You have to soak up that information and take it to the next level—knowledge. You have all this information—much more than I ever did when I was your age—practically laid at your feet but you are not taking it in. You should be able to know these things off the top of your head.”

“But sir, aren’t knowledge and information basically the same thing?” the male student asked.

“No more than wisdom and knowledge are,” the professor replied. At his students’ blank stares, he hurried to explain. “Information is what you have access to. Knowledge is information that you have made your own. Wisdom is using that knowledge well. Right now, you are all at the information stage.”

“How do we get to the knowledge stage, sir?”

“Pull the trapdoor. Walk onto the next set. Take your pick.” The class sniggered. “But in all seriousness, my opinion? I think some people are too overloaded with information sometimes to be truly knowledgeable. We have so much information that we cannot possibly process it all. We’re not using our knowledge wisely.” He paused. “How many of you have cell phones?” Nearly every member of the class raised his hand. He nodded. “I expected so. How many of your phones have some sort of electrical accessory that you know you really do not need?” Same response. “Is this an appropriate use of technology? Did people really spend decades and millions of dollars to develop these trinkets?” No one dared to answer him. “Is there reasoning, an intelligent motive, behind what society does?”

“Money,” someone called out. The class tittered.

“Yes, money. In my opinion, money is what drove us from wisdom, to settle for knowledge, to information. We just want more, newer and “better,” not really understanding why we want these things. Remember the argumentum ad novitatem. It is not necessarily better just because it is newer. Now, do you think it was worth it to spend years and millions of dollars to develop a pen that could write in outer space when a regular old pencil did the job just as well?” The class remained silent. “In trying to gain more information, we have lost knowledge. More information does not necessarily mean more knowledge because you are at a loss to try to sort it all out. In trying to gain more knowledge, we have lost the wisdom to handle it. We can know but never understand and that might not be enough.” He paused and looked around his class expectantly.

“It is like opening too many pages at once on an Internet browser, is it not, professor?” a female student volunteered suddenly. “Because the computer cannot handle that much information at once?”

He blinked. “I suppose you could think of it that way.”

“Plus, many of those pages are bound to be pop-ups and ads we do not want or need to read anyway,” she continued. “They just distract us from what we are trying to do; they slow us down. We have to sort through all the pages before we can find the ones we are looking for and understand that.”

Her classmates nodded, understanding.

“We cannot just accept information that is given to us, can we, professor? We have to process it and apply it,” the male student interjected. “It is like a grain, a little seed. We can eat it when it is young and never give it a chance to grow into something bigger—then we have information—or we can plant it so that it can develop into knowledge and maybe someday, bear the fruits of wisdom.”

The professor was a little flustered. “That is a valid analogy, I think.”

“When I was really little, my grandmother used to chew up my food for me before I ate it,” another student added. Everyone in the class turned to look at him, not understanding what relevance his comment had to the discussion. The tips of his ears flushed pink but he continued. “But eventually, you have to learn to chow down on your own. Then it becomes knowledge.” The class murmured in agreement.

But the professor did not understand. “The food becomes knowledge?” he questioned uncertainly.

The student laughed, regaining his footing. “Of course not, professor. But if we want everything done for us, we lose that knowledge and we are just left with information. To reach the stage of knowledge, we have to stop letting our grandmothers chew our food for us.”


posted - 5:26 PM

By: D.L. Kim

What about those who fought against the British?
They were outnumbered yet had the spirit to fight
To win the freedom taken for granted today.

What about those who fought against their own countrymen?
They did whatever it took to reunite with their rebelling brothers
To win the unity disintegrating today.

What about those who fought against the Axis?
They stormed the Fortress at a heavy cost
To win the peace fading today.

What about those who fought against communism?
They invaded the Inchon coast and survived the Khe Sanh siege
To win the security breached today.

What about those who fought in the Middle East?
They endured the desert storms and impulsive ambushes
To win the respect trampled by ignorant society today.


posted - 5:20 PM



The halls glow with bright green and red lights. The store windows glisten with cute paintings of snow-covered trees and ornaments. Golden ropes and an adorable Santa Claus surround the tall tree to promote the Christmas shopping season.

I hate it. I hate all of it.

Although the Brea mall is usually one of my favorite places to hang out, it has become a zoo of desperate people rushing to stores since the Friday after Thanksgiving—the air thick with the smell of Chinese food, perfume and sweat.

At noon on Dec. 4, I was at the mall on a mission—to buy my Yuletide gifts and get out of there as soon as possible. I stood in the middle of the hallway and was immediately lost in a sea of people. Everywhere I could hear little kids screeching as they played tag and dodged in and out of the throng.

Envious of their agility, I made my way to Forever 21 to find a present for a friend. Walking through the doorway, I realized that the masses had preceded me into the stores, and merchandise was strewn about the stands and the floors. People shoved everywhere to try to get into every nook and cranny to look for clothes and accessories.

‘Tis the season to be pushy.

But I decided that I owed my friend this suffering, and went next door to Wet Seal which was amazingly vacant. I soon discovered why. When I found something I thought my friend would like, I flipped the tag over to see how much it cost. Fifteen dollars for a pair of plastic earrings. Unbelievable. Even the accessories on sale were over twelve dollars.

So as I continued to work my way through stores, I realized that prices on everything had gone up, and everything was expensive.

Why?

Because it’s the holiday shopping season.

Fortunately, I spotted my two new favorite words, SALE and CLEARANCE everywhere. However, there were people swarming to reach the treasure themselves.
I’m not saying that I don’t want to spend money on my friend; it’s just that I don’t have enough money to splurge that much on every single one of my friends, and even if I did, I would want to use the hard-earned cash on something worth the price.

And so, I looked.

I looked through racks of clothes at Silhouette. I foraged through pools of lotion, soap, body spray and lip gloss at Bath and Body works. I zoomed in and out of stores, crazed and frustrated.

It was kind of depressing, really.

After two hours of searching, I finally found a reasonably-priced bracelet I thought my friend would like at Anchor Blue and waited at the end of a line trying to buy it.

A half an hour later, the cashier handed me my receipt and change. Finally! Freedom! I made my escape out of Anchor Blue and ran straight into yet another line of people outside the store. Lines crisscrossed the entire mall. Squeezing through clumps of people, I left.

At long last, after a long day, I was finally long gone.

My friend had better appreciate her gift. If she looks at the bracelet in disgust after I had spent all that time looking and waiting, then the whole afternoon would have been a waste. I pushed, I searched, I suffered for her benefit.

But even after all that stress and frustration, I feel good about myself—as if I were standing on top of the world, exhilarated. I had spent all that effort for a good reason. And for this short moment, I don’t hate the crowds, the prices and the lines.

Holiday shopping is just another one of those things that you have to suffer through, such as washing the dishes every night. It’s a tradition, just like little kids sitting on Santa’s lap in the middle of the mall, or two people kissing under the mistletoe. Without the strain of the mall, something would be missing; it’s a pain, but it’s well worth it.

I guess holiday shopping isn’t that bad.

Maybe hate is too strong of a word.

Dislike. I utterly dislike holiday shopping.

Status - Complete, ? Comments


posted - 3:32 PM



sometimes you just have to cry and let it all out...
or else you miss what life is all about.
life is not just comprised of happiness and love,
of everything pleasant sent down from above.

Status: Incomplete, Free Comments

posted - 10:44 PM

what is the life i chose?
who is the friend i want to have?
my whole life i smile and pose
to make them happy, i make them laugh
and i can only express my despair through prose.

i only wanted someone to love me
but all i got was misery and pain.
i pretend to be happy and laugh with glee
i try to love all and try not to blame
but my selflessness screams and turns to flee.
my face is streaked with tears
after all, there's only so much i can take.
he believes love is one of my fears
little does he know my fear is all fake
and he is the person i hold most dear.

he thinks i am vain and don't know my place
that i don't know what love is, nor what it can do.
he doesn't see that my love for him shows plainly on my face.
i could wait my whole life to hear him say, "i love you too",
he doesn't understand how he makes my heart race
and the way each moment with him seems completely new.

the only thing he sees in me is a best friend
someone to fall on when he's in times of need.
to him i'm existing only for him, living to no end
someone who advises him, there only to lead,
sometimes to come to with a broken heart to mend.

i can't make him happy no matter how hard i try,
and it makes me sad to know i'm not the one for him.
it leaves me in anguish and everyday makes me cry,
and he doesn't know that my life is so dim
because whenever he sees me my tears seem to dry.

the one he loves most is someone i envy,
i wish i could be her for just a few days.
in front of her eyes is a golden opportunity
but instead she decides single is how she'll stay.

if only i were the one he were thinking of,
but like always and how he says, i'm being selfish.
i only wish i could die and live above...
where everyone is granted whatever they wish
even the love of someone who doesn't care you exist.

Status: Complete (subject to editing), Free Comments

posted - 10:40 PM

the face i always longed to see
seems to have faded inside of me
when i look at you you're not the same
you're different than you were yesterday
so i search and search in the you of today
and when i see you i can't help but say
i loved the you of yesterday

but i cannot be a fool to think
that i can ever love the you of today
for "a fool will lose tomorrow reaching back for yesterday"

after getting through all that sorrow
to myself i say
maybe the you of tomorrow
will be the you of yesterday

but when tomorrow comes
you are always the you of today
and never the you of yesterday

so why do i even try
each time i try to say goodbye
i can't help but say
maybe the you of tomorrow
will be the you of yesterday

but you'll never be the you of yesterday
i haven't learned my lesson yet
for every time our eyes are met
i hope and praythat the you of tomorrow
will be the you of yesterday

and every time i try to face my troubles
when i reach the subject of you i run
and run and run
but i constantly look back and think
where is the you of yesterday?

Status: Complete (subject to edit), Free Comments

Eileen R.'s blog: www.xanga.com/invader_seyes

posted - 10:31 PM

Oh Sony Vaio,
You’re my favorite friend
With you I laugh and chat and play
For hours without end

We check on all our email
and laugh at all the spam
We do our work together
So I get A’s on my exam

We listen to bands like Weezer,
Jimmy Eat World, and Ok Go
We look at pictures of Rivers
And watch music videos

It’s true to you I owe
That I’m forever deskbound
And it’s really all your fault
I’m inside all year-round

But I think it’s all worth it,
because you’re always there
even if when I run,
I need intensive care

The day you got that virus,
I felt awfully alone
I lay in fetal position,
Deader than a stone

But soon you got all better,
So I stood up from the floor
To laugh, chat, and play
With my love forevermore.

Status - Complete, ? Comments

Joy R.'s Blog - http://www.xanga.com/home.aspx?user=poolofgreenjello


posted - 9:01 PM

I mark your progress all around the school
I fantasize that you’re my closest friend
Amazing you’re not drenched in all my drool
How fun, how grand it is, to play pretend
I fancy we’re tremendously akin
I feel we can discuss most anything
I tell your shoes my faults with no chagrin
I tell your back my hopes, fears, everything
It matters not that you don’t know my name
Your comely face, blank, stares without disdain
This notion’s pleasing, almost like a game
Plus, if you knew, you’d label me insane
If only I could share this love I’ve grown
At least I’d have a chance to be your own

Status - Complete, ? Comments

Joy R.'s Blog - http://www.xanga.com/home.aspx?user=poolofgreenjello


posted - 8:49 PM



It's 10:19 a.m. He's taking a drink at the foundation, as scheduled.

10:21 a.m. He should be heading to the cafeteria just about now. Why hasn't he talked to me in months?! It's because he hates me, I know it!

When I go home, I'll have to check his blog to see if he's mentioned me.

I step out of the bushes in the quad. I put away my binoculars and try to look as inconspicuous as possible to look as inconspicuous as possible as I brush leaves out of my hair.

On the walk to fifth period (which I have carefully planned out so that my path just happens to coincide with his).

I see couples talking happily about Ski Bum and suddenly feel the urge to kick something small than I am, which would be a little hard to find, being as short as I am.

Later, as I sit at my desk frantically scribbling love poems and programming my calculator to somehow get him out of my system, I wonder, do I even have a life anymore?

I have to study twice as hard for history now because my mind is cluttered with little useless facts about him, like the heights of his siblings and his Social Security number. (Don't worry, I don't use this information for evil.)

In my spare time, I read books and research things that, through secret sources, I have found that he likes, hoping to wow him the next time I talk to him, which could be months from now because it takes me days even to gather up the courage to speak to him.

I can't even carry a full conversation with anyone when he's nearby because my SPR (Special Person Radar) tells me he's close and makes alarm bells go off in my head.

No. I don't have a life.

Unrequited love isn't relaly worth all this wasted brain space, time and anguish, not to mention that this obsession probably isn't healthy.

Why can't I spend my time like a normal person and not spend every waking moment adding a new girl to my hit list for talking to him?

Every day I resolve anew to hate him or at least not spend hours wondering if he knows I exist, but I can't help it.

I still think about him all the time, even though it pains me when he forgets my name or doesn't notice me.

And yet, I don't mind the pain. It is something for me to do on those rainy days indoors. I can take out my scrapbook and look through my collection of photos taken from the back, locks of hair and pencils that he's touched.

But perhaps this obsession is not my fault.

"Falling in love seems to have a similar effect on the brain as using cocaine," according to a bbc.co.uk article on first love. "It's so pleasurable it's almost like an addiction."

Whatever the cause, though, this fixation will get me nowhere, so I warn you other unlucky hearts out there. Don't become like me, someone whose entire existence hinges on someone else's.

Stopping is not as easy as waking up one day and deciding to hate him, and conditioning yourself to stop thinking about him by punching yourself every time he pops up in your mind is not going to help either. (Trust me, I've tried.) Eventually, though, you will find that there are other people out there.

That special person may not have the same goofy smirk, the same embarrassing laugh, the same ugly hair, but when you find the right one, maybe he'll be watching you from the bushes, too. Or is that just creepy?

Status - Completed, ? Comments

Joy R.'s Blog - http://www.xanga.com/home.aspx?user=poolofgreenjello



posted - 9:03 PM