[09 October 2008 | 11:17am] heartmysoldier I ended the book that Im writing. The part about you--Im tearing it out. post comment

A Silent Endeavour [09 August 2008 | 10:11pm] retro_chica the symbols and timpanies took a soft and gentle rest beating their rhapsody no longer to the frequent terror that oft came with clouds clashing, the heavens were preaching o'er head. down beneath, the mossy green forested a tender niche for those who picked wildflowers, and those who sought refuge twixt branches tangled to harvest a protective roof, a leaf fell here and there, dusted with sun or drowned in sorrow, the moods were just as omnipresent as the stars above. and who is to say the daffodil climbs fairer than the pussy willow? or the speckled trout demeans the frothy fungus? each and everyone was picked, each had a purpose. the naval coat swam with the fishes, and the peasant skirts caressed the fields. a boy jumbled his way through the nearby shores, unaware of life to come, unaware of how he was to be harvested and cropped and tenderized into what he was to become, his eyes spoke with winds, with careful curiosity. the shores were young with stones of every shape and size and he taught them all he knew. the gulls would perch for supper on the boulders, and the smooth and supple ones would be sent into the ocean to be eroded into sand. how did one know, learn, categorize all these things? --- in a brazen, tattered and stylishly sleek orange jumpsuit, a female bounced towards a jaggered beat, up, two, three, four down, two, three four. she stares at the mirror of the rest of her class and sees only her pupils her sweating, exhausted, angry students who would rather lick ice cream straight off the cone. the lady cannot see her reflection covered by her class. the rocks are hidden by each other. the flowers are mixed in with weeds. the fish swim out to sea. and all the while, though we have no sight or ourselves, no assurance of who we are, we are destined somewhere, to fill a slot. and the four estranged crew met together, here today, in a lush, reed filled meadow, to seek beyond what they had come to pay. a short, stubbed seedling of long grass tilted its neck from the sun to the waves. "you've glittered here before, who so glum on this occassion?" and all it took was curiosity and care, when a professor's life is to sculpt and mend the future for the better, how does one decide who to invest in, and who to shun, when the saplings and the buds are just as covered, scared and torn as the florists themselves? the lightning ignites us once more, such a folly that rain does not fray far from indecision. perhaps what we cannot see in ourselves, one needs to see in someone else, to help the person grow not only into their best flower but into our own. thank you so kindly, for keeping your eye on me, if only for a moment, to grace my stem, and replant me in the sun, to walk away to a far away land, and me, to develop strength in a field so crowded and confused as my mind. i cannot repay to you what you have done to me, i only hope, i shall find a pebble, or a whale that i could let see daylight as crisp and golden and tangible and delicious as that mere blink you made me feel. life is to be loved. happiness is to be shared. intelligence perservered, hope never to be lost. post comment

A Tiding for Easter. (possession of a different sort) [30 March 2008 | 10:07am] retro_chica Humpty Dumpty Sat On A Wall. [Setting] A pitch black room. To which, if you were blind or not would make no differnce. You wouldn't be able to tell what it really is. Watch your step, these plots are open, and as we know, they're six feet deep, not the most comforting of falls, into the earthen pit of merciless fate. Welcome to the cemetery. You shouldn't travel this late at night, besides, if you have to walk with your hands out to feel where you're going, that's not a good sign, seeing as you have no idea to what you're really holding. Is it a tree? A tombstone? A life? Humpty Dumpty Had A Great Fall. The precursor to all pathetic fallicies is rain. In this case, it is set to the tune of Sonata in G Major by Franz Joseph Haydn, a rather delightful piece, unless you're not prepared, or are possessed by the Devil himself. Death loomed the cast iron fences in its cascading cloak long before it actually arrived. I sensed it before it curled its hand in my general direction, sweeping its fog into my breath whispering seductive sweet nothings into my ear. No raven was needed. Death and I had a fight to settle a bone to pick a deal to make. The minute the violin played every part of me wanted to leap inside the cloak and smile in disgust at all those who cherished their lives and thought that caring for others actually mattered. And then I realized, in this invisibly dark world, I saw the fog. Light was coming from somewhere. Somehow. Death lost sight of years of tempting all in the blink of acknowledgement. All in the capability of mine own sight. Oh how stricken Death was, raising the inner fires from hell, its main joy to bring down Earth's only believer. She was no angel, yes indeed, she was human. And body and mind seperated for that one instant whereupon Death made sure that my decision was irreversible. I could have leapt with minions and mongrels of the underworld, laughed at excessive pain, and wreak havoc on those whom I chose. I could have, in Death's cloak, through Death's foggy perspective live. "You temptress, you smoldering temptress! You befound me a glance of eternal glory! A mere glance! Dare you to smite powers of the extreme and test the waters for which you were never meant to survive? I cast upon you the true gift of life! The best gift the Devil himself could present upon the world to create you an immortal reminder of your decision! Learn now what it is to feel life crumble before your very hands, let all your wishes, health, love, and prosperity subside till you are exactly what I see you as! What you should be! WHAT YOU ARE!" Death's voice sang in shrill incandesence, as if the lyrics of a georgian chant were being woven into the most mighty curse that even Jesus through crucifixion could not feel. This was not hate, this was revenge. This was hell in its most horrific and powerful moments. Be still, everlasting love I hummed in my head. For if Death feels one movement, a miniscule vibration, then I truly have lost. I did what I had to, Death had given me no choice. I held my breath. Through the depths of a coat which could bare no face, no gender, no single attribute towards the living soul other than the shriek that most resembled voice, I felt a smile. For we both knew that only two things could happen. A stumble in which I did not fully recognize being in my haughty temperance and desperation. Had I continued to hold my breath there would come a moment where I would build inside me such a need to inhale the oxygen which most likely was already poisioned that I would have to comply, or defeat the urge proving I was better, and die. And with Death so triumphantly posed infront of me, ready to devour me as if I was the most savoury meal the world had to offer, I couldn't do so. I wouldn't. Defeat would not surmise my lifelong actions. I took a breath, and for the tiniest of moments (for time either passed as if the grain would never transfer into the other half of the glass, or as if time was comprised of the fastest movement, incapable of actually seeing, but only to realize that it jolted like lightning in quick bolts) I felt a shock. Death didn't know how to react, it was as if this had never happened before. And I beamed all the light within me in sheer relief. And Death was sure not to slip twice between the Earthly cracks by which it transgressed from this world, and its own. It had found my true weakness, and acted upon the curse by which was first fueled by revenge and now utter hatred. The darkest form ever concieved. But how slow the process was to occur, was to its own liking. It could have easily entangled itself around my neck until I could beg for mercy, but it knew, it understood like before. A life's worth of disruption does not amount to an easier success. And pride does not live in short achievements. It would be a slow, catastrophic Death that even Death the creator and terminiation of all Death, including themself had never endured. And Death would make sure it was properly enjoyed to its full extent. And All The King's Horses, And All The King's Men, Couldn't Put Humpty Together Again. Resurrect me if you dare we both said as if they were the only words that could escape our mouths. This was the End. For me, For Death. For all mankind that gave way for anything that mattered. * * * Now I see what all this was for. Eight years of, of mini trauma really. I learned the physicality of a volcano, and what it really was. The inception was a blemish on the earth which sought comfort, and by doing so was ignored. It grew a wrinkled exterior that grew inside a much larger problem than what was ever to be considered. And spews of puss, saliva, blood and pungent vile excretions hiccuped me along the way to the top. Those eight years, was my rising, for my debut. My entering of the explosion for which all plots climax to. This ain't a picture show. And we not that smart. -hic- -hic- Durr. Dis vale cane oh is upside down! -hic- -hic- Welcome, to the the End. post comment

[12 February 2008 | 8:21pm] savethedrama77 what about China, have you seen the great wall? all walls are great, if the roof doesnt fall. post comment

[09 December 2007 | 1:15pm] heartmysoldier Give me your lips for just a moment And my imagination will make that moment live Give me what you alone can give A kiss to build a dream on post comment

[04 October 2007 | 12:32pm] junkiekid post comment

[04 October 2007 | 12:32pm] junkiekid post comment

[04 October 2007 | 12:32pm] junkiekid post comment

[04 October 2007 | 12:32pm] junkiekid post comment

[07 September 2007 | 7:43pm] ouch_brainhurts i'm graduating early, so english is going to really rushed for me. any ideas for a good book to read for the oral presentation i've got to do in about three weeks? you'll never know, never know. how it feels to look around, and realized you're alone. post comment

[18 August 2007 | 12:45am] loveletterbox I need songs for Teacher's Day. R&B songs that are like sad & says 'Thank you', 'I love you', 'We'll miss you' & all. It's for our last Teacher's Day performance in CHIJSJC (: Thanks in advance! post comment

What they see is what they'll never know. [07 August 2007 | 6:06pm] retro_chica A Miss Eleanor Maeval has been cordially invited to her dear friend Miss Jane Kingsbury's high tea. How charming. It should be a delightful day, Miss Maeval thinks to herself as she contemplates other possible guests. She picks out a lovely cream laced dress tinged with hints of Robin's Egg Blue. She arrives with th emost delicate and befitting hostess gift. Her conversation is both delightful and charming. Obviously something is wrong. She can't understand this matter at hand that some people whom she knows find her endearing and wonderfully respectable and a person to whom one seeks advice someone who is always kind and gentille someone who they feel they know. the problem is she would love nothing more than to be closer and learn Miss Kingsbury's ways because though politely Miss Maeval has described herself, it is neither completley nor whole-heartedly. It's these guests she blames thinking to herself, that give her this conceded outlook to others. Surely this is just another excuse that drives her into a maddening state. All these people feel the know me, when I barely see them or know them. she pondrs folding her napkin. I feel so distant and cold to them, as if they could only possibly ever understand one dimension of me. And then her worst thought enters her mind. Is this kindness of mine a facade? Is it just being polite, is it what I hope to feel or achieve with this person? How can I write such wonderful phrases in letters about people whom I don't feel connected too? She stares at her now filling teacup. "One lump or two?" Smithers, the butler said. Reflexivley I respond, "How sweet should I be?" and she knows his response, giggles without thought as he pours in two lumps. Maybe he's right. Nonetheless she continues her thoughts: She can honestly say that only two or three people she feels connected to, feels they love her and understand her. Though to her surprise eight or nine say they feel the same way she feels about two or three... What keeps her so closed off? No. For the first time this is not the question. She braces herself. Why am I not able to befriend people completley? Perhaps this is the explanation for her eternal kindness, that someone, somewhere, will understand her. And yet she shudders at her superficilaity, realizing that she too now sees herself two-dimensionally. There's something missing, that's for sure. It's this time alone, time together, it's time alright that continuall sculpts her k c a b and f o r t h putting her into the kiln to be glazed matted and then re-finished and glazed again. But why? post comment

The Unknown And It's Possibilites. [04 August 2007 | 9:28pm] retro_chica "Stop giggling. Are you ready?" I tell her with my hands covering her eyes. "Ooooh, I can't wait!" she says excitedly as every inch we move closer and closer to our destination settles a new layer of excitement and adrenaline through her veins. We wobble but i'm holding on to her, always making sure she'll be alright. "We're almost there, almost there" I whisper gently in her ear and she continues to stir. Loud noises spark through the air, disturbingly and painful. "What was that?" she cries in fear. " I'm, here. We're almost there." I reassure her. "Almost where? Almost where?" she exclaims and I can feel the tears beginning to form over her soft closed eyes. But this time, I don't respond. Silence soothes the situation, she will meddle in her own thoughts. Vibrations come through the now creaking floors. She raises her arms in a reflexive motion and clenches her hands against mine. "This isn't funny, I'm scared! "she bellows in terror. But I let her hold onto my arms if thats what helps her, but I won't let go, she'll soon see in time. Her greatest fears flash before her very eyes vividly through her closed eyes, though she nothing to fear. She no longer speaks, trembling with a penetrating fear still going forward as if it were her death march, she cannot stop now, not knowing where she is, but she knows its not safe, and she can't turn back, she does not know how. There is no way she'll open her eyes, she just can't bear to face the world outside. The floors beneath them seem frighteningly weak, and if they fall she doesn't know where they'll land, nor how far they will. In all this madness, she pauses to wonder in her mess of thoughts Why on Earth was I brought here? Why would my friend do this to me? What is going on?. There is a banister nearby, but to my open eyes it resembles too much a slithering, venemous cobra, I'd much rather hold onto my friend, and trek through this as best as I possibly can without receiving help from strangers, or any other befriending creature, we must go through this by ourselves, together. As we slowly ascend the moaning stairs, the walls seem to cry with a startling chiming bell tower that startingly sounds closer and closer with each chime. The house seems just as startled as the cobwebs shiver their silver gleaming lights from the only source of light that must be coming from a high window that somehow catches the peering moon. How haunting. I'm not quite sure how we got here to be honest, nor do I know why we are. It's very much like a magnet, I'm drawn to go forward, knowing that there is a destination us two are intended to reach together. But to be frank, I'd hide in a blink of an eye if I knew where to, if there was a somewhat safe spot in this eerie and creepy location that we reside in. And then I remember whose eyes I'm covering, by now surely both of us are wondering why they're still there, but I won't take them off, no I can't, my surprise, is literally what it is, my surprise. At first I thought it was something different, completley materialistic and minimalistic in comparison to what I have discovered. Shooting streams of foggy white light zoom through our midsts and possibly even through as, as we are ashaken from our already quivering state. Surely by now our fears and nightmares have not only come to life, but have conquered us. And yet we continue on, almost as foolishly as a criminal walks to a jail cell. What we don't realize, is that the most petrifying thing we encounter, is when we reach the top of the stairs, we continue to mount an invisible step, we do not notice we have arrived. The screaming, shrieks of pain, the calling of names, sounds of gunshots and hearbeats do not fade, no, they only move rhythmically to our footsteps, each mis-step we take, and our fears linger and encircle us confusing us more. And miraculously, like a sign from God, my hip finds a rusted old doorknob, I can tell because it does not have a smooth finish, but I push my side down the handle and the door lifts free, surpressing all our worries as we find the window and the light source. We find a tattered, old four poster bed, aged beautifully with time, but with a sad and sorrowful taste. Well, I find it really, my hands are still covering her eyes. I unveil the bed's fine velvet covers with a small disturbance so that I can rest my dearest friend upon the bed, she has suffered a tremendous amount. Finally, I lift my hands, and she realizes so and lifts her hands from mine and finds them a new home, hugging my sides very tightly, the tears that she was holding back, could have flooded the room we were inhibiting, but they were no longer of fear, nor of happiness, but of sheer relief and gratitude, I've noticed she hasn't opened her eyes. I pat her on the back reassuringly, "It's ok, we're here." "Oh I know, aren't the stars lovely?" she replies, with her eyes still closed. I glimpse quickly out the window, the stars had begun to appear one by one glistening around the moon. I sit in shock silently, I open my mouth but no sound echoes. "Thank you so much, this is the most wonderful present I've ever received." she says kissing the top of my head as a dear friend would. I pay closer attention to her, her eyes are firmly shut, and there was no way she could have peeked at any point in time. "But...how?" I manage to squeak. "Great friends, are one whole person. They care for each other first before themselves, and complete each others flaws by doing so." we continue to lie down on the bed, her head tilting towards the window, she opens her eyes beaming her dancing blue eyes around as I turn opposite of her so that we each have enough seperate space for us to sleep without invading each other's personal comfort zone. She finds a hand of mine and brings it to her open eyes covering them again. And that was all that needed to be said. post comment

[09 July 2007 | 7:28pm] loveletterbox I'm sorry but any songs about Mom or saying thank you? My mom helped me a lot today (: post comment

The Dressmaker [27 June 2007 | 10:00am] retro_chica she picked up a curtain of cloth and raised it over the table abruptly letting it soar through the air and then gently fall to the table. as it gracefully dawned her desk, she flew through the aisles of textures her hands did all the seeing. you see it was these fabrics these works of art created by man's careful patience that were her preferred mediums of art. the blends of colours in a whirlwind pace were her comfort, her home. her mannequin her best friend. Evangeline was her name, she was a hundred years old and was passed down from generation to generation in her family while other companies on the streets of Avignon acquired the latest in techonology, this dressmaker felt that the contours and the camraderie between a seamstress and her mannequin was the most precious. But what her withering hands never failed to achieve was the brilliant and humiliating feeling. A sundried, etruscan red linen was being draped around Evangeline today and with a sunflower yellow string was it being sown. The dressmaker worked with two sides. Two beautifully coniciding worlds. What is most recognized by a dress, is what is seen on the outside the final product. But what lies underneath is what she cherishes the most the finishes, the care the way everything works together to make such a beautiful outside and yet comfortable inside that to her was what truly mattered. While the two sides knew each other, they didn't meet as often as they would have liked. But each world was utterly fascinated by the others appearance. like a guest visiting a foreign country the culture, the fluidity, and the simple way of life was belittling. But when the dress is done, few people care to notice these two worlds. they simply focus on one, keep their eyes on whats in front of them missing the entire picture with their narrow minded guided paths. The dressmaker misses her explorers. post comment

[12 June 2007 | 12:26pm] loveletterbox Sweet/love/cute one liners needed, thanks in advance (: post comment

[01 June 2007 | 11:12pm] rainkissed1111 your voice was the soundtrack of my summer... © if we go down, we go down together... © Jersey. my girls. If it takes away the worries and it takes away the pain, then it all just might be worth it.♥ post comment

i was a drunk mess last night... [01 June 2007 | 11:01pm] rainkissed1111 something i learned last night that i thought id share with all of you: never drink beer,red wine, and tequilla at one time. WORST HANGOVER OF MY LIFE TODAY. =( post comment

[17 May 2007 | 5:35pm] savethedrama77 to make you feel my love post comment

[06 March 2007 | 6:27pm] retro_chica six eve's before i strolled through a rose garden it was midnight and the only light that guided me was the foggy incandesence of the lighthouse nearby. i came across a sweet smelling rose and the delicate feeling of its petals showed a mixed sense of beauty along with its thorns. occasionaly i caught a glimpse of the rose itself and its complexities within i had been encircling a rare and radiant cherokee rose however, when seen from afar it seems to blend in with the more common roses. shame, because its so astounding when alone. well i can't say for sure, since i've never been permitted to visit the garden during the day but from those few sights that i've seen i've been terribly enchanted addicted is a better word, but its mysterious personality because when seen amongst the bed of flowers it appears arrogant and egotistical because it is so exotic but i imagine that it only appears so for it has no idea how to deal with itself how to handle situations that, maybe it would like to deal with another way. i feel this way when i see that a little baby rose beneath it is struggling unable to receive proper light the cherokee rose moves out of the way for it and yet when a more ambiguous french rose comes along it will lean towards it for the sake of an awkward friendship one that, i'm sure isn't what it's supposed to be. Maybe I, am overanalyzing reading the lines of the petals too hard, but i've fed myself on tiny truths and enlarged them into my own fantasies. It's the hidden kindness that bothers me so because I'm not sure if its as rare and exotic as the flower. If you only could have seen how the twinkle of the stars was reflected brilliantly over its soft white petals. I wanted to cry. For the beauty, for the rose, and most of all for myself. Because a foreign rose, is a foreign rose. not meant to stay in a new terrority. it too must find its way back to its home. And i'm frightened that, this handsome, spectacular find is something I want forever in my life. Tonight I will return to the Cherokee rose, and lead a trail of tears as it is famous for, and fall asleep by the pond across from it to admire it, one last time, i'm too scared to hold the rose, but i'm even more afraid of letting it go. can fairytales come true? post comment

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