It’s been a while, away in happy places, gone on the next train out of town.
But maybe I needed it, maybe It was good for me. Good to leave behind thoughts of her, and cloud them out with distractions. A month or two without over thinking things. A month or two out of my own toxic mind.
It was good for me. And I think of these things no more, feel things no more. They’re just memories now, fleeting and flying and dashing, gone so fast I could barley see them, gone before I could catch them in jars like glowing fireflies and kiss them goodbye with cracking lips and wash them away with cheap brandy.
But of course it did leave behind some things, some things. Feelings. Betrayal&hatred but I must rid of them. Let them fly on the wind, birds that are the cages for those feelings. Those feelings that fill the cavities in my chest with black smoke and rotting bone. Gone they are in the wind.
photo creds to one trevor johnsen
A young girl, no older then 10 is seen on an empty street. Her loneliness emanating from her like heat.
This girl, all by herself. Her dreams an impossible length away. Down the dark corridor that has no light at the end.
This darkness, it suffocated her, pressing her willowy limbs against the underfed form of her torso.
This young, homely girl, no older than ten, no parents or family, only the shadows that hide her from the men prowling for her body.
This girl was dancing.
The beauty and grace of her movements, fluid as water, transforming her sorry appearance, the oddness of her practically non-existent form into a thing of awesome power and beauty.
And the dance, oh how lonely it was, how sad as it told her story.
sweet and tender girl, alone in this cruel world, her family dead and gone for years. She turned to the street for companionship, preyed to the shadows to keep her safe, asked beds of grass if they would be her bed, and the treetops her roof. How she suffered, but grew all the same.
Here she is, a girl with nothing, a girl of nothing. She rises from her place in deepest dark to become a blooming flower.
But now her dance is over, and she slinks back to her tree, to her grass and sleeps. Dreaming that perhaps one day she can be who, what she wants to be, a dancer, someone who is somebody, who has people to love them and appreciate them.
And she will, this young girl of the shallows will rise from the depths of the poor, the heart of her lose, and become who she wants.
All she has to do is believe that she can be the dancer.
Little flowered foot bunny
Your invited to tea,
Come on in and you can see
Don’t be shy little white bunny
There are many friends already inside with more to come too!
Trailing in one by one, two, by two
Plenty of cakes and other yummy foods
My darling white bunny
please don’t be rude
I know that you want to
My furry little friend
And my cottage so close! Its just around the bend.
So come on in,
and a party we can throw
All the tea you could want, you can swallow
So what do you say?
Sweet bunny, darling dear?
Are you coming to my tea party?
Please do Rosey dear!
Happy (a little late) Easter! A poem inspired by my little darling white Easter bunny Rosey, and the gorgeous mug I received from my mama!
I was feeling sort well, little girlish about the bunny( I may have brought her to school so I could have her at my dads…) so this is the result!
You ever just… Have a dream, and you wake up with a fully formed novel idea just waiting, stagnate in your mind? I love those mornings. I truly do, I always get so excited and I write all day long (even through classes, which I probably shouldn’t do but whatever!)
And then I wake up the next day my ‘fully formed novel’ is gone from my mind. I struggle to get it back, but it’s just not there anymore. Even with all my notes and ideas that main plot has abruptly turned into a little fluffy white cloud and floated of to join the cemetery of ideas that I am sure floats behind the head of every author (writer).
Even with my awesome, amazing plot that has shrivelled up and died in my idea toxic brain meat the excitement lives on. My shrivelled idea has left me with a scrap, a single scene ( and perhaps the occasional important piece of information like this girl has magic or she is not human I say! Not human!) in which the personalities and quirks of my main characters are apparent, and in which gives me some sort of general idea of what the story is about, even if I have to actually take the time to figure out the plot and plot twists ect. consciously rather than have my subconscious hand it to me on a silver plater upon wakening.
Anyhow ( my teenage brain got a little over excited there, thinking about my idea and I started to rant and yah the perks of having ADD…) the point is that dreaming is pretty fricking awesome for that reason… So ya..
If you hadn’t already noticed I like using … So don’t be surprised to see them a lot (and I know it’s a bit of a bad habit, Im just not willing to break it) sooo ya.
Goodnight my not so present but hopefully will eventually be loyal followers ( Mwahahahaha I plan to take over the internet with my incessant teenage rantings) (wait thats already happening, with every other teen who has access to social media… Never mind, gouge that little piece of info that you didn’t actually need to read right out of that brain!) And…
I AM SHUTTING THIS DOWN NOW BEFORE IT GETS BAD, GOODBYE
Being the age I am, I often feel very insecure about my writing. I think to myself, is it worth it?
As I read other posts on this site, or the words of a famous author I reflect on how untrained I am in this, how naive, and how uninformed. I read the words of an adult and I can see how empty my writing is compared, the lack of experience and knowledge.
It is hard to put onto paper( or rather the internet) what I mean by this.
The work of someone older, one who has finished even just high school has much more substance, they know the rules of writing that I have not yet had the privilege to learn, and experience with many more things.
And I wonder, who would want to read the petty ramblings of a teenager? Though many of my peers praise me on my writing I know that it is not that great.
This, this insecurity often hinders my work. It nags at the back of my mind as I type, spewing words of discouragement.
You suck, why bother? Have you read the work of others? Compared to them you must look like a lump on a log. You’re nothing but a teenager who has a dream to big for her own head!
All the thoughts of the disbelievers finding their way into my young, fresh brain.
I compare my work to everything! Even to that of a cousin only a year older. She has finished this grade, she has had the chance to explore the wonders of this world more than I, so what do I think I am doing? Sitting here writing petty stories, posting on a blog where all other participants are adults who have what it takes.
And then I remind myself that I am only 15 and my knowledge will grow, and my experience will expand. I must practice for all I am worth, find new and inventive ways to create a new world, to write a blog post thats worth reading.
Of course that doesn’t actually work, in fact it usually makes things worse. Yet here I am, writing another blog post for the world to see just how inexperienced I am.
So there! I’ve done it, gone and told the world another petty problem that no one actually cares about. I guess maybe I am hoping to attract other adolescents who have that same problem.
WELL! Goodbye again, I shall continue to write and in 5-6 years I will look back upon this post and laugh about how sucky my grammar and punctuation is (because I am quite aware of my failings), and see then how much I have improved and maybe even write a novel or two.
For four years
Waited in silence
A question arose,
but never asked
for four years
watching in wonder
is it possible?
as I love her?
I knew in mind
it was not true
She was hers,
not a thought of me
But in heart
That it could be
the same for her
Four years, even then I knew
That she never could.
I needed her for me,
what selfish hope
But friend of mine she loved
fire as it burned
I suppose there is no help to sorrow
For I knew the love was borrowed
She was never mine to take
In those four years make
The jealousy flower
But perhaps now I can let go
Of those four years
One of the first poems I’ve ever written as I tend to be more into fiction but I though perhaps I should share it, see what people think. To know whether it would be worth, or if I should continue to write more.
criticism is much appreciated!
They look at you a little differently. After they find out you’re a writer, though it may only be temporary . The look of surprise, or as if they are discovering that you are not the person they knew, then the occasional and very rare instance were that look, well it’s pity. They don’t take you seriously, they think oh she/ he is only a teenager. They’ll never actually write a novel! And shes only going to get her heart broken.
It’s absolutely infuriating!
Well heres the thing, it is totally and completely possible, a pair of sister, not much older than myself, had a series of dystopian novels published. They are called the strand.
No matter what the people say, you can do it, write a damn novel, get it published!
A thousand disbelievers couldn’t keep me on the ground
I’ve invented a momentum that’ll never slow me down
I believe it ’cause I feel it and I shout it out loud
I can, I can, I can so
The teenage mind is an inevitably complex creature, in ways comparable to that of a toddler. We act out randomly with no apparent cause or trigger, we can go on the most meaningless rants, we often throw love about as if it is dandelion fluff… See where I am heading with this? Yes, OK then!
Now here is something even scarier… The mind of a teenage writer. Think about it! All the swirling feelings of a regular teen, then add the random, crazy ideas a writer is constantly being pelted with? Yah, terrifying.
Well I live with that everyday. I guess maybe thats why I started this, as an organizational tool more than anything. I mean it’s not as if I planned it, I was browsing through some cool blogs and I suddenly found my self creating it!
Ok!! And there goes the rant, I’m gonna slow that down before it gets to bad.
Anyway thats what this is, an organizational tool for my mind, a place where I can store all my crazy random day thoughts.
BTW I have never used word press before, you know being 15 and all, sooo if I am doing this wrong someone let me know? If anyone actually follows not that I much care.