Just Me This Time

It's time for my bon voyage, my final goodbye. I know I'll end up sounding dramatic or something as I keep writing, so I just want to say straight out that I love what I have become as both a writer and a person. I look at my inspirations like my writing instructor and my friends who have acted as coaches, and I know that in a way I have taken bits of them and incorporated them in my writing. I can't imagine reaching levels that my teacher is at, but I know that if I can get close to her, I will be fulfilled and incredibly proud. Tomorrow will be a very hard day to get through, and I am enjoying pretending that it really isn't my last day. I know that I will still keep in touch, but it's hard to imagine not knowing that I'll be back soon to seek guidance or just have a good conversation. I've grown up, and it wasn't easy but it wasn't too hard either. There was an immense support system that never disappointed me along the way and I've come to love my teachers and my friends as they recur in my stories and in my reminiscent mind. I cannot believe it's actually time to leave, but I know that I can't see this as anything but a great opportunity. My mentors have given me every inch of energy they could in preparing me in the real world, some sharing their academic knowledge, and some sharing their life lessons, their smiles, their criticism, and their faith. It is an amazing feeling to know that someone believes in you completely. I am luckier than most, and I know that I've been blessed by my life at high school. Ah, look at me. I told you I'd sound dramatic...It's just that these four years have made such a large impact on who I am, and my peers and teachers have seen me grow up into the Sadina I am today. I don't think I can thank them enough. I have to stop writing for the sake of not crying, and I want to save my special messages for the ones who truly deserve to know how much they mean to me, but I know that tomorrow will be full of emotions, some appreciative, poignant, sentimental, and resentful of leaving. Either way, I know that I am starting my journey in the best condition that I could ask for, and I will never forget the ones who moved me so deeply, immortalizing them in the only way I know how, literature.

"Like A Dog Chasing Cars"

"Like A Dog Chasing Cars"

It's difficult because
Both options seem right
I'm trapped in the ridicule
Of what I made
I've stored my dreams
In a decorated box
For too long have I
Allowed this box
To remain inside me.
It's difficult because
I know that one option is wrong
I know that it's wrong
I've stored my moral
Somewhere I can't find
I didn't mean to lose it.
It's difficult because
Both people inside are
Waiting for something special
Disappointment meets them
I am lost with my morals
Hidden in that small box.
It's difficult because
Tomorrow doesn't feel new
It feels used, borrowed
Stored away in a tiny room
Only to be new when
I'm ready for cleansing
And storage in a little box
Seemed the easiest solution
It's difficult because
That box defines me
It shapes me
Into the square that I am
Going round and round
Stretching the corners
Rebelling against the sharp turns
Crying against immovable walls
It's difficult because
I've lost this box
This box that defines me
This box that defines me.





I just thought I'd try my hand at abstract poetry again. Thanks for reading, and remember to keep writing!

"One Simple Idea"

Lilies. Everywhere I go, I can't seem to shake those darn lilies. They are in the bouquet of the this girl who just won the award. They are in the corsages that I see young teens wearing when they go out to dinner. They are in the vase at my grandmother's house. In the garden. By the side of the road. Everywhere.

It's funny, because people always say that lilies smell like death. This makes sense, I think...lilies tend to be the main flower at funerals. Still, I always thought they smell too vibrant for funerals, too passionate. They smelled like Valerie. She always had lilies, whether she had drawn them on her notebook or kept them strung like christmas lights in her room. In my cliche teenager mind, I liked to picture her in her white dress, her hair swept to the side, a lily tucked behind her ear. I know, cliche.

She's coming home tomorrow, and I have to admit I'm a little nervous. I haven't seen her since she got with that script writer. He's probably surrounding her now with lilies now, saying stupidly poetic things. Ugh.

Here's what I think: we trade the things that we love for the idea of something we might love. We look to the left or right instead of just looking straight ahead. I traded her for some notion of a girl that I could get in the future, something to satisfy what I truly think just cannot be satisfied. Maybe that's what makes us human, the constant want for something. I don't even think at this point that I want to feel satisfied. After being used this craving for so long, it's hard to imagine not feeling it. I know I traded her in. I traded all the lilies and the smiles and the white dresses. I guess this is what regret looks like, a large pool of lilies.





That's all I have for now. Thanks for reading and remember to keep writing!

"I'm Not A Hero"

It's just not worth it. You try and you keep trying, but he is always disappointed, always finding something new to be angry about. You can live out your days, thinking that today was the day you put all of your effort into it. Today was the day that you really believed you gave them your all. You are so busy protecting them for what seems like years, that by the time they are actually look away from their own reflection, they just see what's left of you. They take everything. He took everything. I feel emaciated, eaten away by the attempts I gave just to make him smile, just to make sure that he was going to be okay. But tomorrow is a new battle. The next day is always another battle. A few months ago my armor became so heavy that I had to take it off, regretfully so, because his mind took a new twist last week. Everything's a tragedy for him, and he has no mind for how barren he may leave me in the end. Not that I mind helping him. He is everything to me, so it only makes sense that he would take everything. Still, I feel myself growing resentful, afraid of a future of all of this. I thought we could grow together. I thought maybe we could make a new start. No. No, I forgot he doesn't work like that. No matter how much progress we make, he takes one hit and he's digressed further than I can recognize. There are times when he won't even come up for air, and that's probably what frightens me the most. Should I resent him for this? Is it so selfish of him to be afraid of life, afraid of not being special. We all want to be unique, but he's different. His heart seems to break if he isn't the one shining, at least through my eyes. I can't tell him every second that he's shining though, that's just not possible. I'm trying. I really am trying. It's just never enough, and I see us dying together. This is dangerous, though I'm only playing with the coals that are left over from a once brilliant fire. I hate that I even think like this. It isn't his fault that he thinks like this ... but I'm still sick every time he thinks about her, how every tear is somehow related back to her. I wish that I could escape this but take him with me. I know that I can, but then what is the point in escaping? He's not going to change, but I won't either. I really thought I could save him, be his hero. Disappointed fire. Disillusioned ashes.





That's all I have for today! Thanks for reading and remember to keep writing!

"Stone In My Heart"

I'm angry, and that in itself makes me angry. I don't remember the last time I was angry like this. Bitterness sets in, and I feel my hands shaking, the blood rushing to my cheeks, like a bull ready to rage at the red-shaking moron. I can't believe I did this. I knew to do my best, and I slacked off. I wish I could take my frustration out on someone, some victim willing to let me ruin their lives. I know I don't really want to hurt anyone, but it would be nice to have the option. No, I would just feel bad after. Either way, I'm just angry! I can feel this anger pulling me down, resting yet building in my heart. I can't stand the sight of her, the very thought of smelling her perfume or seeing her hair braided to the side like that. Who is she to think that she has the right to talk to me? What makes her think that everything's okay just because I know how to fake a smile. I feel like my blood is literally boiling! I give her ten more minutes to be in here, but after that, I'm not responsible for what I do.

I'm a pathological liar. I try to find things that seem comic or all too serious and mess around with the facts, twist the plot a little in order to get the pot boiling. Truth is not what I want. Truth is the cousin of every malicious thing I have ever known. Truth is what gave me this scar from my mother, what rests on every dollar that is stuffed into her undergarments, reminding her that she is pathetic, scraping bottom for a vision that is exactly that, a vision. Lies protect us; they embrace us while we cling to their warm words, promising to surround us no matter what. They lie within us, like a stone, serving as a foundation, in our heart. Truth slips away, whereas lies multiply, promising their company for as long as I'm willing to allow them. I set no time limit to this, no hopes for stopping. Wish for tomorrow, hide today...my motto. No, it's not really. But I guess the point is I should never know.

I cry more than I should. I know at this point, it doesn't mean anything. I just think that the only healthy way of expressing myself is to keep crying, let everyone know what I'm feeling. That's what my friend does, anyway, and it always seems to work for her, so why not for me. I wish that there was a guidebook for this, when to cry and when to just let my eyes glisten with water threatening to run out. The effect is different every time, depending on the situation, but normally I get the attention I need. I cry for reasons that I don't even understand. I guess that makes me less genuine that what I would have wanted when I first started this thing, but then again, I was a different person then. That was before my heart was weighed down, almost clogged by something disturbingly heavy. Now I breathe in life differently. It's all a tragicomedy to me. I'm what you call a typical high schooler. If not, I'm different, and that makes me cry too. Both ends promise gold.

I laugh all the time. Pain means nothing when faced with laughter. Laughing is the cure to anything, but most importantly it saves you from getting hurt. I laugh when it's not even called for. My laughter, varying in pitch defines me. I hate the sound of someone crying or screaming, but I laugh it off and urge them to do the same. My teachers are always getting angry at me, laughing during a movie about the Holocaust or laughing too loudly, even when something is genuinely funny. Does this matter though? I'm safe and functional. I can  get out of bed in the morning and not want to puke at what I see. I'm not disgusted by myself to the point of tears when I try to fall asleep every night, though my stomach often hurts from laughing too hard. My doctor says I have a stone in my heart, blocking the emotions that I work so hard at laughing off. When he told me I would life with no humor, maybe even meaning, I laughed and told him to try smiling a little before he tells his next patient they have stones in their vital organs. As I walked out into the waiting room, I watched a little boy struggle to get out of his chair in order to comfort his mom who was sobbing two chairs down from him, laughing all the while.

I live. I breathe. I survive. I try my best to hone my anger at the things I can change, the things that pervade our society like bigotry and fear of ineffective products and lifestyles. I lie to protect my loved ones, but I say the truth more than I should, hoping that someone will learn from my actions and follow them with new-found compassion. I cry when someone is cruel, when someone is merciful, or when someone is purely beautiful, but I also save my tears for those who deserve it, allowing each tear to make me become stronger. I learn from each drop of water I release, hoping to make tomorrow better for those who have earned these tears. I laugh until my sides burn, aiming to spread cheer, or at least make someone smile alongside me. I laugh to absorb beauty, burn the moment into my memory so that I may smile at it in the later years. I feel. I feel. Empathy is the motif of my life, running into me with every person I meet. For them do I laugh, cry, lie, confess, become angry or unjust. For them do I live. For me do I live. I live. I breathe. I survive. I feel. There is more to this life than me. There is more than us. There is life, and there is our life. My strength goes to this: the hope for a smile covered in tears, blistering with anger and happiness, bursting with laughter, and masking the malicious lies with the delicious truth. My love, my life, goes the demolition and acceptance of this stone in my heart.





That's all I have for now. Thanks for reading and remember to keep writing!

"Now We Are Free"

Robert, 

I know I said I'd come back. I bet they're all shaking their heads at you, saying that they told you. I won't say I'm sorry for that, because I'm really not. You knew I wasn't strong enough. I know, you hate me, you hate my weakness. I guess I hate me too a little. I thought I could stay; I thought maybe you were enough. I really wanted you to be enough. I did love you. I suppose that means nothing now though. I can't even write this letter without adding "I" to each sentence. Do you see now? I told you, I need to take of me, and I here I am, writing about myself saying it's time for me to go. I hope you're happy with me gone. I hope you finally write your book, make your father proud, and sing a little more. Finish that painting you've been working on, but this time, paint with all reds instead of the blue that I suggested. You've always looked best in blue, but I know your color is red. Just go with it. Be you. Goodbye, Robby. 

Rae.

Rae reread her letter. She read again. Once more. There was so much she still wanted to say, but she held it back, knowing that it would nothing to benefit him. What was the point of this letter even? Only half of it really said what she wanted. Of course she meant every word, but there was so much she wanted to explain, to say to him, just to let him know what he's done, how many years he wasted in anger about trivial and meaningless things. Five years from now, would those fights even have mattered? Were they worth the grudges and the constant reminding of each other's flaws. She wished she hadn't have pointed out every one of his flaws whenever they fought. She wished he hadn't have brought up all of her past "sins" whenever she opened her mouth. She wished she would have understand when he said someone was pretty, he just thought they were pretty and that was the end. She was his girl, and nothing meant more to him. She wish she would have recognized that she was his prize, that she was all that mattered in the scheme of things, that each compliment he offered out to other people was to make them smile as he brightened the world a little, absorbing the beauty that life had to offer. She wished she had seen some of that beauty too, and when she finally did, she wished she didn't resent it for not being created by or because of her. She wished, oh she wished. 

Rae reread her letter one last time, looking for something that would say any of this. Disgust rose in her throat, overcoming her mindset and blocking all compassion for the situation. She couldn't stand where she was right now. Overweight, bitter, never saying what she's thinking, angry at her family, ready to move on with life and cut all old connections. She had become that typical teenager in the poorly written ABC Family segments that she'd always hated. Even this revelation seemed cliche to her. In a way, she was happy for Robby and his chance to get away from her, all the emotional damage that she's packed and set carelessly on his shoulders the more they understood each other. She shouldn't have asked him to do all of that for her.She demanded too much, so when he fell short in her eyes, what else should she have expected? 

Rae licked the envelope, sealing the letter that would free them both from all of this. No, it wouldn't, but Rae knew that. She looked at her alarm clock, which was eagerly beeping to wake her up for school. After tucking the letter into her backpack, she got into the shower, not stopping in front of the mirror before stepping in. 

That's all I have for now! Thanks for reading, and remember to keep writing!

"Not Yet"

I walk into an empty room
And smile at what's sitting there
Across the hall and down two doors
He's on the green, suede chair
He crosses his eyes back and forth
Pleading for time to stand still
I beg him to come away with me
Yet with hope he has yet to refill

Run away with me, I cry
Fending seconds off with my arms
He laughs, he quips, he's shivering
Disowning me and my charms
He's tired, I know, and disillusioned
But then again, so am I
I feel my feet dragging, my eyes looking down
I wish time could satisfy

I walk into an empty room
And smile at what's sitting there
Across the hall and down two doors
He's on the green, suede chair




I thought I'd try an abstract poem, another experiment. Thanks for reading and remember to keep writing!