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Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear~Mark Twain [entries|friends|calendar]

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TAP TAP TAP [08 Oct 2005|09:27pm]
TAP TAP TAP October 4th, 2005

Not that I needed more stress knotting up my stomach, but a long dark shadow grew over my desk top, stepping ever so slightly closer with a loud click of heels on the dirty classroom floor, that looked like it had not been cleaned since the Cold War. The shadow stopped next to me and hovered as I hurriedly scribbled my pencil along my paper. It tapped its foot TAP TAP TAP behind me. I dared glance at it from my hunching position over my desk. My gaze quickly turned back to my paper. TAP TAP TAP I scribbled harder, pressing my pencil into the paper, making the lines dark and deep so not to be misconstrued for another answer. TAP TAP TAP I glanced at the shadow that darkened my desk, making it incredibly hard to read the text. TAP TAP TAP I pressed my pencil harder. SNAP, it broke. I gazed silently down at my broken pencil tip. The lead was still hanging on delicately by a small piece of the rough brown shaving that clung to it. I glanced to my side, away from the shadow. The girl next to me kept glancing my way. The guy in front of her was staring at me, or rather, behind me, then quickly looked shocked and returned to his paper. TAP TAP TAP I could feel eyes on me. I shook the end of my pencil tip off on the desk and looked around bewilderedly for a pencil sharpener. TAP TAP TAP The shadow moved. My tense neck and back relaxed a bit, before I realized I still needed a pencil sharpener. I looked to both sides of me. Everyone was busy writing, and there I was, right smack in the middle of the room gazing around for help. I kept glancing around the room. No one seemed to be breathing. I could hear the slight jerk of the second hand on the clock making its way around the numbers behind the small Plexiglas encasing. I looked back down at my desk. I was losing time. Someone coughed and my senses returned. I could hear the scribbling of twenty some students desperately trying to cram the answers to the last few questions before time was up. Again, someone coughed. I looked to see who it was. The girl next to me had stopped writing. She held another pencil in her hand and was holding it out to me, still looking ahead to make sure the shadow didn’t see her. I sighed and quickly grabbed the pencil. The girl returned to her desk, hunched over like the kid in front of her. I tossed my broken pencil aside. I had to finish. I quickly reviewed the remaining questions I still had to answer. TAP TAP TAP The shadow was back. It hovered behind me, still tapping its foot on the sticky-gum chewed floor. I wanted to laugh. It was standing on the place where Micky McBeth had thrown her gum when asked to discard it early in the lesson. TAP TAP TAP Her shoe was now sticking to the floor. She didn’t notice. I suppressed my laughed; making slight jerking motions to keep my laugh to a silent giggle. TAP TAP TAP The shadow loomed over my desk. I could hear it breathing. In and out, in and out. I wrote down the next answer, then looked back at the clock. A minute left. I started to sweat. The shadow wouldn’t leave, or move. It just stood there, tapping away to my right, blocking out the view of the girl who had graciously lent me her savored pencil. My breathing increased. I couldn’t think with it hovering over me. Watching my every move, waiting for the chance to catch me cheating off of the A+ kid in front of me, knowing that his answers were always correct. It enjoyed, no, savored any token of a chance to humiliate me, to loathe me, to be incredulously mean and vulgar because I wasn’t able to finish writing my answer to the last question. I looked at the clocked, my back still hunched, my neck in a U-shape, staring to read the numbers on the wall. The little red minute hand ticked away. 3…2…1…the bell sounded. Everyone, grateful for the stress and torture to be over, quickly gathered their things and bolted for the door, discarding their papers on the front desk. I didn’t move. TAP TAP TAP It didn’t move. Then the tapping stopped. A graying, withered, vein struck hand with a too small golden wedding band on the fourth finger grabbed my paper out from under my pencil hand. I glanced to the shadow. I saw the hand. The withered, hand still clutching my paper; its finger turning pink from the tightness of the ring pressing into the already worn skin. The shadow moved. I heard the heels slip away, distance-by-distance, softer and softer. I was lost. Lost in my own sub-conscious. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t feel. The shadow came back. TAP TAP TAP
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[25 Sep 2005|04:33pm]
[ mood | calm ]

The Name

A name is not something shared with people...or well it can be. A friend can call you down the hall and therefore your name is exposed, like the sun after a thunderous rainstorm when clouds are pushed away by the wind to reveal the frightened and hidden sun, ready and waiting to shine its light upon the dampened and wetly soaked earth. But, a name belongs to one person. Its the property of that person from birth and remains with them until they depart and die and leave not only their body behind (to decay in the rotting earth and molded ground, or burned into ashes and strewn across all sides of the ocean to be carried away to country's unknown calls you down the hall.), but they name that they have created and molded to fit themselves, their life, their soul, their everyday wants and needs trying to accomplish everyday goals without falling off the edge of a cliff and watching their life go by before their eyes without having a second chance or thought to realize what just happened. The name is a legacy. It’s legendary and will never be forgotten with that soul and body is inhabited and was known for. But a name can be stolen. If that friend calls you down the hall, your name is forgotten. Whisked away by the many voices it has been mingled with and mixed with, crushing and dicing, and mincing in a roll of names and lives that cannot be distinguished form one another, and therefore, the name is lost. Lost to a muddled mess of others who have long since forgotten or lost themselves and who they are and will never be able to again regain their name and person and being and all that goes with it. The name is sacred. It should not be used sparingly but with hope and pride and worn about with those characteristics of being proud, but not arrogant, showy, but not gloating, happy but not ignorant. It shouldn't wait to by its time for the right person to be called by it, but should respect itself and linger until that one has enough courage to wear their name without doubting who they are or whom they might be. Because if you lose your name, your life is gone, your soul is gone, you are gone.

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???? [14 Sep 2005|05:19pm]
[ mood | chipper ]

Wishes August 24th-26th, 2005

Many swirling heads of hell
Starting stories that begin to tell
Deepening gashes rose a flame
Dire hatchings none to name
Filling water in the rain
None but holes are yet to gain
Small dark wells speak of shame
Glories numbed by picture fame
Wishes granted, tossed about
Lingering feelings of houses knelt
Bottled brews of witches’ glory
Filling scents to propose a story

Book August 29, 2005

You can’t replace a book. You carry a bond with it that when you’re finished experiencing all of its pages and words, it has experienced them with you. You can always buy another book….but until you’ve read the words and shared its pages with yourself…its never your book. You can’t replace the bond if your book is destroyed. When you finish a book, you just want to end with it. To die with the end of the journey that fills its numbered pages. You keep thinking about the story, the journey and expanding it with your own mind to try and create more to it than just the pages of the book fill. A story that you and your book share, and it will only be with that book Not a new store bought book, not a friend’s book, nor a family members book. Your book has a story. A story that once its pages are read and its words filled into your mind, you don’t want the journey and story to leave because you feel empty and lost and lonely with those words to comfort you into the abyss of your own thoughts trickling across your void mind. Your soul needs your book, From cover to cover, the pages within supply and story that no one other than you and your book can share. The book is your friend, your life baring, your soul that wants to be ripped apart and ended whence the pages are flipped through and no more parched pieces of paper linger before the back cover of the book with written words about its face to comfort you in your time of need and help you relax from the strife you experience throughout the day. You book is a companion that can go no day without you, nor you it. A book is not only a friend but the soul of the reader taken form the imaginative mind and put onto pages of words that fill a history and journey that no other being can describe or relate to. The bond between a book and its reader are legendary, and no reader enjoy finishing that bond and severing it until that comfort is needed again…but when it is needed, it will be on a woodened shelf between russels of paper bound leaflets ready to be tied down to the reader and flow through its pages and words and journey once again. For without the mind and feeling for the story and book form the reader, no such story of brilliance can live within the binding of a book.

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[22 Aug 2005|12:08pm]
[ mood | tired ]

New poems!!!

Only Pawn July 31, 2005

A charming bow of crystal smile
Leaves encircle all the while
Humble bees alone at last
Speeded cars daily, go by so fast
No final reflection is ever looked upon
A figure in shadow will wait to be gone
A heighten of fear, afar from the dawn
Sheepishly grinning at the world’s only pawn

Sin August 6th, 2005

The most unworthiness game
The most unworthiness sign
A wrong done deed
At the most inexpectable time

Slander full words
Shaven off into light
Skinning those needed
At their own sheer drop of sight

The Foulest Thing August 9th, 2005

The foulest thing to walk the earth
A single penny, it’s not worth
A creature crawls and prays on guilt
An army wicked enough its built
An odor full of sweet rum berries
Squishing chewing and humble faeries
Wrapped around its sticky style
Prying teeth that run the mile
Ravenous eyes that suck the soul
A creature by none that takes its toll
The ear piercing, shrill-blocking call
My dear mother beats them all

Seconds August 12th, 2005

Fire sights a cold storm shows
Races endure winter snows
Mirrored trouble sets afar
Hearty honored gifts of tar

Jungle mixes trash a scene
Daring after words of green
Bowing excellent arrows of breeze
Tossing washes with great ease

Sounds excite those under minded
Falling lavish youth-filled kinded
Speak lightly of foreshown hope
Never entice a giving rope

Perish nothing to evil’s wrong
Words gallantly sing a song
Rings entangled, grips outdone
Neither latter has been won

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words very few people will ever hear... [28 Jul 2005|11:38am]
[ mood | amused ]


A hopeless cry of widowed sleep
Fills the dream till seaweed deep

Hunted arrows scorch a blaze
Rocky ranges turn their rays

Human bird for windows drain
Puddles splashing in the rain

Garland garlic highs a thief
Holly buds on crystals leaf

Daring shadows loom and grow
Filtered sun drops in the snow

March a million coward tales
Know all grief that never fails

Breathe the wind that comes a hither
Making petals break and whither

Spoon a dish of washing shield
Splinters dangle in a field

Cold, stone kettles only screech
Fulfilling greed without the reach

Crack a gift, a single course
Scratch and peck away remorse

Trays of honey glisten and shine
Trailing gravely on a line

Hear the songs that join the mind
Listen and feel like one of a kind

Search the world within your past
Few loved ones are rare to last

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a poem that no one will ever read... [23 Jul 2005|10:57am]
[ mood | artistic ]


A wondrous time of blooming fait
A gracious mare of chilling wait

A sinful deed of those non been wrong
A pure white, dove bird song

Frosty chills spread morning shun
Gloomy flowers yet have none

Rays of seedlings sprinkle cry
Endless day dreaming where one can fly

In clouds above the heart needs rest
Thrilling catches those who jest

Sign alone a friend in need
Bars of steel cage those aren't freed

A misty speech like silver breeze
Salty taste of ocean seas

Witty pecks of hummingbirds
Preach a story full of words

Exclusive commonly visual deeds
Grabbing ones stars to wish great needs

Skillful style wondering dress
Rile passion of questions to guess

Muddled matching shapes and spaces
Betting riches on foolish races

Time alone and being tasted
Shattered dreams are long gone wasted

Sense a tear on faces young
Colored leaves on lines been hung

Snowflakes, iced water brings
Mortal fresh fallen springs

Lucky brews for lighting weather
Marks a night of humdrum feather

Rein a castle a dream would hold
Shifting medals of priceless gold

Measure mounds of missing loses
Scrape away those vile sauces

Bank a breathing petal sun
Living legends need not run

Tethered to a brick, brace pole
Voice a vengeance daring goal

Delay a burden that filled the heart
Without a love, it shall fall apart

Close the mind to soul and grace
And lose all care without a trace

Grant a crave the core unknown
And threw the window, it will have flown

But wish away and feel only burn
The lasting last will not return

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[26 Jun 2005|12:51pm]
[ mood | blank ]

Rose Petals

The picture frame
Dull and blunt
Curves and metals
Back to front

Slices of souls
Buttered and frosted
Stinging bites
The cold unwanted

Rose petals crinkling
Fall onto thorns
Rain clouds cover
Drops that morn

Pockets of ink
Fading a ray
As the hay thins
Flowing away

Music sounds
A burn and a rip
Whispers are blown
Threw the wind by lip

Strange screeched voices
Rocks fall to the mesh
Chills down the spine
Eating all flesh

Likings are heard
From the heart filled with cries
The smoke whispery gone
Shows all deceived hidden lies

(If no one understood that, w/e. It's symbolism...so go ahead. Try to figure it out).

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[25 Jun 2005|10:33pm]
[ mood | bored ]

I’m extremely annoyed. Okay, I know there’s always someone better than u in everything and I’m fine with that. I’m not a perfectionist; I don’t have to be the best. But there’s this one person and I just actually never liked her, she was one of those only children who got everything she wanted and was spoiled and I've known her for years! But its like she can do everything that I LOVE better than me. Like singing and writing. My mom even tells me how great she is at it. How according to her voice teacher she could become a professional singer, and how her writing is amazing and so descriptive. I hate it!!! And our moms are still friends so I’m constantly hearing about how she can do this and that…while the only thing I get complimented on is my poetry…and I hate my poetry!!!!! I think it’s incredibly bad and awful.

Also, whenever someone needs to talk I'm always there, ready to listen and just be supportive, but whenever I have something to say its like its not even important to ANYONE!! I'm just sick of it!!!

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forgive and forget...yea right [06 Jun 2005|07:51pm]
[ mood | stressed ]

I always feel like no one listens to me. Probably because its true, but no one has to tell me that. However, I'm used to it. People are always interrupting me, or when I'm in mid-sentence explaining something, they turn away and talk to someone else. I wouldn't be complaining if this had only happened once or twice. But more than that makes it seem like it’s just me. It's not like I'm gonna change myself to please other people. That would be stupid, but I just wish being myself would be god enough for some of my friends (not that I'm accusing my friends...actually I am). People probably just think I'm a bore and have nothing good to say. Most likely true, but I don't have to listen to myself, other people do.

The only thing that's exciting for the summer is my birthday (and my mom already hinted that she was getting me a guitar!!!) and I'm hopefully gonna join the summer ice hockey team at my school. It’s cheaper than during the school years, so I'm hopping my parents will consider it. I am boring. Most other people always have such fascinating things to say, but do I? Nope. Not at all. So I apologize to all those who have actually read this and have now fallen asleep of boredom of my life. My life's not that interesting, but I'm the one who has to deal with it. Good luck to all those who actually have lives (most of which were probably purchased on ebay...in other words...what fakes!).

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what now... [06 Jun 2005|06:00am]
[ mood | annoyed ]

Long Gone Dead

If you lie to someone's face
Be sure that it is not the race

For if you do not heed my word
One you love shall not be heard

And if my word you do not hear
That loving one you'll never fear

But when that time has come to past
Make sure that it is not the last

And when you make the mistake again
I'll be waiting, your deathly friend

When your time is here to come
Make sure that what you've done is done

For you now shall never return
The 'scaping fires lick and burn

But if you do escape by chance
I'll be back with ready stance

But when I am long gone dead
I'm telling you, you should have fled

Far away from eyes not be seen
You should have fled your murderous scene

But you did not and now you'll pay
Knowing not when until the day

And fires grow and steadily burn
Falling upon your cryful yearn

Your plea will not, save you now
So fall and be gone with you to hell

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[01 Jun 2005|05:01pm]
[ mood | annoyed ]

A Burning Hell Hole

The beating of drums. The burning of metal collapses on the dry dirt and destroys all the ants inside. The blinding fire breathing rocks hurtling down and deepen the earths crust forcing it to cave in upon itself making a dent, no, a hole in the side of its head. The lava inside the crust bursts out and spills over the valleys and disrupts everything living on it. Deep within the mountain rocks flee and fall trying their best to escape the burning broiling boiling heat before become oblviviated and diffused within the lava itself never to see the light of the suns golden shinning rays ever again, unless being flowed outside of the deep hellish hole of lava into the sun that breaks through the earths crust and melts away all that lives and now dies within it. The snow falls from the gods and piles everything with mist, but the heat lives on. It remains bottled up inside the earth’s core readily waiting to be released into the atmosphere and cause destruction and chaos upon anything that stands in its way, and nothing ever survives its path.

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[29 May 2005|05:31pm]
[ mood | calm ]

Stealing Youth

A youth of salt slipping away
Dried sand on a beach touched by a ray
The liquid dissolving all of my thoughts
My youth is flowing, twisted in knots

A tangle of wooden brushes and gold
Youth in a bottle I doubt not have sold
A bit for one with glee up so high
A joy of happiness gives the impression to fly

A mirror, an image, a reflection grown old
An aged crumpled paper passes along, sivering with cold
Writings of young, and desperate wants and greeds
Yet, not one of these is one of our needs

The mind has a useful tool that it uses
Making us think if it does not get what it wants, it loses
But a mistake, in our minds have occurred
Like a mindless pecking of an innocent bird

Not talent, nor fashion, nor designer styles were worn
Such things will be gone, a thing so forlorn
A deceased mind knows better than most
A spirited soul, a faint friendly ghost

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[26 May 2005|04:32pm]
[ mood | bored ]

Raising the Line

A threaded yarn of ribbon and dew
Brings beaded strong scents a new
A thin ring clasp, neither solid nor strong
Releasing its pressure it’s held for so long

A silent sigh of breathe, a small gust of air
Gasps and shocks never wait just to stare
A glaring sign of wondering notion
Cuts and breaks what had been great devotion

A seasoning cry, yearly and flooded
Washing away hopes that are no further wanted
Moonshining rays peak out to be shone
A feeling not needed, the feeling alone

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[25 May 2005|08:42pm]
[ mood | good ]

A lonely character. A hidden face. Morning sun rays only shine down on hopeless dreams and fates. An empty void filled with sorrow. The destroyer of life, the lifeless journey. Not the past, nor future, nor present. Not time nor space, but space alone. A black coal heart bleeds only ice, cold, black blood.

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