Wide-Ruled Paper

I feel so little writing on
wide-ruled paper,
because it makes me forget how
old I've gotten,
like I'm just learning how to scrawl between
over-sized lines,
funny, they're starting to look smaller.

Now I'm going back to using
colorful crayons,
or maybe my hands are covered in
finger paint,
regardless, I'm not using a
No. 2 Pencil,
or if I am you can be sure I'm unaware of it.

You know, time travel doesn't always require
a time machine,
I'm not going faster than
the speed of light,
I can just sit in a chair and scribble
on wide-ruled paper,
or color with markers outside the lines.

I wouldn't go back in time to
change anything,
I'm strong enough to live with
my own mistakes,
but changing and reliving the past
are two different things,
and just reliving it makes boring science fiction.

But so what if no one else cares about
my memories,
and so what if my memory might have
tweaked events,
I'm just learning how to scrawl between
over-sized lines,
funny, they're starting to look smaller...

My Box

NEW POST
^ ya, I know, right? Haven't done one of these in a WHILE. I could make various excuses, but the truth is I just haven't felt like typing stuff up. I have written things, but most are...how you say...crap. here's something that I don't think is crap.

Fear.
Anger.
Insecurity.
Claustrophobia creeping through my veins,
Didn't know I had claustrophobia...
These walls, this box, only I can see it.
I built it myself,
with no help
from anyone...
No one else to blame.
It only took 15 years. Do you like it?
That side is fear.
It traps me, keeps me thinking I'm
comfortable enough where I am,
more comfortable than I would be out there-
out of my box,
where I can see no comfort,
because my wall of fear is in my way...
The one across from it is anger.
Anger shuts the sunlight out, keeps me in the dark.
Isolates me.
Makes me believe I want to be isolated.
Fools me into believing that I'm elevated.
Behind me is Insecurity.
Oh, it's also in front.
Can't move backward because of expectations,
can't move forward because 'average' has limitations,
and we all want to be average right? Normal...
So what's keeping me from climbing over these walls, overcoming,
abandoning insecurity, anger, fear, and just running?
Well, I'll tell you,
there's a heavy cover on top of my box that keeps me here,
One I just can't lift.
Many call it ignorance.
I call it a ton because its weight on my shoulders is
roughly that of 2,000 pounds...
But hope is not quite entirely lost,
I hear there's a key somewhere,
legend has it, to my box.
Goes by the name of
Knowledge. Experience. Awareness.
Something like that, I don't know.
I hear it's beautiful, fits any lock,
could free anyone and everyone all at once.
I would look for it, i would, we all would, I know it.
Trouble is we're all trapped inside our own box.

the bus ride II, prologue to 'the amabassador'

still not done with The Ambassador, turns out it's a bit more complicated than I thought. but hey, im getting some free-verse practice in, so there is that upside.

As if he can't possibly contain himself any longer,
a man on the bus shouts,
"My wife had a baby last night! I'm a father!"
 The bus stops and an older man gives the new father
a congratulating pat on the back on his way out.
Calls of 'Congratulations!' and 'Boy or girl?'
emit from throughout the bus crowd.
 "A boy, a little boy. Full head of hair,
most powerful blue eyes you ever saw."
Every word is soaked with pride.
"aww," and "oh how cute" echo throughout the bus,
mainly from the women,
but when they die down it's silent again.
except for the engine of the bus,
the metallic sigh of the doors opening and shutting.
The new father fidgets for a few minutes more,
his mood finally settling with the rest of the passengers,
and I wonder,
was that really all the reaction he would get?

the bus ride I, prologue to 'the ambassador'

The Ambassador will be on that new page u see at the top there in a bit. im still working on it. it's an experiment with blogger's new gadget, mainly. since im working on a story thingy-ma-jig, i thought i'd try it out.


Hesitant, inquiring,
you sit down next to me,
cross your legs self-consciously,
pulling at your skirt.
I can tell you're different
because most girls around here wouldn't bother
being self-conscious with those kinds of legs.
They'd wear a shorter skirt than yours,
and be more than comfortable.
I know you're different
not only because I know everyone else on the route,
but also because you're so obviously
so uncomfortably
out of place.

4-inch heels

Ya, I can walk in heels,
I can look nice, I can look 'sexy,'
I can do both at once if I want to
but I'm not that girl

in all those movies that are so-
so testosterone fueled,
fighting monsters, warriors, criminals, ninjas,
climbing mountains, swimming rushing rivers,

skydiving,
without ever smudging her make-up
and all in 4-inch heels.
-How does she do that anyway?- -Hush, I want to watch the movie!-

This is my favorite part.
The heroin isn't on screen,
she's re-applying her mascara
from that last scene of dramatic heartbreak.

Her love interest plays the muscle and she plays the brains,
but my favorite role
is the handsome cynic who provides the comic relief
from the brave, roller-coasting, sweet romance.

But in the end he, too, follows the mysterious and alluring stranger
in the tight black dress
and the 4-inch heels.
-how does she do that anyway?-

Stories

If I were a zombie,
and I ate brains like cake,
I would no doubt eat your brain
because your knowledge would fill me up.

it would fill me up for years
and you would save the whole world.
With your brains in my stomach,
everyone else's would be safe.

If you were a King,
I guess I wouldn't be surprised.
Or maybe a Prime Minister or a President
because you're not bossy like a King is.

In fact I know I'd vote for you,
because I know you understand me,
and that's what people look for in politicians.
That and whether or not they're a good orator.

If dragons came between us,
and we each had a sword,
we'd charge right through them all
and we'd meet in the middle of all the gore

Yea, I think it's romantic,
if, I admit, a bit strange,
but when fighting dragons and zombie attacks
the problem is you don't have time for much else.

If all the stories were real,
all the books, movies, and plays,
everything would be different,
except the way I feel about you.

But I wouldn't notice one thing out of place,
not the zombies, kings, or dragons.
As long as you were in my story,
nothing else would really matter.

What's Real?

Have to do a project on the poet William Carlos Williams [funny name, huh?] and thought I'd try and write something in his style. Key word: 'try'.

alone, wide awake
there's a monster!
under the bed!

wait, it's just a toy,
casting a shad-
ow on the wall

but the fear was real
and the blankets
thin though they are,

offer safety like
that of maybe
fifty soldiers

Not Yet, Please

my feet are shivering
they remind me that I don't want to leave here
without you

my vision's fading
there's nothing else I can see with these old eyes
besides you

my voice is shaking
'good-bye' are not the words I really want to
say to you

my life is ending
but there are still so many things I want to
do with you