The Haiku, Part Three

I jumped to the end
A story not yet written
Love is letting go

A Haiku, Part Three

Hi there friend of bear
Passing by, no random hap'
What I wish I said

A Haiku, Part Two

I got the message
Silence Silence Silence Sigh
I never loved you

Relishing Realism

Realness, rawness that I can feel
and genuineness against my fingernails.

Finding that the possibility
can become a reality.

Making the divide grow closer and closer
until all that remains is nothing supposed.

To satisfy my heart's desire
please don't relent the flames of your fire.

Beauty is when
you let yourself be truly your own again.

Swirling

Thoughts swirling
like a trillion plankton
caught in the current of
the ocean.

Forced by the will of the sea
to veer left
then right.

Travelling aimlessly
to another
nowhere.

Stalker

I know you know who I am.
I know that I don't know you.
And, you know what?
I trust and believe every word you've said.

And I know you don't want me to find out who you are,
But that's far from the truth.

And I bet,
You probably think the mystery of me not knowing who you are is me suffering,
slowly eating away at my curiosity and inquisitions.
But actually, to be quite frank, your identity is just kind of there.
Waiting to be revealed.
And I don't mind, if it takes its own sweet time.

I hope you know that.
No, I'm not that easy to string.
You won't leave me hanging, hungry - as you hide.
I know, time will tell.

Sleuth for Truth

There is a question that always baffles me.
It's my indecision,
of whether it is better to be mediocre at all things
or marvelous at one thing.

Whether it is better to skim along middle ground
or take a risk, dive deep and perhaps discover valuable rewards - or possibly never come back up again.
Some risks are worth taking - the ones that end up reaping rewards,
others are not.

One way or another,
it seems I will either be a little unprepared for a specific task
or extremely unprepared for many tasks, yet fully ready for that single one.
Unable to escape unpreparedness.
Unable to choose the better future.

Because, the truth is
I don't have all the time in the world to find out which path to take
and
I'm just
not
good
enough.

Guilt Trip

Failing, Falling, Fearing.
They say honesty is the best policy,
But they forgot to tell me that sometimes it can hurt.
That freeing yourself with the truth can make you feel guilty.

Well, if it is the truth,
that honesty, the pursuit of truth, is the best policy.
Then I must've done something right.
Fixing, Flying, Freeing.

But it's too early to tell.

Unlikely Treasures

We took a field trip to a long deserted beach, where the tide had once lapped at the sand we stood on, but had since receded back a few hun­dred feet.
Lit­tered in the sand were old gad­gets and giz­mos that peo­ple in the beach houses had once owned.
My eye caught onto a tele­phone from the 70’s. It was long anti­quated and the paint peeled in banana yel­low strips, but I knew the receiver had once lis­tened in on whis­pered con­ver­sa­tions, and the spin dial had once turned round and round to reach the voice of beloved friends. It held mem­o­ries, so many old mem­o­ries. Why would any­one want to throw that out?
Scat­tered on the deserted beach were more objects of the like, antique and rust­ing in time.
But to me, it wasn’t a junk­yard, it was a trove of forgotten treasures.

written on November 14, 2010 for the daily word "junkyard" on oneword.com

Let Her Eat Cake

Her brother called her fat all the time, even though she was thin as a pen­cil core and light as a lark's feather.
Watch­ing her eat annoyed him to no end.
Always being penul­ti­mate, he'd found a way to crit­i­cize her.
But she ate because she had a deep pas­sion for the art of cui­sine,
and because the del­i­ca­cies were just so exquis­itely deli­cious.
Going for the golden fluffy cook­ies, she couldn’t resist her­self from a sec­ond help­ing.
Tak­ing a bite into the floury good­ness, she blissfully rel­ished the del­i­cate lay­ers of vanilla dissolving on her tongue and the growing scowl on her brother’s face.

written on November 10, 2010 for the daily word "helping" on oneword.com

Impending Storm

Her golden hair blew furi­ously in the wind,
the waves crashed vio­lently against the tall char­coal rocks,
her crested cheeks turned crim­son from the chill,
and warmed up viciously as she remem­bered what he’d said one year and three months ago.
Rage was not some­thing she usu­ally let out,
but she’d held the bur­den for too long.
The dark volu­mi­nous storm clouds swiftly approached,
they couldn’t have framed her mood more per­fectly.
The water started to freefall from the spa­cious sky,
drop­ping harder faster and larger with every sec­ond,
set­ting the stage for a rag­ing hurricane.

written on November 1, 2010 using the daily word "stage" on www.oneword.com

Whimsical Wednesday

The golden ball hung in the sky, it sent rays down­wards, shin­ing shin­ing.
The cerulean blue was calm, it shim­mered shim­mered.
And the wind whis­tled softly but steadily, blow­ing blow­ing.
It caught onto the vibrant col­ors of the mast, apple red, bal­loon blue, and bright yel­low.
Dis­ap­pear­ing into the dis­tance, car­ry­ing hap­pi­ness to another place.
Sail sail away.

written on October 29, 2010 for the daily word "sail" on oneword.com

Mixed Melody

The sharpness of the siren pierced the air. She cringed and curled up in a corner.
Then came the giver of comfort. “Don’t worry child, listen closely, for it is a song.”

Written on October 27, 2010 for the daily word "siren" on oneword.com

Falling

Falling is inevitable. It's only a matter of time, before things decay and disappear.
             Empires fall apart, wars will start, human lives end, you lose a friend, spirits are crushed, good fruit is smushed, relationships are torn, animosity is born, possessions are broken, hearts are stolen.
             Perfection does not exist, when time holds the power to resist. It's a key we can never hold, an element out of our reach.
             Even leaves on a tree know one day they will twist off the branches, disconnect from their mothers and float, flit, and twirl slowly to the ground, but they are prepared for the time to come. That's why leaves change colors in the Autumn - they know they're going to fall, so might as well do it with some grace and beauty.
             Someday the fall will happen. Humans, objects, history will all be taken into its destructive grasp. But if we can predict the future and know that one day it will happen, we must embrace it. Accept the challenge and fall with style, elegance, and perhaps with a smile.

Blank

Blank
out
of
my
mind

Blank
like a clean sheet of paper
like a brand new canvas
like snow

Blank stares.
Blank pages.
Blank lines.
Blank faces.

Empty,
Clear,
Clean,
New,
Nothing.
Blank.

written on November 23, 2009 for a freewrite in Mr. Green's English class

Impossible

I am future-oriented. That is who I am and what I strive to be. To get it all, the way I define it. Exact.

Still, I fail to realize that the future is not exactly tangible. If you think about it, you can never touch the future, because it will always be one step ahead. But that doesn’t stop me from chasing after the uncatchable, trying to accomplish the impossible. Some may say that there are no such things as impossibility, but I think there are. My objective is not in reversing the impossible, but achieving the unlikely. I'm on a mission to shine. 

written on October 5, 2010 (at 4 am and falling asleep) for a Scarlet Letter Project

Fog

I was walking to school one morning and noticed the fog off in the distant highlands. It was a strong, clear wisp entangled around an evergreen tree. Its lonely appearance was what captured my attention to notice it.

             The next morning the fog was spread out and looked thin and mysterious. This time I couldn’t help but notice the fog, because it just happened to be everywhere.

            I find that this is the same way with friends. To make an influence and be influenced, one must put certain people above others, rather than treat everyone the same. This is the fog that was wrapped around the single tree. This is who I want to be, but I can’t bring myself to pick and choose one over another. Ironically this is the exact thing that is so necessary.

Contrastingly, the fog that was spread out had touched all of its surroundings, the impact on each tree was minor, but the impact altogether was something else. This is the picture of where I am at. It is like sticking one leg halfway into cold water and the other half way into hot water, uncomfortable and uninviting. In groups of people, if you try to get to know both groups, you only know each one briefly. While the groups within are warm and bubbly, it seems that when you wander in they become dull and chilly. Something about silence, can usually be so comforting, but so cutting in these cases.

Pick and choose I must do, but.

Maybe I don’t have to choose them, and they will choose me.

written on October 5, 2010 (at 4 am and falling asleep) for a Scarlet Letter Project

Anchor

What I’ve learned over the years is that almost everything is a team effort. A companion is one who can lift a little burden off of you. They give good advice, suffer with you despite their own problems. They offer comfort and strength.

And they know Control is like an anchor. It keeps you rooted and stable. But too much anchor is no good, too much control is being stuck without the ability for movement forward or back – no progress. Therefore, too much control is really no control at all.

I am in control.

And back out again. But that’s okay.  

There will be another calm after the storm.

written on October 5, 2010 (at 4 am and falling asleep) for a Scarlet Letter Project

A House of My Very Own

We didn’t always live in Woodinville. Before that we lived in apartments. There was the one in Redmond. And before that Raleigh, and even earlier, the one in Cary. But the earliest of all was in Starkville – where I was born. I still remember the insides of each of the homes, the homes that housed me and my memories, my childhood. Each time I left one behind, I came to live in an apartment that was better than the one before.

            But now we have a house of our own, one even better than any of the others before it. The interiors aren’t cramped, they aren’t identical with the ones near it, and they aren’t dull. When I pull open the blinds, light flies in and attaches itself to the walls, making my house bright & livelier – like a baby after it first open’s its eyes. At first sight I don’t realize it, but this house might be just the one that I had always wanted.

            We left North Carolina for Washington, because my father finally got a real, stable job. We lived there for 5 years and before that we lived in Mississippi for another 5.

            I’d always imagined a house, with 2 sets of staircases on either side of the house, handy for a quick escape if a kidnapper tried to corner you in your own house. The house was a pale blue or yellow or something else light and flouncy, but more than anything I wanted the inside of the house to be painted in some sort of complicated color scheme. In my head, it was always carpeted with smooth light cream colored carpet, as if vanilla ice-cream smothered the floor, and the kitchen would be spread with synthetic light cedar wood flooring. The backyard would have to be open and free, spacious enough for picnics and as a haven for visiting animals.

            Instead this house is small, but cozy. It’s coated with a dark and distasteful brown on the outside, but on the inside it’s clean and crisp and white. The floors are real hardwood, which is where a large portion of its value is derived. It’s got a nice backyard, big enough to satisfy my mother’s gardening desires and more. Finally, I was granted my very own room. At 12, I decided to paint it bright coral pink.

            Occasionally, I get rides to get home after school. “Which house is yours?” They will ask. “That brown one right ahead”. I imagine them cringe at the icky brown hue clinging to the exterior of my home. But they will never know until they walk inside. This home of mine is actually lit up and happy on the inside. Especially on sunny days, my pink bedroom sends out bursts of pink, reflecting onto the adjacent wall; it’s a sight to see.

            The more I stay in this house, I realize that it’s a lot like me. I may not be extremely attractive or flamboyant on the outside, but on the inside I’m singing a million colors, bursting back rays of light, and burning warm high spirits. My house is a part of me, and I a part of it.

            We’ve moved every 5 years, but this is my 6^th in the State. Will we move again? I don’t think so, we are stable here, rooted in the foundations of this home, my home.

written May 25, 2010 for a House on Mango Street assignment as a spin-off of "A House of My Own"

Mitzy Writes Stories

Mitzy is four months older than me, but she seems like she should be four years younger. Still, we are best friends. Like any other girl, she is caring, helpful, and honest. Yet, she is so similar to a small child: a little oblivious, awkward, and spontaneous. Every time she emails me, she tells me about her life, she titles the subject “week”, and she sends them to me week after week. She writes stories, they go on and on and on. Sure, they’re funny, but there is never much control over her plotline.

            She tells me about her dreams, and I tell her about mine. They’re whimsical and a little odd like a ladybug caught in a windstorm – but always funny. She has many random thoughts that don’t connect, but the big thing is listening to her talk about her past.

            Mitzy always remembers the weird events. The funny times, but the ones that are always somewhat irrelevant and easily forgotten. Boys, wood, and cheese. Out of her mind and through her mouth. I can’t help but laugh. Then the next time I talk to her, it’s boys, wood, and cheese. Same odd memories.

            Don’t get me wrong, Mitzy is loving and genuine, a wonderful friend. But there’s something about her, it’s different. She’s a dreamer, a happy spirit. She encourages others and lives in a quirky trance, in a mind that I will never understand.

written May 25, 2010 for a House on Mango Street assignment as a spin-off of "Minerva Writes Poems" (character name changed for privacy)