godream

i built a wall
to keep out the pain and the hurt
oh i built a wall
over which i called jokes to you
i built a wall
and thought i'd be more secure
but i built a wall
that trapped in my fears
and held myself
with nowhere to release the tension
that bulges the wall i built
and threatens to burst it
again in an explosion
and then i'll sit in the wreckage and cry
till i pull myself up
dust myself off
try to put it behind me
but close it in with me
as i built another wall.

I've always thought of myself as a mathy-sciency person, though I do pretty decent in English as well. I love computers and I've figured I'd end up doing something with them... though my usual leaning towards software and programming rather than hardware and engineering has been balanced by how much I'm liking physics class.

But lately I've wondered, for possibly the first time in my life: maybe I'd like to teach. I have no idea where this idea came from, since I tend to be antisocial and cynical and totally not the type of person one would want educating the youth of tomorrow. But... I can see myself interacting with teenagers a whole lot better when I'm older, as students rather than peers. It seems though teens are catty and obnoxious, teachers tend to see the better side, really, of us. I've heard that I'd be a good teacher and a bad one, the former slightly more often... and it looks like I'm going to be helping out with the intermediate programming class next year, and possibly assisting in project physics too if AP Physics fills up...

But again, where the heck is this springing from? I think I was the only one all through elementary school who didn't want to be a teacher at some point. I'm not really all that altrustic -- sure I'd like to do something with my life, but I'm just as happy making a discovery as affecting the lives of countless impressionable youth. Plus I moan and whine about school all the time. Ah, well. Whatever. We'll see.

I did nothing today. OK, I started a game of Animal Crossing (and I foresee an addiction on the way there) and I rented the video I have to watch 'cause I missed seeing it in English class on Thursday and Friday, but I didn't actually watch it so that doesn't really count. When all's done and done, I just wasted another 24 hours of life.

Realizing that the sum total of today's activities closely resembles that of yesterday and the day before, watching apathy slide up and envelope me again, I have this urge to ask: am I really living here, or am I just existing?

That depressing thought aside, I'm off to waste some time getting a KK Slider tune and reading Spuffy fanfic. *sigh* Plus I think I might have a major philosophy essay due Tuesday, but I don't really remember. Which is sad, in and of itself.

Having just watching Sweet Home Alabama (cute movie, though kinda predictable at times), I feel the deep need to speak broadly and slowly. This fills me with chagrin and fear. Come on, I'm from Massachusetts! I talk fast and firmly believe there are only 25 letters in the alphabet: no R. (All right, no, I don't, but still.) My fear of southern accents is deep and soul-rending. Curse this tendency to pick up anything I hear for two hours!

_{...and I haven't written a word of that paper, which makes me feel a wee bit guilty. Oh well.}

The Angel theme song just rocks, a lot. That's all. Electric cellos, I'm told. Very, very neat.

If you want to download it for your own forty five seconds of bliss, try this site...

If you're looking at this sometime in the distant future, this is the first entry I actually created on LiveJournal.

Look, a livejournal! Hopefully more reliable than FOD. *crosses fingers* We'll see. I'm working on moving old entries over through backdating abuse... it may be a few days before I'm done, or, y'know, I may get bored and never finish. Tune in next week to cure the aching curiosity you're doubtless plagued by at this prospect.

Um... I really don't have anything useful to say here at the moment, I just want to see how the entry'll look. :P

Cause seriously, enough with the angst. I'm getting tired of it and I'm writing this (insert favorite expletive here). So now, a quick praise to the only reason I'm able to wake up six am at all, cranky or not:


...dragged from warm bed to cold morning
by unrelenting alarm.
stretch... reach for awareness...
stagger across the hall... turn the faucet and--
warmcascadingstreamofheaven(!)
At first a shock of sensation,
Water spilling down from above,
Dripping from my hair down my body,
Bathing feet cold from the tile
Before swirling down the drain.
Just barely hotter than comfortable,
Enough to make sleep pour from my mind,
To wash cramps from muscles,
To rinse away dreams and make reality tolerable.
And by the time the hot water runs out,
And the steam has filled me,
And the sun is rising, mocking, beckoning,
I find myself ready to face another clean slate of a day.

---

_{So, I'd love to hear if the change in punctuation and capitalization made a point or was just grossly overdone... hinthinthint...}

shady sunday afternoon
lost among thoughts in a graveyard
leaning against memories
dates and dashes
a name and a
forgotten novel buried by my side
in the grass carefully cropped
dancing clouds over the sun
and it's darker like
the grass stains on the knees of my jeans
(when I plucked and gave flowers)
the poetry staining my fingers
(red ink seeping from blue lines)
and like the bruises of my recollections

---

_{It's below freezing out, okay? I have to write summer poetry, even if it *is* angsty, done-before summer poetry. I think this one's somewhere approaching halfway decent, leaving aside for the moment the whole writing about things I don't understand bit. Feedback appreciated, as always, hint hint hint hint hint. And hey, for once in my life I'm starting to approach a resolution: non-school writing twice a week!}

So here I am, typing away, as my thirteen-year-old stepsister and her best friend lean in to the other computer in the room and whisper. Honestly, people. Two points here:

a.) I have bad hearing, but I am not deaf. I can hear you, and:
b.) newsflash: I couldn't care less. I promise I have no idea who you're gossiping about (whispering she's such a wannabe: we hate her!... she tries to be all punk one day and then prep the next-- do you think it's because she's brazilian? they don't know what they are), I think all the cute little slogans you're debating cut-and-pasting are stupid (a friend helps you up when you fall -- a best friend laughs cause she's the one who tripped you), and there's noone else in the room to hide from. I am so apathetic on all of your issues that I can't even be bothered to think of a metaphor or something about it.
...and yeah, I know, I know, I'm being all holier-than-thou and it's as ridiculous as anything they're doing. I do realize that I was thirteen three years ago and probably an immature brat too. I was into, let's see, Spice Girls I think, and I spent my share of time thinking about the current crush, and I had my times spent with my other stepsister who was in my grade and school talking about person x and person y who did this-or-that. But I would like to think I wasn't this crass, this tasteless, this vapidly cruel, and especially that I didn't take myself quite this seriously. I hope.

"Are you a rebel?" asks her friend. I glance up: it's something I've given some thought to, but I kinda thought I gave off more geek vibes here with my hours online, jeans and tshirt and ponytail, and studious attempts at tuning them out. "I find that the people who consider themselves rebels generally aren't," I evade, not really in the mood for a long discussion of my overly-condescending and embarrassingly stereotype-filled view of the Popular People and the un Popular People, who IMHO are really the same thing except in darker clothing with more hair dye and piercings. She giggles, and makes a long and illogical statement of the paradox I know that comment leads to, and I'm still here realizing that in spite of every word I've written I still take myself too seriously, still want other people to read my mind and laugh only when I mean them to, and still need to learn to more often laugh at myself.

Cause, I mean, me being completely antisocial and all, what better source for entertainment than myself, right? Or something.
Please note: This entire entry should probably be blamed on hormones and that time that fantasy novels insist on referring to as one's "moontime", which when I'm in one of these moods seems entirely too romantic a moniker for my least favorite week of every month. I'm off now to go get some sleep, which as I reread this post is only seeming like a better and better idea...

I tried to explain with words
echoing hollow in my ears
as I released them.
True tears
that evaporated in the desert between us...
while the words billowed with the empty wind
gained volume and weight
as they dove towards you
and when I blinked I saw them
crashing - crushing you beneath -
then my eyes opened
and I saw them stoop to perch on your wrist
You fed them
until they weren't figments anymore
caring sweetly and all the while thinking of me.
When they were fat and content
you sent them back smiling
glad to help me through these tides, times...
You turned and walked away
knowing now I could nurture them myself
since you had begun for me.
Much obliged I lifted my hand when they descended
felt talons pierce my skin
blood rising to my wrist, my cheeks,
infected, inflamed with fiery duty
and I should be able to reach my arms to the sky
feel the wings you've given me
and failing that I want to fall
feel the air rushing past me like flying
but I can only stand
and watch you, confident, leave.

---

_{This poem started as something and turned into something else, and I'm hoping that went halfway well, or at least not terribly. Metaphors are not generally my thing, and... well, leave a note, let me know.}