Hovering Over the Barren Mirror

I am watching the way
his hands move like water
through shaving cream,
swooshing across his face
in swift strides.
This is how he aquaints
himself with me,
because talking has proved
inadequate. We are always
pushing the boundaries,
cracking our bloody knuckles
against our reflections.
There is no distinction.

I’m Back

Hello reader,

whats really funny about this whole thing you’re currently reading is that I’m using a laptop thousands of miles away from me (or maybe just one, whatever). granted, its a little laggy, but that’s not the point. the point is, i can go on my blog, which i could not previously do without the help of a really great friend of mine. and his old laptop.

you see, my school offers tablets, ipads specifcally, for its students to borrow for the school year. originally the only sites blocked from it were pornagraphic in nature, and i could go on my merry way reading all the fanfiction (yes, yes i read fanfiction, back to the point) and go on youtube, happily watching the videos and music i was, and am, nterested in.

not so much anymore.

seriously, i cant even go on youtube, let alone any sites that feature fanfiction. sure, there’s cussing on a lot of the videos done by various vloggers, but there are books in my school’s library with some pretty mature content. if you’ve ever read The Little Bones you’ll know, and even if you haven’t as im about to explain, that in the very beginning of the book the protaganist (a girl barely even into her preteens) is raped. the book’s in the first person. there are details. (its not too detailed, actually, but just enough that it makes an impact. you’d have to read it. in fact, i reccommend you do.)

im not saying they shouldnt have given access to that book, obviously. im really glad they did, because it was a great book, with a lot of insightful lessons in its pages.

but now i cant even get to my blog without having to use my friend’s old laptop from TWO STATES AWAY. (he’s really a genius, to be perfectly honest)

i have suffered from, and continue to battle, depression. writing allows me to communicate my deepest emotions and ideals. even the one’s that aren’t so deep. its my weapon.

i will not stand for such supressive bullshit, and honestly believe that no one shoulde either.

my message: stand up for what you believe is right, but do it within bounds that don’t get you in more trouble then you where in. also, surround yourself with friends who would do the same.


Fly Little Birds

I forget a step,
deciding the windshield
should play a part in
my last flight.

A day passes, I forget
the limbs I left in place-
wings tied to my wrists
and ankles, ineptly flapping
for air, lungs suffocating.

Time comes,
it passes, and leaves me an old man
sitting on the couch
deciding on who pays for
what in life. You say
paper flies more than
my little wingspans,
and this dry ache
breathes in my chest, swells
like a tumor. The doctor said
it was nothing,

just a case
of broken wings. So I try to fly,
so you say it’s impossible
to sing to the moon
in the way that it
needs be sung to,

I am in the woods again,
combing my hair through
the tree branches, telling
the sky, yes, yes,
I loved this too, once.

I am sitting at home,
the breeze fluttering
in my chest, remembering
my little birds.

Bright Stars, Muddy Field

We’re running through the night
and the stars are both the journey
and the destination. Each house
lightened up like a beacon.
The wet ground is freezing.
I’m wearing scandals,
and my feet are slogging through
the muddy field while we
search for food.
I can’t feel them.
Of course, I don’t say this.
I keep going,
hoping that for all
I’m worth this little
Rag-tag group won’t mind me.
We don’t know each other,
but I know you,
and that’s enough somehow.
We only stay together
for one night,
and then I’m left
seeking more stars.

Review on Natural by Jake Shaw

I honestly don’t know where to start. Let’s begin with the protagonist, Max. What I really enjoy about the him is how “natural” his voice comes through. Shaw seamlessly wrote Max into a convincing individual. His thought process was had a distinct flow and tone. It makes not only for good reading, but also allows for a concise understanding of Max. Plus, the extension makes it a kind of literary threesome. (No homo.)

The second thing I love about the narrator is, despite his confusion and foggy mindedness, there is a decided clarity to his thoughts. He doesn’t give anything more than he’s telling, which really forces me to be slow down. To look and listen and feel.

 And then you meet Eleanor. The enigmatic experience. Throughout the story I got this sense that she was leading both sides. Distressful and soothing, melancholic and cheery. It was as though she was a reflection of the moment, but it was abundantly clear that you really didn’t know her. Eleanor is definitely something else.

The stories plot in and of itself twists and turns, feeling like a long journey in someone else’s dream. Stark, disconcerting, and intoxicating.
I definitely recommend reading.

Also, there’s a tuxedo man. He sings as shrilly as his instrument.

A Long Ways Between the Moon and the Other Stars

I am a desolate temple.
Picture this: I’m at the park.
It’s a beautiful day; blue sky, birds twittering
in the trees, families happily being families.
But this- this is clearly a lie. I’m not at the park.
I’m in my house hunched over my tablet,
skimming through Facebook.
I’m wasting my life
wondering what I’m gonna do
with it, writing nonsensical little poems like
this, self-destroying. Slower on some days
than on others. Still,
there are few cliffhangers.

I used to stare at the moon
and muse whether it finds company
in the stars. So I’ve become it,
and I realize now the stars have no concern
for the troubles of the moon.
We’re light years apart.

So there are few friends that I talk to.
I’m a broken promise before my lips
even begin to part, but that doesn’t
stop me from trying to be the moon.
I’m alone because I want be everything
for you. The sun, the Earth, the stars.
But secretly I don’t. Not really.
It’s too hard to act in
a play when I wasn’t meant to.
I’m tired of choking down
pity and desperation.

There are so many things I don’t say,
because you don’t ask
so I don’t tell. Later,
when I’m unseen even
to my own eyes,
doubt takes ahold of me
like the shadow it is,
hissing softly,
“No one wants to know,
because all you are
is a piece
of the backdrop
to their play.”
I’m terrible at
remembering my lines,
so I’ve mastered
the art of
becoming a prop.

You only see a crescent of
me, but I don’t know if there’s
anything more than that.
Sometimes I feel like a rock
trying to be an inferno.
I have all the time in the world,
just not enough
of your passion.