Writing Whispers

State of the Union

2008-12-29T13:19:00.001-07:00

I am a cup of coffee sitting stale in the microwave
The greasy McDonald’s hamburger that you give your kid,
Because reheating last night’s macaroni is just too much effort.
I am the blog you type, while counting digital sheep.
The insomnia suffered from your teenage angst, the night of your 30th birthday.
I am the binary code to your photoshopped spectrum of plastic money and cardboard trust.
I am the discarded newspaper, next to the iPod, whose battery is about to die.

In this world of fragmented physicality and emphasized connectivity,
I am the predatory virus seeking to infect your layers with salted promises.
I am your jittery nerves; wired from the ADD you gave yourself.
The only deficit of attention is on the disorder of your analysis
And I am the doctor that enables your addiction.
I am the politician empowered by the ignorance of a wasted campaign.
I am the war on your terrorism and the one securing your homeland.
I lay siege to your belief and compromise my own in the process.
I am the dead child on the festering street of hungry orphans,
Just south of here and north of there.
I am the east to your west, equating your meridian, to see how prime it really is.
I am the dust beneath your boot and the very air that you breathe in.
Don’t look for me in the stars, because all you’ll see is the hopes you’ve crushed.
Because all of the people, the ones that lead and the ones that follow,
All look up at the moon, and wish that she was anything but hollow.
I will wait for the day, when you avert your eyes and notice…
That there is still a cup of coffee sitting stale in the microwave.

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The first 3 lines are not mine. My friend, Meghan, had started a poem but got a writer's block. I jokingly added a few lines to what she told me she had and she told me to finish it. So I did... here it is.

Falling Leaves

2008-12-29T13:09:00.002-07:00

The gold and crimson leaves twirled down on a windy slide in a shower of color. The sky was a fading cerulean that matched the tears that were pouring on the inside. Fall had come and was on its way out. The wild life was more reckless in their hiding habits in order to scurry fast enough to stock up on food reserves. A squirrel frantically gathered a nut and darted off behind a bush blanketed in freshly fallen flora. One leaf fluttered into the window and landed on my bosom. I picked it up carefully. To admire the veining, I held it up against the dying sun. The fierce gold made my pupils shrink and I smiled from the pure beauty of how vibrantly it fought against the mundane decay it was about face. If only the spark of life embedded in the veins would flow into my own.

With one more glance out onto the courtyard where the stable master ushered the barn boys hurriedly, I moved into the soft candlelight corner of my room. I carefully placed the gold leaf in one of the drawers on my vanity, close to my journal and my favorite quill. Plucked from my favorite peregrine falcon on her last day alive, I only used it on special occasions, when special words could only be preserved with a special utensil. I closed the drawer and glanced in the mirror.

To any untrained, ignorant eye, the glamour of the gown would distract. The gold stitching matched the scene outside. The gold threads outlined full trees of scarlet and the cover that they shed on a forest floor that was just as colorful as the softer orange sky. Her already ample chest was pushed up by a corset that was worth more than her bedroom set. Her waist was made unnecessarily small, but gave her hips a child bearing look. The full sleeves ran snugly along the contour of her arms. The gown was loud, with the authoritative elegance of the queen she was to become, a suitable bride for any young, upstart prince. I speak of my reflection as if another person, because I cannot find a suitable piece of evidence that connects her to me. For the gown distracts from a forlorn face, filled with shame and disgrace. The only reason why I did not feel like I was looking at a stranger through a window was because of the eyes. Hers matched mine. The somber auburn betrayed a shadow of a human being within. I never looked at my reflection for more than a fleeting glance, because I was afraid that those eyes would overtake the rest of the exterior and show the emptiness.

I returned to my chair overlooking the courtyard in a whisper of rustling fabrics.

It was always around this time of year that the stone walls of the castle seemed a few degrees cooler as if winter had already kissed their surface. Even the warm colors of the wall tapestries could not hide the barren feel that they emitted come this time of year.

A loud crash came from below and I jumped in my seat. I looked down over the dull oranges and browns of the stable yard to see the stable master about to whip a young hand for dropping one of my future husband's crates. Beautiful robes of royal blues and emerald greens lay sprawled out on the dusty muck. I couldn’t help the small smile of satisfaction that I felt creep up on a face so unused to any facial expression.

"Good sir! Do leave that boy alone. It is not fitting for such violence to be committed in front of a lady!" The stable master stayed his hand and looked up at the window that the soft voice came from.

"My lady! I am so sorry! I would never, had I know that your caring eyes were watching." He grumbled something to the boy and pushed him gruffly to continue his work. The boy stumbled a few steps from the strength of the push, but soon caught himself and ran to help the other stable hands.

I noted to myself to give that stable hand a greater winter solstice gift. My mother had started the policy of giving back to all of the servants in the castle. Her sympathy for those less fortunate than her was what inspired me to set new limits on the treatment of the servants as well as how much they were paid and even how well they lived. My father viewed it as a statement of status to all of the guests, while my mother cared more about how it made the servants feel inside. My father was not an uncaring man, just traditional in his views of the world and his subjects.

A rough knock rapped on my door. I was loath to answer it, much like a called dog to his punishment. Just as raggedly, I walked to the door and opened it with a curtsy.

"Why, good sir, you grace me with your presence." In came my fiancé like a rampaging bull during mating season. All of his fancy, expensive robes glittered in the twilight and candle light. The odd mix of the two made him seem even more bizarre than normal with his pounds of jewelry and overdone makeup. He seemed more like a jester with his plumed jacket and puffed up pants. The overwhelming design and gaudy colors were more suitable for jesting than attraction, which he seemed to angle for. He had more than one concubine of my own fleet of ladies in waiting. I couldn’t imagine the number he had back at home in his brothels and taverns. He stayed at our home in the summer and returned late fall. He smile always seemed brighter when the leaves started changing. Soon he would return to his wenches and the fun would begin. Here he was far more restricted. I turned my face just slightly enough that my look of distaste appeared more like the sad look of a woman who knew her dear lover would depart for yet another long, lonely winter.

"Oh cheer up my lovely lady, I shall return in four months time! Before you even know it, I shall be back here to bed you." I felt look of distaste morph to total disgust when his ornamented arm snaked its way around my waste and pulled me close to him. It was yet another day where he had over-perfumed to hide the scent of wine. I would have been his most prized trophy woman, had I allowed him the pleasure of sleeping alongside me. But never once had I allowed him to. I had heard him grumbling that his best whore at home could not compare to me. He exacted his frustrations on her, every time he thought of what he would have to wait for until our wedding night. "Don't worry my maiden; I shall be strong for you…" I stopped listening to his siren's song as I felt a ringed hand slide its way up my leg, pulling up my many layers of skirts. I brushed away his hand.

"I shall miss you every second until you return." I curtsied and stepped quickly out of the room, pulling my skirts up in front so as not to trip on them. My place of sanctuary had always been the kitchen. The head cook was pretty much my surrogate mother. She had looked after me when my mother died. Her homely morals were what I clung to; because they were the closest thing I had to my mother's. My skirts were always dusted white on the bottom from the flour that inevitably coated the floor. The smell of breads, meats and cooking fruits calmed me quicker than anything. I flung open the door and burst into the room.

"Mother!" I cried. The girls who helped my mother stopped and stared at me with sympathetic gazes. They were much like my sisters. My mother was a round woman beginning to show the wrinkles of work and time. She wiped her worn hands off on her tan apron and took me in her arms. It seemed as though in one step, she had scaled the kitchen. I flopped into her embrace and a cloud of flower puffed up around her and I.

"My child, you must be careful calling me that. Your father will have me out to the stocks in no time should he hear." I whimpered softly and she shushed me. It was only in her embrace that I felt my stony exterior and all of my reserve melt away. "What happened?"

"I cannot marry that filthy pig. What was father thinking? Our heritage will be disgraced with all of his bastard children! Will our people not notice when half of the city bears a striking resemblance to their king? I will be treated more like his whore than his wife! What respect does anyone have for a whore?" She frowned.

"A man like him is unworthy of my lady. May your father come to his senses before the snow melts. When the flowers pop up in spring, may the cancelled wedding put a blow to that vile boy!" Mother had found him in many a differing room with a new girl every time. They were always wooed away from their senses until after he left. They cried themselves to sleep in regret of what they'd done. The havoc he wreaked was more than she was willing to overlook.

---

Three years had it been like that. The only difference was my fiancé became my husband and his reasons for leaving in the winter were ambassadorial pursuits. Otherwise known as, he was sleeping with their young daughters to gain favor in the land as well as satisfy his carnal pursuits. I would be left alone to run a kingdom devoid of a king. I no longer allowed myself to weep in Mother’s arms. I just sat in a candlelight room with her to discuss any troubling matters. With my father bedridden from sickness of age, I alone ran the kingdom under the mask of my husband.

The monotony was broken one fall day, when the last speck of soul seemed like a leaf falling from my branches caught up in the hurricane that was her.

The main doors blew open and the strong winds rushed in and blew over most of the tapestries. The servants scrambled to fix the mess and close the gates. In the doorway, she stood; her silhouette holding one tiny bag. Her hair blew wildly over her face and her dress flapped like an untamed mustang. I curiously walked to examine her. Mother's distant relative. It was hard to see with all of the candelabras blown out, but slowly they were relit. The girl blew a piece of hair out of her face and wiped her hands on her tattered apron. She curtsied in a gruff and boyish manner and looked up from her deep curtsy. In her brown eyes I saw wild fires that licked at my branches and made me go weak in the knees. In the ten seconds of knowing her, I felt more passion than in the ten years of knowing my husband. My heart raced, my stomach grew a pit and my lungs seemed to empty of oxygen.

"Welcome." I said in a breathy exhalation. For the first time, winter's kiss had not fallen upon the castle early and somehow I knew that as long as this girl remained, winter would not be able to claim the warmth I was just now beginning to feel.

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I'm not sure what provoked this. But lately, I've been longing for that one girl who sweeps me away and takes my breath away. It seems all of these men come in and out of my life and even a few females. I'm looking for a woman and I hope I find her soon. A nice piece of lesbian love.

The Sound of a Rose

2008-12-29T13:05:00.004-07:00

is soft like a rainstorm.
A torrent ofdelicacy rushing like vibrancy
of petals' tears, glinting in a scarlet
sun faded by vapors. It calls to you
in olden names of unknown origin,
famous in their time. Teasing our nostrils
with a sharp, flirty gaze. Revealing all
but hiding intent. What a tease she is
with her sing-songy voice. Delicate like
the typhoon beating away her garments
to reveal a black'ned bough, bloody flesh.
Screaming out... patter, patter, patter.

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This is a poem that was created because I felt it had been so long since I had been poetic. The idea came from a discussion in my poetry class. We were talking about synaesthesia, which is the combining of senses such as tasting shapes and hearing colors. One guy said "You always hear about the smell of a rose but never the sound of a rose." Then it clicked and I began to write. I fixed it up a bit changed the format so thatevery line has ten syllables, except the last (yes I meant to do that) Tell me what you think it means.

Aaron's Poem

2008-12-29T12:51:00.002-07:00

I’ve crossed the furious desert through blankets of fiery wind
and seen the land reshaping
as if by God’s own hand.
the canyons and the rearing cliffs constantly
painting their hues, unimaginable.

I’ve seen the forests in their summer green attire
and the mountains’ frozen purple.
though many waterfalls cascade, the ones I’ve witnessed
dive
over mossy-coated rocks.
a sprout I planted grew and grew until a tree replaced what I had sown.
and in the golden rays of noon I lost sight of what I’ve known.

Though nature has her alluring beauty, she pales when placed next to you.

I’ve listened to Coyote sing his sad and lonely song.
accompanied by the steady drum of the bull elk running
as stars take over the darkened sky
a stunned silence hushes nature to sleep,
the stars seem to hum.
the white pure light of the moon slips a silky kiss
and suddenly night slips into day.

Yet in this symphony of darkness, I only think of you.

I’ve explored the far snow covered North
where rugged beauty lies hidden behind a frosted mask
revealed one moment and quickly whisked away
if not for something else far more dear to me
I’d leave my heart there
in the expanse of snow-filled wind.

I’ve been south to paradise
lands I know
where I’ve played on many a beach
watching the ocean flirt with her hypnotic flow
getting lost in a world that’s hard to reach,
but always within my grasp.

I’ve seen the mountains from East to West
each mountaintop, each drop of dew,
each winding river and recessed valley
but I know what my heart wants best
and its not in the cradle of solitude.

I’d give it all up
the beauty, the thrill of adventure,
the spirit, the majesty of nature
just to be back there with you.

For your hair is more beautiful
your skin more fair
your eyes more deep
your laugh more rich,

You are my sun, my stars, my moon lit sky
without you I dwell in darkness
the world for all it’s beauty
seems demure and gray when compared to you

For to be with you would be the greatest adventure
to be with you would fill my life with a splendor
that stands second to no one

And all I ask is for just one day
To be your special someone.

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I'm definitely not romantic enough to have come up with something as sappy as this piece on my own. Aaron Johnson had sent me a poem from when he was in North Carolina to fix up, because he wanted to give it to a girl for Valentine's Day. Let's just say that this is a VAST improvement from the original.

Colorado Storm

2008-12-29T12:47:00.001-07:00

“Must I always be so alone?” Carefully she drew her knees up and placed her hands lightly on her ankles. Between rumpled locks of dark brown hair, he watched the effervescence drain into sadness. The light played cat and mouse as the clouds shifted. Colorado storms never lasted more than a few seconds and before the lightning had responded to the thunder's calls, the sun shone dominant again. He sat on her bed next to her. Nothing but the leaves blowing in the wind could be heard. He lightly placed her chin in his hand and brought her face up to his. It showed no emotion, only her eyes, her chocolate eyes screamed it.

“But you aren’t alone, not as long as I’m here.” He smiled reassuringly. The sadness slaked slightly but then rushed back into place. She turned her head away again.

“What happens when you aren’t around anymore? When I’m all alone and must face the world as such?” She raised her head and stared at the wall before her. A poster hung, signed by all of her friends when she had turned 17. “I must depend on my own strength. I long to look in the mirror and tell myself ‘That is enough.’ But instead, I look and see so many other faces, faces of friends. They complete me. I am not one. I am many. When do I get to see me and what I am?”

He had no words. What do you say to someone who wanders in a shallow pool of fellowship? Then he smiled with a slight chuckle.

“That is what we are. Creatures made of more than one. That is how we survive, we grow, we live. Through each interaction to attach of piece of them to ourselves and grow. Instead of remaining the fragile infant we learn from our parents’ teachings, our friends’ kindness and sometimes unkindness, and even our enemies’ preaching. Each human that walks, walks with a piece of all of the people we have interacted with. We are an accumulation of knowledge, experience, wisdom and power. Without such accumulation, humanity would shrivel and fall away. Is it so bad to see others in the mirror along side you? They are there to help you whether or not that is their intention. When you look in the mirror, realize all of those faces are just another way of expressing you. You are what you choose to accept from each person. No one else would choose such a combination of knowledge. You are uniquely you, because you interact. You are never alone. You harbor a piece of everyone that you have ever met. You are not alone.” He looked up to see if she had registered his own preaching, but her eyes remained blank.

“I shut them out… I don’t accept what they have to offer me. For fear that maybe there is a virus underneath, ready to implode. I want so desperately to be me and not the effect of pressure. I tune them out.” She rested her head on her knees. “So, I truly am alone…”

What do you say? What do you do? If actions speak louder than words, how do you help heal? Have you ever noticed that after a storm, the birds sing louder? He looked out her window as a breeze scuffled in and heard the birds singing. When will the storm end? When will she sing again? The girl he knew was ever-happy and filled with light and energy. When would she shine bright again and prove the sun jealous? He wrapped an arm around her hunched shoulders.

Soon, like a Colorado storm.

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I love the idea of comparing loneliness to a Colorado storm. If you know what a Colorado storm is like, it often lasts about five minutes and then it is bright and sunny again. It passes as quickly as it comes and can be a light trickle or raging. It is as fickle as human emotions.

Tidal Heart

2008-12-29T12:39:00.002-07:00

Hark the dying day, when everything comes to an end.
It seems the day has darkened as I’ve lost another friend.
It isn’t my way to mourn what cannot be undone,
But still my moon is setting and I see the dark side of the sun.
I’m not weeping as is customary for a fading soul,
But rather sitting back and watching my ever-changing role.

Christen the dying day, when transcending takes the stage.
It seems happiness has come to turn away the rage.
The shattered shell, humanity’s bleak fortune
Rises to face the stars as the clock is striking noon.
I’m not decaying as is customary for a fading soul,
Because its not a body dying but the changing of my role.

Hasten oh dying day, when born am I again to this alien world.
It seems the stars aligned and my wings have been unfurled.
Metamorphosis, rebirth, with the dying of the day.
In your arms, I’ve found the place that I was meant to stay.
You’ve cracked open the world to allow a changing in my role,
And I see now that the growing light radiates from my soul.

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This was written as I was attempting to write the last essay of my high school career. Gaduation seems to be one type of Coming-of-Age ceremony for the Americans and I was contemplating about how I felt for all of us to go our separate ways. It was a change so strong in me and I am still happy that it has occured. This needs to be fixed up when it comes to flow.

Nine Ways to Look at Dance

2008-12-29T12:35:00.002-07:00

I
Your hand in mine, an introduction into your world
As the music flows through us
Like the river through a clearing
Blanketed in a fog
So there is nothing but river
And field
Together

II
Branches sway to the fleeting whims of wind
And clouds rumble in, creating a bass
The entwines with the falsetto
Hopes of wind through reeds
As the river sings in soft alto
While the whistling winds
Wind
Through tunnels, strings
Harmony

III
Dip, twist and turn straight to Eden’s gates
For no where else can you
Be as real to me
As a garden overcoming its flaws
The statue that no longer remains
A creation of society,
But is weather worn, blanketed in
Kudzu
Peace

IV
Warm fires reversing the silhouette
Taking second place to none
Refusing to still for even the most
Adamant of reverent artistes
Snapping at any who dares
To stop the music
To stop the
Passion

V
Soft shimmers of pasts untold
Teach and train and step in time
Now, hear without sound
The flickering smiles in watery eyes
No recollection of luminous
Fire tales in any iris
But yours
And now
Mine
Connection

VI
Moving pictures, a granddame to stills,
Untamed beauty predating concocted media
Can not be stilled, can not be
Out done, a crestfallen angel,
Not melancholy but waiting
Old mother, but never dead.
She turns too, never stopping, ever flowing
Follow the ancestor’s steps, instinct
Follow
Tradition

VII
Travel over floor, street or hill.
Timed to a beat tuned to unison
In a crowded room all alone
Just as was meant to be
Should we sit or should we shift
Either looking into one another
Or probing memories
We will be one
There will be us
Unity

VIII
I depend on you to be my light,
To scare the tears away by roars
Of thunderous laughter
A ballet of metered words
The embrace of your thoughts is what
Warms my nights when desolation
Is the only partner for my nightly tango
Convince me, I am what I need
Lead me, step… by… step… glide
I am yours
Protection

IV
The music stops… but the dancing is for always.

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Dedicated to the one who taught my crippled heart how to dance...

This was based off of a poem that was twelve ways to look at something and we were supposed to do our own version. I wanted to look at dance.

Life According to Anger

2008-12-29T12:27:00.001-07:00

I’m watching my life waste away,
And not doing a damn thing about it.
Tell me to be happy, smile a little more.
So next time when I feel like shit,
I’ll remember your advice,
And create in my easy-bake oven,
Your Barbie-infested mask.
You tell me to be something I’m not.
Your answer to my pain is to become just as fake as you.
If I feel like shit, then I feel like shit.
And no sappy, half-assed smile
Is gonna make it go away.
Everything is falling apart,
But it’s been crumbling for a while.
So why bother trying to rebuild,
What’s just going to fall down again?
Instead I’ll help it die,
I’ll kick it ‘til it’s down.
And if that bothers you, too bad.
I’m gonna kick it harder just for you.
So take your smile and shove it up your ass.
Take those happy notions, that laughter and the mirth,
Take it all and drown it in this lie that they call love.
I thought I had it all,But guess what?
If it’s too good to be true,
Wake up, it probably is too good.
Too good for you, too good for me.
Wake up Charlie Brown,
It isn’t all rainbows and candies and hearts.
Its pain and its struggle, its death and its anger.
I tried that happy shit and it let me down again.
Here I am once again, smoking and drinking and dying.
But who wants to live the “good life,”
I say fuck it all and live like you want,
Cause life is short but a pain in the ass.
Just like the good ol’ doc’ has said.
“I have some pills that should make it all just go away.”
Live like you want and fuck those who stand in your way.

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Al I have to say is emo with the potential of slam poetry... which in essence is the same thing.

Hope

2008-12-29T12:22:00.001-07:00

I was born
On June 20 about 17 years ago.
Jaundiced and crying, I came into existence.
There isn’t much that’s special about me.
I’m just like you, or her, or him.
A child in this world,
With just as much of a whisper of a prayer for hope.
Hope that one day, I’ll achieve my own success.
Hope that one day, I can look back on my past and smile.

I died
On a windy day in September about 5 years ago.
Broken and starving, I came out of existence.
There isn’t much that’s special about that day.
I shot up, I eased my pain, I sold my soul.
A child in this world who sold her chance to drugs,
My whisper of a prayer for hope silenced in a coming hurricane.
I killed my hope, I killed my faith, and in one day…
I lost everything.

I was saved
On a warm day in May about 3 years ago.
Decrepit but determined, I crawled back into existence.
On scarred knees and bloodied hands, I grabbed a hold of hope.
Yanking her down to look at me, the one she left behind.
“I’m a child in this world, just now reaching my maturity,
And let me tell you now,
I may have sold my soul,I may have lost it all:
my family and friends, my health and my future,
But god damn it Hope, there’s one fact that keeps me going…
I exist and that’s all that needs to be true because
As long as I have life, I’m going to fight to earn you back.”

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I'm not very fond of this one anymore... there's still potential that I can't snuff out of existence.

Promises

2008-12-29T12:13:00.002-07:00

I promised I’d always be there.
Through the thick and the thin,
I’d never let you down.
I’d catch you when you fall,
Be the shoulder that you’d cry on,
The little stuffed animal that listens
To all of your secrets but never tells.
Neither of us planned for this to happen,
No one ever does.
I lay there in the hospital,
Wrapped in flowing ivory sheets.
Countless wires covered my body,
Monitoring my every action.
As I lay there in an endless sleep,
My heartbeat begins to fade.
No heroic actions,
It’s been twelve whole weeks.
Set my soul free,
Free of the confines of an immobile body,
So that I may be there when you fall,
Even if I cannot catch you.
I’ll be there when you cry,
Even if the tears fall through my shoulder.
I’ll be there to listen,
When you curse my name for not being there,
For dying and leaving you all alone.
I’ll be there even though you can’t see me.
I will not tire of being at your side.
I’ll watch out for you as best I can,
Because in the end,
I’ll never break my promise.

---------------------------

Not my best work ever but I still like the theme behind it. I hope to revise it and completely revamp this one. It has the potential of power, but not the structure so far.

My Hero, the Invincible

2008-12-29T12:10:00.000-07:00

Really, I’m not sure why so many teachers are obsessed with asking who my hero is. I’ve said everything from my dog to the homeless people of America. So this time, it’s something different. I will admit it has been a couple years since I have been asked this question, but those years have changed my perspective, drastically. Before you read who my hero is, I must warn you that this may seem self-absorbed, but my hero has proved herself time and time again.

My hero is me. Yes, yes, I know it’s pathetic. But you see, so many people grasp at their heroes who are either fictional, cliché, or out of reach. My hero is none of these. So, now you’re tapping your foot in agitation, demanding good reasoning for my decision. I will tell you why. Time has thrown many obstacles in my way and I feel that I have passed them beyond anyone’s expectations, especially my own. I feel like I’m bragging and being immodest, but its my true feelings. I have overcome death of loved ones, drug addiction, an eating disorder and discrimination for my sexuality and still I stand with humor on my sleeve and a smile on my face.

The time-line of my life starts off really with the death of Grandma. Within the borders of my little six-year-old life, she was the only one to support my dreams no matter how unrealistic they were. She made me believe in myself but more than anything fostered my creativity, imagination and confidence. Yet somehow, a piece of me died when cancer took her away. When I looked into that casket to see her shining face reduced to a cosmetic-covered pastiness, I lost much of what she had given me. It’s hard for an injured flower to grow back, when the sun has stopped shining. In my wilted state, I connected with my dog because I could tell her everything in my heart and know that it was kept safe. She was my undecipherable journal, my escape. Then when she died, my journal was burned away and yet again I was lost in a world that provided no support. I was absolutely lost in an emotional sea.

I battled this sense of loneliness much of my elementary life, but then again at that age sadness has a different meaning, but it still hits the same way. In middle school, I truly attempted to gain the happiness I had seen in so many other people. My best friend was one of the bubbliest people I knew and secretly I strived for the happiness that she seemingly had mastered. Somehow I equated happiness with materials, but that could not help me. The depression had been sinking in more and more and slowly became who I was. I defined myself by the darkness within me and I sought anything and everything to try and keep that realization away. There were very few days between fifth grade and seventh that I didn’t think about different ways to rid the world of my existence. I tried a couple, but chickened out of most. This lack of courage depressed me even more. So turned to a new mistress, heroine.

Somehow, in a middle school in suburbia Colorado, I managed to find a rare drug for these parts. The dealer never told me her real name and I really did not care to find it out, all I wanted was my escape from what was eating away at me on the inside. It was an escape, suddenly life got a little better, a little more bearable. I couldn’t do it frequently otherwise being caught was inevitable. I hid it so well that no one knew that I had done it until two years after I had stopped. I had no tracks, no scars, no physical evidence from my year and half love affair with heroine. The effects are still present because addiction never truly goes away. I still get cravings for it, sometimes so bad that I start twitching and crying in a corner and it has now been about three years. Somehow, I managed the impossible. Heroine is one of the most addictive drugs and I quit, cold turkey. Withdrawal is hell, but I never surrendered to it. My reason for stopping was too important to me: my friends and family. The guilt of what I was doing kicked in so hard, I almost yelped. I looked at Allison one day, a couple months before continuation onto high school and I wanted to cry. How could I do this to the people who care about me? How could I do this to Allison? How could I do this to my parents, my brothers? What if one day I don’t wake up from this nightmare? What will they think? What will they do? If I cause my parents to go into depression because they wondered where they went wrong with me, how can I live with the thought of that? I remember looking out the window of her family room, out into the sunny day and realizing that the next time the sun came up, I would be a changed person. I would not do that to them any longer. I would get better…

But heroine causes loss of appetite. This is where my anorexia starts up. I never really ate that much to begin with, but the two years following I ate close to nothing. I could easily go for a couple of days with a glass of water and maybe a cracker. It never really did sink in that something might be wrong until I had two incidents that changed my life and helped me to stop my eating disorder. It was a very long battle and it is still ongoing, but I believe I am almost at the finishing line. I can do it. I am eating. I am stronger than anorexia.

Through the last portion of this I have been in the closet about my sexuality. I am not a lesbian, I am bisexual, which if you are catholic you understand why I was afraid to come out to my parents. I have managed to come out to my mother, who isn’t nearly as religious, but my father is a scary thought. At least, my peers know that I am and for now, that’s all I can ask for. By now, the ones who just cannot accept it have been weeded out and now the people I surround myself with accept it or deal with it. They are good people and I just need to give them time to adjust.

All of my life, I had been forced into going to church for an hour every week. Every week, I was told how homosexuality is one of the mot evil things you can do. I still remember looking at a picture of a model and feeling extremely attracted and then shaking my head vigorously and told myself no. I told myself it was bad to think that way because it had been so ingrained in my subconscious that that was wrong. At one point I thought that I was lesbian. I remember the first time I admitted aloud that the possibility existed. It was to Allison and I remember she physically shot back away from me. I immediately felt ashamed and tried to frantically cover it up. I know now it was just the shock of it, but at the time, I felt so embarrassed.

By now, I have come to be overly proud of it. It is a part of who I am, and I cannot change it. I am flamboyantly bisexual and most of the time will not deny it unless I know that it will only lead to pointless struggle. Over time I am slowly learning when and when not to say it. I have had my life threatened because of ignorant people who are so self-righteous that they think my life is meaningless just because of who I chose to love. I have heard stories from people of how they used to play “beat the piss out of the fag” and how disgusting it was to see two girls kissing when they walked in the door. They didn’t realize that I was bisexual myself and I felt embarrassed for them. It makes me sad that they won’t even try. Overcoming the discrimination is hard to do because it is so prevalent and continuous. On several occasions it has left me weak and vulnerable, yet I am fighting to become strong again.

But even worse are the people who say they are bisexual to get attention or because they think they are. It, sadly, has become a fad. I knew early on in freshmen year that I was and around the end of sophomore year, after I had weeded out the people who couldn’t handle it, that it truly began. It sickens me. Sexuality should not be a fad. So many girls in Arapahoe have claimed to be bisexual, yet can’t stand the thought of being that close to another girl. It reflects poorly on the true bisexuals and we end up suffering. In fact, one of my mom’s first thoughts was that I might be doing this for attention. If I had been, they would have found out sooner. I wouldn’t have kept it in for two and a half years. I would have faced the discrimination and put up with people who wanted to hurt me physically if it was all for a little attention. There are better ways. No. I am bisexual, whether the people around me accept it or not. I have faced too much of their prejudice to go back into hiding.

It may be that I am self-absorbed to claim myself my hero, but I need it. If you can think about what I have been through in the past couple of years and tell me to my face that I am full of it, then I will renounce it, but until then, I am my hero. Because I cannot depend on another’s strength serve me, I can only count on my own. I cannot afford to be weak and look upon other’s strength in admiration. To maintain what I have worked for, I must admire my own strength. I must acknowledge its existence to keep me going. Everyone breaks down and every once in a while my strength may fail me, but in the end it is the only thing that I have in my life that will constantly be there. I refuse to be the girly-girl who always depends on her knight in shining armor to come rescue her. Though it may be ruddy and worn, I will don my own suit of armor because my knight in shining armor has revealed her self. That is why my hero is me.

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So this was a piece that was required for my English portfolio. Do you ever get sick of teachers asking you, who your hero is? I finally realized who that person is... The reason why I have decided to put this back up here is simply... this is me. Through episodes in my life and how I chose to act, you find out who I am. I cannot simply tell you, I must show you. This is me and I hope people can accept me despite my many flaws.

This is an extended version. It goes into each event in my life much more in depth than what I turned in. I can't very well let my teacher know that I am a drug addict, or that I used to be. But this is a very important piece to me. I might add that goes into depth on how I fixed my anorexia... but I will see how well this one is received.

Reposting Old Writings

2008-12-29T12:09:00.000-07:00

Bear with me. I will be adding old posts from another site to attempt some form of compilation and then I will add new things here. This is my scrapbook of writings and I will treat it as such.

A.B.: After Beowulf

2008-11-24T12:22:00.000-07:00

My tale has never been written. Nor shall it be by any other hand. I am not a shamed offspring nor was I just another passing soul in the shade of glory. I am the mere product of my gender. They speak of my father as if he had no children at all, simply because he did not have an heir. A female can not take her father’s thrown. So I am the lost soul of which no one speaks and when you take away my heritage, you take away my identity. Few believe me when I say “I am Boadicea, daughter of the great Beowulf.” They tell me that my mother did not bear me and that my father had no part in me. Who am I? I am the daughter denied her right and this is the story of how I took back my kingdom.

In the last hours of my innocence, I saw my father strike the dragon in the heart, not ten feet from my wide and frightened eyes. I saw the dragon’s paw flail in agony and crush my father against the ground. I saw my mother, the queen, humiliated as she wept in the arms of the woman my father slept with. I saw my kingdom pass from my father’s humbled hands in the hour of his death to a man once good and kind, now corrupted by authority. I saw my kingdom crack and crumble until no one whispered its name as if a demon’s curse had laid itself upon my family. I saw my mother wither away. Even when her beauty faded, her wisdom still showed brightest in the land, but now even that fell victim to the onset of her autumn. My kingdom was no longer my kingdom as I became nothing more than a servant. My second father could not bear the sight of my face, which bore too much of a resemblance to my father’s.