in the winter of 93'
I wrinkled my nose to the
soft smell of saffron snow
melting on the roof of
my grandparent's house.
Then I fell in.
The river was cold,
and the current's arms were tugging me under,
but I was rescued by my protective father.

in the summer of 96'
I inhaled the sultry
catalytic air
while catching lighting bugs in a jar,
little figures that shined so bright,
and were dead before the morning fell.

And justice, it doesn't exist.
Just random events
that sew together pieces of life,
with hardly visible seams.

I jumped off the wagon
into a pool of instinct;
so, if the poison reaches my blood,
tell them to clear the needle please,
because all of this,
this is all I am.
and all i am is free.

In the dawn of my youth,
i wished to experience death
through rose-tinted glasses,
not the kind I saw in 96',
but a more selfish and relieving kind,
to paint my peaceful bliss,.

I don't want this onion bagel anymore.

I'm convinced that the rest of my life, I will be hanging out with dorks. They seem to be attracted to me for some reason, WHY!?!
Jeff is doing his public speaking speech on atheism in a Christian school.  I think that's funny, but he is going to be known as the atheist from now on...

So, how does a girl find decent people to hang out with in a shitty school and a shitty town? eh? 

Last night Jeff and I went to Charleston. It was our once a week excursions into the Holy City. I've been doing them for the past couple months and can honestly say that Charleston in getting boring. I thought about how lonely I would be next year if I decide to transfer to CofC; I will walk those uneven streets alone. We didn't go to open mic night, but instead went to the "mini" beach and sat on top of a statue at Marion Square. Jeff is afraid of roaches, so we had to get off. I was explaining to him how strange it was to be alive. I felt like I was looking on the outside in. I was only this organic being trying to survive just like the roach that frightened him. Charleston will always have a place in my heart; I spent part of my childhood there, but sometimes it brings me down. All the hustle and bustle of the city drains me. I feel like everyone there is trying to be something rather than themselves. They're all trying to be artsy. I guess that is why I don't fit in, I don't try to be a part of anything.

This water is much warmer than I remember,
and the building seems smaller among the new
plants covering the skyline where I used to
wonder if it ended, or was a beacon to heaven.
I remember these candles;
beaming their ruby red glaze through the back hall.
I recall seeing the priest raise his hands
and his ornate sleeves would fall,
and he would speak of a metaphorical process
which I now recount as cannibalism.

And I would sit in the pews with my hands underneath the wooden bars,
pretending I was a prisoner in God's lustrous jaws.
I hated the way I couldn't stay seated,
but enjoyed the choir in their black robes
singing praises about Eden, that echoed through the empty halls.

The best teacher I ever had was my 12th grade English teacher, Mr. Carter. I think about the things he taught me all the time. He really got me into poetry and literature and influenced me to learn more. He talked to me about how stupid people generally are and about religion. It has changed my life because it made me realize that there are more people that think like I do (even if they are 40 years older than me). He taught me to love learning and helped spark my love of knowledge.

I suppose the general impulse of people drags behind me every day. I no longer feel I can have curt conversations about the weather or the style of one's own shirt. I read much about the people who devote their time to some pursuit; I know a few. Maybe they are not happy, maybe they are driven by some compulsion or obsession to do those things. And maybe I fall somewhere between them too. Maybe I wish not to. Either way, it doesn't matter much. I will continue to be dragged along.

Why am I so disappointed in people's lackluster cares and ignorance of things? Why does it matter? It is rather sad that most do not believe the scientific theories. It is sad we stick to our old beliefs because we're too afraid to let go. It is sad that the majority of people hold their hands up to the sky as if something will answer them.

Words are just concepts. That is all there is, and all there will ever be.

I am content with the concepts. In fact, they make me tremendously joyful. I am enthralled at the idea that I can even have thoughts, but amazed at the fact that I, just like every other living creature, am just an organic being trying to survive.

There is something magical in that idea, though it keeps me up at night.

Why do people thank God for curing their child's cancer? Was it not he who gave it to him in the first place? Was it not modern science that saved him? Why give credit to God when doctors and scientists have spent their lives in order to save people? We complain of the pretentious stoic doctors who are over-paid and don't talk to their patients, but they are the ones we should be thanking.

The progression of human intelligence is an amazing thing. I think about the other things we cannot even fathom because we are simply not smart enough. Is there some kind of barrier that says "this is how far our brains can go?"

If color is merely a perception, maybe reality is too. Maybe a schizophrenic's reality is just as real as the average person's.

Today I may talk to my anthropology professor about my synesthesia. He is a world renowned synesthesia expert--lucky me!

America, let me sing my songs
like children's hymns
and collared nuns
in tin-canned domes.
Cater my needs,
my health, my freedom.
I promise I won't
walk on your
sacred grass
or gold-plated sidewalks.

Violin player, your music does not heal.
I saw the crumpled up dollar bills,
thrown into your case
like the way boys throw paper balls
in school.

eerie buzzing sounds,
I wonder, is this reality
mashed up with dreams
and extra worries?

Talking with Lucy,
she told me,
patterns appear
in unlikely places

on the floor,
in the mirror, in my eyes.
Wait.
That night should not have ended.

Now, silence protrudes itself
past me.
And I want out of this college city.
this god damn hilbilly town.
Magic airplane, take me to
LA.

they are rattling pipes in cellar bathrooms,
And by the begrimed curve of the road
I am conscious of the wasted and unversed spirit
cradling glass at kitchen stoves.
And from outside,
I see the little hand stretch itself past 7.
It is 8 in the midland.

The orange rays of the sun make the trees explode with morning color
And the awry faces stare from the rusted window,
And smoke rips from the doorway with a fleeting leap
a stagnant expression is hung in the aura
and it disappears as I hear the static on T.v.

Afternoon hangs itself so smoothly
I hardly notice the moon casts shadows over the old tin roof.
And they have four leaf clovers stuffed in their pockets,
and from the patchwork sidewalk,
I see the little hand stretch itself past 7,
It is 8 in the midland.

What faucets run out of this home?
And what indignation ignites their hollow bones?
And why do I stare so intently, alone.

I see the dishes scattered across the floor,
and I watch them sit stagnant on the plaid sofa chair,
And if I opened their skulls, would I find sinew of metal, or a glass menagerie?
And they eat their pie,
but it is not 3.14
and they have no figure 8.

It's the first day of college. I'm sitting alone and these people all seem so fucking boring.

they are rattling pipes in cellar bathrooms,
And by the begrimed curve of the road
I am conscious of the wasted and unversed spirit
cradling glass at kitchen stoves.

The orange rays of the sun billow to me
the awry faces stare from the rusted window,
And smoke rips from the doorway with a fleeting leap
a stagnant expression is hung in the aura
and it disappears as I hear the static of T.v.

a new season is arriving. some may forget the old to welcome the new, but will it be missed when the time comes again next year?

America's needles and drunk
propositions always
awaken during fall fashion.
When the leaves change from
green to orange
and fall like spring rain.
During the high tide of traffic,
I used to run my hands
across the car window
to watch water droplets dance and parade
outside like tiny ballroom dancers.
Autumn's breath was thick like smoke
outside the hotel.
but I remained,
ostrasized from those indifferent eyes.
On one vacation trip,
The mid-west stung me
like boiling water
with all it's pastures
and patchwork fields.
I collected light in those starry fields
where the nights were unlike
those in the south;
family stood
around a wide, open table
to talk about progress,
to laugh out loud
and be unaware of future wanderings

Winter's past is bloated with
miserable moments.
and Should we stare straight
down its throat,
we may cut the snow
and salvage the water

You're most likely living on carbon dioxide. Fresh oxygen comes from outside after all, you won't have any of that.
I don't lke being inside ALL DAY. I enjoy being outside when its not too hot..

You make sure there are no people outside before you open the door to grab the mail.
Now that is true.

Your computer has a first name.
Nope

Going to the grocery store is LJ entry worthy.
haha no.

You do not work or go to school outside the home.
I have to.

There are rumors going around about you, most likely questioning your death or sanity.
yeah, no one knows I exisit anymore.

You have "day" pajamas as well as "night" pajamas.
No

Small factors like being awake at night and nasty weather make you feel less weird for being indoors.
Nope dppn't care about being weird

Cookies are a meal :|
Yep.

To you, "Outsider" can mean both "outcast" and "someone who goes outside".
Well now it does...

You have more online friends than real life friends.
No. I don't really have many of either.

I am constantly stuck on my morphing aspirations. They change so fast, and it is difficult to get a grip on reality when I can't decide what I want to do in life. I know I want to major in English, and I've been thinking of teaching, but the more I think about it the more I wonder if I will be suited for it. Sure, my 12th grade English teacher really inspired me, but can I deal with people all day? My dream job would be a writer; where morning would greet me with new innovative ideas. I'd sit at my desk and the words would flow through my fingertips. I'd breathe the fresh air and become inspired by the beauty of the world. If only, but I don't think I can really make a living off that.

One of my dreams is to travel every continent. I'm in the process of learning Russian. I want to teach English in Russia for a while, and maybe volunteer at some orphanages. I'm always looking for new experiences to enlighten me!

In the morning, do the birds still fly?
and do the twisting leaves caress the warm summer air?
Or are the black marbles of your eyes
not able to see,
that nature stares upon the innocent being.
With proximity to lakes, and streams,
the men, and their tall skyscrapers.
and there is no grave-yard,
no elaborate wedding dream.
Just you and me.

In the evening do the faucets run cold?
Can you feel the chill from the dying sun
reach deep into our bone?
Do seasons pass through open doors,
Is your stance still mighty amoung the countless who
are dying for our tongue?

On nights like these I enjoy solitude, and I enjoy wanting solitude.