Lyric Poem (done)

• (1) What if everything around you isn't quite as it seems?

• (2) by  the way I tried to say

• (3) words meant to dwell in darkness shall never see the light of day

• (4) holding on im lost in a haze, fighting life to the end of my days

• (5) silence, the only promise every kept
• (6) while heaven wept
• (7) erratic actions lead my thoughts to the blade
• (4) holding on im lost in a haze
• (1) What if the world you think you know is an elaborate dream?

(1) Nine Inch Nails- Right Where It Belongs

(2) Red Hot Chili Peppers- By The Way

(3) Lamb of God- Omerta

(4) Korn - Narcisstic Canniable

(5) Lamb of God - The Faded Line

(6) While Heaven Wept [Band]

(7) Cannibal Corpose- Evisceration Plague

Dramatic Monologue (done)

Thats it, thats all
I hope you kids have had a ball
How ungrateful
and how hateful

When you scheme
you make me want to scream
you act like little hogs
that need a good flog

What a disrespectful choice
as awful as your high pitched voice
I honestly love to teach
but you suck the fun out of it like a leech
I'm not here to preach
but your education is a reach

No control or consideration
Should I even ask the question?
What do you see when you look at me?
Am I someone you want to be?

Another voice lost in the wind
words barely skimmed
Am I your babysitter
or a lottery winner?

I honestly love to teach
I'm not here to preach
your education is in your hand
I'm just part of the damned

Journal #5 Earliest Memory (done)

Memories are always something I've had issues with; how odd it is to be ill at ease with your own mind. It's like a book read long ago, the words are lost but you can recall the plot line with time, maybe even some of your favorite parts. Now imagine your whole life is like that, a faded story written in ink long since legible. Scattered pieces of information, a faded face or a blurred image; how do you piece together a puzzle with no pieces? Bits and pieces; an emptiness that could be explained by the right stranger. My memory gets a bit more consistent when my family and I were living in Windsor, I must have been in the first or second grade. We lived on a very long road and were sandwiched between two ranches that had horses. Our backyard went on for acres, mystery shrouded by grass and trees for as long as the eye could see. It was my favorite place, especially when it rained; I used to watch the water pool and stream down our sloping yard. I would sit next to the water and build dams and imagine myself being as free and happy as this little rain river. While we lived in Windsor my family had around eleven pets, an assortment of dogs, cats, guinea pigs, gerbils, hamsters, rabbits and birds. Such detail trapped in memories that don't last longer than seconds, and yet there's so many holes. I remember the one birthday I spent there, I had woken up and had begun to do my daily routine, general cleaning and looking after our hearty amount of pets; to find the only pet I singularly owned dead. The tears were almost instant, oh what a terrible pet own I was, not only had I killed my gerbil; it was my birthday! From what I remember most of the day didn't get much better, out of all the guests I invited only one boy showed up; he was so upset by it that he sat with my mom and cried for most of my party. My memory seems to jump around this time period the most, never really able to remember before it and only accessible because of the words of others. So what is it that makes you you? Is it the story like past that you remember? The voices in your head or the ones you used to hear?

As an adult I can reflect on my past and see that it did have certain influences, but is that because of my past or because of me as a person? When does the fact that I grew up a tomboy with two rough brothers equal that I'm a tomboy now? When does the past get renamed the present? I believe that you are not based on anything but time; it's the only real measurement we have. One comment omitted or said a split second later could have changed unimaginable variables. The only reference we have to our thoughts is time, how our minds grew and changed, such radical different thinking with age. So are the actions taken in time more important than the feelings you had? Can't you argue that every action you've taken or refused to has been a direct effect of what you were feeling at the time? How do you measure something like a feeling? Is it based on the environment, the physicality or the effect it has? When does a starving child in Africa experience worse childhood memories than that of a rich single child left on a shelf?

Journal #4 Behind You (done)

How long do you have to repeat something for it to become true to you? People always try to infringe upon each other, always butting into each other business and personal lives, but why does it matter to them? Why can't people just leave each other alone? How long can you fake your way through your life? "You're not even paying attention to me!" Whined the most important person in my life, Bianca.

We had met when I moved into the neighborhood at 12 years old, my mother and I were both running from something, Bianca's mother was heavenly to us; she kept my mother sane through the years. At the mere sound of her voice I can feel my smile bloom, there was rarely a time that she didn't delight me. "Hun, you look amazing in both the blue and purple ones; you look tasty enough to eat." She huffs, sticking out her bottom lip and complaining, "You're still not helping me pick!" Her words lost their volume as my eyes automatically went to her lips; such a soft pink so full of moisture, they always looked so soft. "See and now I've lost you again!" I jerk my eyes to her impatiently waiting brown ones, "You haven't lost me darling, my thoughts seem to want to wander however. I'm sorry." A sadness clouds her eyes for the briefest moments; almost too fast to see if you didn't know what you were looking for. But I knew exactly what to look for, for years now it had been far simpler to imagine Bianca's face than my own. It was something she never tired of seeing; long brown hair swept to the side that reached her hips, the softest big brown eyes over a small nose speckled with freckles and the pink full lips with a slight intent along the bottom lip. "Come now, you look beautiful in both lovely." She twirls once more, analytically scanning the image in the mirror with a mix of hateful scorn and sadness. With a sign I go to her, "You will be the envy of the night, I can barely breathe just looking at you now!" Everything stands still as I wait for the self hatred to be washed from her eyes, as her thoughts move to my words and her eyes look like they have life in them again.

I watch as she twirls around, scrutinizing her matching peach dress and heels. I can barely take my eyes off her; I've always been one to appreciate beauty when I have the chance. Without raising her eyes she says, "You know we came here for both of us to shop, not for you to stare at me trying on dresses. If you don't have something to try on in the next fifteen minutes I'm picking something for you and you know you hate that." Her eyes meet mine and almost violently wanted to kiss the smirk off her lips; she always knew how to tease me without taking it too far. "You know I said I wasn't going to go, I don't have a date; I'd just be following you around like a puppy all night aha." Her heels clack as she comes to stand before me, still just barely reaching my eye level. I never could resist the puppy dog eyes I'm now faced with, "okay, okay. I'll try to find something, though you know its hopeless." She smiles at me triumphantly and goes into the change room to change back into her regular clothes. Bianca comes to my rescue two and a half racks later with three dresses already in hand, "this is my favorite and you need to try it on first!" she says as she hands me a long deep red silk dress. I slip into a change room and hold my breath as I slide the soft material over my head, staring at the deformity in the mirror. As I open the door I search Bianca's face as she spots me, "Oh my god you look amazing. That's the dress. That's it you have to come now you can't back out with something so beautiful!" I feel heat crawl up my neck at her compliment but her words don't soothe me. I watch as her eyes continue to rake down my form; I whisper, "you know I'm not going.." I stand before her, the entirety of my shame exposed and she just stares. "Why?" she asks. I barely heard her over the sound of my heart, like a bird begging for flight.
"Because I love you."

Narrative Poem (done)

In the summer sky
where the sun flies
in the crowds
among the clouds

Elegant and pose
so far yet so close
a beauty unseen
almost like a dream

A ball of flaming gas
When will your time come to pass?
Will it be a mighty show
or a cosmic blow?

What will be left in the dust?
Will you split the Earth's crust?
Like a giant eye
is your brightness a lie?

We're nothing more than speck of grass
as these clouds come to pass
So many things left for us to see
We're nothing to what we could be

In the summer sky
Where I'd like to fly
in the crowds
among the clouds

Journal #11 - Self Management

For years now I've been reading and writing; learning more and more about myself as the words flow. I have been creatively writing prior to ever coming to high school and as I have changed so has my writing. Writing has always come easiest to me when I find an inner voice that draws on an ever aging perception that seems very unorthodox to others. Most others don't see certain things in the way that I do and I believe that this is shown in my writing; particularly my subconscious desire to show every aspect of a story or character in the darkest light that I can paint them in. I put a lot of thought and detail into the plot of my stories and the background of my characters. Due to this my readers tend to connect almost half as much as I do to my characters, the oddest pride is writing something that moves someone to tears.

Writers have always been given the mental illness stigma, and probably rightly so. One of the most common things writers say is that they hear a mental voice and it helps with their writing; I'm not one to disagree. The majority of the time that I write productively it's due to a "voice" that I hear per say, it's almost like telling yourself a story without really needing to think of it as a story; just pictures and people that your subconscious gathers and you manipulate either consciously or unconsciously. An idea is fluid and forever changing and personally I find it easier to choose an ending among many than to bang my head off the desk and hope an idea is sparked. Already knowing the words that I want conveyed makes writing so much easier for me, I love being so taken by a story that I can't put the pen down until it's all out. However when I say that it doesn't mean that I enjoy any of my own writing, I'm ashamed of almost every word and have been for so long now; what do you do when you have no control over the things you hear in your head?

Creatively writing has definitely shown me my own flaws; I procrastinate to a disgusting extent and stress myself out due to it. I love writing and reading but if I don't set myself to it I never seem to find the time. I will always draw back on the voices as my main source of inspiration, they are my best resource but also my biggest flaw. With everything so loud in your head its hard to think that no one else can hear it, that people can look you in the eyes and have no idea the torrential downpour of ideas that is in your mind. Writing teaches you about yourself; the problem is liking what you put down on paper when you can't stand the very place that those ideas are coming from in the first place.

Stranger (done)

     As I wait for the elevator door to open, I glance at my watch; seeing the seconds slowly slide past the elegant hands. A mechanical shutter informs me that the elevator has finally arrived; I look up, only for me to be entrapped by the most amazing eyes I had ever seen. Golden flecks danced among emerald stone, the sheer intensity of them forced the air from my lungs. How odd it is, you're only aware of the importance of things like breathing when you don't have the ability to. I thought of how dangerous eyes like those could be as I reached forward to select the ground floor, hesitating as I see that the ground floor has already been selected. I look around the elevator, noting how oddly empty it is for an airport; just him and I. Normally stuffed to the brim with people, such a small space; it's closing in all around me. I begin to study him out of the corner of my eye, in a dark blue suit, styled brown hair that fell slightly to the side and a large black luggage bag sitting at his black dress shoes there was no question he was attractive, but why was I having such a reaction to him? Before I have time to study him in any detail (was that a tattoo on his neck?) I can feel that I've been seen, my skin starts to tingle,  I force myself back to those eyes, a deer looking into the headlights of an oncoming car. Those eyes, so similar to the ones that haunt me in my sleep; taking in everything and giving away nothing; stripping you until you're bear. He smiles at me, his eyes seemed lit from within, a source of fire that will not extinguish. Fire is as dangerous as the smile he gifts me with, sending the blood to my face and pumping me with fear, desire and memories.

Every night has seemed endless now that she's not here, it's been so long since that day. What would she say now? What would she say to her baby girl? Would she have any words for the husband she left behind? What would have happened if she hadn't of died? Tonight's going to be bad, he was half way through the latest bottle of bourbon when I got home hours ago; and now I wait. He never takes long to find me after he finishes a bottle. I hear him begin to stir in the living room below me; I battle with the familiar animistic urge to flee and wait for my father to take from me what my mother can no longer give him.
       
The thump of the elevator doors interrupted my silent pleas for help, I could look no where but down as I tried to straighten out the my tangle of thoughts.  You cannot have a mental breakdown in the middle of an elevator with a stranger standing right beside you. Those fleck in his eyes are amazing, maybe that's what I'll think of him as; Fleck. What flight was he getting on? He looks really good in a suit. Why do I care about that? He must think you're stupid, just gawking at him like that! How pathetic, an ill minded little girl lost in her own head. As the elevator doors begin to shut I reflectively stick a hand out to stop it, only to come face to face with Flecks as we both hold open the elevator door. I must have been standing there staring blankly until the doors timed out, why didn't he go first? Was he just watching me the entire time? An immediate flush swept through my body, in embarrassment I step back to hide my blushing face. My gaze is torn to him, "After you, Azure." my body reacts to his words before my mind has fully had time to process what he said; I turn mid stride, "What did you call me?" He pulls up short to avoid tripping over my luggage bag, he looks to me and smiles, "I called you Azure." Bravery overcomes me at this man giving me name as I had to him, I study him with no shame and ask, "Why Azure?" As he walks around my still form he says, "It was the only color I could think of to ever consider comparing your eyes to." I could feel my face flare with heat, I managed to stammer out a "Thank you." Before he could respond I turned away, only to be feet from him. I increased my pace, as the distance between us lessened I could see how anger he was with me, his face a shade of pink, his stride heavy and long with his hands clenched at his side. The instant he was in my proximity he grabbed my fore arm, pulling me close to him and aside from the main amount of people in the lobby. "Who was that? Did he say anything to you? I hate the way he was looking at you, I can see how much he wanted you. Were you a good little girl or did you give it up to him in an elevator like the piece of trash whore you really are?" I stare into his eyes, such an intelligence wasted on a creature so cold. He slams his elbow into my ribs, always being discrete but letting me know he had no patience for my silence. "I'm sorry Father."

   I spend the rest of my time with him, going through the routines of waiting for our flight to land. After having lunch with him I go to wash my hands, thanking my luck that there was no one present to see the new layer of bruising that he left. As I leave to return to him I notice a vending machine along the wall of the hallway, sandwiched between a bench and a set of telephone booths. I consider the options as I rummage for change: m&ms, smarties, twix, aero, 3 musketeers, oh henry, coffee crisp, an assortment of chips, water bottles and pepsi products. As I slide in my money and begin dialing the number for a 3 muskteers I feel a presence behind me, as I reach down to take my purchase I hear, "Hello again, Azure." I spin around, a smile already on my lips, "Hello Flecks." Oh how stupid it was of me to call him that out loud. I flinch, my eyes going anywhere but him as I hold my breath and wait for his response.