Friday, November 26, 2004

Life is hollow shell of nothingness, made real only by society and society's ill-fashioned ill-created dream of something inevitably better. Well, congratulations, but it didn't work. There is no reason for this stupid living of life. We will all die and it will all be inconsequential. I hate it all and everything in it. Nothing matters but that is not a reason not to care. Care while we are still here...but then...there is nothing, anyway. It is a waste and scary to think of. Love does not matter in the long run because eventually death will find us, and if it does not soon enough, then love will cease and lovers will grow tired and divorce and everyone will be depressed and saddened. Why even bother living in reality when reality's end is endless and ending and never real. So live and hate and push people around to get the best while you can? It won't matter in the end for you, anyway. So many accomplishments left and goals scattered. Why, why is it all so damn depressing? The worst part is that there is no comfort. No one can say honestly of what awaits you after death. No one take away this suffering that is worse than hot skewers thrust through your eye sockets until they bleed and drip down your cheeks. It shall never cease.

Thursday, November 25, 2004

Romeo and Juliet

*closes eyes and sighs deeply* A depressing topic, it is. A tragedy, in its own fatal course. Two starcrossed lovers, and how I would love to be them. Seeing the world in a state such as this and wanting something less and yet, more than this. Wishing I, too, had someone hence to love, and being lover's plight; wishing that I loved thee less than this. Too heavy hearted, troubled in doth's own sad state and wishing only better, and having only hate. Wanting so, and having so much more but wanting such the same. Longer tired of endless games of tricks and faulty lessons learned of loving lost and loving more and having nothing less. Yet, as we live we also learn that we will never live that which we learn from romance of old ages and old kinds. We will always be less than this. We will never have that which we yearn for and see so explicitly in books and movies and dreamers lives. We will always want and always dream and never truly see the truth or block it out in misery's own divide. A fallen soldier knows no truth. And, in knowing no truth, does not truly see. So, in seeing, we lose what little we hold on to, and so, many choose not to see and close thine eyes to only truth knowing that wanting will cease the already numbing pain of truly knowing. Thus, to want is to not see and not know and find only false hope that finds only sadness in knowing there will be only less than this and not finding what we only seek to see.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

There was always an order, as there are to most things organized.
First came Jenni, the appointed leader of the clique, with straight blond hair and high heels. Her wink and smile was deadly, according to the girlfriends of the love-struck boys who met Jenni.
Then it was Emily and Sarah. There are always emilys and sarahs. In every clique, everywhere. These are the tag-alongs. The ohyesdefinitely girls, or the nonoofcoursenot girls. They smile and nod and have minor roles in the game of life.
Lastly there is Lya. She is the girl behind all the other girls; the one behind the translucent veil ((side note: there is a double meaning to 'behind the transclucent veil'.)) She is the observer. The 'oh...yeah...her..' of the group. The one that no one really wants, anyway, but they act like they do to keep up their 'nice' reputations.
My name is April and, for the purposes of this story, I am a bitch. My tag-team was with Sampson. He was the love interest.
((This is all I have for now. I tried to write more but it ended up sounding too much like mean girls. I bid you adieu.))


What I have noticed in the past 10 minutes that scares me...
1. Showers with the shower curtains closed so you can't see who or what might be in the shower...*shiver* works both ways too...ever seen that movie? With that chick? And she screams? Yeah...that one.
2. Jesse's Art Class and their penis competition....don't even get me started on how that weirds me out..., I guess that's it for right now...and um, yes...I have to write a poem for Breanna's post-y thingy....:)

Thursday, November 18, 2004

So that there will be nothing more, and nothing less, than this.
When you find a subliminal reason to justify the things that make sense,
call me.

Today is a Day

She walks down the street, to her house, where no real happiness awaits.
She walks down the street, after the long bus ride.
A call, lingering in the air, of her name, from a not too far distance.
She turns around, warily.
Of course, she knows who it is and she knows she isn't being beckoned.
It's just another one of those days, where she finds herself unneeded, unloved.
She keeps walking, careful to keep her eyes, not on the cracks in the sidewalk,
but on the path infront of her.
Again, the call is made. Her name.
She grows careful and does not turn around.
She keeps walking.
Hate floods her mind.
This girl who has parents.
This girl who has friends.
This girl who has a steady job.
This girl who does her homework, and gets it in on time.
Her mind floods with hate, and death and a yearning for a life that will never be.
She, who walks down the street with the call that seeks out her weaknesses and throws her hard onto the ground.
She, who smiled once.
She walks quickly to her door, and unlocks it with tears in her eyes.
She shuts it quickly as her eyes blur.
It was never supposed to be like this.
She runs to her room.
It was never supposed to be this hard.
She slams the door, knowing that no one is home.
It was never supposed to be a world of hate.
She crawls onto the roof and holds the knife steady in her hand.
It was never supposed to be.
And she will be no more.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

No shit...

The water looks like broken glass.
I wish I was brave enough to risk the fall.

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

El Rojo

I am haunted by a curse.
It is called El Rojo by the soul when one sees the Muerte and Matanza. It is the depths of your certainty in wishing you had fallen that first time, and not gotten up to meet their fates. I see it everywhere. Surely, you do not. That is what turns my stomach the most. It is the knowledge of knowing that only you can think the things you do and no one will ever see what's in your mind. It is a scary, disconcerning thought that claws at you until you scream and fall on the floor and your only thought is that of El Rojo and how you cannot make it stop.
El rojo filtra interminable, esperando un silencio perfecto que no esté allí.

Monday, November 15, 2004

My Silent Hate

Welcome to my silent hate. These are a few of the things that have been making my stomach twist into knots. They aren't in any particular order; just as I remember them.

1. This thing. And me liking Jeff and him hanging out with Sydney...or Sidney...or however you spell her name. Ugh...I don't want to want anymore. I just don't...
2. Science. What's the point? Yeah, maybe it'll save lives but geez, why can't we just live life and have fun while we're here? Why do we have to extend our stay? And be miserable?
3. Opinions. Lately, I have heard too many opinions. Opinions about Hillary Duff and Lindsay Lohan, opinions about teachers, opinions about classmates. Too many egotistical opinions.
4. (damn, I keep posting because I'm pressing the wrong buttons) Nobody seems to care. Yes, that's right. It seems the new 'fad' now is 'Emo' and not being 'Emo' because it's a bad thing and the only people who are 'Emo' are cutting their wrists and crying about the world screwing them over. This is stupid. Devan in my English class also seems to be pretty opinionated. It pisses me off. No one really knows, and I guess that makes me 'Emo' because I am whining and complaining, but screw that because I do care, and if that makes me 'Emo' than you can go take a flying fuck at a rolling donut (one of my favourite stephen king lines, by the way..) Not enough people take the time to care.
5. I've run out of things to yell about...except I will make a short little summarized list of little things :
- The school being torn down
- Everyone worshipping one person (like people worshipping guillaume because he's weird...or people worshipping Elly because she's a leader and she has a bouncy attitude - no offense meant, obviously)
- ignorance
- homework
- having to make doesn't work when you are a shy nobody. Society bends the perceptions of time and space to make it seem like there are no friends, anyway..
- thinking about's really not so good for me to think about..
- wishing upon stars to be let down, once again.

There is more, but I am too tired to think.

Saturday, November 13, 2004

There are too many sad goodbyes

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

To Elly: I know...I know...the whole time issue...Damn, I wish I had Friday off... (By the way, the whole stress pains thing...I think my stomach agrees. I have been getting a weird churning feeling in my stomach all week....and I think it's just stress, balling up and knotting in the pit of my stomach)

To Breanna: Maybe I wouldn't post so much if I didn't feel so negative...and alone...and annoyed...

Sorry for the sarcasm...well, actually, I'm not that sorry for the sarcasm. I had a bad day...not that that would matter, but this whole ad thing/my computer is corrupted is kind of ticking me off and making me want to shoot something.
Did anyone realize that I have dead Barbies in my room?

You know..

Contrary to popular belief, I do like getting comments on my post more comments!
Er...not to sound whiny or anything...heh. I just...yeah...and no one wants to read my story...fine. Whatever. It just means that YOU don't get to see how amazingly wonderful it is and YOU won't be one of the first people to read it. O'well. Sucks to be you....
*sigh* That was really sad, wasn't it? I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm doing this...and being weird on you guys...
...I have dead barbies in my room...

Monday, November 08, 2004

Two separate poems I wrote in CALM on friday, when we were supposed to be working on our posters and I was feeling sad.

A circular rainbow perfection
of pretending who you are.
Knowing that you loved, but hating anyway.
When you see how happy they are,
you cringe and turn away.
Forgetting that you'll be happy too;
were happy and soon are.
So that you can cringe and turn away,
pretending you're not there.
Forgetting that we live in a carousel;
a circular rainbow perfection,
of pretending who you are.

For death
Your reason why
For profound, unknown mysteries
For falling, always and forever
In your own desolate dread
Seeing all the people
Living for themselves
Seeing all the death
And living for yourself
Falling and stopping quick
Forgetting why you lived

Eternal Lullaby

For all of those who know I'm writing a story (and I guess for all of you who don't..), I need comments from someone for what I've written so far. It's about...10 pages in 12 pt., it's quite a bit. If anyone has some free time on their hands and feels like critisizing - actual critisizing, not 'friend' critisizing, if you please :) - then I can send you my story. I'm having a bit of trouble with it...heh..
Thanks guys!
By the way, I apologize again for posting so much, especially cause I kind of burned up on Breanna for posting so much. Sorry Breanna! I love you!

A Person/A Paper/A Promise By Dr. Earl Reum

This poem isn't mine...but it's one of my favs. Sorry for all the postings, guys...but I don't want to, pace yourselves.

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
He wrote a poem
And he called it “Chops”
Because that was the name of his dog
And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
And a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
And read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
Took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
With tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X’s
And he had to ask his father what the X’s meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
He wrote a poem
And he called it “Autumn”
Because that was the name of the season
And that is what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
And asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
Because of its new paint
And the kids told him
That Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
With thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
When he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
His mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
When he cried for him to do it

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
He wrote a poem
And he called it “Innocence: A Question”
Because that was the question about his girl
And that’s what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
And a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
Because he never showed her
That was the year Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
Of the Apostle’s Creed went
And he caught his sister
Making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
Or even talked
And the girl around the corner
Wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
But he kissed her anyway
Because that was the thing to do
And at three A.M he tucked himself into bed
His father snoring soundly

That’s why on the back of a brown paper bag
He tried another poem
And he called it “Absolutely Nothing”
Because that’s what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
And a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
Because this time he didn’t think
He could reach the kitchen.

Sunday, November 07, 2004


All the re-posts are posts I found from a previous blog and wanted to post on this one to remember them. So, you may have seen these posts before...but if not, just take a look and tell me what you think. I wrote most of those in grade nine.


Fear breeds in your heart where lonely spikes of ice grow to stab the wounds.
A perplexing puzzle to which the key therein lies.
Destitute of feelings long lost in a troublesome war of waging paths and foes of many hearts.
Can you save yourself while walking that path of frozen obliteration?
Or will you succumb to the tears that fall so irreverently down the face of the fallen?
Hear those that cannot weep.
Listen to the sorrows of those lost.
A second wasted brings the love of many times flooding in to see what truly lies and what has decayed.
Disregard the wasted lives; the mirth that once echoed through these vacant halls.
Cry oceans in your distaste.
Dread will never compensate for all the mortals reimbursed in your wake.
Shallow shells of human beings adrift in the watchful eye of one too jaded to see the truth.


You know, there are no real answers. Answers are pointless without the questions. Questions that defy the universe, an eternity of doubt. Doubt yourself now, because what else are you left to do? To do, to be, to find the truth. The truth is lies, all bundled up in a nice little package, made conveniant for you by those you could care less. I could care less about your existence, or is it that you could care less for me? For me, the world will darken, in shades of grey. Shades of grey can hide the truth, and define the lies. Lies of what you never knew, never wanted to see. To see the truth is to become one with whatever you've lost. Lost yourself in an empty shell, hiding from your fears. Fears of life, fears of people, fears of fear. Fear is to live life in hiding, and why not? Why not do anything you want to, why not? Why not touch the sky, or dance in the rain? The rain keeps pouring and drowning you out. Drowning in a sea of sorrow. Sorrow can only be played so softly by you in a mourning tone of hate and despair. Why do you hate, why do you despair, when the world has too much to be happy for? Happiness can lighten you, and make you erase the hate. Hate pulls at you, tugs at you and you are lost again. Lost because the world just won't give you the answer key. A key to an eternal breath.


Once when I was alive,
I knew a girl named Penny Sue.
She wasn't there a lot, but somehow I knew
just how much she loved me
and how much I loved her.
One time she came into my room
with a gash on her cheek.
I asked her what had happened and
she said she was being clumsy
and told me to go to sleep.
One time I had seen him hit her,
and had questioned her,
about it.
She had told me that I was
too young to understand.
I told the butterflies in my dreams that something was wrong
and they agreed.
A bright yellow one with spots on its wings told me
that I should be strong
and fight for Penny Sue,
because she couldn't fight for herself.
So I did.
It was late that night and the tv had said a storm was coming,
the weatherman didn't know just how real that would be
in my house.
Once when I was afraid,
I would cry and she would come running,
my Penny Sue.
But I knew now, I would have to be the one who was strong
and dried her tears.
Once I knew what happiness was,
but that was before the purples and blues stained her skin.
So I tried to be brave,
if just for her.
I wore my superman cape,
because once,
a long time ago,
you had said it made me strong
and told me that I would always be your hero.
I wanted to be your hero most tonight.
I wanted to save you from what made you weak.
Once when I was brave,
I had heard the fighting
from my place on the stairs
and I put on my cape and flew down to your rescue.
I told him to stop
but he just hit you more
I raised up my voice and said it again.
This time he stopped and looked at me.
I knew he wouldn't recognize me,
because tonight I was Superman.
He must not have recognized me,
because he got a darkness in his eyes,
and grabbed a poker from the fireplace.
He said he would kill me,
and he must've been right,
because you screamed and told him to stop.
I didn't really feel the pain,
I just wanted you to stop screaming.
Once when I was alive,
I wanted to be your hero.
Maybe I was just
too young to understand.


Hug an electric fence, it will hug back.

Saturday, November 06, 2004

Raise a glass to
For all the hours of boredom spent.
And the giggles it has given me.

Friday, November 05, 2004

Post #2

(In response to Elly's idea)

It was never like Adeline to be precarious. Her grin could fabricate any notion she deemed necessary to win over those who denied the truths she played. She twisted a strand of her blond hair into a ringlet and let it fall across her cheek. The rest of her hair was pulled up messily against the back of her head. Her lips twisted into a smirk as she reviewed the piece of paper in front of her.
Not one for exhibition, Adeline wore her time-honored jeans and a loose hoodie, which brought out the blue in her azure eyes. Her sneakers were falling apart, but hidden under the hem of her jeans. She sat crookedly on an outside railing leading up to the front doorways, with one leg hooked around the pole that stabilized the railing, and one leg dangling. A note was held securely in one hand as she immersed herself in the writing, the smirk she held creeping slowly up one side of her face.
Dreams that shatter.
It's pulling you down.
Transcend it all.
Remember the girl with sequins in her eyes.
She told you there's no better world.
No safer world.
And in a way, that was okay.
You never really wanted anything else, anyway.
So forget,
like all these are forgotten.
into a circular rainbow perfection.
Walk backwards
on a carousel.

Thursday, November 04, 2004

It was the way she breathed in soft circles that echoed her sighs.
It was the way the corners of her mouth tugged down when she smiled, as if she was yearning to frown.
It was the way she wouldn't hesitate before taking my hand and leading the way, in that dancing, tripping tone.
It was as if she didn't know, that one day we would part ways.
It was as if she only lived for the moment.
It was as if she couldn't care less.
And I was sorry that I cared so much.
I was sorry that I loved her
And sorry that on the inside, she was always so breakable.
I thought of this in science class before writing a quiz..I wrote it on my hand.

How free do they make you seem?

Wednesday, November 03, 2004

She smiled in gradual steps of forced accusations,
brought upon by her lack of security and self-assurance.
He was only a ghost, after all.
He wasn't really there. Never really there.
Too afraid to picture the world through the eyes of those you truly see.
Wanting too much to be real.

Monday, November 01, 2004

Remember the little matchstick girl. She is my hero.