genius of love.

If I were a tragic hero, my tragic flaw would be my anger. Every person in the world feels anger at least once in their life. But, for most of them, this anger subsides, they forget the incident, then move forward. Most people do not have repressed anger in their unconscious from kindergarten. Most people even have some control over their anger or their feelings in general. This is an area in which we differ greatly. My reactions are controlled, but my emotions run rampant. While I may 'act' surprised or happy when someone tells me good news ... I am forcing away tears or the desire to punch those tears away. Any repressed or hidden feeling gets locked in a box that is only opened when my anger takes control. This anger isn't just a flushed face and a brisk rush of embarrassment. My anger is equivalent to shaking hands, adrenaline pulsating, twitching, heartbeat in ears, eyes watering, and I can't tell the person in front of me apart from a stranger. Then comes the abnormal violence (throwing broken scissors at someone's head, stabbing someone in the neck).

It all makes no sense whatsoever. It's really strange. It'd be easy to blame this on a perma-period or early set menopause, but that's not it. YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. This is where I'll stop typing so that the 'public' (people who read this blog) don't see the breakable part of me. There is a very fragile person inside who lashes out before being hit. R-i-i-i-i-i-de out.

Part of me has decided against 'beating that bitch' ass', while another part of me has already made plans to bash her skull into the fucking ground and to stop punching when she stops breathing. I do not know her. She doesn't deserve to get all of the anger that will pour onto her. I just need a release ... and as much of a bitch as she is ... she doesn't deserve to be it.

I'm shrinking away from the world and no one seems to notice. Some days, I think that I have a secondary personality who functions swimmingly while my unconscious has floated away.

Happy note: I'm going to look like a girl for prom! Last year, I didn't know where the gauge for caring was, and I had no idea what to do. Only my hair was done, ha. Then, I threw a little eyeliner on. This year ... I AM GOING ALLLLL OUT! My nails will be done (o lawd) and my hair shall be poodle-esque.

oh my god.

New things always seem better than old things.

I can't drink because my parents have issues dealing with alcoholism, and every swig reminds me of them. I can't smoke because my mother and aunt have been smoking weed/cigarettes frequently since I was very young, and the idea of smoking myself reminds me of how little I respected them when I was younger. Yes, my mindset has changed and weed doesn't seem that bad anymore, but it's hard to erase memories. Impossible, actually.

This is what we both wanted, right? Fuck.

delicate

For creative writing, we have to create a 'portfolio' that encompasses two genres.
I decided to create a small collection of poems (three total) and a short story. My poems are titled Beekeeper, Virtues Never Seemed More Like Vices , and Plumage . My short story is titled 'Glass Heart', and hopefully I'll remember to post copies of all of my works on my blog. Additionally, I'm going to post my (other) short story 'A Bug in Aphrodite' soon. It'll be posted in parts so that you'll have to wait in anticipation (LOL) for the next portion.

I'm trying to focus more on my creative endeavors. This includes transferring my robot design to a t-shirt and illustrating/photoshopping some of my sketches.

Why is everyone so hell-bent on sending me to college now?!

glass heart.

It's hard to accept losing your past.
Especially since nearly every proverb we know tells us never to forget our history, lest we be doomed to repeat it. But ... when the person who you were is no longer the person you are, what are you to do?
I used to have friends who I'd support and love unabashedly, no matter how ghetto, no matter how ... strange. Even when they only came by my house to eat and ask for money, feelings were never questioned. Now though, I'm surrounded by a strange lot. People who I can't say that I love no matter what. Fuck. Even if the opportunity came for me to effortlessly slip into my 'old life', it would not be the same. It'd just be another facade for another group.

My old friends don't know who I've become.
My family never thought this is the strange little girl I'd develop into.
And it's hard to put a finger on how to feel about all of this.

Foreshadowing occurs as the author knows how their story will end, unlike the audience. The author subliminally and accidentally drops hints at the ending and foreshadowing occurs.

rose grew from weeds.

This is a poem written by yours truly last year, as an assignment for my English class.
I've never posted anywhere but recently reread it and wanted feedback.

The Rose that Grew From Weeds

Born of weeds, die of weeds
Weeds are all you know, breathe, speak
All the same, the lives they lead
The rose that blooms contrasts as meek

Humbled by its intelligence
Defined by its nonconformity
The weeds incapable of finding relevance
In their single intrinsic uniformity

Weeds refute the rose's normality
They find her vibrance downright weird
The rose blooms alone, on its own principality
For the rose's insubordination, weeds reward her with fear

Neither admiration nor acceptance requires the rose
The weeds call it 'enemy' or curse its name
But the rose is beyond wise, and accepts no foes
Weeds grow plentifully and shall not be tamed

Vicious cycles become seasons and processes repeat
Summer, Fall, Winter, Spring
The weeds are defeated but shall never retreat
Weeds never forget the joy misery brings

The gardener grows hasty, tired of plucking the weeds
He no longer anticipates the arrival of his rose
The weeds are overzealous; their damage impedes
The gardener stops looking, his heart grown morose

Rose blooms past the pain, year after year
But the line between personification and reality is drawn
Death of the weed draws nearer and nearer
Are you the rose, or merely the cultivated pawn?


Explanation: At that point in my life, I had gotten quite tired of being ridiculed for being 'weird'. Everyday people would criticize me for something I couldn't control - being me. The more thought it was given, the more it seemed that those who appear 'strange' are only that way as everyone else is the same. There are those who are complacent with idiocy and being completely normal, reinforcing stereotypes and overall being a boring lump of shit. Then there are those who seek more.

:)