Merry and Morbid

I always miss my dad on Christmas. 

My parents got divorced something like five or six years ago, and every year since I've almost always spent Christmas with my mom. 

Well, I don't know. Maybe that's not true. But it feels true, and I guess that's what matters. 

Don't get me wrong, though. I'm not bitter or sad on Christmas Day. In fact, I'm as excited and ecstatic as a person can be on Christmas. I positively bathe in all the joy and love that I feel every winter season when I go and visit my family. I feel like I'm practically swimming in all of it. All the smells of Christmas, the sounds. The immense gravity of the world that I feel when I step outside during a snowfall. It's wonderful... I look forward to it all year. 

But it's funny. 

Christmastime is as close to perfect as it gets. I always get to see my family, who I miss daily. I eat incredibly well, breakfast lunch and dinner, and there's just some aura that surrounds me... Some magical something that I can't quite explain. 

Maybe it's not Christmas, per say. Perhaps it's just the familiarity of consistency, the traditions that seem so ingrained in our minds that they may as well had just been carved there at birth. Maybe it's just the combination of family, good eats, the harmonious singing, the giving, the receiving... 

You get the point. 

But even though I look forward to Christmastime every year, and cherish it when it comes, there's an element of bittersweet hidden among the wrapping paper. 

I always miss my dad on Christmas. 

It's never going to change, I'm always going to miss him. I'm always going to wish that he could be here, or that I could be there. But it never ruins Christmas. It never puts a damper on my excitement. 

So perhaps joy and sadness are two separate entities.

We often think of our lives as a constant graph of happiness. Much like the waves, our level of happiness coexists with our level of sadness, the pull of the sea competing with the momentum of the surf. 

But maybe it's not like that. Maybe we feel elated as we can simultaneously feel dejected. We are constantly reacting to thousands of different sensual stimulants that spark emotional responses. How can we feel one thing at one time when we live in a whirlwind of catalysts?

Life isn't a constant tally of happiness points. We shouldn't be so distracted with our level of joy that we miss out on what's right in front of us. Instead, we should accept that we feel things on a level of complexity that matches the intricacies of our emotional system. You don't have to choose whether you're happy or sad at one given time or place because you can feel both.

So feel joyful, elated, dejected, sad, happy, jealous, morbid, depressed, ecstatic...

And have a Merry Christmas!

Climbing Out of Love

If people can fall in love, I wonder if they can fall out of it too. Climbing out of love can't be a voluntary thing... It must be something you fight against. But maybe, just sitting in love all the time gets sort of lukewarm and dirty, like taking a bath for too long a time. And maybe it's too much to torture yourself by how love looks now and how you remember it to look when you first fell in. So you start to go kinda nuts down there in love. 

I guess climbing out of love is a last resort. It's something you have to do to keep your sanity. And while you're on that ladder, making your way to the top, you still must look down from time to time and get scared. That kind of scared that you feel in the pit of your stomach that feels like someone punched you there and left a poison in your insides... 

Because love is all you've ever known, you're not sure what you'll meet up there in the real world. And it's tempting to lose your footing and fall back into love, but you know it won't ever be the same. You know that if you ever topple off that ladder, the only relief will be that it's familiar down there in love. And frankly, that familiarity is what was driving you crazy in the first place. 

When you finally climb out of love, you must know you've come unprepared. It's much colder out of love than you thought it would be and immediately you start to regret putting your feet on that ladder. Because it was warm down there in love, and who knows if you'll ever be warm again? Climbing out of love feels like perpetual coldness. 

But the thing about love is that it never really leaves you. Even when you've climbed out of love, you can still feel it around you, a trace of what was. Love has taught you something, no matter how many plates and bowls and hearts were broken in the process. That trace of love isn't enough to warm you, but it's enough to remind you that warmth still exists. 

So when you climb out of love, make sure you bring your knitting needles. Because you're going to need a nice wool sweater to keep you going until you fall back in again. 

Spoken Ink

At school, I'm part of this club called Spoken Ink. It's a slam poetry club. Have you heard of slam poetry? You may have. Do you actually know what it is? You probably think you do.

But in reality, you don't.

Look it up, people.

Slam poetry is not just poetry. It's a performance art. And it's super-amazing. So amazing, in fact, that I have almost resigned to never performing anything EVER when we meet once a week for open mic.

Everyone in this club is SO FREAKIN' GOOD it's not even funny. I get goosebumps almost every Thursday! But none of my poems are that good. And the ones that might be I have never posted/shown/read to ANYONE EVER. Buuut...

I know I should perform. At least sometime.. 

So I've started working on a poem. It's not finished yet, but it's a start. So here goes:

My soul is a brick wall.

Or, at least, it started out that way.

I was a blank canvas, 

Barely chipped at the edges, 

Wanting to paint my way to interesting.

I begged every passer-by to pen a poem on my surface, 

Scratch their story with permanent ink.

Teach me something, please.

But I'm barely born and already, 

My brick wall is tarnished.

Scribbled on and stamped, 

Spray-painted with thick borders and looping lines,

The signatures of so many, you can barely tell

It's me they're covering.

I'm suffocating in a sea of symbols, 

Drowning in depths of doublespeak.

There are footprints on my permeable palate

So that I can barely taste the sweetness

Of the fruits of my own labor. 

So yeah... yeahhhh....

HoMeWoRk

I have discovered that my life is a cycle of homework.

1. Wake up
2. Organize homework
3. Go to school
4. Review last night's homework
5. Get home
6. Do homework
7. Sleep
8. Repeat steps 1-8

I know I'm not supposed to complain, and that attitude is everything. But I don't hate school... 

I just hate homework. 

Sleep

I should be sleeping. 

I mean, according to my health teacher and my parents and apparently my cousins, I should be sleeping. "Ten hours of sleep is really ideal, Kayla. That's what a normal, well-functioning teen should be getting: Ten hours of sleep." 

Well, too bad. 

Because I'm not. I just CAN'T GO TO SLEEP. I mean, I certainly wish I could. I'm so damn tired in school sometimes that I have to slap myself to keep Mr. English Teacher from lulling me to sleep with his slight Southern drawl. Or I have to worry Mrs. Math Teacher's hideous voice setting off multiple alarms in my brain, screaming, "The world has become an evil, awful-sounding place! Shut down, shut down!" Or I have to pray to God that Mr. World History doesn't find my grade to be below my potential, so I don't have to pretend to not be crying in front of cutthroat, scar-bearing girls and freakishly tall man-boys. 

I wish that after my day at school, I could just come home and SLEEP. But I can't! It's impossible! After a day of listening to the teacher go over the homework we did last night, I take the long route home, my backpack straining my neck muscles and shoulder blades so severely that I think high school must be one of the leading factors of the declining life expectancy in the great U.S.A. When I finally get to sit down again, I immediately take out my homework and start furiously scribbling what we will talk about next class, and probably the class after that. 

By the way, my teachers all say that we're running "a bit behind." But I'm starting to think "behind" is the new "right on track." 

Anyways, this whole time, as I'm sitting in my last-period class, waiting for the bell to ring, watching the clock... The whole time that I'm walking home, wishing there wasn't a weight on my back... The whole time I'm carrying out the drudgery that is homework, I am thinking about SLEEP. 

I just

Want

To sleep. 

But I can't. Because there are things to do, and people to see. But mostly just things to do... 

The funny thing is, when everything is done and my homework is printed and name/date-stamped and stapled and filed, I suddenly become not tired. My brain all the sudden turns upside down, and everything I've been working towards flies out the window. Sleep is no longer my first priority. I need to look up spoilers for my favorite TV show, or better yet, watch my favorite TV show. I also have to text my friend about that thing, and finish that song that I've been working on. 

Sleep?

What sleep?!

Of course, 5 hours later, I will remember what sleep is. And I will remember in Geometry, when I find my eyelids fluttering and my breathing slowing, how important it is that I get it. So I'll promise myself, I'll say, "Kayla, you will not go to sleep at an obscene hour tonight. You will find a way to discipline yourself, and you will wake up feeling refreshed and excited and not falling asleep in Geometry."

Lather, rinse, repeat, my friends. Lather, rinse, repeat. 

Cyber-Bullying

I am not exactly new to blogging, I've had many blogs that have been deleted and re-made and deleted and re-made since I was about 10. Just because my blogs are mostly for me and my friends (as in they aren't famous or anything) doesn't mean that they're any less legitimate. I post things that I want to share with people, and I know that once I post something, anyone can see it.

Which brings me to another point: Even though I've been blogging for awhile (for almost 5 years), that doesn't mean I always knew what I was doing. For instance, I know now that you should never post negatively about someone you know, even if you do all the normal things like leaving out the name, gender, or age of the person you're talking about. Because I did that once, about a girl in my acting class. 

And it turned out pretty badly. 

I was just in a bad mood, and wanted to get all my anger out online. So I posted this big, long, mean post about this girl, knowing the odds of her ever seeing it were next to nothing. But then someone I did know saw the post and thought I was talking about her. 

Needless to say, it was a big awkward mess. Eventually, I figured it out and deleted the post. But I did learn a lesson: NEVER EVER EVER EVER EVER post negatively about someone you know, even if you think they won't see it. That's not to say you can't write about your feelings toward a person. For instance, if someone is bothering you during lunch by stealing your food, you could always write about how frustrated that makes you, without referring to the person. 

I guess I'm writing this because since I've just started high school, I've been introduced to a wider range of people and I've noticed that kids aren't bullied so much in school anymore. It's mostly all online. On twitter, facebook, email and definitely blogs. It's just amazing to me that even the kids who have been insulted or written about online still have the guts to do it to other people. So just be careful what you say, because what goes around comes around. 

Shocks and Horrors

I just started high school, which means I'm a lowly freshman. I keep walking through the halls, expecting some senior to just crush me with his (or her?) backpack. But the thing is, this is the first time I've ever been in a public school. Now before you get all judgy, let me just explain:

I am not a snob. I am not a hippie, I am not a preppie, and I don't have an iPad. What I am is the child of two teachers. Two teachers who happen to have less faith in the public school system than most. (Because honestly, who actually has complete faith in the public school system?) Because of this lack of faith, they wanted to train to become Montessori teachers.

Haven't heard of Montessori?

Shocker. 

I'm not going to try and explain the complete methodology of Maria Montessori, the woman who invented (and clearly named) the Montessori philosophy, but basically the point is to teach kids how to be learners rather than teach them lessons in math or science. Of course, I'm not an idiot. I have been taught, ever since I was two, about math and science and history and geography and English and Spanish, but I've been taught these things slightly differently than most.We don't sit at desks, and we don't have a bell that rings every time we need to switch classrooms. We have one central classroom, and 2-3 main teachers that teach us everything we need to know. Occasionally, we will step outside our classroom to go to specials like physical education, music and art.

That doesn't mean we have a pool on the roof or anything.

But the point is, my parents are Montessori teachers who teach at the same Montessori school (though they are no longer married) and because of that, they get a discount on tuition if they want to send their kids. So you can guess where I've been going to school since I was two.


Yes, I went to a private school. Yes, I've never sat at a desk before now. Yes, my teachers did know how to teach a lesson past a powerpoint presentation. But it's not like the private schools you hear about in storybooks (do you hear about private schools in storybooks...?). We don't have a game room, or a cafeteria that serves us homemade meals 5 times a day. I didn't get special treatment just because I payed tuition and I actually do have a life.

In fact, I think because I went to Montessori school, I have an edge over my peers at high school academically. But, needless to say, there are some disadvantages. 

Such as, I'm used to trusting adults that know when to let you off the hook. Here, if you miss a question, it's a big, FAT, ZERO. 

And I'm also not quite used to this "being bored at school" thing. I have never been less engaged for a longer period of time.

But, I guess the moral of the story is...

There is no moral.

And I don't know how to end this post.

-K

The Unfixable Problem

There isn't any glue
That can fix this
Broken heart
There isn't any stitch
That can mend what's
Pulled apart

It's not like a scar
That you have after hurting
It's an open wound
And it won't ever close.

I've never had all the things that I own
Thrown out of my home
I've never had no possessions
I've always had a place to go
My life is easy
By so many standards
I float along on a raft
But there are sticks and stones in this river
And they are breaking
All my bones

This won't ever be fixed
Won't ever be mended
Won't ever be fine
This isn't like a death
Or a tragedy
Those things you learn to live with
In time

This won't fade
To the back of my mind
No matter the years I live
I will never be blind
To this crack
In the picture I've painted
My happiness
Will always be tainted

It's not about love
It's not about hate
It's not about someone
Or fortune or fate


There isn't any glue
That can fix this
Broken heart
There isn't any stitch
That can mend what's
Pulled apart

Pawing at the Ground: Part One

She climbed into her bed, her freshly cleaned skin soft and young against the sheets. The girl was 12 probably, at least not older, and her  hair cradled her face in bouncy waves that went an inch past her shoulders. Her cheeks were red and full, like waxed apples fresh from the tree. Her nightgown had a bunny on the chest, and it seemed to wiggle it's nose as the girl climbed into bed. She pulled the covers up to her chin and stared at the ceiling. Her brown eyes seemed to search for some kind of meaning in the tile. "Where are you?" she said out loud. Her question hung in the air, accompanied by rain pounding on the roof and thunder just miles away. Nothing happened. No answer came.

Pushing the thought from her mind, the girl turned sideways and closed her eyes, clasping her hands under her cheek. She took a deep breath in and fluttered her eyes open as she exhaled. The girl now faced her window. It was huge, and covered almost half of her wall. It was usually covered with curtains or blinds but when it rained she like to have it wide open. She liked the patterns the drops made on the glass. It was the only ground-floor window they had in the house, in fact, the only bedroom on the ground floor. The girl had always been removed from the rest of her family, who lived most of their lives in the main and upper floors of the mansion-esque home.

She closed her eyes again and soon felt the cloud-like fingers of the dream-people caress her mind. Before long she was in a heavy trance: Awake just enough to be woken with the call of a name or the touch of a hand; but in a sleep-daze so that she could see her unanswered questions and memories slowly spin in the backs of her eyelids as her surroundings fell out of view. But something was preventing her from slipping totally under. Some kind of heat radiated just above her eyelashes, in the center of her forehead. She wrinkled her brow as if to shake it off, took a breath and fidgeted. Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed some miles away. She squirmed. The heat grew stronger, more powerful... It was starting to ache.

Her eyes snapped open.

And there he was.

Outside of the window, with a hand pressed against the glass. The man, scrawny and wet, stared at her hungrily. At her awakening, a curl of a smile played across his lips. He wanted her. He could see the fear in her eyes, almost hear her quiet gasp through the glass.

But she did not look away. 

Sick with a Star

There I was
Curled up in a ball,
Just me,
Stripped of all the usual
Things That Sparkle

Sick and worried
About being the latecomer

It wasn't so late at night that
You wanted to make yourself
A bowl of buttery popcorn.
Not too early that you were
Feeling like a rebel, awake when
Everything else had been asleep for hours

But just in-between,
Where you probably should be
Getting to bed.

Except I wasn't.
And I wasn't alone, either.

There we were,
Me and an angel.
Just sitting down causally,
Like there was nothing extraordinary about it.

On a bathroom floor,
With our eyes wide and
Our legs sore
From not moving for so long

We talked about normal things,
Worldly worries.
But her wisdom seemed to make them
Special,
Like they came from the stars,
Like she came from the stars.

And she probably did.

Four Canadian Food Things

Though I live and breath most of my air in the United States of America, my true roots lie in the country upstairs: Canada. I am in the province of Ontario now, and I thought I'd share with you a couple of little food quirks of the country that you probably didn't know before.

NUMBER ONE: MILK 

Milk comes in bags here. I'm serious. Plastic. Bags. You buy milk in bags that are all bundled into another, bigger bag. When you get home, you put your milk bag in a jug and you cut the corner of the plastic bag off so you can pour your milk. Rules of the milk bag include #1, if you finish the milk, you must throw out the bag and replace it (which includes cutting the corner off), #2, if there's a teensy bit of milk left, don't put it in the fridge - just finish it. And those are only 2 of the many rules of milk bag etiquette.  

This is milk in a bag:

This is milk in a bag in a bag:

This is milk in a bag in a jug:

It's actually better for the environment because the bags use less plastic than jugs! In general, Canadian milk is a treasure to behold. If you don't believe me, watch this video. 

NUMBER TWO: POUTINE

What is Poutine, you ask? It's DELICIOUSNESS. Poutine = fries covered in gravy and cheese and DELICIOUSNESS! It's a signature Canadian dish and this is what it looks like:

 

Also, it's almost as common here to put vinegar on your fries as it is ketchup! When you go to McDonalds, they give you little plastic packages of malt vinegar as well as the usual fixin's. 

NUMBER THREE: BLUEBERRIES

Have you ever had a fresh wild blueberry when they're in season in the more Northern part of Canada? They're tiny and sweet and so delicious you could eat until you passed out from digestive exhaustion. YUM.

NUMBER FOUR: CANADIAN CANDY

Sometimes I feel sorry for my American friends who will probably never taste the divine sweetness of a Caramilk or an Aero Bar. Sadly, you will never bite down on the crunchy shell of a Cadbury egg or indulge in a Laura Secord chocolate. I heard a rumor that there are no Maynards down in the US. If this is the case... It's a sad day for us all. A sour cherry Maynard could turn your life around. 

Bird Diseases

The other day, I had a realization:

It's so easy to be afraid of everything.

I mean, I used to think panophobics were just people who needed  serious help, but maybe they're on to something.

We can't predict anything for sure. Nothing in this world is 100%, get your money back satisfaction guaranteed. You would probably give someone a weird look if they asked you how the victims of 9/11 knew there was going to be a terrorist attack on their country. No one says things like, "I just knew the twin towers were going to fall. I just felt it." Because no one did.

You don't always get "gut feelings." Your body can't magically sense whether this is going to be your last day on earth, or if you'll live to see another sunrise.

But then there are the times when you do get that churny, butterfly feeling in your stomach. Something is going to happen. You just know it.

And usually, nothing does.

So how are you supposed to tell when you're going to be right and when you're going to be wrong? How do you know if you're going to get hit by a bus, or walk freely across the street without a scratch on your face? You can't know. 

You just can't.

I don't know the exact probability or anything, but it is a fact: things can and will go wrong.

And you never know when, where, how or why.

So why get up in the morning? As soon as you open your eyes, a bug might fly into one and blind you. Or if you make it past that, if you try to get out of your bed and fall accidentally, you could break a bone. Or be paralyzed, or even die. Every time you put a foot in front of another, you run the risk of falling down and hurting or even killing yourself.

Why do we ever walk out on the street? That's where drive-by shootings occur. Any Tom, Dick or Harry could come up to you and punch you in the nose. Heck, a plane could come and make a crater right where you were just standing.

If you acted under the realization that anything could happen at any moment, you may never move a muscle. You might not speak, blink. You may even stop breathing.

But you don't.

We don't.

Why?

We know that all of this is possible. People are murdered, children are lost, acts of terrorism are being committed, planes crash, boats sink, people die from just falling down or hitting their heads in the shower.

So why don't we run screaming for our mothers and fathers? Why don't we hide under our covers until we're 90?

I call it the Bird Disease Phenomenon.

When a child sees a feather on the ground, he will inevitably pick it up. Why shouldn't he? Feathers are beautiful and elegant and children especially love them. But adults nearby usually respond to the feather-collecting with a, "Don't pick that up." When the child asks why, the adult will usually say, "It has all sorts of...bird diseases on it or something." The child doesn't care. He will rub the brightly colored barbs of the feather with his short, grubby fingers. He might even stick it into his cap.

We know that terrible things happen in the world. The majority of us know that these things could happen to us. But we also know that every day a baby is born. A child laughs, people get married. Someone pays off their debt or buys their dream house. Some Hollywood film or another inspires the next Meryl Streep. Every day people fall in love.

There has to be a balance. We can't live our lives like nothing can ever touch us, nor can we sit and wait to be shot or robbed or mugged. We have to live aware of what we have, of what we want and what we need. We have to be careful, but not too much so that we can't enjoy anything.

We have to live with hope.

Graduation

I feel like I'm getting stuck on lasts. This is the last time I'll ever hug that friend. The last time I'll sign an MCS yearbook...my last in-school brunch. I don't want to keep thinking, every time I do some normal or generic thing, that it's the last time I'll ever do it. I don't want to give a final speech or eat a closing dinner. I don't want to say goodbye.

Suddenly, every small thing I do, every person I shake hands with, every joke I laugh at, seems to hold a heavier weight. I'm burdened with the realization of the importance of every move I make, smile I crack or face I pull. Everything I do is a last. I will never do what I'm doing right now ever again. 

Throughout tonight, I felt weighted by this discovery. No inside joke or picture of a teacher as their younger, wilder self could incorporate the same lightness it had previously possessed. My mind flitted back to the fact that I would never again share a moment just like this. I felt I was losing something. 

Maybe I felt that I was losing friendships. That maybe keeping in touch with everyone wasn't going to be as easy as I thought. Or maybe I was afraid of losing the uniqueness I feel my graduating class exudes. Mostly, I think I was afraid of losing the moment. 

Moments fly by so fast you might not even see one pass you by. Think about the first time you ever ate cheesecake (or any other delectable dessert). Were you astounded? Amazed by its deliciousness? Probably not. But wouldn't you give anything to go back to the first time you ate that cheesecake, knowing that it would be the only time you would ever get to taste it as you'd never tasted it before? 

Tonight, as I mingled and laughed and stuffed my face, I kept watching the moments pass me by while I was unable to do anything but observe. A friend across from me at the table would laugh, and I would look up to the ceiling, watching her chuckle float up into the air, never to be seen or heard from again. I might have even tried to catch it once or twice. 

But by the end of my graduation dinner tonight, I realized something. It wasn't just this day that was a last. It was every day. Every day we experience "lasts." Every day we experience a completely different set of challenges, successes and social drama. No snowflake is exactly alike, and neither is any day, hour, minute or second. 

But every last is also a first. Every time you experience something, you are experiencing it for the last time. Because there will never be another time when you are in the exact same place, in the exact same time, doing the exact same things with the exact same people. But because of this, every time you experience something, you are experiencing something for the first time. 

Imagine that. 

Go back to the cheesecake example. Don't you yearn for the day when you could taste cheesecake for the first time again? Can't you almost imagine how delighted your tastebuds would feel if they knew fully well they would never taste cheesecake like this again? 

Well, now imagine everything you do, everything you say, is like eating cheesecake for the first time. Think of how extraordinary that is. Everything you experience is totally unique to you, and doesn't exist anywhere else. 

The only way you can truly enjoy something, and I mean enjoy a moment through and through, is if you are fully aware that it is the first (and last) time you will ever experience it. And that's what I learned tonight. 

NEW BLOG

So a friend and I decided we were going to co-own a picture blog!!! We're gonna try to post at least one picture every day. Some of them will be mine, some of them will be hers....

Check it out: Night Owl

Hopefully you'll subscribe so you can see every time we post!!!!

Butterflies

For the past three days I've been camping, and 18 hours of those three days I was completely alone in the woods (in the mountains) with nothing but water, two tarps, rope, and a wet sleeping bag.

And it wasn't profound. Or spectacular. Or even horrible (even though it hailed). 

But because I was camping, I was unable to be on the internet, post any posts, write any fanfiction, read anyone else's (amazingwonderfulthankyousoverymuch) blog posts....

And so I'm doing all that now. 

I don't really know what this post was supposed to be about originally....or if it was supposed to be about anything at all. 

Just thank you, I guess. THANKS EVERYONE!!!

Especially people with angel-eyes who are part of the universe's big, mysterious plan. Plan A, to be exact.

ONE MORE THING:

This is a song I wrote and recorded: 

Now I have to go work on a birthday present. 

Some People Just Suck

It's a fact. 

Dewdrop Kisses

Are those dewdrops I see
In your flower-petal eyes?

The thunderstorm shook
Even the majestic oaks,
The tower-tall trees

But your sweet fragrance
Kept the raging storm complaisant
You let it kiss you
Like the dawn kisses the face of earth in the morning

It's a SAFFLOWER

Fun Fact: A safflower is the cousin of a sunflower! Who even knew there WERE such things as safflowers!? Not me... it was just on the back of my cracker box. 

Did you know that frozen cream and ice cream are the same chemically, but not physically?! 

Were you aware that by reading this question you are unconsciously knowing that you aren't the almost lover of a half-piglet, one-fourth cat and sixty-sevenths of a millionth celery stalk?!

Did you know I can't spell unconciously? 

Don't say cheese in the same sentence as superlative. 

I BROKE MY OWN RULE. 

MORE PICTURES...AND OTHER STUFF

I am making ice cream...

And also contemplating my love life (hahaha...that was a joke.)

And also taking pictures in the rain. Here they are:

PHOTO DUMP! :D

I love these purple flowers...then again, who doesn't love anything purple!

These are rose petals, in case you were wondering. 

OMIGOSH DEWDROPS.

Not quite sure what this actually is...but it looks cool :D

So many roses...so little time...

Just a Couple of Poems

Fingertips

The pressure of your fingertips,

Slight and soft, 

Feels like tiny, tiptoeing ballerinas, 

Dancing on my palm.

And every time you squeeze

I have to close my eyes

And remember how real you are. 

How you walked right past

And never looked back.

And I know

I'm just a link in your chain

But I can't help 

Pretending. 

Angel

I couldn't quite tell

As I looked across the room. 

She blurred the line between reality

And something much more fantastic.

Her eyes sparkled like the sea

On a summer day,

As mesmerizing and mysterious

As a morning fog. 

I almost expected wings

To sprout from her shoulder blades

So angel-like and perfect

It was only a matter of time before she flew. 

Lets Talk About Love

I don't know anything about love. Well, that's not true. I guess I do know a little bit. But I've never been in love. Now the word love is getting all mixed up in my head.

Definitions of love: adore, like very much, adoration; very strong liking, have sexual relations, the most spectacular, indescribable, deep euphoric feeling for someone, nature's way of tricking someone into reproducing, the desire for someone's soul, giving someone the power to destroy you and trusting them not to...etc., etc.

Synonyms for love: adulation, affection, allegiance, amity,amorousness, amour, appreciation, ardency,ardor, attachment, case*, cherishing, crush,delight, devotedness, devotion, emotion,enchantment, enjoyment, fervor, fidelity, flame,fondness, friendship, hankering, idolatry,inclination, infatuation, involvement, like, lust,mad for, partiality, passion, piety, rapture,regard, relish, respect, sentiment, soft spot,taste, tenderness, weakness, worship, yearning,zeal, admire, adulate, be attached to, be captivatedby, be crazy about, be enamored of, beenchanted by, be fascinated with, be fond of,be in love with, canonize, care for, cherish,choose, deify, delight in, dote on, esteem, exalt,fall for, fancy, glorify, go for, gone on, haveaffection for, have it bad, hold dear, hold high,idolize, long for, lose one's heart to, prefer,prize, put on pedestal, think the world of, thrivewith, treasure, venerate, wild for, worship, caress, clasp, cling, cosset, court, cuddle, draw close, embrace, feel, fondle, hold, hug, kiss, lick, look, tenderly, make love, neck, pet, press, shine, soothe, stroke, take into one's arms, tryst, woo. 

Antonyms for love: dislike, hate, hatred, scorn, abstain, aversion, contempt, disapproval, disgust, disregard, loathing

I found these definitions/synonyms/antonyms in various sites... It's all very interesting. Did you know there are concept dictionaries???? Anyways...the dictionary definitions were pretty one-sided, and honestly, completely lame. The ones in the urban dictionaries were much better...though someone did post a video called bunny suicide as a definition...is that supposed to be funny or...? So, that was my weird post about love. Oh, and by the way, I spelled "synonym" right, it just looks..weird.