The wind scrapes against my face;
I trudge toward her,
and she pushes me like Poseidon
crushes fistfuls of waves upon
a fluttering raft.
I can feel her like a thousand
glass shards pricking my face, my eyes,
my nose.
I can taste the salt and it
tears at my skin, rips
at my flesh.
Each pound of it has its way with me and then
turns over and rests.
Silent, white, strong,
gathered on the ground, by my feet.
Even there, it continues its murderous
vengeance.
Made perfect by brother Wind.
Salt, the brute, has cleaned the
streets of snow, has sucked the life
of leaves, has left green grasses
brown.
After the animal has eaten,
it saunters off--running with
the tide of the wind.
And the wind, ever so merciful,
clears the streets of the residues,
the pieces, the rotten skin.
I wait--licking my sour wounds--
for the next swell of
sharks to swim by.

I wrote this after I found out it takes seven minutes for the light from the sun to reach the Earth, and that the human heart weighs seven pounds.

Seven minutes

Light pours through the pores so prudent,

And she stands watch, the clock, a student,

She wonders now if all arises,

If promised comes upon horizons,

Then why question any being?

For what reasons catch the fleeing?

 

All returns to dust and soot,

None can outrun God’s own foot,

We stride upon hot worlds a’ wonder,

Nothing to put us, not us, asunder.

The sun will rise, the moon will fall,

For who else wakes the sleeping doll?

 

And we shall run through the fields of grass,

Build lives and worlds that none surpass,

Languid, we shall lie beneath the stars,

Jubilant prisoners licking our scars,

Barr the questions out of sight,

Live, live, live sweet, charming, bright.

 

One day the girl will sit outside the church,

And rocks, minerals, diamonds find in her search,

The mother, clutching book upon her chest,

Will pray for world, life, child to be blessed,

And minute, minute, minute will linger,

And there the gospel Beulah singer,

Spreads her joy as she brings her eyes to God,

Minute, Minute, Minute has trod.

 

The last minute born on fragile shoulders,

And when complete, the dark enfolders,

No one knew this day to come.

Oh God, Oh God, bring back the sun,

The light, the dream, the beauty ‘round.

But, no, you’re left with only sound,

With electronic light, electric air,

The battery as the only heir,

Of feigned beauty, of feigned true light,

The world begins to see with sunless sight.

 

The sounds are all still left as real.

The world, it begs, it pleads, to feel.

Hear the lost wanderings of feet,

The silent cries the heart does beat.

The seven pounds now give the sight,

The seven minutes took from light.

I must quit the attempt

for I am able to draw the sinuous thick hairs, the

oval slick face, the jagged

edges of a jaw,

and bushy brows.

But as I begin the contour

of the eyes

The Image of Man ceases.

 

For these lead circles

Mark my man a woman.

I try, I try, I try.

Yet all I create

Are pages of grim, brash,

Starved women, who,

Unable to eat, breathe,

Are left behind the blue bars,

dreaming in the white twilight.

 

Lashes batting, iris still

She watches, unmoving.

Lead fills in no mouth,

Bears no heir to a nose,

I have left her there,

And she, my babe,

Pleads for sustenance and beauty.

Burning to be.

Begs me, oh Creator,

to finish with her; accept

a brutish girl; one I sketched

in my image but cannot allow

forward unless her eyes betray

her to my club, no girls allowed.

 

I have passed her a hundred times

Nor cared to see.

I allow her struggle.

I leave her.

Tucked away in the pages of past memory.

 

Years pass, but she has stayed

 

a girl in the same spot.

Perhaps, a woman, too.

The weight she bore like books

stacked upon her chest,

have left wrinkles and muddled her face.

 

I barely recognize her now. Her

Jagged jaw not so; The once thick, short

Hairs all a mess of grey now.

But still, her eyes pierce me,

Like a paper cut.

Sharp, intense, quick,

Blood brooding and soon to rise.

 

Revenge.

Could you not accept my disfigured

female form as you could so easily

a man’s?

I ignore her; throw her into my trash—

Last night’s leftovers soak her through.

The eyes begin to dissipate

Ah, perhaps a drawing of a man?

Nature's greatest hardship. It starves. It shrivels. It is engulfed in white, blinding powder, which it can never truly shake off. The sunlight is hardly visible beyond the placating swarm of little white men. Struggle as she may against the winds brought on by the force and exhuberance of her invader, her leaves, trunk, blades and all her defenses are torn down, crushed under the weight of millions of ruthless invaders. She waits. She waits. She waits. And then, after years, after dreaming of awaking to see her children bloom, after crying under gray, empty skies, she awakens to a milky spool of sunlight spilling in, to the gusto of the wind lessening into a biding breeze, to the little white men's retreat into her roots.

While not all of us can hold jobs in an area we love, we can certainly spend our spare minutes, hours and days working on those delights and passions. Yes, you are always welcome to volunteer by giving food to the poor or investing money into an NGO but you are not using a true talent in these actions. You are using your ability to love, no doubt, but if you enjoyed something, I imagine the impact your could have by bettering your passion (in spite of the fact that you are unable, at the moment, to pursue it due to money constraints) would be magnificent.

 If you've ever heard of the janitor from the Bronx who played music so beautifully, people believed he had to have a different mind than any human. A man with no formal education who simply loved to play. And he touched hearts and minds; not by spending his time catering to others but by forcing himself to be better, to being the best during his hours of leisure from mopping university halls. And once he was, he shared it with the world. I wish we could all aspire to the same goal. If you truly want to give a gift, give your own personal gift--the gift you work years and years to perfect until it is a memorable, unique, awe-inspiring piece of art.

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=ChtL5yUuSVY&feature=related


Listen to it. If you haven't seen the movie, it is beautiful, somber and forceful; This song sent chills down my arms. Kracata.

I remember someone, somewhere that was very old telling me the most important thing at his age is to never have regrets. It wasn't a question but it made me think about my life. I was probably around 8 or 9 years old but since then I've lived my life as best I can without regret. As high school hit, I've racked up a couple. But I'm doing my best to make up for those now.

JAVA/HTML
RUSSIAN and SPANISH
How to stop my leg-shaking
To Cook
To Organize my time better
To learn what my true passion in life is

..all in one day, preferably. ;D

The necessity of home skills.

I barely know how to cook. I mess up my laundry almost every time. I can't sew up a torn pant leg. I don't know how to eradicate a stain. I would probably clean the floor incorrectly--if I ever tried to do it. I don't know what postage is required to send a letter. I've never assembled anything in my life. My organization skills are based on my mother first organizing the thing I own and then I follow that system. When a coupon says buy 3 for $10, I don't know if that means you must buy 3 to get the entire discount or if you only buy 1, the price will be discounted according to the ratio.

I've depended on my hard-working parents my whole life, and now, I underestimate the importance of my mother's skills. I live on my own, and yet, I still come home to her with laundry, torn clothing, an appetite for real food and stained shoes.

I wish I could force myself to learn but if my mother is always there, then my mind sees no need...because I'm naive.

Every birthday wish and shooting star from when I was 5 until when I turned 12 was wasted on asking to never grow up, never get older. And every year, my height increased, my body changed and no one noticed that I was secretly praying for the child in me, and in all of us, to stay.

I wished for what I knew I couldn't possibly have because I knew, even at five, that old age would be heartbreaking, terrifying and more painful than any skidded knee or torn elbow. I didn't want to sit in a wheelchair being pushed around by cruel nurses through dilapidated, off-creme-colored hallways. I didn't want to experience both the emotional and physical pain of lost friends, family and sanity. I wouldn't want a person to pass by me, casually glance over and interpret my expressionless, wrinkled, tired face and sullen, dim eyes to mean that I was simply tired and didn't mind my state. I would want them to know that my entire body and mind was raging against the plague that tormented my body, that I wasn't simply a flaccid, bored, dull thing honkered against a metallic moving chair. I had a soul; a lost one, perhaps, but a real one which was fighting desperately to get out.

As I started to get older, I realized that what I was asking for would require more than a miracle; it would require suicide, something that was never an option for me.

So even now, as I slowly age, year by year, I'm terrified of what old age means. I hear the colliquialisms people throw my way, "With old age comes wisdom", "You will grow, learn and become your own master", and mostly, people tell me of the wonder of childbirth and old age with your significant other.

I don't believe you.

I think I will wake up one day and hate it all. I will envy the beauty I lost, which some other unknowing girl found. I wlil hate all those who surround me for their inability to see the pain I'm in, to see how much I wish to be agile, passionate, and earth-changing. I will spend hours preparing for the day...hours that would have taken minutes when I was young.

I will sit on my porch looking out at the young knowing far more than they. And I will envy them. For if I could be young again, I would. If I could re-learn my lesssons, I would. If I could live and never lose my friends to old age, I would. But I won't because I must admit that I will eventually have to be old.

I had to admit to myself, at twelve years of age, that there is no star to wish away old age. There is no birthday wish that will stop every birthday thereafter. There is no hope or faith to cling to which will end the cycle of pain and knowledge that proceeds.

What do I look forward to most about getting older?

It's what I began to wish for after I turned twelve. I wished for the insight to change the world before old age crept into the tunnels of my mind and stole the life my veins had left.