Look, Shit!

Going on my previously hatched assumption that no, nobody gives a shit what I do, I'm gonna post some works that aren't necessarily edited or polished to perfection, against the advice of the type-A perfectionist/neurotic who inhabits my mind sometimes.

You'll Just Have To Trust Us

What a price to pay for freedom
What a prize is awarded at the end
While the world parades deaf and dumb
Yet still there's this shuddering trend
Violence and inhumanity reigns
What queen has taken her throne?
We're helping, trust us, however faint
You'll just have to trust us on this one.

Other Stuff
Birds and song and sorrow
That's all I can hear
in the depths of my mind a party thumps
and a voice rises from its casket
"hello hello" it says joyfully
a keener joy was never heard
a fierce fright bubbles forth
today something new takes hold.

Absent and Invisible

I've just been lurking lately, because I haven't written anything in weeks and I'm too tired all of the time to do anything really. We have one week left before spring break, and, in typical high school fashion, it's going to be absolute hell. First of all, I have tennis conditioning from 2:30 to 6 every day, and I'm not in shape at all. Three and a half hours of wall sits, planks, sit ups, suicides, drills, push ups, and a mile run every day. I'm kind of scared. Scratch that, I'm really scared.
However, I did realize one thing. The reason I haven't been writing lately, the reason I've found it inexplicably hard to express myself through the written word for like the past month and a half, is because I haven't made time for reading. I keep forgetting that when you stop the intake of creativity, you also pinch off the outpouring of it. To fix this problem, I booked it to the nearest Borders (get it? booked it? to a book store? lamepuns) because they're going out of business where I live and bought like everything in the store because it was like 60% off. Currently I'm reading All the King's Men which, frankly, I'm surprised I haven't read yet, seeing as it's right up my alley. I have a hefty reserve of books now, but I'm also very open to any suggestions.

Well, yes, this is been yet another pointless and writing-free post. I have a plot for a short story brewing in my mind, so we'll see how well I'll be able to start it with my crazy week coming up. I try.

Japan...

I really don’t know what’s going on. I get really freaked out every time we have any kind of inclimate weather, from the craptons of snow we got this winter to the flooding in our state this past week. And now this earthquake/tsunami combo in Japan… it just really, really freaks me out, and it makes me wonder if anyone else is scared, too. I don’t study geology or anything, so I can’t tell you the physics behind this stuff (beyond whatever was in An Inconvenient Truth), but I think that all of us can feel it. I don’t think the world is ending. 2012 is preposterous and I think it’s just stupid that people can believe in that. But we really need to look at what we’re doing to this world… we can pray all we want, but we also have to take action.
I have friends in Japan and I’ve texted my friends who’ve heard that they’re all okay, but I can’t help but wonder what it’s like for those who haven’t heard back, or worse, have heard back and received bad news.
It also pisses me off that while everyone on Tumblr is freaking out, posting links to donation websites and generally spreading awareness, not one of my Facebook friends has posted a status about it, and when I do nobody likes it. Jesus fuck people. Empathy.
I'm gonna go express myself in more creative outlets.
In other news my followers seem to have disappeared, but hopefully this message reaches people anyway.

You can also donate to Doctors Without Borders here, or text REDCROSS to 90999 to automatically donate $10 to the Red Cross, although I've heard rumors about the Red Cross being discriminate in their help, so I'd go with the Doctors Without Borders link if you have the means to do so.

It's Not Poetry, but Surprise Surprise, Writing

I have a problem. It’s not a problem you can see or hear, taste, smell or feel. My problem is myself. I get inside my brain, fuck things up in the vast space. I kick over buckets of self-esteem and chuckle as it spreads bloodlike over the membrane floor. I stack up neuroses in towering spires in the dusty corners that confidence once occupied. While unconscious, I steal into my memory and slip the tiny ones, unimportant ones, so that I might not notice, into my endless pockets and flee. Obsessions crawl through the tiny cracks, attracted to the crumbs of worry left over that the vacuum of apathy missed, crablike on their spindly black legs, sharp teeth clacking as they chatter mindlessly. Dressed in skintight black, I squeeze through multicolored electric passageways into the deepest recesses of my recollections and scribble over some of the clear glass plates in Sharpie, aglow with self-sabotage and adrenaline, and while I’m there I stop to pick up some of the plates filed away in the cabinet that sparkles and shines, throw them up in the air and scream with laughter as they shatter into glittery pieces of doubt and second guesses. Hormones, those little fuckers, spill out of my drooping shirtsleeves and plunk like pebbles all around me, vibrating and pulsing, clotting up the rusting metal doorways to common sense and rationality. Before I depart I draw a ghostly knife from my belt of mayhem and send it whirring through the dead air, whistling a phantasmal tune as it rips a hole in the fragile cloth binding between my sanity and a sparkling void that yawns behind it. It’s only a little hole, so infinitesimal that it cannot be seen with the untrained eye, but every time I visit I fling another phantom knife and worry away at that vital cloth.

The worst part is, as I write I’m already slipping away with my red pen, searching through drawers of accomplishments and records, finding this story and marring it with insecurity, striking through the center a bloody X, the kiss of death for every story I’ve attempted to bring to life.

Matthew Gray Gubler is on Tumblr and I Feel Insignificant

So. It hasn't spilled over onto Blogger yet because I've expressed myself rather fully on Tumblr and Twitter, but I am rather prone to fangirling. Over a lot of different things; mainly music groups, The Beatles, Motion City Soundtrack, etc.
HOWEVER, my latest obsession has been Matthew Gray Gubler, of Criminal Minds fame (he plays Spencer Reid). I mean, I'm not stalker type variety, but... I fall in love easily.
And now he has a Tumblr.
And my Tumblr pretty publicly showcases my, er, love. I'm freaking out a little, but hey, if he ever miraculously follows me back, I think my feelings of joy will eclipse any worry about a restraining order.

My feelings of insignificance stem from 1) a lingering feeling that I'm too young for everything/one I love, and 2) I will never be famous and/or witty. Definitely not witty. Have any of you noticed my insecurity about witticism? I WILL NEVER BE WITTY, JUST MILDLY FUNNY WHY IS LIFE SO UNFAIR.