'They act out this play and so do I."

I haven't written poems in years. For creative writing, we had to write three poems: school, home and friends. This is what I got:

These Tiles (School)

It’s either this stall or the couch
Across the hall it calls for me
I dare whisper back
For these tiles keep me warm

Warm from the monitors that question
And the musky scent of hallway smoke
Warm from lip-sticked laughs
And choking stares I can’t ignore

It’s either this stall or the couch
Across the hall - its call will never fail
For even if I whisper back
I’ll be sitting here tomorrow on these tiles

Two Shouting Ghosts (Home)

This stone pillowcase keeps my imprint well
For I never move from this position
I never see a reason to budge

That shouting sound caresses my ear
I wish I didn’t hear it through this pillowcase
If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have budged

The top of the darkened stairway hides my shadow
Even though their shadows are two angry ghosts
I am glued to the rug below me – I wish I could budge

My eyes don’t fool me and my trembling doesn’t lie
For if those shouting ghosts saw my darkened shadow
I’d run back home to my stone pillowcase and the imprint it keeps

Truth Behind Friends

They’re real, they’re fake.
They joke, they lie.
They act out this play,
And so do I.


I've been thinking lately, even though I love my friends in Rochester - I need an escape. I've been thinking about what it would be like to move in with my big sister and nephews in Washington for a few months - across the country. It would be different - waking up to a different environment, being with my family and around people I do not know. It would be an adventure, a time I could write and write and write and figure out who I am and what I want to do.

But this is all just what's in my mind. It will never happen.

my life as a see-saw

Oh I don't believe it,
That I could be so deceiving
And bringing you down to feel this lack of loyalty.
You were a song in my head,
The warmth of the sheets in my bed.
A story forever told, but never old,
A warm arrival never left so cold.
Don't blink, don't close your eyes,
But most of all don't apologize.
It's me who's got the demons to wrestle now.
- Sherwood, Song in my Head


It's funny how something can be so great one moment and then nothing the next - even if that something you thought was there, wasn't really in the first place. People fall way too fast, I being one of them. I guess I need to relax and wait. Even though waiting is the most painful of actions.

So I'm back to the start
At that wooden, rusting see-saw
Near that half broken bridge
Should I jump over to the other side
Even if I'm still the one
Who ends up on the bottom
Of the see-saw every time?
I'll just have to wait
Until it's my turn to rise to the sky.

"Stuck between trust, belief and the right thing to do."

I'm beginning to feel trapped inside my own skin. Again. I'm feeling helpless and weak - not the usual lively and energetic person I remember from the past. Perhaps it is because I'm learning that I can never trust - even the people I'm supposed to from the start. I don't know what I do wrong - if anything at all. I'm kind and caring and never try to hurt anybody's feelings. Yet, my two brand new roommates decide to blame me for stealing - an act I would never be a part of. Since they decided to blame me without any questioning or evidence, they took some of my own food and poured it around the hall, taking photos of them doing it as if it were a joke. I don't understand why they would automatically point a finger at me because I never would do something to them in such an immature and childish manner. I truly would never do anything like that to anyone, really. When I overheard their conversation - I felt trapped, not only inside my own skin, but inside the one place I'm supposed to call home during my school year. I confronted them in the nicest way possible - because I really can't be mean even if I tried. I felt like I was being attacked for something I was never apart of. I hate this. I hate this emotion known as fear because it's the one emotion I'm so used to returning. Now it has.

Lately, I wish that I could just travel to California or England or Maryland to just work on my writing. I hate school, not MCC, but the whole idea of classes and tests and unneeded and unwanted work. I just wish I could get an agent and get my book published with the snap of my fingers. Life isn't that simple and I know what for sure. Simple is when you read directions and the outcome is perfect. Simple is when you wake up in the morning and your class is canceled. Simple is when you hear your phone vibrate and it is a text message from the one person you were hoping it was from. Life isn't simple. It can't be.

If crushes were simple, they wouldn't be crushes at all. They would be relationships. That's why crushes continuously crush you even when they don't mean to. But then, they confuse you when they want you near constantly - their arms holding onto your body with strength. But then the word crush comes back around because you can't tell what you and him truthfully are. That's why it is called a crush.



Here is an excerpt from the latest chapter of A Separation of Heart:

Lylie turned around and walked towards him, staring at the enlarged painting behind the futon. It was one that she seemed to have not noticed; yet now she couldn’t help but stare. It was a framed painting, the strokes quite harsh and quick. The picture was of a man with his head balancing on top of his right palm with a bottle of some sort of unknown liquor being held in the left. The man’s eyes were dark and shadowed, the interior almost as black as the bags that slept beneath. He had longer, almond colored hair that went just below his ears – not quite as dark as Noah’s but quite similar. His mouth was down turned and his left hand held tightly to the bottle, purple veins protruding from his rough looking hand.
“Is this a picture of you? It looks like an older version of yourself,” Lylie asked. However, Noah remained silent, his head shaking slowly.
“No.”
“Oh. Then who is it?” Lylie asked. Noah turned his glance to Lylie, his eyes almost identical to the ones on the painting; all except for the heavy bruise he was wearing instead. He looked up at the painting and then towards Lylie once more – his breathing tense.
“It’s my father,” Noah said. Silence grew thick between the two of them and even though the air seemed raw, Lylie slowly tried to put the puzzle together – each piece seemingly wrong.

The impact that Rhinos bring

Am I the only one that feels alone
Though, all is home emotions flow
Am I the only one that hears the tears run down my face
Would anybody recognize at all
Cause I know I'm so slow
But I'm trying
And I'm still dying to know
Say you won't leave for the rest of my life
Life's the only thing that deals the pain
Like pouring rain
Breeding hate
And I don't wanna do no wrong
My God, it's been so long
Please comfort me before I go insane
- Unwritten Law, The Rest of My Life

From a car crash to death - this semester has already been a whirlwind. Whirlwind. Maybe more like a hurricane or a tornado. And within the perplexity of all this chaos - I think I may have found something worth my while to hold onto. A person; someone. He is funny and kind; someone I feel 100% myself around yet am not afraid to bare my insecurities on my sleeve for him to view. However - I am still uncertain. I don't know if we are merely close friends or something more and am too nervous and fearful to bring up the subject because I constantly expect the worst. I've been let down too many times before. I feel like I could trust him, but I'm still so afraid to trust anyone. I feel safe around him, but safetly has always been an issue to contemplate. My emotions are fried in the weirdest of ways. Some of them are puzzled out of mere attraction towards him and some are frightened because I never expect perfection. Even with him - someone so genuine and great - I'm scared.

I have decided that Addiction isn't written to my best ability and therefore would need months of editing and possible re-writing to get it publish-worthy. So, for now, I will continue to write A Separation of Heart. This book is well-written and though I am taking my time writing it, I think that is better than rushing into it - much like I did with Addiction. A.S.O.H. circles the life of a family broken up by divorce. It's strange and ironic that the whole undertow of the story is that the father cheated and ruined his children's adolescense - much relatable to my own life. But it also is a love story, a story of pain, a story of flashbacks, a story of life. It's everything in one package and therefore should be something spectacular. I hope.



Rest In Peace Angela O'Laskey