Monday, September 5, 2011
Why.
There are some things I wish I didn't mess up. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please. Just let me go and become a nothing. I think I'm supposed to be a nobody. I think I'm supposed to be alone. Even though it's sad, I feel safer. I feel better hiding in a corner. I want to run away.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Metal and Magic.
There is a comparison made, between two men, one a teacher, and the other a baker. One creates and the other inspires. And the artist does both.
Another string of cobweb wraps on the inside of my throat, while pairs of four legs cling to the veins in my arms. Toxcidity engulfs my lungs, spasms of paralysis and vivacious struggle back and forth.
When I was young my brother and I found a small moth that could not fly well. In attempts to make it fly better, we decided to put it at the edge of a tunnel spider's web, because it should be able to fly if its life was in danger. We tenderly placed it on the edge of the trap, and as it begun to flap its wings to escape, the spider thrust its poison into it, and dragged it into the depths of its trap. We watched in horror, as we saw the last spams of the moth, and the web stop shaking. We both cried. We has just wanted to help.
What do I do when I see you dying inside? How can I help? How do I stop the poison in your life from killing you?
I just want to help. You saved my life. And you don't even know it. I just want to help.
Another string of cobweb wraps on the inside of my throat, while pairs of four legs cling to the veins in my arms. Toxcidity engulfs my lungs, spasms of paralysis and vivacious struggle back and forth.
When I was young my brother and I found a small moth that could not fly well. In attempts to make it fly better, we decided to put it at the edge of a tunnel spider's web, because it should be able to fly if its life was in danger. We tenderly placed it on the edge of the trap, and as it begun to flap its wings to escape, the spider thrust its poison into it, and dragged it into the depths of its trap. We watched in horror, as we saw the last spams of the moth, and the web stop shaking. We both cried. We has just wanted to help.
What do I do when I see you dying inside? How can I help? How do I stop the poison in your life from killing you?
I just want to help. You saved my life. And you don't even know it. I just want to help.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Just heartbroken.
Just stop. Please. I beg you. All of you. I'm just heart broken. I'm just hurt. So please. I'm just hurt. Leave me alone. I just want to be able to live. I just want to perform. I just want to improvise. Please, stop hurting me. Don't judge me or figure me out. I'm just hurt. Be my friend and understand. I was in love, and that love saved my life. I don't want to lose my life. Please.
Understand. And just be a friend to an average heart broken girl, who misses improv. Please.
Understand. And just be a friend to an average heart broken girl, who misses improv. Please.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
I'm angry.
Damn the stage. Stop its existence. Send its glory to hell. Take the lime-light victory and demean it. Rip the pride from the actor. What are you achieving on that stage that you can't win in your real life? What do you want so badly from that piece of wood that has a rug on top of it with a few colored splices of light on it? WHAT DO YOU WANT?! What is it that you want so badly from that stage!? I want freedom. I want confidence. I want that elusive, yet true, perfection. The unquestioned decisions, the leap into something that will not only catch me, but also send me towards the heavens. Blind my foresight, steal my predictions and give me Now. Send my one way street and blindness into a swooping fall, a turnpike rocketing of . . . Now. Better. Perfection. Fun. Oh Fun. Just Fun. I want you back. I want an escape. I want to spasm out of my head. Give me nothing but the terror of a freshly ripped heart convulsing in the desperation in my ears and flood my two brain with it. The peace of exhilaration. And yet, I am bound. Because my inability. My criticiality. The very things I so despairingly try and escape from are my chains. So Damn the Stage! Damn the lies of imagination. My fettered life will scream, and bite in spite towards this treatment. This cruel irony, the thing that makes Chevov laugh so. That by the things that make me a better person, I have been damned from the thing that I want to perfect me. Damn me. For I have not become enough to live.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The Lot
Marine Biologist, Astrologist, Psychologist, Paleontologist, Chemist, Electrical Engineer/Computer Scientist ,Anthropologist, Lawyer, Photographer, Business Management, Improviser, Politics, Mechanical Engineer, Mathematician, Physicist, Carpenter, Welder, English Major, Economist, Designer - Graphic, Computer, and Fashion, Philosopher, Engineer, Architect, Computer Programmer, and Actor.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Stairs and glaciers.
One foot, two foot, right foot, left foot. Eye-snag upward. Numerical evaluation of needed progress: 24. Brain bobb, lung pumps; stiff play-doh moves rhythmically 24 more times. You have triumphed over the stairs.
My arms are screaming. It hurts, It hurts, It HURTS! Gasping for air I look up and try to see much farther I have to go but all I see is the wall leaning forward to eat me alive. Frantically I claw at the wall with my ice picks, hoping that I'm going up as that I can no longer tell whether or not I'm going in the right direction. My pick doesn't connect for a second, I'mgonnaDieI'mGonnaDieI'mGonna- I'm on top. In my failing I had made it from the side of the wall to the platform. I'm Here! I MADE IT! WHOOOHOOOO!!!
This is the difference between climbing stairs and scaling the wall of an ice glacier. Metaphorically, this is the difference of being an average and a late bloomer. One you can measure your progress because it comes in small little steps, and you can see how close you are to meeting your goal. If you're a late bloomer though, its a little different. You know, that, if you put lots of work in for something, you'll get your goal. When you will, and how much work you have to put in it, you don't know. You don't know when it will finally click with you, or when you will have put enough work into it. No one really wants to help a late bloomer, because they aren't sure that you will ever make it to the top.
I never passed the 100 addition questions in one minute test. I had to miss recess every day I didn't pass. I did the same for subtraction, multiplication, and division. I never got 100% in my spelling tests. I had to stay in every lunch and rewrite each word I had missed twenty times, and if I misspelled one of those I would have to write the word fifty more times. I got called a liar by my sixth grade teacher when I told her yes, I had written that book report by myself, and yes, I knew what melancholy meant, and even if I couldn't define it I could use it in as many sentences as she'd like.
I still do need to touch up my math. But I think that I'm going to pass that 100 in a minute addition test now. Now I carry a dictionary with me everywhere, and use things that have spell check because my writing is too small to read if I just write it up. But that doesn't even hardly matter; I have been the genius artist who can transpose words to a higher form that will slip into one's palm and brush up their arm, smile, and lead one from being into living since my Freshman high school year. I may not have an English degree, but I'm not someone you would question for using a long word.
I'm sitting on top of a glacier, looking at how far I've come. I turn around, and look up. There is another wall of ice. This one delves into a crevice; I have no idea how long I'll be stuck in a tunnel hurling upward, but I'll get to the top.
I will work hard. And this year, I'm doing Math Flash Card again.
My arms are screaming. It hurts, It hurts, It HURTS! Gasping for air I look up and try to see much farther I have to go but all I see is the wall leaning forward to eat me alive. Frantically I claw at the wall with my ice picks, hoping that I'm going up as that I can no longer tell whether or not I'm going in the right direction. My pick doesn't connect for a second, I'mgonnaDieI'mGonnaDieI'mGonna- I'm on top. In my failing I had made it from the side of the wall to the platform. I'm Here! I MADE IT! WHOOOHOOOO!!!
This is the difference between climbing stairs and scaling the wall of an ice glacier. Metaphorically, this is the difference of being an average and a late bloomer. One you can measure your progress because it comes in small little steps, and you can see how close you are to meeting your goal. If you're a late bloomer though, its a little different. You know, that, if you put lots of work in for something, you'll get your goal. When you will, and how much work you have to put in it, you don't know. You don't know when it will finally click with you, or when you will have put enough work into it. No one really wants to help a late bloomer, because they aren't sure that you will ever make it to the top.
I never passed the 100 addition questions in one minute test. I had to miss recess every day I didn't pass. I did the same for subtraction, multiplication, and division. I never got 100% in my spelling tests. I had to stay in every lunch and rewrite each word I had missed twenty times, and if I misspelled one of those I would have to write the word fifty more times. I got called a liar by my sixth grade teacher when I told her yes, I had written that book report by myself, and yes, I knew what melancholy meant, and even if I couldn't define it I could use it in as many sentences as she'd like.
I still do need to touch up my math. But I think that I'm going to pass that 100 in a minute addition test now. Now I carry a dictionary with me everywhere, and use things that have spell check because my writing is too small to read if I just write it up. But that doesn't even hardly matter; I have been the genius artist who can transpose words to a higher form that will slip into one's palm and brush up their arm, smile, and lead one from being into living since my Freshman high school year. I may not have an English degree, but I'm not someone you would question for using a long word.
I'm sitting on top of a glacier, looking at how far I've come. I turn around, and look up. There is another wall of ice. This one delves into a crevice; I have no idea how long I'll be stuck in a tunnel hurling upward, but I'll get to the top.
I will work hard. And this year, I'm doing Math Flash Card again.
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