Today is Saturday- It's a lovely Saturday morning and I'm sitting on my bed to write this. I haven't written in quite some time. In fact, my life has changed a great deal since I last wrote. Unfortunately, after reading my last posts, I feel that my ability to write well has decreased rather a lot since I wrote them. Ah, well. I think I am a rather odd teenager because I woke up at seven thirty this morning. No, slightly before then. Is that not slightly ridiculous? I feel rather sad, because I recently discovered that this blog has only ever had ten views. And I can be fairly certain that nine of them are mine, due to my desperate searches to regain access to this dusty old site that nobody every reads. Although I could prefer this to being famous or something of the like. I mean, internet-famous. That would be weird. The main reason I spent the last fifteen minutes trying to get back on this silly old thing was because I wanted to post a few poems I have written recently. They are not particularly interesting, and nor are they particularly good, but here they are anyway:
The Day of the Ribbon Tears
If she could, she’d run away.
She’d build herself a tree house and wait for him.
Her tears would be ribbons, slipping from her pain-filled eyes.
She would sew them into a blanket, a tent,
Something to hide her from everything that hurt.
She’d try to give them away, to sell them, because she hated them,
But they wouldn’t be worth anything to anyone else.
So she’d sit beneath the pale blue sky,
Crying her silver ribbon-tears, and wishing that they’d bring him back.
She would cry mountains of them.
They would spill from the windows of her tree house,
Cascading into a silvery mess that would slither through city streets
To find him.
And then he’d know;
He would know that she was broken
Shattered
Splintered.
Like the broken pieces of a mirror.
He would feel her pain and meet her among the shadowy trees.
His green eyes would laugh and he’d take her out into the world.
He would hold her hand and they would forget that they had been something before.
She would forget that she’d thought he had lied, told her that he’d loved her
When maybe he hadn’t.
And he’d forget that he’d moved on, forgotten the first girl he’d loved,
Held another girl’s hand.
They would lie in the tall grass, marveling at the love they shared.
They would run and dance and he’d tell her just how beautiful she was
As she ran her fingers through his golden hair.
And they’d burn her silver tears in the late afternoon, and watch the smoke disappear.
And then there's this one:
Coming back from the Bathroom
In this nighttime house,
Darkness seeps into the corners and doorways
Like water searching for a crack
My bare legs are long
And pale, but I can’t find the moonlight
To illuminate them.
So I stand in the dark, my eyes adjusting
From the stark and sterile bathroom brightness.
Slip up the creaking, narrow stairs
In this giant, silent house.
Yellow light pours from my open bedroom door,
A slithering, watery light
Like the light I forgot to turn out
Downstairs.
And there’s a box of crayons sitting on the floor
Next to my bed.
It smells like being young.
that I wrote last night. Coming back from the bathroom. Actually, it was nearly this morning. It was eleven twenty and I still managed to get up at seven twenty in the morning, which is ridiculous for a Saturday morning. I really ought to go shower now. So here I go. Arrivaderci, my invisible readers!
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