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"A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it."
Palaces Temples Shining gold Fountains in gardens of Paradise. Goblets overflowing with wine and water and tea and pomegranate juice that stains your lips and shirt. I'd give it all away. For creaking stairs. For broken stoves. For cracked tiles and lost tea cups and a mailbox that tilts a bit to the right. Prune juice and brown bananas and greasy ham- burgers on the Grill. A spring mattress holds more love than a bed of roses. (Beware the thorns.) |
The edge precise sharp tightrope balancing walk the line the edge will widen the walk will ease but remain steadfast focussed real until he comes. |
Quote:
One of my favorite songs. I first heard it my Senior year of high school, in a Mythology class I was taking. The teacher put it on for us to analyze, showing how easy it is to fall into a cultural pattern. Instantly, I think we all fell in love. It became the habit of one girl to ask to hear it before the end of every class. Yet I doubt anyone saw much more than a witty little tune. They laughed, but didn't take time to think. After listening over and over again thousands of hours later, I've only just now scratched the surface. It's easy enough to see other people within that dreaded "box," but we all simply assume that we ourselves are set comfortably just outside it,with a superior little smirk on our face. Admit it - You think that you're unique. You think that you're quirky. You think that you're weird, or odd, or abnormal, or "different." (That's the big word there - Different.) You think that just because you drink your cereal-milk with a straw, you have separated yourself from the herd. Or perhaps you choose instead to ride your own fashion trends. You dress in darker colors, band t-shirts, baggy pants, piercings. Or you mix and match: pink polo with parachute pants. Black fishnets with jean mini skirt. Backwards baseball cap with blazer and tie. Or perhaps you're taking an alternate lifestyle. Didn't finish high school, went right into your career instead. Had a kid early on. Got married, moved off to Maui, professional bass fisher, dabble in the homeless arts. Or perhaps your interests run deeper than the normal populace. You cosplay at anime conventions most of the year. You spend an inordinate amount of time on avatar websites. You visit every single D&D chatsite you can, only to go home and roll a few die with friends in your parents' basement. Well, here's the news: Straws were meant for milk, no matter where you're drinking it. Commercial businesses design clothing for people like you, making the material, the accessories, the styles before you even thought of trying it on. Being married with 2 kids in suburbia is no longer the staple. And thousands of others like the same things - Just because you don't know them doesn't mean they don't exist. Come on guys - This isn't an insult. Just a wake-up call. Boxes come in all shapes and sizes, colors and textures. If you think you've finally gotten outside, all you've done is gotten lost in the biggest one of all. |
All my life I've wanted To feel the thrill that comes From being the one they call The one who's name they scream The person that everyone wants to hear I am assigned to complacency But I don't rest easy there. It's a daily struggle to remain awake And active, not giving in To this blurry sense of apathy I'm growing weary Believing in an empty promise Holding on to the lovely notion That love will end this discrimination Against me I've spent years in silence Following my own inner worlds Years of isolation Sitting and perfecting my role Working for that moment When finally They will call my name |
How does Knerd finish up her drabbles for this thread? Now you'll find out. I have a large collection of writings as it is. The very first thing I do for these prompts is scan through my files to see if anything matches up. If so, I take the piece out and reread it a couple of times. If I like the idea of posting it on a public board, I'll run through it a few more times and make a few changes. The version that I first find will never go out unedited. Most often I switch a few lines around, switch up the vocabulary in order to create the general mood that I want to portray. Then, once I'm happy with the work, it gets posted. If I don't have a pre-written piece, then I open up Word and get to it. I'll Google some photos for inspiration, or crack open one of my books to a segment that deals with that specific theme. I'll search quotes and pictures and people and news and events until something strikes me. That's when I begin to jot the words down on my page. Little by little, I put down whatever comes into my head. This first step is about quantity, getting it all down once I've got it. Next, I prune. I cut out repetitions or irregularities or anything irrelevant. This cuts down the piece by quite a bit. Next, I scan through it a few times, and do the same general editing as before - Change vocabulary, switch lines, add or subtract, and refine the mood. I'll put it away for a few hours, then take it back out again to review with a fresh mind. If it passes my second appraisal, it gets posted. |
Romanticize me all you'd like, but I'll never change. You may view me with rose colored glasses, dress me up, dress me down, sing me a theme song, yet here I remain. I still stand here with my work worn boots and runny nose, glasses perched atop my head and chapped lips, so different from the Pollyanna you envision. I still stand here with my mind at peace and passive heart, hands clasping one another and back quietly standing tall, exactly what I wish to be, exactly as I shall stay. And as much as you resist, we are equals. |
cheap words from a cheap man one who is angered only by fear one who is shallow and simple. he offers no truth and he is not tender one who looks nice and has nothing. My heart is not broken or lonely for love, it is simply bored. the usual discomfort, cannot be fixed by compromising morals. It's time to evolve. It's time to change from this juvinile angst. We are no longer children, I have not been for several years, but stubbornly, I shall refuse to let on. I'm growing weary Believing in an empty promise Holding on to the lovely notion That love will end this discrimination Against me |
the tapping of toes. on the wood floor. beneath the balcony. covered in lights. that shine through the sky. tell me right now-- where is the mystery. |
Thick Leather Thin Glass Yet still I hide Beneath my hide in hopes that you won't see |
I used to own a literal diary - I gift from my grandmother. Most likely bought at the dollar store, the contained all the flowers and puppies you'd expect an 8 year old girl to love. And what's written inside isn't much better. Paragraph long entries that say next to nothing about my life, instead simply parroting out little things I'd heard around school or the house. Updated only once every few months, or even once a year, it is difficult enough to determine how old I was at the time of the entry, let alone what I was going through in my life at that point:
Now, I keep myself updated with a LiveJournal. But I don't suppose that it can be labeled as a diary - The entry is based more upon receiving a response than recording an event. I pose questions and new articles, results from psychology studies and archeological digs, along with my opinions and beliefs. The fun part is reading the answers of friends and responding in-turn. Without that interaction, the LiveJournal is pointless. Have I somehow lost out from not keeping a diary? It seems that most girls keep a "Dear Kitty" beside their bed, pouring out their hearts and souls into it's pages. I've never done that. And yet I don't regret that - I continue to keep up my LiveJournal without ever falling back on the typical "Janine still hates me, Brian doesn't notice me" that seems to fill so many other pages on that site. Am I likely to develop some sort of emotional block that others have tuned into early on in their lives? Or has such a thing never even been researched? Journals and diaries are known tactics for opening up depressed and mentally ill individuals. By putting their problems down on paper, they avoid bottling everything up inside. Does the simple lack of that paper force me to bottle? Or do I somehow compensate in other ways (that I myself can't see)? That is the question. |
this is all so great! You're an amazing person...
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^ Wow, thank you. It's nice to know that someone is actually reading these things.
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The Trial Cornelius Fudge took his seat and glanced around at the rest of the Wizengamot. How he hated trials, he thought to himself, what's more when there's a full court. It was such a nuisance playing Minister of Magic. He much preferred to remain looked in his office reading "Marvin the Mad Muggle" comics as his secretary did all the real work. But there was no sense daydreaming about issue #431 - He would need all his wits about him now. This was a very important trial, probably the most important to occur since the years after Voldemort's reign. Eugh, Fudge twitched. Even just thinking the name sent shivers down his spine. "Are you ready Minister?" Came a voice from Fudge's left. "Quite ready." he replied, taking off his lime green bowler hat and shoving it under his seat. Steeling his face, Fudge continued, "Send in the accused, milady." "The Accused may now enter." Madam Marsh stated loudly, her voice ringing throughout the courtroom. Immediately, all the voices which had been chatting tensely a moment before became dead silent. Slowly, the entrance doors swung inward. In walked the accused, flanked by half a dozen trained SWAT Wizards. Her blonde hair was piled in a disorderly bun on top of her head. She had no make-up on, even if she could have used it. She was still in her pyjamas for pity's sake - And horrendous pyjamas they were. Tiny puppies chased miniature kittens across the bright yellow fabric that covered her from neck to foot - it was too much to look at. Fudge averted his eyes and said in the most commanding tone he could muster, "Please Ma'am. Take a seat." The woman took confident strides towards the lone chair sitting in the center of the court, doing her best to appear nonchalant - It was a bit unnerving. "Cool as a cucumber." Fudge heard the gruff voice of Alastor Moody remark, somewhere off behind him. He couldn't help but nod his head in agreement. If only he were back in his office with Marvin the Muggle and his wacky antics... The loud clanking of metal brought Fudge back from his reverie. The chains attached to her chair had immediately bound the woman when she sat down. But that was to be expected - Why would she get special treatment? The court followed the same procedure with all first class felons. "Right. The accused is present. Let us begin." Fudge looked down to his right at the official court scribe. The wizard carefully inked his quill and gave a nod to Fudge in return. "You have been brought here in front of the Council of Magical Law to answer to the charge of relaying information of the Wizarding world to Muggle society. Please confirm that you are in fact-" "Please, let's just get this over with." the woman interrupted, nearly knocking Fudge off his seat from shock. "You all know who I am," she continued, "And what I did. Let's just skip to the part where I'm pardoned." "That isn't possible, Ma'am." Fudge answered in what he hoped was a cold, hard voice. It wasn't. "You have spread valuable wizarding secrets into the Muggle world. Are you aware of the mayhem this had caused? The sheer number of Memory Charms!" Fudge broke himself off. He was starting to rant, and ranting was not becoming. "Do you admit to your charges?" He asked, taking the direct approach. "But of course." The woman answered. "Quite frankly I'd be insulted if someone else took the credit. It was all my doing, with no outside help." Fudge was flabbergasted. She seemed - proud - of nearly bringing the wizarding world to a halt. He expected some whining, begging, even bribery - but not this. "Why did you do it?" He got out at last. "Revenge." The woman answered. You could tell that is her hands were free, she would just be filing her nails obliviously. But the court erupted at her remark. Everyone began to talk at once and nothing could be heard. "Just because you were expelled...!" "All this over a broken wand!?!" "Was the Muggle world really that bad?!?" "Order! Order, please!" Fudge shouted, regaining his composure and 'taking control'. "I will not have such obscene behavior in my courtroom!" Slowly, the room quieted down, mainly because everyone realized there was no sense in shouted...and they wanted to shut Fudge up. "Thank you." The Minister said, setting his gavel back down and running his hand through what was left of his hair. "Madam, will you give us no true reason on why you caused our world to very nearly come to a screeching halt?" "I've already said all I need to." She answered. "You broke my wand, and sent me into the Muggle world, so of course I hate you. Why not make a little money selling all of your secrets?" The woman flashed a big smile at the crowds, and continued with her speech. "But don't worry about it. It's only a fad. Do you think the Muggles actually believe in Diagon Alley, Hogwarts, the Ministry of Magic? It's all entertainment for them! They think I'm gifted in coming up with such an in-depth fantasy. But soon they'll get bored and it will pass on. You needn't worry." "I'm sorry Ma'am, but we shall take no chances. Since you have admitted your guilt, the only thing left is to vote on your punishment. I for one will rest easier if you were to have a permanent residence in Azkaban. All in favor?" Simultaneous, the right hand of every wizard in the court room rose. No hesitation. "I hereby sentence you to a life imprisonment in Azkaban - no parol. Enjoy your stay, Ma'am." "You can't!" She screamed, as the chains holding her to her chair suddenly lifted and the SWAT Wizards began to herd her out the door. She would have said more, but a quick silencing charm left her speechless. Within seconds, the doors closed behind her. "I hereby adjourn this session of the Wizangamot. You are all free to go." Fudge announced, banging his gavel one last time. Ahh, it was over... "You needn't worry, Minister." The deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebot boomed behind him. Fudge turned to face the man, ready to hear what was to be said next. "Within 72 hours, all memory of her escapades will be wiped from the Muggle world. The global memory charm is ready." "Good, good." The Minister answered. "One less thing for me to think about." Or rather, one less thing for his secretary to think about, but he didn't say that out loud. "I will be very relieved when all of this is over. Muggles have been prying around everywhere. Dear Harry Potter has been reduced to living the life of a hermit. Imagine having your Hogwarts years revealed to the entire Muggle world! It's amazing he hasn't checked himself into St Mungo's." "He suffered the most out of any of us." Shacklebot agreed. "I'm glad she'll be in Azkaban forevermore, that J.K. Rowling. She always was a troublemaker." |
For a woman of words They come less easily to me When I try to tell you The many things on my mind. Willing them forth Brings only confusion. So, with impatient irritation I wait. I learn. I love. |
I drift away from everyone cautiously unanswered questions follow me the beads of water that I walk on begin to break and disappear unable to go back forced to continue where there is no path |
I honestly think that I've had enough of clear skies. Everything just comes along so easily. The days pass by so fast that it seems like summer only just began, and yet I feel that I've accomplished nothing. I've worked. That's it. I've worked day in and day out at a good job that I've enjoyed. And yet it feels that everything has simply slipped past, like when you're driving through the countryside. It's smooth and easy. Yet, it all looks the same. If you were to close your eyes and open them up 30 minutes later, you'd never know that you had been moving the entire time. Progress is mad, but there's nothing to show for it. Clear skies are boring. You look up at the wide blue span above you, but there's nothing to lay your eyes on. Blank. And overbearing. That's when you get your worst sunburns. That's when you suffer heat stroke, or dehydration, etc. Clear summer days are some of the worst you could ever experience. I hate them because they're just too perfect. You need clouds in your life. They give you relief during a hot day. They give you fluff and shape and movement. You can lie on your back and turn that cotton into a bunny or a train engine or a coffee cup. You can get rained on for twenty minutes before the sun finally comes back out. Those clouds give you something to look forward to. If you always had sun, you'd grow tired of it. But take that fire away for just 5 minutes, and you're counting the milliseconds until it will be back. I suppose this all goes back to the "Road less traveled" mentality. Just because something looks smooth and perfect and clear doesn't mean that you need it. Too much of a good thing will ruin you. So I don't want anymore clear skies. Give me some rain, even hail if you please. Then I'll be ready to dance when those clear skies come back next summer. |
I know confusion better than it knows itself: Sitting alone Pit pat Waiting by the side of the phone desperately awaiting the silence the urge thump thump the summons the bellow the blast. My body pities the violence that will come at last. |
I tried to hang the picture straight for two full hours, but when I finally put it up it was still crooked. I would try again, but you see, if you look at it from a certain place it is straight. You just have to be standing in the right place- otherwise, it’ll only look crooked. |
Eating Alice's mushroom Shrinking past the sky As the hail falls down And sinks into the ocean. Ahab would be proud Of his newfound purity. Another dose Another dose Smiling inconsistently Shows the imperfection Of the road less traveled When combined with The unpaid cell phone bill No bars. Another dose Another dose Echoes reach me Singing the dirge Of Gandalf and Poe And poor Snowball II They never stood a chance Another does Another dose |
I wish for a place all my own For Cossette's Castle on a Cloud For Alice's Magical Chessboard For Christopher Robin's Hundred Acre Wood. Yet all I have is my notepad, Sheets of paper pressed together, And a pen I found on the floor. Can ink truly make a fantasy? To open that special window, That door, that screen, that looking glass, I shall need more then ink. I shall need more then paper. I need a special type of dream: One that does not come with sleep. It is the waking moment when I drift between Your world, and my own. I must let go of everything Just like the child I once was. I shall need less then ink. I shall need less then paper. When the many of us left childhood We forgot not how to play, but to create. I plan on revisiting childhood; I shall have my castle. |
Shards of poetry Lay strewn across the floor, Piercing my feet With deadly accuracy. They leave me frail, A shell of a creature Less human than before. And yet- I give it my soul. Everything pours forth, Leaking metaphor and alliteration. Imagery drips from my tongue. Rhyme clings to my cheek. Eyelashes lay heavy with allegory. Slowly The panic subsides. Ultimately The path clears. The struggle ends In a blaze of light And blast of fire That blinds the all-seeing eye Of my muse, Only to reawaken My heart At last. What once was incomplete Now lays before me In all the glory of My soul. May it last Forevermore. |
Soot of education Left over after all have gone Abandoned, forgotten How arrogant we are to pass over Such unseen diamonds Gathered in the hand Chalk dust swirls with each breath Air in, air out A veritable tornado of life Cloaking the world in ivory Paling those words Erased with the swipe of a clothe Forgotten with the turn of a mind Little by little it leaves me Lips pursed to a whistle The remnants stick to my heart Clouding fate, how little I see The time forgotten, individuality erased Leaving only a handprint on the wall. |
"I'm late! I'm late! For a very important date! No time to say hello, goodbye! I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!" Out of all the characters in Lewis Carroll's writings, I've always been a bit fascinated by the White Rabbit. He's a weird one, isn't he? And yet I feel as though I have a bit of a connection with him. Coming from a family that is perpetually late everywhere we go, I've since developed the habit of needing to be early. If I'm on time, I'm late. This mentality may serve me best, but it still borders on anxious personality disorder. Perhaps not enough to be officially diagnosed, but enough to be noticed. Both the Rabbit and I have this in common. The White Rabbit is the first Wonderland character Alice encounters. He inadvertantly guides her through this first adventure, leading her all the way to the Queen at the end. He knows where he's going, what he's doing, and yet he's a mess. I see him as the perpetual nail biter, or a hard drinker on the weekends. Even though he doesn't hold any confidence in himself, he still does his job perfectly well. The Queen may not be happy but at least her will is being done. Again, I can relate. There's always a kind of anxiety and stress related to school and college that no one can explain to you until you experience it yourself. It may be something as simple as getting grades in a class ( and doing better than you thought you would), getting job interviews (being sure you messed the whole thing up, only to be offered the position), making friends (they hate me...no they don't), or any of the other thousand things floating around. It's quite horrible, really. |
Ah, money woes. We've all got them. The things we'll do to get our bank account pumped up.... My first job was working at a summer camp for children aged 5-13. I was in charge of the 9+10 year olds. And I must say, that was a learning experience: Top Ten Things I Learned From Being a Camp Counselor 10. Never Carry Change in Your Pocket If you give a kid a quarter once, and only once, they will ask you for money every day afterwards. And they'll tell their friends that you're rich, and they'll all repeatedly come begging for money. And they'll actually yell at you and cry after you've told them for the 50th time that you don't have a quarter, let along $5. 9. I Can't Park I only got my driver's license that summer, and I had discovered that parking the car was not my forte. More often than not, I was not nearly close enough to the car next to me, which caused everyone else to complain about the lack of parking space in the field. That's what happens when maintenance decides not to spray paint lines on the ground. 8. Connect Four is an Intense Game You really know what you're made of when you get set up against a ten year old at this game. Get complacent, and they will beat you over, and over, and over again. 7. An Ice Pack Makes Everything Feel Better Hit your head? Have an ice pack. Scrape your knee? Have an ice pack. Get stung by a bee? Have an ice pack. Get insulted by that girl you've hated since preschool? Have an icepack. It's magical chemical formula will make the world a happier place. 6. Tetherball Should Never Be Played Against 10 Year Old Boys Because I will beat them, then they will hate me. (It's not my fault I'm a foot taller than you guys. You'll all grow eventually, and then kick my butt at every conceivable sport.) 5.Farmer's Tans are Hott Alright, so I've known this for quite some time already. But my tanlines that year were so awesome that it's worth repeating. Not only was my watch embedded on my skin, but my feet permanently looked as though I was always wearing white socks. And it leads us to my next lesson. 4. Suntan Lotion is My Best Friend I wore it everyday without fail, and never once got a burn. I carried a tube of SPF 45 around with me and attacked any child that was running around without any on. My kids got used to slathering it on their face and arms before we went out into the fields. It really amazes me how many parents drop their children off without even thinking of sunscreen. 3. Dodgeball is the King of All Sports Far be it from me to understand what's so great about pegging your best friend in the head with a kickball, but you are a god if you master this game. Sadly enough, I am not yet a god. 2. I'm a Girl, Therefore Nothing I Say Can Be Taken Seriously I told you to be quiet, so what? I'm just a girl. It's not until the male counselors walk by that you'll actually shut up. Surprisingly, this goes doubly if you too are a girl. And the Number One Thing I Learned From Being a Camp Counselor: I Never Want to Teach Elementary School. Eight weeks of these kids was more than enough. |
Mild moonlight weaves through shadows and time and space. A soft flash tears across the sky to the rhythm of a silent heartbeat. A ghost A faint trace of a purer place that cannot be detected by my tired senses. The sun no longer shines upon us Long lost to the eye of Artemis. Bid farewell to your family Bid farewell to the future Bid farewell to yourself We will find our way. |
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