More poetry...

I just looked around a few Sundays ago and realized that at King's produce, the flowers have been set out again. This years selection is almost entirely yellow. Most people would consider this a real bummer, but to me, it's more than wonderful and oh-so-sweet. Yellow is my favorite color, and fall holds some incredibly *special* memories for me. So...
The poetry mood came again. *smiles innocently*

 I don't guarantee anyone will like this one.


 Flowers, yellow-my favorite color
 Someone said to give one away
 But I couldn't do anything of the sort
 Still, took it home that day

 It sits on my dresser now
 Along with other things of note
 Special, a little memory
 A diary entry that someone else wrote

 Things were inevitably simple then
 As the past does normally go
 Fall is the season I learn things, I think
 I think it enables a person to grow

 I think that we all learned something
 Really, in retrospect, I'm sure
 That she and he and you and they
 Learned something amidst the blur

 Of leaves and laughs and the bright blue sky
 With clouds drifting through it,
 Three dimensional clouds that I never looked at before
 And walkways the sun has lit

 Perfect hours of rushing and warmth
 That was a long time ago
 A new friend, lost ones, different things
 That before I didn't know


 I won't forget, I promise forever
 Leather gloves, English accents, and flat caps
 Cold weather, running faster than before
 Still different than now, still less confusing, better perhaps

 Words filled the page, black on white
 Hours on ends spent thinking
 I longed and longed to truly learn how to write
 And that's what I spent my time doing


 Things were funny back then
 A lot of things are when you're young
 I wonder why, I wonder when
 We'll laugh like that, a song we've sung

 Burnt out like a candle on a lonely night
 It's a simple fact, truth of the matter
 Everything can't always go right,
 But I promise, I'll still try to remember

 Cold days, spent in my own world,
 Watching the trees slowly loose their leaves
 Their hands, raised toward the sky
 The harvest pictures, with wheat in sheaves

 Then there were those moments
 When I felt the coldness
 Even stronger, and it still torments
 My soul, why was it always this?


 Fall is coming on again,
 Brilliant, beautiful, yet cold
 What will it bring me?
 What does the season hold?











 

 

Dreaming my Dreams, With You

 I remember waking up and realizing it immediately, then shoving my head back down into the fluffy mass of pillow and blanket. A dream. A dream. How could it be a dream? What kind-of game was this?
 My mind, almost involuntarily, does a bit of a flash-back over the contents of my dream. I can almost feel myself sitting on a bed, in someone else's room, talking to them. I was worried about a lot of things, but I wasn't about to let them dictate what I said. It wasn't a bright place; the walls were white but a blue colored light in the corner made the whole room darker. I don't think there were any windows, even.
 My subconscious never realized it was fake until I began to wake up, and then it was instantly. Sometimes, I still believe a dream is real for about a minute after waking up (I have to get things sorted out it my head) but this time...it was almost as if in only one day I had learned something, and doubted what I thought was reality as soon as I could.
 Really, dreams like this are horrible. I want to remain in the dream, yet I wake up and instantly realize it wasn't real, and yet, I don't want to keep dreaming, because although the dream was great, it was also a little uncomfortable, and, it wasn't real. If it got too good, then I would be REALLY disappointed when I woke up. XD

Also, I feel somewhat depressed about my own stuff lately, too. I'm not so much depressed about other people, so it's safe to say I'm really just being selfish. XD Oh, well.

 -Argent

Now I'm Not So Sure...

That moment when I realized that their ending would never be one which was happy. Like some tragic half-hint of a love story that died before it had a chance to even begin; like a never spoken secret that was buried beneath tears of fear, guilt and questions; like a rose, budded, but snipped, their story fell to the ground; potential it had, but there was never a way it could have happened.

As a writer, I feel that their story is one I would never accomplish without a little help. I want to continue on my own, filling in the void that I know will haunt me on rainy October nights, but I cannot. If I write it wrong, I'll never get over it. I have an attraction to happy endings. As is such, I keep thinking of all the possible messes I could turn a good story into. This story into. So I stand here, thinking I learned something from her, but in reality I learned nothing. I'm still waiting, waiting on something, to make the ending.

The times for me to truly be equal enough to finish are gone, slipping like a sly fox through the underbrush, out of my sight, though etched upon my mind in permanent ink. I accepted the fact that I would have to wait for my ending. Some how I trusted that I wouldn't wait long.

Now I'm going to wait forever. I can look back, or forward, wonderstruck, as if somehow this is a story that needs told to people, but really, it's just a story, just a little scribble in the middle of the night.

But it's THEIR story...it's the best story. It's been mulled over, fought over, grumbled over. In other words, it's received the unofficial declaration of true writing.

What kind of a writer am I to not fight for it?

In Which Nothing New Happens, Really.

(Author Note: This seriously hasn't been edited much. I'm just going to go ahead and post it since I haven't posted any of it in a while. I think I'll probably do some more writing this evening, so wait for it. Also, Lukas hates me. He never does what I want him to.)



Well, thankfully, I wasn't left to rot, as I might've already explained.
Richard wasn't the worst host there could be; after all, he didn't kill me. He visited sometimes; asking me vague and seemingly unrelated questions like, “what books have you read?”, and “how long has it been since your accident?”. I usually became exasperated with his questioning, and then he would leave, only to come back several days later to ask me more. He brought be a single book, and I began to feel like the protagonists in the legends my grandmother used to tell me when I was young; her favorite was about a young man who was locked in a tower by his brother. His brother then let him spend his time alone, with nothing to busy himself with, for ten years. The man went completely crazy. I suppose Richard isn't the only weird one in my family.
The August days were coming to an end, and September was sweeping in with a cool breeze. Winter always came early for us. I stared across the countryside sometimes, the crisp air of Autumn filling my lungs. I tried to keep myself busy with whatever I could. I grew to spend most of my mornings sleeping, and then stare at the starry sky long into the night, searching for constellations and occasionally catching a star falling from the sky in a brilliant streak. I would watch birds, think about a multitude of things, and attempt to come up with theories for dealing with the sleeping girl.

A notable visit from Richard occurred a week or so after my imprisonment. He opened the door (I think), and sat down upon the bedside. I was currently entertained out on the balcony, and came in when I heard his voice. imagine my utmost surprise when I saw him leaned over, staring intently into the girl's face.

“Hey, what are you doing?” I asked.

“Ah, nothing, really. Just wondering...”

“You're 'wondering' a little too close to her face.” I replied indignantly, taking a seat on the chest.

“Funny you would say that, since you even tried kissing her a second time.”

“Well, when given an ultimatum like yours I-wait, how did you know about that?”

“I don't know...” Richard began, sighing, gazing off into the distance, “I guess you could say I've been watching you through a sort-of crystal ball.”

“A crystal ball. Brilliant.”

“Indeed.” I don't think my cousin knows what sarcasm is, unless he's the one using it.

A few moments of silence passed; myself deeply interested in how he really had been watching me, since crystal balls were just nonsense. I sighed; questioning how on earth I had become so interested in things that were such a pathetic excuse for entertainment.

His gray eyes were still gazing distantly.

“You know...you could try killing her.”

I felt at that moment that I was sure of it. I couldn't stand this man.

“Are you serious? Kill her? That would just put her into an eternal sleep!”

“Yes, but the spell would be broken and I could go get Aurelia.”

I shook my head violently.

“She might just be a simple peasant, but I don't think it's a good idea to just go murder her. I-”

Richard took a dagger from his cloak and slapped it on the bed beside him.

“Your choice, cousin. But, if you need to use the dagger...I'm not stopping you.”

And with that, he walked out.

In case any person might wonder why I didn't spring on him and tackle him to the ground, tie him up with the bedcovers and leave...it hadn't occurred to me yet. What had occurred to me was that I really needed to ask to be given some paper, so I might write down any thoughts that occurred to me. I wasn't sure if my nutcase cousin would give me what I requested, but it was worth a try.

I now could add a dagger to my inventory of items to entertain myself with. Killing Richard wouldn't be a good idea; so far, he'd kept me alive with food and water, too spite seeming to think a person can spend a week by themselves without starting to feel a bit lonely and perhaps a tad crazy.

I sighed deeply. Recalling the even, i looked back into the room at the girl, the same way I had the day I'd caught Richard staring at her.

In that moment, nearly two weeks since my last visit from Richard, I thought how it might be nice if I could get to know her. Put aside all of mother's complaints and laments of me completely lacking in tolerance for personalities that clashed with mine...I was so hopelessly bored I didn't care about that. I just wanted something to do with myself.

Desperation isn't something I'm used to experiencing.

The writers pen...

At an hour past midnight
The writer's pen strikes his paper


His pen is his sword
His pen is his alibi
His pen is all he needs to continue

He's a writer
A writer of love songs
His silence is beautiful
But his voice is strong

Writer, writer, in the night
Who is it who you search for?
What does lead your endless plight
What makes your thoughts soar?

Above your head, round and round
The reason is unknown to me
But I can tell, that without a doubt
Your pen is what helps you see

All you do is search and search
And lament your plight, your heartbreak
Even your life like a boat does lurch
Back and forth, back and forth, everything at stake

You shut down, lukewarm, but "satisfied"
But your pen always tells you more
Than you thought you knew
About yourself





You communicate a feeling, a feeling that is lacing your words like silver the clouds. A feeling that is like watching someone glance at you from the corner of their eye; sharing a secret emotion. A feeling that speaks of a hidden place, a small treasure that so few can unlock, open and see, but is rewarding beyond measure when accomplished. Why is it you write so powerfully? I cannot write like that. I wonder if it simply takes time. How can I communicate my small detail? That small detail that without even describing, you manage to make come alive...

Rainy Sundays...

It's raining. At 11:34 AM on a Sunday. In September.


Where? You can figure that out for yourself.



The rain falls light, pattering against the panes of glass without too much urgency. No, rather, the rain simply blurs everything outside. Inside, you can see. Outside, you cannot. Will you traverse into the unknown?
 Go, put on your coat. Something simple. Grab your umbrella, or pull over your hood, or slap on your fedora, whatever you prefer. Or if you don't prefer anything, no matter. Slip on your sunglasses; the sun isn't shining but the light you've got directed at you might make it hard to even walk without them.
 Head toward the door, and leave the people behind.
Go out into the rainy streets and spend a little time with your thoughts. You've spent so much time doing it, I know, but now...it's raining.
It's raining on Sunday.
Sanctuary, it isn't where you've been looking and it isn't in the place you used to go.
You spot it as you walk down the street, and you stop.
For a moment, you reconsider.
For a moment, you wonder if you really want anything to do with anyone anymore.
But you do. You stay far in the background; partly out of fear, partly because of that light, and partly from shame. But besides all of this, you listen.




 I wrote this while over at our neighbors house, watching their dog. It was late at night, we were planning on sleeping over (yes, they said we could do this), so while watching television, I wrote on my computer. This is what came out of it. I was somewhat dreaming of the days when it will rain on Sunday. When it rains on Sunday, I always think deeper.

 It's going to rain on Sunday this week...

H.E.L.P.

Right now, I'm facing a small dilemma-
 Handful of individuals giving me a mental hassle about their heartache and headache and hopeless happenings and hell-bound state.
 Every single time I try to explain the events I have planned, I get an enigmatic, easy-going, extremely uninterested reply, or some expression of false enthusiasm. RAIEN CAN'T NAME HIMSELF, FOLKS!
 Likely, there is a not so loveable individual who is lurking in the long shadows and looking at my life's story and liking my posts on facebook and literally driving me crazy with their...not-so-likeable-ness.
 Please, my perfectly perfect plans have been slightly punctured by the presence of particular persons. HAVE PITY!!!

And all those letters together spell...H.e.l.p.

 Somebody...T.T


Anyway, as I sit here in my hopeless state, I look forward to tomorrow...and hope the laundry is cleaned up before Hannah comes over...

5top, Turn Around...

5top, Turn Around...Hear the silence...I'm speaking. 

Your brilliant eyes flash with fire
 Your spirit is always fighting
 But you're beginning to tire
 I can see it in your face, smiling

 You eyes drift in a different direction
 Your shoulders are slumped
 When they aren't looking, you lose your expression
 What's holding you back, my artistic boy?


Your pen strikes the paper, night is nigh
 You work your heart and soul
 Perfection is all you want, you try and try
 Reaching, even though it's all cold

 Your ocean of thoughts are hidden behind
 Eyes that glimmer in the spotlight
 It's obvious that you are trying your best to find
 Why you've been blinded by tonight

 They don't know, I don't know
 But I still see it, somewhere, a quiet crying
 Not the kind you put on for show
 But inside, you're dying, my stoic, silent writer.




Flash a smile, make a confession
 You're front and center, and you don't know why
 You feel like this is all misdirection
 A grand plot to make you continue living the lie

 You know that this isn't the way a righteous man
 Acts when given such a gift, but now
 You want to keep that place, you continue to stand
 Even though you know you should bow

 Truth is slapping in your face, yet you turn away
 You want to stay in this place
 It's like something's taken over you, since that day
 Why do you sing with such a solemn face?




You're following; it's all you know to do
 Following something broken and wild
 You hold onto their example, set before you
 Because you're really still a child

 Too young, now nothing's gonna hold you
 Your impetuous face is sweet
 Your smiles are friendly and seem true
 But I think inside, you're longing for direction




 What should I say now? I don't know
 Except that the last time I saw you
 I didn't want to think you were that way, so
 I thought for a long time about the truth

 You always make me laugh,
 You always make me smile
 But there's something about that
 I have to stop and think a while

 Why do you always seem cheerful,
 Yet behind that face so carefree
 I wonder if there's really something woeful
 Something you let no one see.


It's all a big mystery, behind each one
But finding the truth isn't difficult
I know you need help and that you can't run
And your lives are filled with tumult

Reaching you...
I want to at least point toward the Light
I need to
And make it, just a little bit, all right.