Monday, November 29, 2010

"Folding Chair" by Regina Spektor

 Come and open up your folding chair next to me
My feet are buried in the sand and there’s a breeze
There’s a shadow, you can’t see my eyes
And the sea is just a wetter version of the skies

Let’s get a silver bullet trailer and have a baby boy
I’ll safety-pin his clothes all cool and you’ll graffiti up his toys
I’ve got a perfect body, though sometimes I forget
I’ve got a perfect body cause my eyelashes catch my sweat
Yes, they do, they do…

Now I’ve been sitting on this abandoned beach for years
Waiting for the salty water to cover up my ears
But every time the tide come in to take me home
I get scared, and I’m sitting here alone
Dreaming of the dolphin song…

Maybe one day you will understand
I don’t want nothing from you but to sweetly hold your hand
Till that day just please don’t be so down
Don’t make frowns, you silly clown

Just come and open up your folding chair next to me
My feet are buried in the sand and there’s a breeze
There’s a shadow, you can’t see my eyes
And the waves are just a frothier version of the skies

There’s a shadow, you can’t see my eyes…

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Hidden Paradise

The sweeping movements of the wind against the palm trees, cutting and slicing, only oxygen, is soothing strange enough. It’s haunting, magical, and wonderful at the same time. It feels as if the wind has carried my worries along with it. My hair is thick, full of wind and tangles from the salty air. I have no desire but to sit and listen. There are trillions of sounds, and they never stop, constantly going, churning and swirling like the tides that roll in and out. Mummers of dialogue fill in the gaps of space or pauses. Pauses in which nature decides what its next move is going to be, because of course, nature is indecisive. The lights from the houses shine and glimmer in the moonlight. They are still, but filled with movement inside, the movement you can’t see. This place is a dream, a hidden paradise in which only a few humans who have souls can truly understand, because, once again, nature is misunderstood. The people who camp in the woods just to see a simple sunrise, they understand. The people who fish for hours and never catch anything, they understand. The people who hike a mountain and reach the top only to catch their breath and march all the way back down, they understand. These people understand. So why is it so hard for all the others?

(Photo taken by Vidra)

Saturday, November 20, 2010

Ballad Assignment

English Poetry Assignment:
"Write a ballad. It has to have repetition and it also has to be based on true events. It can be tragic/sad/violent/dramatic or inspirational."


That Horrible Monster: A Ballad 
That horrible monster with the name I can’t pronounce
That ate him
Swallowed him whole

That horrible monster that took it’s time
No rush, no hurry
Slow and steady got the job done

That horrible monster that loves to bring pain
Pain, that not only him, but everyone else felt
But didn’t show it

That horrible monster that left a hole in people’s hearts
A void which can’t be filled
That never goes away

That horrible monster that took him
It didn’t leave a note, an apology letter
Just enough of an enigma to keep you wondering, but angry

That horrible monster that just keeps fighting
It never gets along with anyone
And it never will give up.

(Well, in the end it sort of ended up becoming a poem thing, like all of my writing turns out. But... It fits the requirements and it's pretty emotional to me so I guess that's all that matters.)

Saturday, November 13, 2010

"Identity" by Julio Noboa Polanco

by Julio Noboa Polanco
Let them be as flowers,
always watered, fed, guarded, admired,
but harnessed to a pot of dirt.

I'd rather be a tall, ugly weed,
clinging on cliffs, like an eagle
wind-wavering above high, jagged rocks.

To have broken through the surface of stone,
to live, to feel exposed to the madness
of the vast, eternal sky.
To be swayed by the breezes of an ancient sea,
carrying my soul, my seed,
beyond the mountains of time or into the abyss of the bizarre.

I'd rather be unseen, and if
then shunned by everyone,
than to be a pleasant-smelling flower,
growing in clusters in the fertile valley,
where they're praised, handled, and plucked
by greedy, human hands.

I'd rather smell of musty, green stench
than of sweet, fragrant lilac.
If I could stand alone, strong and free,
I'd rather be a tall, ugly weed.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Rain rain, stay today...

(All photos by Vidra :)

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

"Hopefully in Heaven"- A Poem

Hopefully in heaven
It’s not a race.

Hopefully in heaven
Friends really are real and forever.

Hopefully in heaven
Everybody’s nice.

Hopefully in heaven
People care more.

Hopefully in heaven
Nothing bad ever happens.

Hopefully in heaven:
Earth doesn’t follow you,
And life doesn’t set in.