management not responsible for lost or stolen hearts

i remember your intent
warm hands and fitting embrace
you were not so hesitant
hands slowly sliding against my side
we dipped into a sea of darkness
the clouds and stars construed
comet tails entwined
light traced the milky way

it was a galaxy of us.

(by me)

Poetry Sucks 2

The sequel.

I think I've found the reason why I dislike poetry so much: It's too dramatic. I mean, sometimes that's good. But I can't write that kind of poetry... It's the reason why I write my stories without some big bang romantic love; those moments don't outrank the true feelings behind love and life.

And poetry is either about that or emo feelings, which I also don't agree with. I say, get over yourself, it could be worse.

It could always be worse.

And rewriting a poem is the worst. I have to take what I originally didn't like in the first place and make something more of it. Make it bigger, more meaningful, make sure it has that "emotional center" as my teacher Bryan says.

But I don't get emotional center. I write it. And that's that. I find out what it is after I look back at it and see what I was trying to say. And if I feel like it, mold it to what I feel it needs. Otherwise, I know what it was trying to say and just leave it for some scholar in the future to find and say, "Wow, this person couldn't write poetry in the least! Let's put it on display for the world to know how the stupid people lived in her century!"

All right, so I'm getting into dramatics. Let's see what Mallory did today to tone it down.

9:40 AM: Got up and went to breakfast with new awesometastic hat.

10:22 AM: Got back from breakfast and fell back in bed to sleep a little longer. Two hours, tops.

2:00 PM: Got up from "nap" and decided I'd better really write out new poem and formal essay to go with it.

2:10 PM: Took a shower.

2:40 PM: Done with shower. Turn on MP3 player and let it blast from headphones, as radio sucks and computer is still down.

3:00 PM: Bring laundry down.

3:10 PM: While laundry is washing for those 25 minutes, check email and other things I usually check when I had my other computer. Find kiwi-bird and take it into photoshop to make tattoo. Cut a lot of background out and erased to perfection.

3:40 PM: Move wash to dryer.

4:00 PM: Start contemplating writing out poem, as know there is still things I want to add and it will take time. Click on "comment back" on Myspace account instead.

4:30 PM: Start writing on blog about why poetry sucks.

Now, my days aren't normally so "eventful." Sometimes I spend time walking through a park and imagine me doing my poetry, or laugh about poetry while ripping an undead legionnaire in half. I sometimes spice it up with talking to people.

Just kidding, I'm not that anti-social. But, in the recent, things have been a bit down because of finals. They study so much more than anyone I've ever seen. I'm blaming it on the whole school system, thing.



This is the tattoo I'm going to be getting, unless Mandikat decides to come up with a cooler design I'll be okay with on my body for the rest of my life. She wanted to take this:



but have the peacock as a kiwi instead. Which, I would find adorable. Except that the promise was made a month or so ago, and nothing yet. Of course, I understand that she's just as busy as me, so I'm not angry or anything. But I did let her know that I was getting my tattoo done pretty soon, so if she wanted to make something, she'd have to do it soon.

I'm going to get it right by my other one, probably on the back side. I've asked a tattooist about the matter, and it will probably cost around 50 bucks (less in American). If Mandikat comes through with the other tattoo, it could be more, but I wouldn't mind.

Packing has been a chore. I woke up to a messy room, papers everywhere. I know I need to pack light, but it's hard to throw out information about New Zealand and other silly attachments to my heart. But every time I look at something I know I don't need, I tell myself that I was here, so there's no need to keep every tiny paper to prove it.

I also told my mother the reason why I don't date as much, and I'm sure she was surprised. I mean, besides the whole "It takes up so much of my time," I just haven't felt the whole "Whoa." Oh, and also the fact that guys who show their unfathomable attention to me freak me out.

I guess you could say I'm just too much of an individual, so I need someone who will pay attention to me yet still be able to do his own thing. But I mainly say that, when it happens, it'll happen, and it'll just be another thing out of my control.

On a separate note, I am so stoked to see all of this Lord of the Rings shit!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It seems that every week here is the best week of my life.

Random Fact: Colors like red, yellow and orange make you hungry.

For Now.

Whelp, I promised to show the poems I came up with for my assignment. Though I'm not particularly pleased with either.
---------
Verna

My first memory of you is you
lying on a couch with your curly
gray hair going every which way
and a homemade Afghan around your
brittle body to keep warmth.
Every window of your home was open.
Your hands were wrinkled as prunes.
The dry lips that stayed young,
like the look in your eyes, stretched into
a toothy opening much grander than
a smile as you told me to find the
grapes in your fridge, voice as soft
as pussy willows, as feathers,
as flour. I sat on the cool surface
of your tile table. Your words escape me
now, but not the bow of your stubborn
face, the bend of your benevolent brow,
or the curl of your sheer lash. Not your steady
peacock blue eyes or your velvet touch.
The ripe grapes popped in our mouths
like a hesitant pull of a trigger, the skin
taut. The tip of my nose was cold. My
toes and fingers, cold. And you
laughed as we plucked the vine
clean, until you faded into
only a first and only memory.

---------
Quick Ads

Needed: Boy
Who loves to cuddle, but
doesn’t always think of sex.
Car is not more important than me.
When it rains, willing to dance away
my worries within its wet grasp and know water is
for laughter and the sheer joy of breathing
in the fresh clean Earth.
Not hung over on some other girl.
Reads.
Doesn’t make fun of my singing in the shower,
car or any other place I choose my own stage,
even if I’m off key or don’t know the
words.
Loves hockey.
But not more than loving me.
Is devastatingly romantic, plays an instrument,
and writes something that has my name
in it.
Sense of humor.
And makes puns in order to hear me laugh
just for the hell of it.
Likes ice cream and looking at the stars.
And can’t live without music.
Or me.
---------

The first poem is about my Great-Grandmother Verna. It was kind of difficult to write in a sense, and after that poem, I couldn't very well write something else as meaningful. So, the idea of those ads in the newspaper to find someone... Basically, I wrote out of my ass to just get that idea out of the way.

I'm writing another ending for my Verna poem. I find it important to add a little more for some reason, so I'm going to talk to my teacher about it because I don't want too much, but perhaps what I'll have could be the piece that's perfect. I don't want to give too much promise for writing it, or anything it may be about, because you don't need to "unwrite" what wasn't written, if you catch my drift.

Otherwise, to keep in mind is that I can't put the Quick Ads poem in the format I want it, but note that the underlined items aren't just underlined, but they are also supposed to be centered in the page.

Whatever. I have to finish writing a response to myself. More later.

Random Fact: The Chinese ideogram for 'trouble' depicts two women living under one roof.

Poetry Sucks

Okay. Isn't that the coolest thing you ever did see? I could literally pimp anything I want to Zelda. Which I'm completely okay with (notice I'm showing all Wii items? I'm currently interested in if these guys have something more than this, like, maybe an original nintendo controller for the PC? Although, one has to say that it's pretty freaking sweet).

I've already got the clock my brother gave me for Christmas. So, now all I need is the DS, some silverware and plates, maybe a mug and, of course, the shower curtains. I'm sure I could come up with some comforters that would be sweet as, and maybe some new glasses or something.

All I know is that I want this, but I don't think I'll want to pay the price they want for it.

In other news, I've realized that I fucking hate poetry. I know, I know, I'm supposed to be this artsy chick who understands all that funk, but I don't like analyzing shit, and I don't like writing it either. I'm a bit more literal, material for novel writing, maybe making a few really beautiful sentences here and there to make something different. But full blown poetry? I don't think I have the stuff.

I ended up uses a few lines from some stories I'd written, and then using a passage in something I'd written as well. I don't feel as if it's cheating because prose is poetry, too, damn it, and just because I'd already written it doesn't mean I can't have people look over it to tell me how sucky it is.

-----------------------
Ones face equals a blank canvas.
Black elixir to embellish.
Enhancing cheeks with pink powder.
Green substance that makes ones eyes glow like a firefly’s bottom,
Attracting the fixation of potential males attention
Who latch to an enticing idea of a perfect face
For the night of exchanging dances.
In conflagration, they circle around, creating oddly formed circles,
Constantly shifting, molding,
Never making the perfect roundness a circle should have
Like the first attempts of a kindergartner.

For a week there after,
Every wrinkle and flaw reflects back
Until my judgemental gaze
Sees the beauty of au naturale.
-----------------------

Time Is Of The Essence

I think of all the impatient people in our line,
Staring at our motto
So long they begin to believe it themselves.
They begin to believe that,
In fact,
If they don’t have their coffee now,
They’re going to miss something.

By just not getting coffee at all,
They would be sure to not miss at least fifteen minutes of the day
By doing something else;
Five minutes in the shower,
Or making a proper breakfast.

And I think of those impatient people waiting in line
As we make their much needed cups of coffee,
But then,
Ever-so-often,
We get their orders wrong,
Making them wait even longer
For their liquid from heaven.

Making our motto completely hypocritical.
-----------------------

The first poem I actually just wrote, but I used more inspiration from a firefly story I'd written and some other thoughts I'd kept written down. It's supposed to be an "ode" to make-up, but I keep thinking it could be otherwise something else? I donno.

The second is actually two paragraphs I'd written for one of my stories, broken up and mutilated to fit perfectly into a frame of a poem. I think I like that one much more, considering I haven't a clue about coffee shops (I like hot cocoa, and I've never worked in one) and it's one of my favorite stories. I have to keep remembering that the class I'm in is a class for a reason, so I can learn. But everyone seems to already know everything about poems and how to write and are amazing at making something out of nothing, whereas I tend to try to pile something that comes out of my ass in hopes that it can at least pale in comparison to what they've created.

Thus, I hate poetry. Reading it can be fun, but it's hard for me to want to create something when people are already doing a fine job. I feel differently about novels and short stories, for some odd reason, though I'm sure someone would say the same about my choice of profession.

As it is, I'm leaving this for the others to show things to the public, while I'll be keeping most of my things hidden within my journal. Ode to the journal.

Random Fact: In Mexico, the Tooth Fairy is known as the 'Tooth Mouse'.