A lame attempt at poetry

As some of you (none of you) may know, I don’t like poetry. Although both Julian and the Moon write poetry, I, personally, do not like it. At all.

So, y’know, I was more than a little horrified when I had to write a poem for schoolwork.

But, I figured, hey, why not let everyone suffer? And so, now you, yes, YOU, shall be forced to read my poem.

… Here goes.

—

The scene before my eyes is not appealing.

A pixilated attempt at inspiration; nothing is inspiring about this.

They want me – us – to create a picture with a thousand words. A generic, half-hearted attempt at poetry.

I don’t like poetry, and I don’t like the scene before my eyes. It is not appealing.

I revel in the sight of brick and metal; I recoil at trees and bush. I’m a modern sort of girl, with an acquired taste for the imperfection the world offers. This still of nature (a tree-filled valley with a river and a stream and nary a blemish to be found) interests me not.

And so, Teacher, I won’t write about the mountainside, or the sunset.

The scene before my eyes is not appealing.

The post that never should be

This post has no real meaning. Truly, it’s pointless.

EXCEPTING THIS.

http://www.jellotime.com/
Click the link. You gotta, man, you gotta. It’s amazing, and pointless, and I love it.

—

On another note, I have a whole bunch of creativity in my mind that’s just slowly burning and turning my thoughts into a fire pit.

Help?

—

Excuse the short post. I’m tired, it’s the middle of the week, and I can’t think of anything substantial.

Yours with nonchalance (AND JELLO),

Vincent/Fantashtick/The Sun

Getting my freeze on

As great as winter is – the wind, the rain, the excuse to drink many hot chocolates –  at times, I almost despise it.

Like now.

It’s 6:49 in the AM, Saturday 14th of May. I’ve been up since my alarm woke me up at 6:27, shaking with cold and being ridiculously tired (thanks to my stupid decision to write last night past midnight instead of getting an early night in). All because of work!

As you may recall, I’m an assistant in the guitar department of HCCM. And while, normally, I simply adore my job… right now? So over it.

—

Otherwise, there isn’t much of importance goin’ on. I’m rather looking forward to power-napping in Bradley’s car with the heat on full blast. Yeahhh…

—

6:55. Am waiting for my body to stop shaking (I am in need of a good winter jacket) so that I can put on my shoes and get my guitar ready. Slightly amused that my brother isn’t up yet, and will inevitably be panicking and rushing around in about ten minutes when Brad gets here. ‘Lol’, as the youth is known to say.

6:59. Four minute have passed without me noticing. I was just staring at the screen blankly. Warming up = not gonna happen. I’m gonna have to suck it up and get my guitar ready (only when Gary gets up, though…) and put my shoes on in Brad’s car.

7:01. Right foot is asleep. Don’t give a damn.

7:02. Reluctantly getting up and going to get ready for work – I hear my brother stirring. Bye, Mr. Blog.

—

Fantashtick/Vincent/The Sun

Fleh

Well, that’s another Wednesday, done and dusted. Today, at drama, was the official, ‘you-have-to-have-learnt-your-lines-by-now-or-you-die-in-a-hellish-inferno’ day.

I failed. Miserably.

But, luckily for me, so did the two others in the play I’m in, so it’s all good in the hood, baby!

–

Anyway, I had this weird, weird dream. My homeschooler’s group was hosted at my house, and the song ‘Dust’ by Cara Salamindo (see: The Diner) was playing on repeat. Everett (imagine a young Jim Morrison, with dimples and a tendency to go ‘Squirrel!’ at the smallest little things) turns to me and exclaims that it’s a fantastic song.

Cut to a few hours later. My fellow homeschoolers were still in my backyward, while Everett and I were suddenly sitting on the back of a car, still listening to the same song on repeat as dusk fell.

It. Was. Weird.

–

… Also, I feel like it’s worth mentioning, at drama today, I yelled out the line, ‘may we get on with the fucking statement’. Everybody gasped. I was pleased.

Yours half-heartedly,

Fantashtick/Vincent/The Sun

Clichéd openers

I already have a blog. I do, honest. But, in a similar fashion to my other projects, it’s been abandoned and forgotten.

So, here I am, starting fresh.

–

Blogs are tricky little things, I find. There’s no point to them, no real meaning. I mean, who honestly wants to read what’s going on in my mind? Even I‘d get bored.

So, instead, I shall give the wonderful internet a little bit of information about myself.

I have a job. I’m an assistant guitar tutor at my local music school; every Saturday morning I wake far earlier than I’d like, get picked up by a friend of my brother’s, and then proceed to assist the guitar tutors for four hours, only getting paid for half.

I belong to multiple drama groups, one being rather almost-professional (and nerve-wracking), the other being casual and an outlet for any pent-up crazy the week has brought about.

I have a few extremely wonderful friends – whom I shall refer to as Julian, Adeline, and Moon. Each of them is insanely talented, clever, and invaluable to me. And I shall speak a little of them here:

• Julian is one of the best girlfriends I have, and an endless supply of psychology trivia. Obsessed with colours, anime and Pokémon.
• Adeline is a good guy friend of mine – an aspiring director, he’s witty, and the only person I know who can casually say dirty words.
• Moon is my partner in crime and crime-prevention; we’ve planned a series of elaborate adventures, that we’ve decided will rule our entire lives.

Other than that, I haven’t much to say.

I’ll write and draw and post the results of these artistic endeavours on here, if I remember.

–

I feel like this introduction is sorely lacking. Ah, well. Never mind.

Yours half-heartedly,

Fantashtick/Vincent/The Sun

Nightmare

Written: 17th March, 2011. Inspiration: Hold Your Colours by Pendulum.

–

She was in hell.

Her breath came in shallow gasps, a struggle to remain alive, to draw in much-needed air. The world around her was dim and hazy; she was near-blind in this horror of a reality.

Faintly, she was aware of… of voices, in harsh tones with loud voices, condemning her with words she couldn’t make out, couldn’t understand. She squeezed her eyes shut and put her fingers to her head, trying to make the world stop moving…

And then, her eyes flew open. She has been able to make out one word, one phrase that the blurred figures around her were saying, one that chilled her blood and made her heart fight to freeze and race at the same time – disgusting.

Screams tore from her throat as she felt the weight of the words, their implications.  No. No. This couldn’t be happening, and yet; the gaping hole she could feel forming where her heart should have been confirmed it. Everything was being taken away from her, everything that mattered, which was really only one thing –

And suddenly there was only light, a blinding, horrible force, adding only more pressure to her already battered mind and body…

Wake up.

It takes her just a little too long to realize that she was dreaming.

It was a nightmare, sweetie. You’re okay, safe in bed, at home.

It takes her just a little too long to recognize the person before her, the person shaking her into reality isn’t one of the horrible monsters from her fevered mind, but her own mother.

And as she blinks and tries to will herself to forget, she can’t help but wonder if they’re actually one in the same.

The Diner

Date written: 9th May 2011. Inspiration: Dust by Cara Salamindo.

—

The warm tones of the sunset and earthy décor in the diner contrast sharply with what’s in front of him.

A girl, his age, maybe younger, looking older. Dark shadows beneath her eyes, betraying the easy smile that he envies, admires and despises. It falls from her lips effortlessly, sincere despite it’s obvious lie.

They speak of memories, things they should’ve long-since forgotten but that stick fast to the insides of their minds. It’s almost like the rest of the world doesn’t exist for a while, and it’s just them in their booth, the dying sun warming their shoulders.

But then it’s closing time, as they are informed by a sympathetic looking waitress with wistful eyes and an infectious false cheer.

Before they part ways, he catches her arm and tries to catch her eyes with his own. Are you okay?

She gives him an odd look, and says, Sort of. I’m only sort of okay.

.

He leaves the very next day. An unavoidable business trip, something he has been dreading since he heard of it. He sends her some sort of message each day, trying to keep ahold of his tie to her for the week he’s in Hong Kong.

He needn’t try too hard, he finds. Each day, there’s something that makes her come to mind. The way a bracelet winds it’s way around a mannequin’s arm, the shine dimmed but still distinctly charming.

He buys it for her.

.

She’s waiting for him at the airport terminal, staring blankly at all the other passengers, filing out of the plane and into the arms of family.

He spots her and his eyes light up. Towing his bag behind him dutifully, he waits until he’s right in front of her before dropping everything he has and wrapping his arms around her. She waits until she hesitantly returns the embrace before finally relaxing.

He’s been tense. He’s missed her. She smells of home, and he’s so glad to be back there.

I lied. Her voice cracks, and he pulls back minutely, so that he can see her face, but not so that they’re fully apart. I’m not ‘sort of okay’.

He says nothing, just looks into those dark eyes as they water. I’m broken, she whispers, and he watches with reverence and profound admiration as her walls fall down, leaving a cracked girl in their place. Fix me, please.

.

Finally, he’s done it. He’s found her, the girl he once knew, the girl he’s always loved.

.

Always, he promises.