Aw, she's a drag. We turn the sound down on her and say dirty things

So, I organized a writing folder on my computer, and I was reading some of my poems from a few months ago. I don't really remember getting a satisfactory ending from the one poem that frustrated me so much, but I guess I did. Most of them aren't half bad. Better than the crap I've been able to come up with lately.

The feet move like little bells
Tinkling along their merry way
Endlessly, but visions lie
They stop for the painful light of day
For if it glints off shining bells
The light itself is sure to stay

You must brave the depths of night
To join our sacred dance
Each dark second is a majesty
Each minute, a romance

In early evening small white toes
By themselves begin to tingle
And as the sun sinks down so low
Then the toes, the toes intermingle

So the sweet little bells
Shed dew of melted ice
They step into the workroom
Pounding rhythms to entice

Flashing silver in the night
We pull you by a chain
Feet shuffling, you inch along
Your steps make freezing rain

Will you join, oh will you?
As dance forgets the pain

...The last thing I remember thinking about this poem was how much I hated it. I don't know, I kinda like it now. And then I wrote this one, I just think it's sort of cute.

Had I the smallest chance,
I would leave, you know.

Take my favorite pair of shoes, the dirty ones, and maybe a book or a pen or two.
And get the hell out of here.

I would build a boat out of sticks and twine I picked out of dusty gravel roads.
And sail away to Iceland.

Once in Iceland, I would live in a cave by a bubbling geyser
And watch my dirty shoes get even dirtier
As I danced in bars while pickpocketing drunken Icelandic men.

Then I would use the crumpled tens and fives and sticks of chewing gum,
Along with a generous amount of duct tape
To construct an underwater castle
and learn the language of the fish

Once I was completely fluent, I would kick my way to the surface
In a diving suit of coral
And maybe some duct tape

I would swim, swim for thousands of miles
Until I found land
Upon which I would walk for thousands of miles.
Until I was back.
Here.

I would proceed to tell you exactly what I thought of you using the most heinous words I knew in the language of the fish.

And then
I would really leave


I think I was at my cabin when I wrote it? Hmm... Don't know what I was pissy about. I think I wrote a sort of prose poem thing at the same time, let's see... Ah, yes, this one.

The deep indigo and lavender, transparent green and sweet pale blue fade into each other, great swathes in the sky. The eye blends them together in a mixture of tones that shine like shimmering diamonds along the clouds.

But soon enough the colors fade, replaced by what amounts to the pulp left in an orange, the tangy bright vitality sucked away, with only a mushy mess as a prickling reminder of better, more fruitful times.

Times where we lay in the tall grass, legs splayed, peeling oranges and watching the sky, appraising it like a piece of modern art at the museum. Arms linked, we would toss the peels and gobble the pieces whole, popping sunbursts in our mouths while we silently considered the heavens.

But now the colors fade, and the pulp is left in the orange, and the memories of us turn mushy with age, trodden on by thoughts that used to seem so important, but I can’t remember why, perhaps simply to come before the shimmering memories, so that the pain of you never surfaces again. I know now that even the pulp is better than nothing to a starving child, so like a starving child I hold on to the fading sky that is you, and all I thought of you.


...So, yeah, old poetry. My writing is confusing me right now. After reading so much Plath, I've tried for more simple, non rhyming metaphor, straightforward, right? Sort of artsy, moody, slightly pretentious? Sometimes I like it, but sometimes I want to go back to this stuff. Like, the bells one. Only, the bells one is meaningless to me. It just sounds pretty. My current poetry is personal, well, the most current stuff that I haven't shown anyone.

...But I'm whining. I'll shut up.

Sooo... Wanna hear about my characters? No? Too bad.

Yay! I stopped procrastinating for a bit! Well, no, not really. I was hoping to actually WRITE my character backgrounds instead of writing one and a half, then having the rest of them suddenly pop out in my head, having an epiphany with them, basically, then deciding to share them with the world. At least wrote one. That in itself is a big achievement for me. But... don't get me started on plot ideas. You should know that if I seem weird or distracted it's because I'm thinking about this thing constantly.

Anyway, I have four. Tara, Amery Gibbons, Adalyn Brava and Nilay Kala. I'm going to add more, make no mistake, but these are the main ones so far, the narrators. Most of them sort of fit into the ideas I had for different points of view. Tara is the one in an asylum (though I think I'm not going to have her describe the asylum, her points of view will be flashbacks. Amery is the policeman, going through the motions of a broken system while anarchy rules around him. Adalyn is the outsider to the city, used to light and clear skies, yet craving something different to her previous home that she holds so much disdain for (she's a runaway). And then Nilay, who actually doesn't fit any of the ones that I wrote. He's Nilay, I guess.

I love going on those baby naming sites and finding really cool meaning names for characters. Tara I pulled out of thin air, actually, but it fits her, I think. Amery means justice, which is sooo him. Adalyn is actually, like, me (Note the surname, Bridget, that must have given you a hint). Adalyn means good humor, and I think I satisfy that in both senses of the word humor, plus Adalyn is coming from somewhere where good humor is expected, and going to a place where it's practically unheard of. Nilay means home, which means something that might betray a bit of plot, and Kala means artistic or creative, like skilled, and he's an artist, skilled because he can make a dark, gray city beautiful.


Yaya! I should go finish these things now.

The feet like little bells...

Okay, I haven't looked at lolcats for a bit, and I already feel smarter. Too bad they're so addicting. Anyway. I've been writing little twiddles. I like the majority, but it doesn't fit right. 

OMYEFFINGODIMUSTSTOPPROCRATINATINGWITHTHISBLOGPOST!!

IMUSTGETSOMEREALWRITINGDONE!!!

GAAAH!!! 

CAPSLOCK!!! 

Enlessly, yet visions lie

Every minute,  romance

For if it glints off shining bells 

The light itself is sure to stay 

...Just little twiddles from the poem I'm writing. Hopefully it will work out. GAH PROCRASTINATING! 

Oh my it's Sunday now... I hadn't realized. The trials of staying up late, I suppose.

I think I need to stop looking at lolcats. Yes, I look at lolcats. I'm sorry. But I think they've made my brain melt. Everything I've written over the last few days has been crap. Gosh, I wish I could be just a bit cleverer in print. I usually don't have a problem saying things that might be considered clever out loud (Here's a tip to sound clever when you have no idea what you're talking about- Big words.). But I have lots of trouble writing sometimes. 

I'm still messing about with the city, I haven't gotten any real writing done yet and I'm already cutting stuff out. What's mostly written down in that respect is plot ideas and what amounts to character intros. What scares me a lot is that I still have basically no idea where I'm going with this, which has caused the failure of many a story, let me tell ya. But no, I'm sticking it out and figuring this plot out. 

I started a poem, too, but... it's not finished, it needs a LOT of rewriting, and while I like some of the phrases, I think I'm going to scrap most of it. 

We also went bowling today, and something dawned on me that I must have known subconsciously forever. Bowling kills my soul. I hate bowling and it hates me. 

I got a new phone, as well. It's nice, I'm quite happy with it. It's very fun to mess around on and it's got a full keyboard. Now if only my dad would get unlimited texting it would be just perfect...

I leave you with this:

"Don't accept the old order. Get rid of it."

- Johnny Rotten of The Sex Pistols

EDIT: The blog time LIES! It WAS sunday when I wrote this!

Happiness is a warm gun...

I have one more thing to say before I bid my computer good night. 

I have an actual really cool (in my opinion) idea for a story. Wow. I'm thinking it'll be a collection of short stories on this idea, because I have a short attention span, but that could be cool, right? 

It came to me in a dream. I just love dreams, don't you? They always give me inspiration, even when they make no sense (which is usually the case). The dream was about this city, old and crumbling yet modern-ish clockwork at the same time. The people in the dream (no one I knew, they were sort of just the dream ghost people that follow you around) were continually referencing "the madhouses", which in this context meant insane asylums. The whole city was close to empty, though not deserted, because the majority of the population were in "the madhouses". It was all gray and dusky, like post-apocalyptic without the apocalypse, like Gotham before Batman, like a horror story where all the horror is locked away. But why? I intend to find out. 

I'm going to be exploring this city, writing about it. 

A city of tarnished brass and crumbling stone. A city with an asylum on every block. A city where anything already HAS happened. 

The city. 

OOooh emo poem!

His lungs

welcomed the bitter saltwater

bringing friends

down his gullet 

all around

he fell soooo slowly

And then he just 

like 

died

His neck 

snuggled closer to the rope 

they were on their honeymoon 

his feet celebrated the joyous matrimony 

with a swing dance

back and forth again 

And then he just 

like 

died 

His wrists 

opened to the air 

venting his troubles

in splashing red

and weeping flesh 

aiming for happier hearts 

And then he 

just 

like 

died.

Okay, side note question here. Is there a way for me to copy paste poems without it appearing UNDER the posting box and not appearing in the post? Because I have another cool one, but I'm sick of writing them out all over again. 

Lalalala

Well, tardy hall was just wonderful! I shall have to get as many tardies as possible to have such weekly enjoyment. Ha ha NO. It was lame. But Bridget told me to stop whining, so I shall. 

So I'm sitting in the Commons by the huge windows, and the gingko tree outside makes me sad. Earlier in the year, when people actually wanted to be outside, the gingko leaves turned yellow and all fell off the tree at once. They were so pretty, bright banana yellow fans blanketing the ground around the tree. Once, during tutorial, Gaia, Georgia and I went out and smashed fruit under the gingko tree. Well, mostly Gaia smashed fruit. Then we sat by the gingko tree and tied the stems of the leaves together to make garlands. They were so beautiful, bright leaves pointing in all directions, intricately knotted stems. We hung the garlands in the tree. Even though it looked pretty pathetic, I thought it restored some of the poor bald tree's dignity. The gingko is like those guys who have a glorious mane of hair, then lose it all before college or something. How sad is that? Anyway, nice memories. 

OOOOkay, 4:17, my dad should be here by now... Come on Dad... I would like to be home right now...

Tick tock

Tick tock tick tock tick tock... 

Double periods last forever. Even when it's a free period where I can spend the whole time messing with my blog and on the  computer and yeah. 

Lids close 

lashes mesh 

lips part 

lip's breath 

Prelude to a kiss? 

Are you 

kidding me? 

Hair streaming down 

on elbows propped 

and lips, lips parted 

in a slight, slight frown 

Elbows slide 

from mountains to hills 

and lips, lips parted 

kissing the desk 

New Blog!

I have a new blog! My old was... messed up. I couldn't log into it to save my life. So. New one. I will still be posting writing and stuff. I'm actually working on something pretty cool right now. Want a taste? 

"I have found that to be successful in life, you have to let go of the things you care about. You have to let yourself drift away from friends and family, quit walking your dog, never read your favorite book again. You must spend all of your time becoming more successful. That is the only way to have real success. The kind you hear about. Bill Gates, Donald Trump. The presidents, the CEOs, the owners the lawmakers. The ones who rule men. They don't care about you. Or anyone. They have their ambition to care about. That's it. Nothing else matters. 

"This raises the obvious question. Do you really want it that bad? I can see it. Your eyes have the cold glimmer that those soulless few covet. But you don't really want success. You just don't want to care anymore, don't you? You've had pain in your life, that's for sure, but I never knew you wanted to take it this far. I want you to think about this, think about what I found. You can't just turn your back on success once you've got it. Well, there is one way, but it's not for you. It's for the weak ones. Well, comparatively weak ones. They have their way. They turn their back on success and put a bullet in their brain, or turn around and jump off one of their shiny skyscrapers. You're better than that. So. Go home. Talk to the ones you have left. Decide if they're really worth leaving behind. Because you can't take them with you. You can try, granted. But you'll fail."

It's a bird! It's a plane! It's a monologue! *gasp* 

Yeah, I'm toying with a spot of playwriting. It's a bit lame so far, but I'm working on it...