Nine Eighteen

Sitting,
in the damp grass
outside the cable car station.

Surrounded by smokers, families,
and strange foreign lingo
all waiting,
but for what?

Then the first sparks light up the sky,
planets spin and flowers bloom,
missiles are launched into the suddenly starry sky,
comets fall and traffic light hydrangeas burst into showers
of sliver and gold.

Then suddenly,

the rain dissapates,
the sky is filled with ash,
smoke,
and glowing embers.

The crows  disperse.
They turn their backs on the burning city and shuffle off to their sleepy homes.

It is nine eighteen.

Dark New Years

Midnight approaches fast,
the new year is almost upon us.

It is time,
for thinking,
of what was, what is, and what will be.
It's a time to make wishes and dream for the future.
It's time to be thankful for what we've got,
and celebrate another year of survival.

But how can I, with all this racket?

The wind howls,
the rain splatters the glass,
even the whirring of the fridge is loud tonight.

But the nosiest things of all, are in my head.

Sirens blare and animals shriek,
the voices in my head grow louder and louder,
uttering words of darkness and despair,
never stopping,
all consuming.

Now is not a time,
to look forward,
to life.

Now is the time,
to begin counting the days,
'til death.

Rainy Day Madness

can't think,
can't breathe,
heart beat slows and feet are sinking into the floor.

Let me out, god, please oh please oh please

repeating the words, like a mantra, over and over, wishing them to be true.

Trapped, in a prison made of plaster and carpet.
The posters mutter angrily as the ceiling spirals.

A teddy bear does the tango with a blue bunny rabbit,
and the dominoes dive off the shelves, marching closer, closer

A baby screams and the windows whine
three little birds, sit on the wire of a fallen star,

the monster under the bed is coming to get me

A poster falls and a door is flung open,
wind and rain cascade in,
licking along the edges of my paper back novels,
tearing at their spines

The hands on the clock move faster, and faster and faster


god, please, let. me out!

Seeing You for You

It is still hard to see you,
as a person.

I look at the screen and see a scary face,
typing scary words;
I forget to look beyond and see the person typing those words,
the words which, really, aren't scary at all.

I keep forgetting,
about how things aren't so paper thin after all,
but I make them so,
by forgetting,
to remember.

Tumblr

Hey, greetings from Mario land, I've gotten a tumble D:

Seeing as I've given into the evil force that calls itself "Tumblr", I thought I'd better tell you

Firstly: I am still persevering with this blog! :)

 Secondly: Here's the link to the tumblr one!

http://neynatsblog.tumblr.com/

Thirdly: I strongly encourage you to get all of your mates reading this blog! Oh, and the tumblr one, but mainly this one! That would be awesome, and if you do, then I'll futterwakin and put a vid of me dancing up here!

Actually, I'm just messing with ya' in the dancing thing :p

So, remember those three VERY IMPORTANT things and Happy New Year from AvatarKid! ;)

Miss Me?

Time just keeps on going.

She keeps on suceeding,
And I continue to fail.

Not for the first time, I begin to wonder, would I be missed?

When I was little, I'd stop singing in choir, just to see whether anyone would notice.
I tried it again in more recent years, and surprise surprise, no one noticed a thing.

And why should they? I'm nearly fifteen, I shouldn't need a baby sitter.

No, I don't need a baby sitter.
But it would be nice, to hear some more from my friends.

I don't think I'm attention seeker,
but it is nice, to have the dark voices in my head,
drowned out by the paper burble of someone else.

To listen to others prattle on, about their lives,
it's reassuring, to hear that the world keeps on turning.

But it comes back to that first question.
And I've come to the conclusion that no, I wouldn't be missed.

Like the shallow, paper girl prattle of my so called 'friends',
the world would stay its same paper thin, over populated self.

I don't think anyone would notice, if I didn't come back, on the first day of term.

Sure, they'd find out in choir, but we only need 26 to compete, and 31 is an odd number anywho.

Al would miss me, so would T, and Lucky.
But my parents? They don't even try to get to know me, we all pretend it's fine and dandy, but I'm not trying to hide that I'm socially inept, overwight and slipping in school.

Heck, after all they've tried to teach me about reducing, my paper thin mother has just gone and bought a new TV "Because I want a bigger screen"

If you blew up my school, or even took one girl from each class, it wouldn't have any impact what so ever! What do I give back to the world? What do the others?

When you remember that the only point of a human is to reproduce, life seems futile.

insignificant.
pointless.

Our planet's resources are stretched to breaking point.
"Over populated' in a understatement.

So maybe I can help,
but making the population
one less.

Saying Goodbye

Going, going, going, gone.

Riding down a sliver stream on a lilly pad,
counting the stars,
Sipping vodka and flicking cigarette butts into the lonely night.

The stone boy crumbled long ago,
and the scaffolding never existed.

The monsters under my bed were just that, illusions.

The last silver wisps of magic have vanished into the deep, blue night.

Silence is all around.

What is a world, without magic?
What is a world, devoid of dreams and childish wonder?

It's a wonder it took me this long to begin to grow up.
But the adult world is cold and unfriendly place,
lacking in the sunshine and warmth of the universe we call childhood.

And it seems to me,
that a life without magic,
is no life at all.

Hello, the Boat

I keep of thinking,
of things I want to say to you,

but I can't.

I want to comment on how it's strange how different people seem after you stop thinking of them as fairy tale characters and start thinking of them as real people, with real lives, and real problems.

I want to ask some more about libraries,

I want to be missed by a bus again.

I want to share my madcrazywonderful scheme of how I'm going to run away from home and not get caught.

I want to share how I know of someone who reached their final year and hadn't smoked in the school toilets, and this being a must of the highschoolexperience, they tried it, and got caught.

I want to share how at my moms school the head and deputy head girls skipped final assembly and got away with it.

I have stories to share, magical tales of islands, doughnuts and spectacular wipe-outs.

But no matter how many things I want to say to you, and no matter how badly I want to share them with you,

I can't.
It's too late
and I've missed the boat.

A Lifetime Ago

A lifetime ago,

there were two girls showering in their clothes together,
a mission of climbing the million mile farmyard fence,
and a chubby baby gurgling in a stroller.

There was an elephant in france,
dreams of russia,
and a gelato a day in italy.

There were toys to play with,
friends to see
and a family to spend time with.

There was a house filled with sunshine, chocolate cake and light opera.

But somehow,
there came a crack in the hull,
and the ship sank.

Now,
there is a ship at the bottom of the sea,
tangled in seaweed,
and covered in barnacles.

And a fresh start,
seems another lifetime away.

Dawn

One by one the little green lights wink out,
and suddenly,
the room descends into an eerie silence.

Day dreams of a trumpet playing boy and a purple guitar playing girl dance across the ceiling,
outside the clouds fly past and the sun slowly sets.

A life is dissected, and nothing is found.

But within finding nothing, everything is discovered.

There's now a library to visit, and a guitar to fix.
There are cakes to bake and summer days to fill with oodles of experiences.
It's time to go to the end of the rainbow, and join the Navy;
at least for a day.

Life has it's up and downs,
but you can fight the demons off,

if you just fill up your days with wonder and joy,

and keep your head.

Underground Monotony

The yellow-grey concrete

and the grunt of poorly maintained cars,
is all around.

A gleaming silver Mercedes sits next to a rusty red Honda,

I watch a thin stream of light trickle through the skylight.

Trolleys clatter and car doors slam.

The green,
purple,
and orange parking bay signs faintly mutter in the quiet chaos of the super-market car park, but they've been at this too long; their peeling and faded paint reflects their outlook on a life that's been lived too long.

Various pipes and tubes fight for space,
smooshed up against air ducts and the flickering neon tubes that nowadays pass for lights.

Orange safety cones block off random sects of pavement,
appearing busy but achieving naught.

There is an empty bicycle rack and a door painted in the most hideous shade of green.

And I watch all this from the stuffy grey world of our car,
and stay
silent.

Summer City

A curtain blows in a phantom breeze,
and the Marching Bands of Manhattan echos through the cool hallways of the house,

The washing hangs limp,
and the cicadas chirp.

Clouds roll by and the mill's blades stay stationary and silent.

Far below,
the city hums and whirrs,

Horns blare, children chatter and the occasional siren rises above all the chaos.

Gulls circle the marina and a cruise ship glides smoothly into the port.

A blur of colour, taste and summer music wreaths the bay,
and reaches up into the heavens,
carried on the soft breeze now blowing gently though the uneven, winding streets.

Building jut up in random places,
their strange heights and angles like a painting of the old masters.

Looking out over this eighty's summer city,
a small blossom of hope begins,
to bloom.

Whispers of the Damned

The mask twists into a wicked sneer, the walls seem to echo in the wind

fat, fat, fat, fat, fat.

Hearing her sneakers thud down the pavement

fat, fat, fat, fat, fat.

Watching other girls as they go about their daily business

fat, fat, fat, fat, fat.

Seeing herself wobble in shop windows, in mirrors.

fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, FAT!

The voices scream louder and louder, drumming their message into her skull.

She looks at herself in a mirror and hears her own voice join the cruel chanting.

Slowly, sinking down, into a puddle of shame that begins to evaporate in the burning sun.

A tear falls, and splats on the tiles far below.

She rolls the tablet between finger and thumb, just how many of these seemingly harmless pills would she need?

But the lid goes on the tube and the container is shoved away at the back of the cupboard,
not yet.

She will tolerate the whispers of the damned for a little longer,
she hasn't seen New York.

Group One Gone

I can't believe, that I'm never going to see you again.

It's strange to think that,
we're not really a team anymore,

And that things are going to go back to the way they were.

I am once again the ball girl,
and you are once again the A team football players.

I can't believe that we're never going to sing together,
not really,
It's going to go back with me muttering in the background.

It's weird to think that my days of chasing the pack back and forth over the pedestrian crossing are over, as are the days of narrowly missing each other in the park.

 Gone are the beautiful, powerful waves of song that we crashed down on the city,
gone is the awesome sound made in those long, summer hours.

While it's true,
that I'm not going to miss those cold, lonely, unimaginably dull afternoons in the library,
I will miss being a part of something.

Part of that something that was -until recently- group one.

I'm going to remember this summer forever, I hope.
Because though the last two weeks have been the worst two weeks of my life,
they've also been,
by far,
the best.

Hurt

She never meant to do it.

Not that bad, anyhow.

But looking at her bruised skin, she is speechless.

But she just couldn't stop.

The more it hurts, the quieter the voices become.

And they were screaming oh so loud.

Perhaps the knife is a better solution.

Less noticable, still effective.

She didn't mean to.

She only did it,
to block out the hurt.

You

I nearly did it,
I nearly got a bottle of wine,
and downed my pills all in one.

It's meant to be like falling asleep.
But it seems like a pretty anti-climactic way to go.
And I haven't finished writing the letters yet.

 The thing is...

I am always,
always
being compared to you.

After all, I am fatter, slower, clumsier,
I was almost everything below you.
But I was smarter.
But that,
was then.

Now, it's official.
You, miss poster child of the year,
have also snatched that title from under my feet.

I could live with being uglier than you, but stupider?
No.

This, I cannot take.

Sure, I'm being unreasonable.
But it ain't easy, being belittled by someone younger than you,
almost everyday, of your entire stinking life.

I am green with envy,
red with shame,
almost every colour flits through my now kaleidoscopic eyes.

I want to melt into a puddle and evaporate in the sun.

Because, if I don't end it now,
this is going to be with me,
for every second,
for the rest
of my life.

Calling Out

I call out, to you,
in hope that my crying is not in vain,
waiting,
watching and whispering,
the shadow friends urge me on.

Waiting.
For inspiration.
Again and again I post.

Again and again,
I wait for a reply,
never to come.

Life is too short,
to be spending so much time,
on an activity as fruitless as this.

But still I write,
and still I wait
for an answer,
written, by you.

Tell the World

Reaching out
to god knows who.

just to find out
if any one's really listening.

Is it good,
to tell the world like this?

Probably not.

But it's better than the alternative,
to bottle up everything inside, and explode.

I keep forgetting....

...that cyber space is indeed a scary place.

But I still find it comforting,
to know

that somewhere,
somehow,

someONE
is listening.

Silent Night

Dreading the morning,
reluctant to sleep,

fearing the night creatures.

Heart beats loud,
house is quite,
save a gust of wind.

There is a gentle breeze
that caresses the hill top,
before continuing on into the silent night.

But the fatigue overcomes the fear,
and a head droops,
and the soft sound of snoring is heard.

A wildly flung hand knocks the alarm clock to the floor
and a pillow jets across the room

As the nightmares
begin
again.

Fade

An icy fists closes around her heart,
and arrows pierce her side

cheeks red, shoulders hunched,
the picture
of embarrassment.

Shame, greater than anything she's known before
hits
at any random time.

She becomes an uncertain mess,
her stomach a mosh pit,
guilty for little or no reason.

Invisible fists pummel her heart,
and icy water runs down her spine,
leaving the girl soaked
and hurt.

So she fades out,
takes a step back, loses her concentration or confidence;
whether she be singing or hanging out the washing
she loses
her spark

and with a heavy heart,
she begins,
to fade.

(authors note: sorry, I know it's a piece of crap, I just wanted to get it out there. I'll probably do another one which is better worded, later)

Too Slow

Every day,

waiting,
waiting.

One hour passes,
then two.

Noon comes slow,
and six o'clock slower still.

Glorious images of treacle tarts and chocolate fudge brownies,
egg and cress sandwiches and a thousand different pizza topping
are ever constant.
Ever waiting.
Ever teasing.

The day is spent doing meaningless, time consuming activities,
in hope that the food will be forgotten.

The kitchen is full of good food,
corn chips, chocolate-chip cookies and big, fat sausages.

But this food is not to be touched,
on pain of death.

The morning is spent waiting for lunch time,
the afternoon for dinner and the evening for breakfast.

Meals too small and over far too soon,
can't breakfast come any quicker?

It is pathetic,
yet it is torture,
living every second, of every day,
in thought
of the next meal.

Cofiscated

Full of ideas,
so many,
that stopping,
was not an option.

 But enthusiasm breeds carelessness,

So when the sirens began to blare,
and the police marched in,
floodlights blocking every escape route
there was nothing to do,
but raise your hands.

Now,
morning has come,
and the inmate has been released.

But it is too late.
All the late night ideas and imaginings,

are gone.

Midnight Secrets

The soft glow of the stars
collides
with the harsh, white glare of the laptop.

Luminous paint drips down the walls and splats onto the floor.
Stains
that will stay, forever.

Library books lie
scattered
among the various pillows,
tee shirts,
and odd chuck-taylors
that sigh sadly as they continue to collect dust.

Sharks swim on the bed,
and the starlight hangs limp,
it's cord has been cut.

A name,
spelled out in block letters.

And a photo frame,
holding memories of better times.

An old bus pass,
and half a chewed pencil,
sit covered in dust,
and whisper.

The silence,
is deafening.

Midnight
is here.

Ghost Boy

I didn't notice him.

not until it was nearly too late

I was just running along and then BAM, he was there.

I guess I was lucky there was no traffic,
for I surely would have been hit as I swerved onto the road,
out of his way.

Clad in black,
meandering down the footpath,
staying to the shadows.

What kind of person does that?

What kind of person, feels safe going for a stroll at ten o'clock at night?

I guess I'll never know.

For I looked back, and he had gone.
Poof.
Not a trace of him was to be found,
no foot steps were to be heard.

I guess I'll never know who he really was,
the black clad,
ten o'clock
ghost boy.

Waiting

Spending eternity,
in front of a dead computer screen,
waiting for something to happen,

spending the other half on facebook,
ditto the happening.

waiting...
for something...
but what...?

(TO BE CONTINUED)

An exxagerated Library

The comforting smell,
of paper and ink

the rustle of pages,
and the soft humming of the computers

silence,
in the library.

The day is young and the children are still asleep.

The best chair is free and the best books remain untouched.

The silence wraps around her like a blanket,
warm and comforting,
it becomes her shield.

Unknown.
anonymous
free to read what ever she wants.

But as the morning drags on,
the library comes alive.

The clatter of plates and cups echo throughout the library
the regulars at the upstairs cafe have finally arrived for their morning cup of coffee;

they are followed by the students, researchers and professors,
who trap briskly across the glossy floors before scuttling into their various sections of interest, hiding among the fine print of an appendix,
of a particularly large encyclopedia.

Then come the pleasure readers,
you can very nearly see them sprint over to the fiction section,
and though many stay to read in the quiet, comfy corners of the library;
others you see dashing out just as quickly as they arrived,
hidden behind mountains of paper backs.

Then at ten o'clock sharp every day, the children start to arrive.
Some creep in quietly to gently pull a book from the shelves before hiding away behind the picture books and computers;
but the other little menaces come in screaming and yelling,
dragging their poor parents behind them as they head for the corner of the children's section,
abandon all hope ye who be here at this dreaded hour,
story time is upon us.

As more and more continue to arrive,
it is time to slink away and read behind the children's paperbacks,
hidden from the ya-hooing, jostling crowd of little 'uns,
safe at last.

Come twelve the library is well and truly awake,
the day has begun at last.

More Questions

A tangle of lyrics,
typos
        and
tea bags.

Spiraling
             downwards
                   past
 the         rabbit
     hole

Stripey socks and adventurous hat's I'm too shy to wear.

Questions brought up by song birds

and caterpillars for extra protein.

 Time flying on, too fast, except when most inconvenient.

Freezing cold afternoons in the library, afternoons traveling by bus.

Who are you?

Why are you reading my blog?

If enough people comment and I'll write something happy for once,

well,
I'll try at least.

I want to live

I'm sick of me.

I'm not going to try and write this in an interesting way, because, heck, I'm sick of that too.

I'm so full of crap.

All: "wahh poor me" while others are going though much harder times.

I hate this.

I hate being so damn sad all the time.

Not five minutes passes without me thinking some dark and despairing though.

I'm sick of the tears and the sad journaling.

I'm sick of facebook and math.

I want to live.

I just don't know how.

Questions

I don't know.

I just don't know anymore.

Darkness's call has not flown away.

and I'm still journeying on to find that lighter day.

I read it.

What you wrote

 and it has raised questions.

complicated questions,

with more than one answer.

The solution will be ever imperfect,

but this is meant to be okay?

I'm no longer sad.

just confused.

Dear SDL

This is the post, I wish I had the courage to post on SDL.

but I won't

Because it's so dumb. Very Dumb.

Dear SDL,
my battle with perfection, is battle with myself.
everyday, I look in the mirror and see someone who will never be good enough. Who will never look the part. Who has no talent. Whether I'm looking into the mirror or not my head is crowded with unpleasant thoughts, and I let these thoughts control me, and my life. The worst part is, I've read these other comments, and they are so much bigger than mine, I feel like a small, weak, insignificant person because my troubles are nothing to theirs. I'm ashamed I don't cut myself, and that I don't have the courage to die. I'm ashamed that all my family and friends see is a happy, bouncing girl with great grades and a really busy extra-curricular calendar. I hate that I eat so much, and can never stick to being anorexic, or bulimic. The worst part is, that even after reading this post, I'm probably going to continue in the same downwards spiral I've been going in for a while. But thanks, SDL, for giving other people courage. Courage is something we need more of in the world.

Wish

I saw it.

and it made me think.

think again.

about giving up.

perhaps there is hope?

Or maybe not.

I will never have as much courage as you.

Not now, and not in the immediate future.

I'd like to.

But I don't see how that can change.

Imperfect.

I hate me.

you have no idea how much.

I lie to everyone constantly, including myself.

I sit in that same sodding chair in the freezing cold city library every afternoon because I'm too scared to go home, too scared to wander around the shops in cuba mall, too afraid to ask to tag along.

What makes me hate myself even more, is that I know that I should be okay with who I am.

When a kid says: "I'm so bad at blahblahblah", usually it's a cry for attention, they know they're good and want even MORE recognition for it.

But I don't think like that. I can't convince myself I don't suck for more than ten minutes to half an hour at a time.

You'll see me, smiling and happy, wandering off into the sunkissed city, but what you don't know is that as soon as I step into the shadows my fears come at me and tear at me like 101 little dogs.

You don't see me at night, hiding from the monsters in my head; fighting them off with loud, angry music.

You don't see me, thundering down the footpath, desperately trying to become thin.

You don't feel my regret as I push away that plate of pasta, the anger as I dig my nails into my arms and hands, angry red marks that sting like hell, but vanish from sight in any time from eight to eleven hours.

You don't see me, fighting my tears as I look out over the city, the sweet music of a choir in my head that I long to join in with, but I'm too afraid of getting hurt, of being cut for not being good enough. Of being laughed at for not being good enough. Of being looked down on, and sneered at.


I'll never have as much courage as the others, posting their imperfections on that site, so I guess this is the next best thing.

The Article

I read it.

And I saw much truth.

And I can see clearly now.

That I really am a dumb, selfish, ignorant brat who doesn't deserve to be here.

Selfish. Ugly on the inside.

Too many tears have been shed for nothing.
Are being shed for nothing.

I can't believe me.
Other people wouldn't believe me either.

I have nothing to cry about.
I have been and am being stupid and selfish,

But now I just can't stop.

What now? What do I do now my worst fears have been confirmed?
What would you do, finding out that you are also ugly on the inside?

Death is not the answer, so what is?
If I am not to die, am I just to sit here, forever?

Ugly.
The perfect word.
It even describes itself.

But now,
but now it describes one thing more.
It describes me too.

Too Late

Laughing.

Feathers, sleeping bags and sweet wrappers fly around the room in a chaotic dance.

Hit from the front, hit from behind, a pair of glasses knocked askew.

Lying on the floor,
breathless,
as the sounds from 'a battle of five armies' sweep through the room.

Pausing, explaining, playing again.

Truly a movie of epicosity.

Come to the dark-side, we have pickniks.

The ice has been well and truly broken,
and the three girls have lost the nervous tension they shared at the start of the evening.

Making plans, fan fiction, pizza.

Eating, laughing, eating, chatting and laughing some more.

Eating.

Eating.

her hand is half way to her mouth when she freezes

The cruel words of the shadow creatures echo in her mind,
she looks down and breaks free of the haze that had ensnared her...

It's too late.

too late to change what has been done.

She is frozen in horror, in disgust.

She was so close.

So. Damn. Close.

And now it turns out it was all for nothing and she is back to square one again.

Tears prick her eyes, but she stay silent and stoic.

Tears would mean a further defeat,
defeat against the clockwork clown which resides under her bed
and in all the darkest corners of every room.

As if the day couldn't get any worse.

So she sits,
feeling sad,
until she
                finally
                            falls
                                      asleep.

Saying No

Looking out over the city,
down at the tiny people and cars,
to jump seemed like a great idea.

Watching the waves crash below,
and with may it be still ringing in her ears,
it actually seemed...appealing.

If you are to have an untimely demise,
it should at least be glorious.

A fitting finish.

She takes one step,
and then two,
but though her head is set her heart is less so.

Why so soon? A voice whispers.  
Why here? Why now? Why before Christmas?

"You know" the girl mutters angrily to herself,
it's just like her to be having doubts at this crucial stage.

The morning has been a disaster, as has the week.
It's like deja vu, every day, same routine over and over.
bus, pretend to sing, library, pretend to sing, bus....

And today... today she kept her word and tried to sing,
it was bad. awful. humiliating.
She felt like she was sinking,
sinking into a bog of doom and despair

But at least you tired...

The second voice is gaining, 
she finds her feet stuck, as if set in stone.

Tears prick her eyes,
why? she thinks,  
why make me live in this nightmare world

 And she finds herself answering her own question,
"Because you want to live."

Nightmare

heart beats loud

breathing is soft

on the floor

a tangle of sheet and duvets,

while she tosses and turns in her midnight world of horror

With a thump she falls out of bed,

and suddenly awakes to the pouring rain.

Disorientated,

confused,

and scared.

Like 'You'

I hate being...like this.

If someone saw any one of 'you',
crying,

they'd take pity.
stop.
ask, what's wrong?

But if I was crying, or sad,
with my abominable snowman build,
and ogresque features,

they'd step away,
in disgust
and horror.

utterly repelled.

If you did well in school,
maybe won a prize,

you photo

would be in the school paper

But for unlike you,
Their top achievement would be getting their name in the school paper.

It is shallow, stupid and strange of me to think this way.
But think this way I do.
and I'd give absolutely anything,

to be a little more
like you.

Found Out

It's like having a bucket of ice water thrown at you

But you're on hot coals at the same time.

What if this gets out?

What will you think of me now?

Should I go through with my plan?

Take the, *cough*, ahem, fall?

I just can't take it.

It is too much.
all at once.

Why am I crying?

Why am I mad?

and most importantly, why am I happy?

This is weird
too weird

and any chance of success,
is gone.

Worthless.

I don't know what to write.

I expect you are all bored of the tears, and the sorrow; the pain and the anger.

But honestly, that's all I have left now.

Well, almost. I do have a pair of stripey socks.

But socks do not make the world a better place.

Socks do not make me a great singer.

Socks cannot take away that regret and frustration that is with me for every hour of every day.

Nor, can these socks erase my guilt, and the memories that accompany it.

Socks don't change the fact, that today I put the 'thetic' in pathetic.

I turned up all right, but I was too scared.
Too scared of what you might know.

 So there wasn't enough sound, smiles or spirit.
And disband, we did.

And then, after wandering around aimlessly,
in circles,
I went to the library,
and bled my the rest of the morning away.

But in the subway,
it was the worst of all.

A smile was choked down,
a mouth opened, but no sound came out.

I was too afraid.
Afraid of what might be.

Afraid of what now will be.
I may never be perfect, not like you.
But this shouldn't stop me from being part of the team.

So tears were swallowed.
Regret was found.
And my life
became
worthless.

Afraid

Embarrassment floods her face as she hurries down to them.

She hadn't needed to stand outside that long, they'd been there all along.

She is greeted by a smile, but she fights not to return it.

She knows she's being dumb, but she can't help it.

Not now.

Not now she might know.

She begins with the others,
but like many times before is shamed into silence.

Because unlike any other time,
this is a performance to the public.

And unlike the other times,
appearances are everything.

She presses against the wall as scary no.3 comes and sings beside her,

And all the time she is standing there, for every word she mouths, for every fake breath she takes, she is always asking her self, why? Oh why did I come if I wasn't going to sing?

And there is always that feeling, of insecurity, that wasn't so bad before.

And she is scared of 'her', because of who she might be.

because of what she might have seen, or read.

The world of cyberspace is not a scary place,
until it collides with the 'real' world.

But then she saw her.
The mother.
of a friend who missed out,
a friend who probably would give anything to be there.
So she decided,

and began to sing.

Sure, she may have sounded like a demented cat,

But she contributed.
And that's what counts, right?

And walking home in the rain,
her newly signed yearbook safely stored in her backpack,
amidst all the regret, anger, guilt and sorrow,
there is a small feeling,
of satisfaction.

(*authors note* sorry about crappy writing, you know when you're so tired but can't sleep?)

Night Time in the Subway

In the subway.

Surrounded by the echoing sounds of foot steps,

and the ugly green tiles that line the walls and floor.

Harsh neon light is combined with poorly filtered light from the grubby windows, bathing everything in a sickly yellow hue.

Ads for two for one broccoli and double cheese burgers fight for attention, leering out of their cheap, plastic casings.

The crowd hurries past, some looking down, some looking up;
some running for a train that is already gone.

A heavily tattooed man is strumming his guitar like there's no tomorrow,
and he even grins a little as passers by shower him with coins.

A bitterly cold breeze whistles through the tunnels,
chasing leaves and old candy wrappers across the already disgusting floor.

All around is the hustle and bustle of people trying to get home,
it is rush-hour, underground.

A gaggle of giggling teenage girl shuffle past,
their faces heavily plastered with make up and flushed with the success of the day's shopping.

Night time in the subway starts now.

When was it?

moving through each day with robot like motions,

head full and eyes empty,

watching,
always watching.

The usual humdrum of everyday life is all around, but I've stepped outside the current and don't know where to find my school.

Watching, watching, listening listening.

I nearly got hit by a car the other day because I wasn't paying attention,
it was just suddenly there.

What is there left to live for?
But what is there for me to die for?

Pick up the phone, Kamai, I need to talk to you.

A little bird whispered in my ear that everyone is awesome.
I almost agree.
Everyone is awesome, except for me.

I need to get out.
Out of this house, of of this town.

Things.
   Move.
        Slowly.
               Here.

Where is my muse?

Post in Advance

As I lie on my side,
watching the flags flutter,
listening to the hum of the refrigerator,
and slowly falling into the grasp of Morpheus,

I can't help but wonder,
is there more?

Already it is Friday,
but I am still doing the same old routine I have been following since the beginning of time.

The same people need presents wrapped,
the lawns still need mowed,
and I am still watching the flickering lights of the next door neighbors telly on my bedroom wall.

I repeat myself, over and over, like a broken record.


"Eat less use less, and all we got is, dead disco, dead funk..."

The words of the song come to me,
seemingly from nowhere,
and vanish just as quickly.

But now the inspiration is gone, and I'm all for getting some sleep

Write or Die

I hate this. This pretending. Anyone who 'subscribed' to this blog probably got bored after reading the first five posts, probably thought: "what a pretender. What an attention-seeker. What. A. Loser."

 But I'm going to stop pretending. Take off the mask.

And admit I'm not a faker.
Not now, anyways.
I'm not vying for attention from any one particular person.

This is me.
This is what I see.
This is how I think and how I write.

 And if you have a problem, tell me, and I'll try to change whatever it is I'm doing wrong.

I do get a little down sometimes. And this is my way of coping with that. But don't we all get a little down sometimes? It's nice to know that people read my blog, if that is the case, but I don't want people reading it just for kicks, just for a laugh.

And although I said I'll change what I'm doing to suit you, to fit the mold, the one thing I'll never do is stop writing. Because on that dark day I'll lose hope, and take the fall.

And there will be no turning back.
No coming back.
And the lives of three very special people will be destroyed.
And there will be one more name,
on the lists,

in the Dominion Post.

Dreaming Again

Handing out letters.

Letters of farewell, forgiveness and apologies in equal measure.

Please, don't open them yet, she cries.

And steer far from the main building at middy, she pleas.

But two do not listen. And watching their eyes scan the page, she knows she has made a dreadful mistake. One's face morphs into an expression of horror, the other of great disbelief. "Please do not" they cry, but their pleas are in vain. "Since when did you care about me?" The girl thinks as she rushes to the main block, in all it's scaffolded glory, and begins to climb.

A falling car cuts off all attempts to provide so-called 'help'

There is screaming down below as the figure takes to the edge.

She looks down below, and though her heart is consumed by despair, inside she feels nothing, no fear, no regret, she is an empty shell.

So, without even thinking about it, she topples off the edge, and she spins downward, her school skirt flapping wildly at the breeze.

Then,
she violently awakens to a jarring sense of pain, and she eases her throbbing head upwards.

She is surrounded by people from her class, choir girls and teachers.

Though some look on in horror and with a sick fascination, others simply scowl in disgust.

A paramedic tells her she is lucky,
lucky that the fall was not fatal.

A small chuckle escapes her cracked lips,
"Lucky"? she mutters with a sarcastic smirk

But then she collapses onto the ground, for once again the pain is too much.

Through her semi-conscious haze, she learns that both legs, and arm and many of her ribs are broken or cracked.

But she is jolted back to reality when Mouse offers to ride with her in the ambulance.
Ignoring the pain, she snaps her head up "No way in hell", she croaks in an angry whisper.
A reaction of something much the same is received when a teacher offers to ride.

"Louise should go", says Lola from the back,
"it was Louise who got such a nice letter".

A small groan escapes from the girl on the ground,
but no further objections are made.

So Louise, somewhat reluctantly, climbs into the ambulance,
the girl is lifted up onto her gurney,
and they drive off.

But you know it's never good
when the siren,
is silent.

Year Book

I look at what you wrote, and smile.

Sometimes I laugh.

Other times, I'm on the verge of tears.

It's nice to know that you actually wrote little messages for me,
despite the fact you probably don't mean what you said,
I feel included and part of something when I read them.

Many of them are unoriginal, but this matters not,
as I burble away like a loony.

One of the funniest things is that many of you spelled my name wrong.

Something that does puzzle me,
is why so many of you signed off with xoxo. 
It must be some big girly girl secret or trend I'm not entitled to know.

But the best thing is,
because you took a little of your precious time,
and signed my book,
I'll never forget you.

Not ever,

and one day,
when you've forgotten me
I can still look back,

and remember

Believeing in Awesome

Dear *Lola,
I'm sorry, but the word I took is to be given back.
I nearly believed you, when you told me 'everyone is awesome'

See the words on the screen made is easy, simple, crystal clear.

But looking in the mirror,
I saw someone that would never be awesome,
and I dropped the word I had taken.

I just couldn't hold on.
Not faced with a truth like...this.

The truth is, I will never be of the same caliber as someone in your rank.

I am not more than perfect, awesome, or (god forbid) epic.

Not every one will be awesome,
perhaps, everyone has the potential to be awesome,
but not every one will be.

Because, on the off chance I AM included in this 'everyone', because I am not awesome, 'everyone' is not, just most.

And although it's highly unlikely you'll read this, you could hold that part by yourself, 'perhaps' not easily, but I'm sure people wouldn't notice that you were the only one singing, you have enough voice for six kids, at least.

* not real name

Cold

cold.
so damn cold.

The fire is out, and the matches won't light.

Lost at sea.

The highlights of this life are getting waved at, pulled into a circle or midnight comment conversations on facebook.

Once upon a day dream, there was a happy girl, full of life and love. She sang, danced and spoke  whenever and wherever she wanted to, but it was not to last.

The voices of the dark ones reached her ears and invaded her head,
the clouds rolled in,
and she stood in the midst of a snowstorm with a shard of ice in her heart.

Colours faded until the faces and words of those around her were a
deep,
unfriendly grey,
the kindest of words were mutilated in her wasteland of a brain.

Then came the rules.

When not to eat and when not to speak. When not to cry. When not to read, surf and leave the house. Singing was forbidden.

Slowly, she is turning into an empty shell,
and after she has farewelled the princesses and the dragon,
the puppies, the toys and the cards,

it will be time to go.

but this time,
this time
there will be no coming back.

Step

I don't know why I'm here,

listening to the gentle whirr of my laptop,
lying on the cold floor.


I don't know why I'm still here
still breathing,
but though I hate my life now,
in five minutes,
I'll have found something to live for

my
            thoughts
       are
                        floating
                                   away...

The world is still and silent,
I can't even hear the wind.

Soon,
Soon it will be morning,
and with the morning comes the dread of another disappointing day.

What next?

Where next?

Lids are fluttering,
head is drooping,
and
    my
heart
         is
in
     my
        throat.

Too many dotted red lines, and too few.
The lines are messy,
but without them how will I know where to step?

Bad Sad Mad Day

Nothing.
And everything.

Colours blurring, words mashing together in a spaghetti like tangle.

I have so much,

and so little.

Today my life went upside down.

There was an ugly ducking in a pack full of swans, a yellow toy train and a little dog that kept on yapping at me while I was in math class.

I honestly wanted to throw my shoe at the poor thing.

There were sad texts, and texts that got sent at the wrong place and time.

There was a two dollar coin that rolled beneath a lamp-post and was found again within the minute.

And at the end of the day,
my whole existence,
had been summarized
on the back of busk ticket 000001

Glass Bubbles

Back of the bus,
kneeling on the seat,
laughing and waving at staring faces that drive by.

I counted five yellow cars, one rainbow life-preserver and about a million people in formal black business suits.

I saw a truck with a disco ball hanging off the mirror, and a garden full of orange daisies.

I saw some cool things you don't normally see, like a car with it's number plate screwed on the right hand side of the bumper, and a giant rainbow umbrella.

It was also reassuring to see some things I see everyday, the few things which remain constant in our ever changing world;
I counted three give way signs and the 'no trucks' sign with a huge dent in it is still hanging off it's lamp-post by one bolt. Apparently THAT driver couldn't read.

The flowers at Central park are in full bloom;

the bright pink,
                      blue
                            and orange flowers
splash some colour on this grey, rainy day.

A little blue car followed the bus nearly all the way to Brooki Ville.

I saw an abandoned bank and counted eight Christmas trees and a tee shirt with the phrase : now panic and freak out on it.

I saw an ambulance and a police car,
the green ropes at the back of the bus were fraying.

I watched the world go by though my glass bubble and found peace in the mundane.

Couldn't every day be like this?

Failure

There is nothing in the world,
nothing,
that is quite as bad as letting someone down.

Wait, there is something.

What is worse is the apprehension of letting someone down,
feeling that you're going to fail,
feeling that the world is about to roll off your shoulders,
and crack the floor of the universe.

This feeling is a monstrosity that eats you up inside,
it is an overwhelming guilt,
a guilt that is worse than the time your broke your granny's favorite tea pot,
worse than the time you stole from your best friend.

It is also shame.
A shame greater than the time you wet your pants in gym class.

You hope you will pull though, you desperately wish on ever star.

Your heart is heavy,
but you must keep hoping,
you must,
for the sake of that promised person.

Dream

The best dream I ever had was being friends with you.

sure the froot loops mascot did jump in and try to kill all of us, but that was taken care of.

I have no idea why facebook chat-boxes float and come with sound, but, it's only a dream.

Wearing ornate black wings and flying down 71 flights of stairs, the best fun I've ever had.

Why my favorite music mattered so much I never knew, but it was so great to be your friend that it didn't matter if you asked weird questions.

Since when did the canteen ladies run my kitchen, and I never recalled having yellow sneakers.

Rooms morphing into one and other, lions, dragons and stone fountains.

The emptiness of waking up was almost unbearable,  especially since I never answered any of the are u 3's you kept on sending me.

It was just too fast paced for me, so I ended up missing out, as per usual.

But all in all,
         
               while it lasted,
                          
     it truly was,

 a wonderful dream.

At Last

bubbles, dandelions and bread and butter.

Floating on a cloud,

floating up among the apple trees and grass hoppers,

eating carrots grown up high so the dog won't get them,

with rainbow mist

 and chimney tops

blue birds,
lillys,
and funny Italian words

uninspired
but full of joy

cupcakes with purple and indigo frosting
in polka dotted patty pans.

rehersal

A door is slammed and a bag is slung, curled on the floor, breathless.

A red marked hand, clawed to keep the laughter in.

Half a cake, chocolate, mushy, utterly tempting; and utterly destroyed.

Torn up, crumpled music sheets litter the floor,

and tears run down the grooves between the tiles.


How foolish she was.

How much stupider could she have been?

Acting like a goof is reserved for friends only.

And why did she think she could sing?


Too many flats, sharps and wrong notes shamed her into silence,

one step was taken back then two, until she was as far away from the others as Pluto from the sun.


Time passes to fast.....and too slow.

It is easy to forget who you really are in all the chaos,

forget the barriers,

and toe the line.


Before she remembered it was all just fine and dandy,

but with the walls come the clouds

and now she stands,

on the other side of the mirror,

with all the rain


feeling lost

feeling wrong.

Must You Know?

I want to tell the world,
yet I also want to hide,
life is hard but you must treat it softly.
Hard to be soft, tough to be tender,
Why me?
Why you?
In my head there is a flurry of unsorted words,
flying around my skull and banging at the sides,
they want to get out but have nowhere to go.
like me.

I hate you,
I worship you
You inspire me,
you bring me down.

If I was to say something to you, what would I say?

That I run off my fears?
That I live to be a cartoon character?

My favorite colour?

Purple, if you must know.

but I don't want you to know.
and I also do.

God, help me up,
make things clear,

let,
     me,
            fly....

More Than Perfect

I know you didn't mean too,

I know that it doesn't matter what I think or feel,

but with you guys talking about dancing and your perfect physiques,

it just drove me over the edge.

I'd always know that I would never fit in, but this made it concrete.

You, are slender, strong, beautiful and charismatic.

You know it too.

But what you don't know, is how cold I become inside when I'm around you,

how tears prick my eyes,
sometimes,
when you speak.

When ever I see someone dancing, something much of the same happens,

something breaks inside.

It's like living in a sweet shop, and only being able to eat sprouts.
I hate it.

living on this side of the glass.

The side where the clumsy, ugly, slow and fat dwell.

There are even moments where I think I hate YOU.

But I could never hate you,
how could anyone, really?

After all, you guys are really,
more than,
perfect.

The Girl Who Has No Name

The stinging sensation

of tears

hits her.

Without warning, without reason,
they come,

come and mark her out, come and marr her already imperfect look, come and break what little spirit she has left.

She didn't even recall being sad.

But watching that girl,
cry, on stage,

watching a complete stranger, unveil herself to the world,

just sets her off.

Nothing is done to stop the flow of tears,
tears trailing down her cheeks.
dripping from her chin and wetting her school jersey,
tears,

that make others stare and whisper.

But she sits there like a statue,

and come midnight,
come midnight she is sitting in her room,
still crying,

all because,
of that girl who has no name.

Dead and Gone

Remember me, won't you, when I'm dead and gone.

Think of me kindly, but remember what went wrong.

Picture me smiling, free inside your head

Forget that faitful image,

Of that day you found me dead.


Eyes vacant and staring,

rope around broken neck,

The screams of the students,

 the teacher's "Holy Heck!".



Place flowers on my grave stone,

weep softly at my stead,

and try not to forget,

the reasons why I'm dead.

Left Behind

I'll never learn, will I?

Oh, it's okay, I get it.

You just don't want me around.

I don't get how I am any less annoying than the others,

But you seem to think I am, so okay.

I guess I miss interpreted you friendly gestures,

as a small token, not of friendship, not of companionship, but allyship;
if there is even such a word.

But, you see,  the human being is a complex peice of machinery,

unbelievably delicate,
and oh so unpredictable.

And I am one of those all-or-nothing people,

so, just for next time,

I don't appreciate being 'led on'

I don't appreciate being told false hoods

and I especially don't appreciate being pushed away.

I am a girl, not a doll.

So don't be friendly,
don't be compassionate,
I don't appreciate your kindness

because at the end of the day, I'll still end up being left behind.

Be as cold as you want,
yell at me even.

I could never hurt,
as much
as being left behind.

GIven Up

You know what?

I give up.

It turns out that I am as much of a waste of space now as I was at the start of the year.

My world is filled with rain, stars and fire.

The rainbows are few,

And the fire comes only to annihilate all in its path before receding into a blank, empty, nothingness.

It turns out that in fact I do not have talent.
Or anything close to resembling social skills.

It also appears that others find me repulsive.

The fear is the only thing that keeps me from the fall.

After all, wouldn't it be simpler just to end it all?

But what after death?

And no matter how bad life gets, anything is better than facing that cold unknown.

But one day, it will get too much,

and then...

and then you'll all see

what a mess I really was

Gone

So long.

for so long she had held back the tears,

But now, though nothing more has gone wrong her eyes begin to water and before she knows it her face is awash with tears, tears mixed with sweat and failure.

Before long her eyes begin to smart, she covers her eyes, desperately tries to stop but she cannot, it is like the many tears unshed over her last four years are being set free,

                                                                                                             all at once,

                                                   It is too much,

she tumbles from her bed to the floor, hands scratching at the coarse grey carpet,
her body is racked with her sobbing,
she shudders;
each wave is more desperate than
the last.

Silently she screams, this is worse than any pain she has felt before,
she is helpless,
a victim.

But at last,
her crying subsides,
and all that is left
is one broken young girl,

tear tracks,
still fresh upon her face.

Runnaway Mouth

Sometimes,
I hate me.

Actually, not sometimes, most of the time.

Falling,
          down
                   down
                            down
a dark hole

filled with Christmas tree decorations,
                                                           busted pens
                                                                               and half a banana choc-chip muffin.

I just can't help it.

Whenever I talk, I talk loud, fast, and about everything,
                                                                                     and nothing,
all at once.

I believe,

that it makes me seem strange and scary,

like I'm spewing out my words,
                     like they are toxic,
          and if they touch you,

if they touch you,

you'll become an empty, burbling zombie,
just like me.

I have considered many times,
jumping from the school roof,
just so I can escape
the cold, staring faces,

of those around me,

escape my kaleidoscope world of blues,
                                                             purples,
                                                                           and greens.

But I don't.

After all, it would be terribly messy.

Pathetic

It is absolutely unbelievable how pathetic I am.

After being kicked away, after being left out in the cold like a mangy dog,
after being left to fade into nonexistence I still crawl after you, hinging on your ever word.

I clap as loud as I can when you shine on stage, listen whenever you talk, I videoed your class, just for another chance to talk to you.

And though it's safe to say you'll never read this, I really shouldn't be posting, not this, and especially not now.

I though I'd had my last say, that night, when we were at the movies? I was the snarky and confident one, I was the alpha.

I should have left it there too, but something inside me still wants to be your friend, something inside me still won't let go.

I've heard of girls go crawling after ex-boyfriends, but ex-bestfriends?

Now it's just getting ridiculous.


I completely understand why you wouldn't want to be my friend, so why do I still want to be your friend?

I am so pathetic, that in fact I'd rather be a hanger-on than a class mate.

To all the others that read this, maybe I AM pathetic, maybe I AM being dumb, but until you've had an old friend leave you, don't judge me too harshly.

One day I'll forget about you, "Friend", and I half dread, half welcome that day.

But just for next time you have a friend you don't want, I think that it's kinder to tell someone straight to their face what they're doing wrong, or that you don't want to be friends anymore; than leave them hanging.

After all, wouldn't that just be too cruel?

Unfair

I know it is wrong of me

But every time I see you, something breaks inside.

And I find it hard to breathe.

I want to melt into the floor, become invisible

Because no matter how hard I try, I will never be one of you

Pretty, tall, talented, with perfect make up, clothes and hair.

You can dance, sing, act and you aren't that bad at science either.

Everyone always told me that girls like you are a minority,
so how is it that you all ended up at the same school.

Head down, feet shuffling along the floor, words barely whispered; that or I'm yelling like some kind of S.N.U kid

Around you, I feel judged, unperfect, fugly, useless, clumsy;
this list could go on and on.

But you don't know how shy I feel, how scared I am, you probably just think I'm unfriendly;
or just plain dumb.

And yet you like....THEM
The other girls just like me.
Except for one thing,

These girls actually reach out to you, and you reach back

I wouldn't want to be stuck with them in a million years if I was like you,
is it that they are beautiful inside and I am not?

It's true, that whenever you talk to me, or I'm around my friends, I seem like a kid you'd never, ever want to talk to.

But inside, or by myself, not on auto pilot, I am very different.

I guess you just can't see past the mirrored surface.

 Please,
Let me try again,

Please,
say something to me;

anything...

What would you do?

What would you do, in a situation like this?

Feeling like a little boat being tossed about in the stormy Atlantic,

what would you do, in a position like me?

If your friend needed help, but was refusing it. If your friend was surrounded by all the wrong people. What would you do, if your friend was on the brink of suicide?

If they were cutting you off, blocking your every move to help. What would you do, if they didn't even answer the phone the first time you tried to call them.

Its not you fault, not your problem, but you still want to help. You find your self scared for them. You also might feel cut off.

Suicide,
                 it's scary,
                                   it's real,
                                                 and it's a problem with two sides to the somewhat imperfect solution.

Thinking

My words...
         ...Are much like my thoughts...
                              ...little glue bubbles...
   ..floating up...
             ...with every sentence...
        ...a new paragraph...
              ...floating...
                                       ...almost...
                       ...away.

Bee

Waiting

at the mouth of the garage.

Ten minutes, twenty.

The floor is littered in an array of art supplies, card, paint, glue. Things she fought tooth and knife for.

Checking the computer, still nothing.

A car comes....and pulls into the drive of the house next door.

The drinks are heating up, the cicadas swarm outside,

Laughing.

Finally, one turns up and the project beings.

as they measure, cut and paint she is always asking,

are there more?

is anyone else coming?

I think so, the first girl replies,

but inside she knows it not to be true, and her heart is fast being enclosed in a fist of iron.

One more comes an hour later

and the three girls set to their impossible task with gusto

laughing and sloshing paint everywhere

drinking luke-warm fizzy drinks.

At last it is done.

It stands one meter high

and is a pale cloudy blue

The card-board car

the star of their show

only in the lime light for two minutes

and twenty seconds.

This important piece of the puzzle

is complete

and feeling slightly more whole

the girls part ways

until first bell.

Left

Reading about you

is like a punch in the face.

A slamming sensation of pain; I am left winded, stinging.

At first the story is happy, but oh how naive I was.

I can almost see my twelve year old hands scrawling in that dusty old journal.
All is well, they say.

But come thirteen the truth came out and my world exploded.

You shoved me away, shunned me, it was like 'we' had never existed.

I tried to keep us together. Really, I did. But you had no more need for our friend-ship and I was tossed away like an old plastic bag.  

"I hate you!" I scream into the howling wind. "Damn you and all you've ever stood for, I HATE you!".

The night is cold and the breeze is sharp but I care not. Inside, I am crying like a child, tears cascading down my cheeks. But outside, as I stand in the dark on that lonely hill, I am wearing my poker face.

Fat kids don't cry, do they now, Friend?

But for every time I say I hate you, for every second I see red as you cross my mind,
underneath all the rage is a small, sad voice.

A voice,
that quietly mutters:  
"I miss you...."

Stranger

She's going nowhere. The energy of the early morning walk to school has left her, evaporated, like a puddle under the burning African sun. Grades slipping, friends fading, lost. No one cares, her friends think she is heartless, her teachers think she is difficult, but they cannot see the sadness in her heart. Like a parasite; it is eating her up bit by bit. She lives only for the weekends, but those short forty eight hours slip away like sunlight, those few moments of freedom spent in front of a dead computer screen, waiting for something that she knows will not come. But suddenly, one day, running along in P.E she stumbles, and falls. "I can't do this anymore", she mutters, and her failure flashes in front of her eyes like a sign, mocking her. A short burst of laughter escapes her dry, cracked lips, as she remembers a similar scenario, way back then.

Slowly, but surely, she picks her self up and begins to run on. "You will finish this whispers a voice in her ear", but when she turns there is no one there. Suddenly, there is the finishing line and with a sudden burst of energy she surges forward, a winner in last place. And with that small triumph she makes a promise to herself, "never again".

Slowly but surely, her heart begins to mend, she joins the choir, gets an A in the end of year spelling test. She is not the person she longs to be, athletic, skinny, a super model with unmatchable charisma. But she is always there, to lend a pencil or help with a particularly tricky math problem and suddenly she notices she's not alone. People have accepted her, she finds invites to parties and movies more frequent, and people stop to talk with her, like she's worth something; not a nobody. For the first time in her life she is never alone, and with a small toss, the razor blade is gone, she is whole again.

Dot Dot Dot, Dash Dash Dash, Dot Dot Dot

What, do I owe you?

You gave me ugly and made me fat.

You took support and you way of being a good parent is driving me around and cooking.

You never see.

See, that I am always on the brink of tears.

See that I want to understand.

See, that I never do.

One day, one long, tiring day, when I woke up you were gone. I had a mound of homework and chores to do. I did my chores. I started on my homework. But then it got cold. So unbearably cold. So I took to my room and wrapped myself in my duvet. And then I woke up. It was dark out and cold in. I had slept, for four hours. So I walk into the living room and there you are, just sitting there, watching the telly. "Do you not understand how far behind I am" I want to scream at you. "Do you not get that every day I come home to mounds of meaningless papers, which I am supposed to complete but do not understand?" But no, you do not understand, you do not see. I look into the mirror and see a fat, unhappy girl, falling behind in school, and in life.

No drive, no power, helplessly buffeted by the currents of fate, her big brown eyes; always filled with tears, tears that are threatening to spill out and drown the world in sorrow and pain and emptiness.

“Am I really this shallow?” I wonder, “To be obsessed with doing better when what I have is what most kids in Africa dream of?”
But it is not easy, being in a group of academics, always doing better, always reaching higher. I know I must work to achieve, but the days stretch out into nothingness, and the paper is blank, meaningless, sitting there, mocking me.

I hate my life, I want to end it, but I’m too pathetic to even kill myself.

And life goes on, dragging me with it.

Damn. I have been writing really depressing stuff lately, haven’t I? But this is how some kids feel, and it is those kids who my heart goes out to, because at least in Africa they don’t have little miss sunshine pageants.

Nowhere

When I was little I couldn't wait to be fourteen.

Well here I am, fourteen and nowhere.

I want to reach into the past and pick up my younger self, and rattle her until she's dizzy. "YOU HEAR THAT", I will say, "THAT IS THE SOUND OF A LUNATIC, THE SOUND OF SOMEONE WHO HAS NOTHING TO LOOSE".
Then maybe, my younger self could go and jump off the roof, an action fueled by fright, perhaps she could save us the trouble of having to do it later, prevent the tears and the bloodshed.

My life is filled with stars, sparkling from the sky, and I am a tree, rooted firmly to the ground, and only the wildest storms can fling me to the heavens. I am rooted down, down with the nowhere kids, with the poor and homeless and stupid. I walk around like a cuckoo clock, wandering in circles till I'm dizzy. Open and close the doors. Push in the chairs. Un -blinking, staring off into space, a million miles from anywhere and nowhere. I am a robot; for obey commands, no real purpose, there is no life inside, I am just an empty metal shell.

I was up shit creek, and I had found my shovel, but then there was a landslide and I am now without a spade again, caved in and fighting to survive.

Time goes on. Tick tock on the clock, where is the party that don't stop no, oh oh whoa, oh oh whoa. My wanderings have taken me to the yard and a cold breeze rustles me from my trance like state. I hold up my hands, and flex my fingers as if for the first time. Such a simple action moves me to tears, and suddenly I am lying in the grass, sobbing helplessly into my red tee shirt, my shoulders hunched over and shaking. This is me at fourteen. This is what my life is. Trapped by my tears.

You must lie in your bed the way you made it, they say.

Well my bed is nowhere to be found.
The only place I can lie in is my grave.

AUTHORS NOTE: Hope you liked it, no worries, completely fictional, this post is dedicated to all the depressed and down teenagers in the world.

Potatoes and a Pocket Full of Coins

peice I did for english, I hope it's okay :)

Ross isn’t usually a smiler. But today he smiles at every cyclist, jogger and ice-cream stained toddler he sees as he strolls down the bustling avenues of Dublin city. He grew up on a potato farm just out of the city, with his mother and older brother James, but now he has a small farm of his own. He never married, for Ross is the kind of person who is just content to watch, not join in. Despite being alone and on the wrong side of sixty four, he smiles as the bright silver coins jangle in his pocket, the morning well spent.

In appearance, he resembles one of Santa’s elves, with his round, cheerful face, squashy strawberry nose, twinkling eyes and cheeky grin. He never made it beyond five foot four, and despite being a farmer, he rarely wears clothes that portray his rural background, choosing comfy jeans and woollen jackets over coarse overalls and chequered shirts like many of the men in his neighbourhood choose to wear. Wrinkled and balding, he is kind of man you would expect to play an elderly grandfather on a TV programme.

The old bus gives a grunt, and with surprising agility for a man of his age, Ross leaps onto the side ladder as the bus chugs off toward his neighbourhood. As the bus is passing through the outskirts of Dublin, there is a sound, and look, up there on that balcony, there is a young boy – no older than seven or eight – singing. I used to sing like that, Ross thinks and suddenly he is overcome with nostalgia, and longing for the old days. Yes, life was hard, but it was happy.

He can still remember the warm summer evenings, when their small community would meet in the old barn for food, music and idle chatter. He can remember the cold winters, when he would curl up with his mother and older brother in the big bed, covered in blankets and fighting to keep warm. The autumns, spent playing conkers with the grocers boy and the neighbours sons, golden and brown leaves falling off the trees like snow, covering the forest floor in a cloak of majestic red and gold. There are also things he’d rather forget. Like the time he grew some lettuces in a spare garden patch, and he went around to doors to sell them, but the when the lady answered the door he’d been too shy to say more than ‘would you like these’, so she thought they were a gift, and with a polite thank-you, took them. Then he went home and drew a green car, flying across a purple sky.  There was also the time he had to sing a solo in church, and was so frightened that he had simply apologised to the congregation and fled the church. Ross has always been terribly shy, and it has done more to hinder him than help him.

The bus has finally arrived at his stop, and so, thanking the driver, he hops off and strides up the path to his cottage. He unlocks the door, pulls open the curtains, and the dark room is suddenly bathed in a golden light. “SURPRISE” cry the people situated in the kitchen, and look, there’s his mother, his brother and family, the neighbours and all of his childhood friends. There’s the grocer and the postman, and every single one of them has an identical grin from ear to ear. As they break into a chorus of happy birthday, he wipes a tear from his eye. “I didn’t know you cared” he whispers, as he is enveloped by the sea of arms.

Competition (continued)

I walked up the stairs and grinned like a lunatic. You know that moment when you have to walk up for an award, but are dreading it, but when you’re on stage you can't help but smile? Well that’s how I felt, and head held high, I strided on to the stage, happy as Larry. The choir came on to tumulus applause, just wait till they hear out first piece I thought, nearly laughing out loud at the idea! Then the audience went silent and Mister Stewart picked up his conductors baton..........

"JOSEPH"
We yelled, shrieked and sang our hearts out in that wild, crazy song, and the audience, was whispering and nudging the whole time, caught completely off guard. I hope I didn't miss any cues though. The next piece was The Seal Lullaby, a nice, mellow piece about a baby seal. But that made no difference to the amount of applause we got, and at the end of Mai Glochen, the audience were ecstatic (they were for every choir, but it's nicer to think that we got an extra special applause). Then it was over, dinner break, oh joy.

The Cantala girls were going to eat together at a place called the Beijing, and after changing shoes (superman chucks! - which got some nice comments) and into a hoodie, I shouldered my backpack and tagged along with the others. They walk so slowly! I could have walked to Readings in the time they took!

Dinner was weird. I don't really know anyone, so I was just standing around like a loony until I was offered a chair at a table. So why didn't I just sit down anywhere? Well, those girls are all friends with one and other, so I wouldn't want to be a seat snatcher and piss anyone off, would I? Dinner was a merry affair, with, you guessed it, laughing, chatting and goofing around. My table group had lots of fun with the lazy Susan, putting their cell phones on it and spinning it around a few times before snatching them off the still rotating platform. It was fun, but I just read until Molly texted me with her and Francesca’s location, so I shouldered my backpack, and sauntered out of there like it was completely normal to go to dinner, then leave half way through without eating anything. The next twenty minutes was spent chasing Molly and Francesca around town, and we eventually ran into each other outside fix. Then, we proceeded to head on up to the bridge above civic square, and we sat there for a bit before Molly and I set off to the ice cream place, because it closes late on weekdays. The ice-cream was good, but we had to eat as we walked to ensure we got back in time. The gala concert was good. More entertaining acts, only one song from each choir this time, plus, this time I was actually kind of sitting with Cantala. Not really though. Time flew by, and before I knew it, the East choirs were called for warm ups (minus junior choir). It was good. Multi and senior were there, and everyone had a laugh. Then senior went. Then Multi. Then one of the FBI guys came in and said we had better head up there because it the Cantala/multi girls were probably finding it a tad awkward standing up there on stage by themselves, and so smiling away, the lovely girls of Cantala indulged the audience in another performance, and it was fab.

Not the greatest entry, but hey, now I can put more interesting stuff up for you guys to read. Final word from me is a HI to Sherrianna who did not go (you missed out on heaps), and a word from the music prefect Rebecca13 who says that everyone enjoyed themselves. Hope you guys don’t mind me mentioning you in this post (IF you two read this, which I sincerely doubt)
Laters!

Competition

Big Sing, at last.

I really can't find all the words to describe it. So for now, I'll just go with wow.

And even that word in all its epic proportions can't fit the bill.

It started at nine thirty, when we all met in the civic square, and everyone - looking fab in their winter uniforms- was doing the usual, laughing, chatting, goofing around and chasing the pigeons. I got a bribe to wear my hair down, and now have a ten dollar Australian bill to add to my collection.
After meeting with my friends and being excitable and what not, I set about finding people from the junior choir to sign the cards I had made for Susanna and Niamh, our choir Directors. It took ages, and it was quite a feat getting it done without them noticing. We had already (we being Francesca and I) dealt with most of the signing at school, because I thought it would be good to give them the cards on the big sing. Eventually, we got let into the town hall, and wow that place is ginormic. It has plaster walls with little Victorian (?) ornamentations, a marble floor in the foyer, and schmany looking pillars scattered all over the place. After the usually talk by the stage manager, the first choir went out to perform. I was amazed. Never bored, constantly on the edge of my seat, and always in high spirits.

In a surprisingly short time, it was lunch break, and we were all shooed outside for a five minute lunch break before the junior choir sound check. I speedily ate my cookie (there isn't much in the way of nutritional stuff at Fix), and then hurried inside to wait for everyone else.

Then, just after one, who should come up to talk to me but Rowena (?). Apparently I was wanted on the hall, something about Cantala.

I swore, and then sprinted of into the hall, my friends’ laughter echoing in my ears.

I leapt onto the stage and scampered up the choir rises, just in time too. I don't think (hope) that Mr Stewart was that mad.......

Holy night was okay, but as soon as it was over, the other junior choir girls and I hurried over to the west foyer place, the other year nines had arrived. Pretty much, this year it became compulsory for year nines to join junior choir, resulting in much messiness. I felt SO sorry for Susanna and Niamh; I'll have to admit they did a great job though. We were the first to perform after lunch break, and it would be nice of me to say that people were punctual but as usual, there was the usual dribby drabby. Junior choir totally impressed me. I expected carnage. We sounded okay. Good. Great. Well, great may have been pushing it but it was fun :)
And if I do end up getting kicked out of Cantala at least I'm still in a choir.

Then it was rush rush rush to the changing rooms to switch into my Cantala uniform. Can I just say ugh. It isn't a bad uniform; just I ain't accustomed to wearing skirts. Because we had left partway through a performance, I waited for the year nines to finish so I wouldn't go in on my own in the middle of something. They. Took. Ages.
I shouldn't be surprised, but I was anyway. The performances flew by, and they were just as amazing as the one in the morning session. Instead of joining the Cantalians like the year nines did, I went back and sat with my year Ten pals, which made the performance that bit less enjoyable because I had to keep an eye out for when the others left to go backstage.

Finally, it was time. We hurried backstage in our fantastic (apart from my skirt issue) uniforms, and several people asked me "Where are your shoes"?!?!For, being the person I am I had carried those foot eaters instead of wearing them. I did have them on me though. No way would I turn up to the big sing without part of my Cantala uniform! The idea makes me shudder! Warming up was - unexpectedly - fun, and everyone was excited and bubbly, as per normal. Then the call came for us to move into the green room. May I mention that some people (I won’t names names) chose that time to have a potty break, fantastic timing guys :)
At first glance everyone was cool, but the twitching limbs, sweeping eyes and trips back and forth to the water cooler showed that most of them were just as nervous as I! I was going to be fist to walk onto stage, and believe me I was not looking forward to it. Then one of the FBI people (called because of their black clothes and earpieces) motioned us to come and wait by the stage steps. And it was show time.

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! I cut it off just at that exciting moment! Just like those irritating TV programmes! This has been a really bad blog entry, but I think that it's allowed, because it's only a recount of the epicest day ever. To be continued shortly........