i've been asked questions regarding feelings (for her). those of which i express vocally and physically (and of course, through writing). you call it young love. all i can say (or write) is, in response to your rolling eyes and presumptuous sighs when i tell you my heart stops at the sight of her, my breath hastens, and my world mirrors perfect reality pure bliss with every single thing just feeling a slight amount better (the sun's glow warming your skin, the sky's deep blue pool greeting your smile and bringing it to new lengths, the little pink lilies methodically waving to you, with help from the wind, their close, breezy friend, and all your worries seem to be tiny matters, now vanishing into the depths of the pool like the floating clouds, dissipating into this simple, beautiful summer day), that you simply must be jealous or clearly oblivious to how love changes every single day.
...but then I look up at the sky and realize that the world is so big, and I'm so small, and I'm so insignificant that all my problems don't really amount to that much.
Nothing really amounts to that much.
Use your imagination and dream. It's all we can really do.
After several hours of pondering and countless rough drafts -- after lines of crossed out words mounds of pen-worn paper (hording my aptly named not-quite-good-enough-for-you-poems trash bin) I sit restlessly anxious and awake pondering thoughts of love and cute word rhymes -- lines in sought of your remembrance sweet metaphors and distinctly unique romanticism -- to secretly poor my affection gratitude appreciation and love inside a single sealed desire-you-most dream-of-you-daily think-of-you-only letter for your eyes only your enjoyment only your heart only.
I sit at my desk thinking desiring a better way to word what I'm feeling a way to phrase the viral thoughts which overlap and ostracize all others.
The vocabulary at my disposal doesn't quite fit the lines well -- another torn draft to the pile and the not-quite-worthy-of-your-time trash raises incrementing slowly as the hours pass.
Visions of you and your smile (daringly stretching from one cute tip of your cheek to the other) entitle you the very right to have my concentration and effort poured tenderly and dearly with no complaint; for I have found the conclusion to my thoughts: this letter which I write you this poem which endures the countless cross-outs rip-ups and throw-aways will always stand one notch below what you deserve (for every minute of my time I use my pen on this piece of work, is one more minute I waste one more minute which would be better spent on the goal I set to accomplish when I first laid my eyes upon yours).
So let this poem be simply what it need best say: I love you and Happy Valentines Day!
While you stared arguing with your eyes solidifying nondiscoveries with your assumptions I stood unafraid hopelessly dreaming of something better greater unseen by anyone but you. I dream of figures silhouettes two of them standing unafraid of your imagination untouched unseen by anyone but you. Your most understanding and profound words speak while I sit alone in the night dark lone. My memories of desire lay frozen under a cover of new snow.
if I told you things I did before told you how I used to be would you go along with someone like me if you knew my story word for word had all of my history would you go along with someone like me
I did before and had my share it didn't lead nowhere I would go along with someone like you it doesn't matter what you did who you were hanging with we could stick around and see this night through
usually when things has gone this far people tend to disappear no one will surprise me unless you do
I can tell there's something goin' on hours seems to disappear everyone is leaving I'm still with you
it doesn't matter what we do where we are going to we can stick around and see this night through
The shape of her soul is a square. She knows this to be the case because she sometimes feels its corners pressing sharp against the bone just under her shoulder blades and across the wings of her hips. At one time, when she was younger, she had hoped that it might be a cube, but the years have worked to dispel this illusion of space. So that now she understands: it is a simple plane: a shape with surface, but no volume— a window without a building, an eye without a mind. Of course, this square does not appear on x-rays, and often, weeks may pass when she forgets that it exists. When she does think to consider its purpose in her life, she can say only that it aches with a single mystery for whose answer she has long ago given up the search— since that question is a name which can never quite be asked. This yearning, she has concluded, is the only function of the square, repeated again and again in each of its four matching angles, until, with time, she is persuaded anew to accept that what it frames has no interest in ever making her happy.
She Considers the Dimensions of Her Soul by Young Smith
We went to the party and we went to dinner We watched a movie and held hands together We kissed many times while we laid talking in each others arms I was completely free of fear Uncertainty didn't matter Where we had been the thought of where we were going didn't matter It was only now
Take all of your wasted honor Every little past frustration Take all of your so-called problems, Better put 'em in quotations
Say what you need to say
Walking like a one man army Fighting with the shadows in your head Living out the same old moment Knowing you'd be better off instead, If you could only...
Say what you need to say
Have no fear for giving in Have no fear for giving over You'd better know that in the end It's better to say too much Then never say what you need to say again
Even if your hands are shaking And your faith is broken Even as the eyes are closing Do it with a heart wide open
Death is coming and I've been solving your problems, social concerns and fits of confusion - battles for belonging; wasting time. I am an angel genius, prophet scientist, prince, and I will be free. And I guess this message is to let you know that I won't be in (my head) tomorrow. So may you bring here a suitable exuberance.
The forceful fall onto the asphalt snapped through the entirety of my body, ricocheting from one nerve to the next, finally finding its end at the bottom of my spine. I began to roll forward as my body's immediate response to the poor balance, but before I was entirely right and upwards I felt the aftershocks of the pain. I let out a yelp, cringed, and fell onto my side, face downwards onto the pavement. I felt the tears coming but I did not realize how quick and abound their presence was until I saw the little splatters and puddles forming from beneath my head. My face scrunched in an ineffective attempt to block the tears from flowing, but the shock of the futility of it all, the heat of my breath reflecting from the ground right back into my face, and the discomfort from the pain and earth I felt against me was too much for my facial muscles to withstand. I cried, and didn't care to hide it.
The cause of my fall approached me. What's wrong with ya? shouted the bully who was my senior by two years, which was a lifetime of a difference for an eleven year old. Ya gonna go cryin' to ya mommy? Is that what lil' baby's gonna do? Go ahead, cry, cry all you want. See what good it does ya.
The savage, self-confidence crushing brute got closer. He leaned down over me, putting his face inches away from my ear, whispering, What kind of person are ya?
The bully cocked his arm back and clenched his fist as I prepared for the second assault. Suddenly, two hands stretched out in front of my face and acted as a guardian. I peered through the gaps of my fingers to see who it was. A short, chubby looking teenager, maybe thirteen or fourteen years of age, stood between me and my enemy.
The bully, looking a little shocked, pushed away the kids arms and again I covered myself in preparation for an attack. The boy placed his hands up to protect me once again and said, Leave the kid alone. The startled bully stared the kid in the eyes, informing him that this was none of his business, but the boy proceeded: I still cry sometimes... don't you?
It was the noblest act of courage I have ever seen.
I sometimes worry that the choices I made for you to you and of you being involved may not have been wise taken in consideration what we've done to each other what I've done for you and what stories written and told we have for each other from our future selves taken from our past joys and experiences that we made for you. So I sometimes worry when I reminisce on never and when I say hello to my very special self in the mirror in the dark and when I say goodbye to the choices I made for you.
Some mornings, I walk to class listening to music. As I enter the buildings my classes are in, I would usually lower my earbuds for a variety of reasons. It's respectful, I guess - not that I can imagine anyone would think it is disrespectful, but that's just how life works - and it is a sort of anti-shock; a preparation for the real world lying ahead. I approach the doors to my classes, with my earbuds now out, and sometimes - not everyday, for I'd imagine I'd be wearing much more restrictive clothing if it happened more often - but sometimes I would hear a voice.
The voice would rise up from within my own head and speak non-truths to me. Horrible lies about the possibility of pain soon ahead. Regrets and mistakes lie in front of you, it would screech - no, not a screech. More like a howl, a sharp howl, like a wolf mysteriously shouting its praises to the moon at night. I would hear the voice's jeers pounding like an ever-intensive, never-ending headache, and I would feel the burn of it's non-eye's stares, more deep and more threatening than the most angriest of mother's, before I would even sit down in the classroom. I would often quickly replace my earbuds and walk back out the building.
Once outside, the voice in my head would cease - but a new voice would rise stronger and more daring than the last. It spawns from my heart and it is ashamed of me. It's ashamed of my thoughts. My choices and decisions, good or bad. The sense of this shame is like a cage closing on my ribs. When this happens, I turn up my music and walk home as quickly as possible trying not to hate myself. My home acts as some sort of sanctuary; when I am here I have no forces - no voices - acting on my life.
In the movie Rocket Science by Jeffrey Blitz, Hal Hefner is an average sophomore at Plainsboro High School in New Jersey. He stutters both verbally and emotionally and suffers the daily indignities of a typical teenager. With only a little encouragement, Hal falls in love with the star of the debate team, Ginny Ryerson and finds himself suddenly immersed in her ultra competitive world of high school debating, with its players, its politics, and its own set of rules. And when Hal finds his heart broken, love (or revenge) is the driving force that leads him to want to win the debate competition more than anything in his life.
Doyle You okay?
Hal Yeah. But what would you say are your thoughts on love?
Doyle It’s so late, Hal, and I couldn’t find the off-ramp and had to circle back three times and now I’m not even sure I know how to get you back to Plainsboro.
Hal I guess, you know.... Well, it’s nothing, I was just thinking.
Doyle Maybe you shouldn’t think so much about everything.
Hal I mean it’s not, it shouldn’t be rocket, rocket... it shouldn’t be rocket.... It shouldn’t be that but it feels like, sometimes it just feels, you know. I guess what I just want to know when, at what point, you see, does all this begin, or really start, to make sense?
Doyle All what?
Hal Everything, all of it.
Doyle I guess at some point.... see, you reach a certain age and you’re in Jersey, or someplace just like it, and you stop trying to figure it all out. It’s kind of like that. You just are glad for what you have.
Hal And that happens to everybody?
Doyle Pretty much but you let me know if it turns out different for you.
Hal I’ll do that, I will. I’ll find a way to do that, some good way, to let you know how it all turns out.
Give me a reason to stay constantly ignored Give me an angle that I haven't tried before A guarantee for being honestly compared You want to live when life is achingly unfair
Don't make a move you'll look ridiculous again You share no interest but it's easy to pretend Don't start the action it will turn against you soon No one is going to follow and you'll stand there like a fool
You left the people when the people left you out Back in the suburbs you're craving for the crowd Only minded now with defeats of yesterday The mantra spinning in your head will keep it raised
Give me a reason to stay constantly ignored I don't think I can Give me an angle that I haven't tried before Not from where I stand A guarantee for being honestly compared Could not be found You want to live when life is achingly unfair Stick around
You're taking my heart shredding it to pieces and leaving it behind like you never had it in the first place. Why did you even start this if you had no intention. It's nearly murder.
