I am stronger than this.
- Nothing much to say beyond that. I know best what I can or cannot do, and if I don't, or am mistaken, then that's for me to know, and take note. I don't need anything else; wanting is something entirely different.
(But of course for a vulnerable moment, I must wonder if they are right, if this shouldn't be done this way, if maybe, all that we're doing, I'm doing, all the hours I'm putting into this black hole of a project will be for naught - but I guess in the end, if it matters to me, it matters to me, and that's all I can really say about this. Who am I writing this for, anyway? Not them. You. Myself. The people who will be there that night.)
Another side of me is just entirely, majorly pissed off. Where do they get off thinking they can do this to us? Again and again - I don't know what's wrong with my batch, or this year, or - whatever, you know. I am quite aware that I might just be extrapolating isolated nasty incidents into a full year of hate (even in my rage, I have to second-guess myself) but this just isn't. They aren't even in this with us, okay? Go do your Arts Fest; just don't come and mess with us, not when you haven't even seen what we've done at all, what we can do.
O my love's like a black, black wasp
That stings your lips swollen;
O my love's like a cruel star
That presses close till you burn.
As fair you are, as pale your skin,
So my kisses bruise hard;
And I will not stop, my sweet,
Not till you fold like cards.
Not till you fold, crumple like cards,
With creases, dark mottled marks;
And I will have thee still, like cards
When the light bleeds into dark.
Fare thee well, this love of mine.
Fare thee well but a while.
Yet I will come again; love, mine,
Love, love stands a thousand miles.
Something modeled after Robert Burns' A Red, Red Rose, written during Lit options today because Ms. Kamsir wanted us to write a love poem. It -
bless_luna said my ... bandom influences were very obvious, but I wasn't actively trying to write about it, I don't think. It was supposed to be about destructive, obsessive love (although I don't think it's claustrophobic enough; the original poem's structure is quite limiting). I like the first stanza (:
I think I left my wallet in school today. If I can't find it tomorrow, I'll be very D: D:
(But of course for a vulnerable moment, I must wonder if they are right, if this shouldn't be done this way, if maybe, all that we're doing, I'm doing, all the hours I'm putting into this black hole of a project will be for naught - but I guess in the end, if it matters to me, it matters to me, and that's all I can really say about this. Who am I writing this for, anyway? Not them. You. Myself. The people who will be there that night.)
Another side of me is just entirely, majorly pissed off. Where do they get off thinking they can do this to us? Again and again - I don't know what's wrong with my batch, or this year, or - whatever, you know. I am quite aware that I might just be extrapolating isolated nasty incidents into a full year of hate (even in my rage, I have to second-guess myself) but this just isn't. They aren't even in this with us, okay? Go do your Arts Fest; just don't come and mess with us, not when you haven't even seen what we've done at all, what we can do.
O my love's like a black, black wasp
That stings your lips swollen;
O my love's like a cruel star
That presses close till you burn.
As fair you are, as pale your skin,
So my kisses bruise hard;
And I will not stop, my sweet,
Not till you fold like cards.
Not till you fold, crumple like cards,
With creases, dark mottled marks;
And I will have thee still, like cards
When the light bleeds into dark.
Fare thee well, this love of mine.
Fare thee well but a while.
Yet I will come again; love, mine,
Love, love stands a thousand miles.
Something modeled after Robert Burns' A Red, Red Rose, written during Lit options today because Ms. Kamsir wanted us to write a love poem. It -
bless_luna said my ... bandom influences were very obvious, but I wasn't actively trying to write about it, I don't think. It was supposed to be about destructive, obsessive love (although I don't think it's claustrophobic enough; the original poem's structure is quite limiting). I like the first stanza (:
I think I left my wallet in school today. If I can't find it tomorrow, I'll be very D: D: