In the winter
Everything inside me is itching for this holiday break. I keep losing my brain. When I speak these days she decides to slip down my spine, cordially and pompously leave out the nearest exit, and return always fashionably late. Without a warning or even a good-bye I'm left in a mental rabble. She knows I need her too- the escape occurs at the most opertune times for destruction; while taking exams, talking to important figureheads, loving a friend, speaking spanish, and worst of all while I study.
Other then that misplacement, I have these secrets these days. Things I'd like to do to change the world. I think to myself, these secrets I have, if I could just live here and study there then like a key in a lock, exploration, adventure, love, compassion, such other dreams would be fully achieved. Like a cryptic code I would be able to unlock mysteries. My heart and mind perfectly in step. I'm crazy about the things I could learn and reteach to others. For now, I pray. I pray and I hope. Most of the time, if not all the time. Thinking hard with universal midnight strangers, the crack of light beneath my bedroom door reflects the silence of my heart. The air in the morning is cold, mechanical, metal. My sheets are always the same. Warm only where my body lays, smelling "like the ghost of a bicycle". Every morning my school, a blueprint for adolescent insecurities and loneliness, experiences it's own folding of wounds. These days, with it's walls bleeding the weather's own pain, it watches it's students like a provacteuar. Raising it's own rabble rousing trouble makers. He holds their secrets and their delights. The soft young tangled couples and reclusive soldiers. Paper dolls and needle men. All graded papers thrown about, half used pens, and whatever grim and grime seems to find itself on the concrete pathways to the blue and white tile classrooms. Through out the day time doesn't seem to past fast enough. People talk and benevolence is stomped on. Once away, I take heart against the given machine, though never fully with the expression of contentment. I make a strong attempt. On the occasions this is what happens. I am able to cut the backbiting and hello, I am a brave, brave girl. I try not fight and I try not lie. I write. I dream. Music. Freedom. Everything and anything cliche at 17 in my bedroom I do. I dance and I sew. I read from favorite authors and poems. My own operas and symphonies pour out of my pen. And I'm in love with everything that was given as a gift that day, the changes and future. I become even more in love with my maker. And in those secret cases I'm comforted. My only road blocks are public necessities and the traps of the past. Because of it's rarity I've discovered contentment is a tricky thing. The fragility of it rubs away against others like sand paper. Though in the midnight hours I know I can sing. I shed my winter clothes and shakes the leaves off. I hope to share these midnight hours again with someone. I hope for you to see me soon my skin covered warmly with happiness.
Other then that misplacement, I have these secrets these days. Things I'd like to do to change the world. I think to myself, these secrets I have, if I could just live here and study there then like a key in a lock, exploration, adventure, love, compassion, such other dreams would be fully achieved. Like a cryptic code I would be able to unlock mysteries. My heart and mind perfectly in step. I'm crazy about the things I could learn and reteach to others. For now, I pray. I pray and I hope. Most of the time, if not all the time. Thinking hard with universal midnight strangers, the crack of light beneath my bedroom door reflects the silence of my heart. The air in the morning is cold, mechanical, metal. My sheets are always the same. Warm only where my body lays, smelling "like the ghost of a bicycle". Every morning my school, a blueprint for adolescent insecurities and loneliness, experiences it's own folding of wounds. These days, with it's walls bleeding the weather's own pain, it watches it's students like a provacteuar. Raising it's own rabble rousing trouble makers. He holds their secrets and their delights. The soft young tangled couples and reclusive soldiers. Paper dolls and needle men. All graded papers thrown about, half used pens, and whatever grim and grime seems to find itself on the concrete pathways to the blue and white tile classrooms. Through out the day time doesn't seem to past fast enough. People talk and benevolence is stomped on. Once away, I take heart against the given machine, though never fully with the expression of contentment. I make a strong attempt. On the occasions this is what happens. I am able to cut the backbiting and hello, I am a brave, brave girl. I try not fight and I try not lie. I write. I dream. Music. Freedom. Everything and anything cliche at 17 in my bedroom I do. I dance and I sew. I read from favorite authors and poems. My own operas and symphonies pour out of my pen. And I'm in love with everything that was given as a gift that day, the changes and future. I become even more in love with my maker. And in those secret cases I'm comforted. My only road blocks are public necessities and the traps of the past. Because of it's rarity I've discovered contentment is a tricky thing. The fragility of it rubs away against others like sand paper. Though in the midnight hours I know I can sing. I shed my winter clothes and shakes the leaves off. I hope to share these midnight hours again with someone. I hope for you to see me soon my skin covered warmly with happiness.