You absolutely take my breath away. I would try to convey the sense of it, but this is one of those rare moments when words themselves feel too hollow and thin...

darling, I am aching and I don’t know why
seems like I dug this giant hole and now I can’t climb out
seems like I fell through a rip in the fabric of the night
seems like I’ve wandered off the path
in a wood where I don’t belong.
i'm going crazy.
there's no way around it...
...i'm mad about you.
the sun doesn’t shine on foreign lands
because they've never been kissed
by your footprints

love it when you get so nervous that everything you say becomes one big long incomprehensible word and you don't pause for breath. it's cute.

SHE'S JUST THIS SIDE OF CRAZY, YES, BUT IT'S A BRILLIANT KIND OF CRAZY, THE KIND THAT WILL EITHER GO DOWN IN FLAMES HER FIRST SEMESTER OR CHANGE THE WORLD.

We had to create erasers to fool ourselves into thinking all our mistakes are not permanent =\

Ambiguity should be abolished. Everything should be black and white from here on out. Because I can't take the spaces in between that won't fill beyond grey.
And I'm driving myself crazy. It's just the way it was before, the way I expected it to be. I've never hated being right before. But now I do. Now I do.
And I don't even want to think about it at all. But then again I do. I do.
I dwell on it. Obsess. I grasp onto your name in conversation. Just so I can repeat it myself. It's pathetic and masochistic. But that's what I do to myself. That's what I do.

Wrote this last night on a napkin -- call it inspiration...

So sit by my side and hold my hand as I fall asleep
And my hair shading my eyes
And I babble like a child
Rubbing my face with balled fists
Smudging the paint
Just hold on tight to my hand
Because I'm not ready to wake up yet
I'm not ready to go
And I'm not ready to fly away
So hold on to my hand hold on tight
Keep me safe keep me warm
Until I fall asleep
Run your fingers through my hair
And hold on tight to my hand as I open-my-eyes-slow ask-you
Didyousaysomething
And whisper-quiet-gentle and give me back to sleep
Like a child
Hold on tight to my hand
Just hold on tight hold on tight

Well... it was necessary to be the 17 year old chick that I am and post another quiz... those very few who know anything about my "love life" might agree ;) haha

What Kind of Relationship is Right For You?

Am I happy?
No, I’m complacent, but I’m not happy.
I’m happy sometimes.
But I hate a lot of things about my life.
I hate my parents, how they don’t understand, how they yell at me about my bedtime and stuff like that. They don’t get it. I am under so much pressure, I am doing so much and all they can see is that my bedroom floor is dirty. I hate how I have to follow their stupid rules.
I hate how I cannot make myself work hard even though I want to. I hate how I am probably going to burn out soon. I hate how I never study or read the sections or do the homework.
I hate how I didn’t make the tennis team, because I failed off. I hate how I want to be good at sports so I’m not just an academic. But I’m not good at sports.
I hate how I have no self confidence.
I hate how nothing I do will ever be as good as I want it to be.
I hate how I look in the mirror and hate what I see.
I hate how I give up on things. I hate how I quit calc-ap. I hate how I quit work. I hate how I’m still beating myself up over both of those things.
I hate how I waste my time.
I hate how I want something so big that I cannot even define it.
I hate how I’m not going to get into the sort of college I want. I hate how even if I do I won’t be able to pay for it.
I hate how my family isn’t close. I hate how we are all pulling in different directions.
I hate how I cannot sing. I hate how I cannot dance.
I hate how I am never going to find someone. I hate how I am obsessing about that.
I hate how people who don’t even know me hate me.
I hate how I don’t trust my instincts. I hate how I don’t think I can do the things I want to do.

But I need to know, will you stay for all time, forever and a day? And I will give my heart, til the end of all time, forever and a day...

Something to keep in mind when you start to stumble over all the rocks and pebbles on the path, when it becomes harder and harder to see that tinge of purple just over the crest of that one last hill, that whispered the hint of glory of the setting sun and the rising night, of that beauty and tranquility and peace, when it becomes hard to see that I think this is a good thing to bear in mind: It's good to have an end to journey toward, but it's the journey that matters in the end.

And I'm only a phonecall away.

The truest line ever written...
“At 4:14, everything is beautiful.” - Ryuko Somekawa.

Irish Setter
Miss Farnan
English 9H
June 3, 2002
Hooked on Ebonics

"Ah 'on know what homey be doin." This is a sample sentence in Ebonics, also known as "Black English". Ebonics has become an icon of youth culture. It is also a topic of debate, after the Oakland, California School Decision of declaring Ebonics a separate language, worthy of classroom use (Rickford 1). Many linguists also reflect whether Ebonics is a dialect of Standard English, or its own separate language. The use of Ebonics in schools in controversial because the language is often associated with urban problems such as poverty and lack of education.

The term Ebonics was first introduced in a book called: Ebonics: The True Language of Black Folks, By Robert L. Williams. The term was defined by Williams as "the linguistic and paralinguistic features which on a concentric continuum represents the communicative competencee of the West African, Caribbean, and United States idioms, patois, argots, ideolects, and social forces of black people" (Williams 11). The name Ebonics derives from ebony, (black) and phonics, (sound, the study of sound) (Rickford 2). The term refers to the study of the language of black people in all its cultural uniqueness. "The single biggest mistake people make about AAVE is dismissing it as careless, or lazy speech, where anything goes. As with all spoken languages, AAVE is extremely regular, rule-governed, and systematic." (Rickford 2). Although Ebonics has some distinctive lexical items such as homey and crib, much of what people know from rap and hip-hop and other popular black culture is slang. There are many grammatical features present in Ebonics, and the construction is quite complex. The double negative, negative inversion, and zero third person present tense -s forms can be found frequently when observing the systematicity of Ebonics (Hall 3). Many people are under the misconception that Black street-wise teenagers are the only speakers of Ebonics. On the contrary, a significant number of Whites, Hispanics, and Asian Americans who live and work closely together speak dialects that can be characterized as "Black English".

Whether Ebonics is a dialect of English, or a language itself is a regular topic of debate between linguists. Usually the term dialect has negative connotations, implying that it is not a complete language. "Whether you call it call it Ebonics, Black dialect, or African-American language system with roots in West Africa. This West African language system evolved as a creative response to slavery and oppression and is a systematic, rule-governed language in its own right, not simply a substandard version of English." (Hall 1). Some linguists begin with the assumption that Ebonics is a language because it is a coherent communication system. However, linguists define languages politically and culturally, as well as by degree of comprehension. Linguists use a rule saying that two people use the same language or dialects of that language if they can understand what each other is saying. (Hall 2). If they can't communicate, they are speaking different languages. Linguist Dennis Baron states, "Most linguists, myself included, think of Black English, or African American Vernacular English (AAVE) as a dialect of English. It may exhibit some features derived from African languages, but it is readily recognizable and understandable as English." (Baron 1). By treating Ebonics as an independent language, Afro-centrists may see political and cultural advantages. Others believe that by segregating Ebonics as its own language, lingual and social barriers will be erected permanently between different ethnicities.

Although Ebonics has been around since the 1970's, few people have heard about it before December 18th, 1996. On this date, the Oakland California School Board unanimously passed a resolution declaring Ebonics to be the "genetically-based" language of its African American students, worthy of classroom use (Hall 2). The school board called Ebonics, "a separate language derived from African linguistic roots, with heavy borrowings from English vocabulary." (Baron 1). The goal was to imply a program using Ebonics to enhance academic achievement of Black children. The idea of building their self-esteem was prominent. They believed if you taught at the students' level, confidence and success would thrive (Hall 3). Many educators believed that they must explore and experiment with various culturally sensitive pedagogies like Ebonics, in order to build self-esteem and raise educational standards for black children, who generally have lower test and reading scores compared to the general student population. (Rickford 1) "Self-esteem can never be manufactured with such bogus curricula. Cultural pride is far less important than skills, discipline, and the high expectations of teachers and parents" (Hall 2). The members of the school board in California had no idea that their actions would receive national attention. Most of the nations reaction was extremely negative and did not support newly developed learning methodology (Rickford 2). Although encouraging "home speech" at school maybe a method of improving academic performance, there are other possible solutions. "If we look at such educators as Marva Collins, whose work with inner city youth has resulted in high achievement, we can see that her emphasis on academic skill, personal discipline and her demands that black students achieve in order to uplift themselves are more in line with what inner city students need from their schools" (Baron 4). This supports the argument that minorities need self-esteem that comes through well-deserved achievement, not the stereotypical delusions being foisted upon inner city school children by certain educators. The primary difficulty with the new solution that Oakland School systems are offering is that there is no adequate proof that their theories will achieve the results they are looking for (Hall 3).

Without a doubt, whenever the term "Ebonics" is mentioned disputation and controversy are sure to follow. Is Ebonics its own language, or a dialect of standard English? Would using Ebonics in an inner city classroom environment serve as a prevailing teaching mechanism? Will translating into "Black English" raise test scores and self-esteem? The explanations to these questions shall remain unanswered, but until then, "I'm out yo".

Ever notice how sometimes people just scare you?

Because something happened to distance--it stretched, but somehow there's no room for you anymore.

Something happened to sound--the noise crashing your ears is deafening, but somehow your screams are silent, unheard. Something happened to sight--though you can see for miles and miles through a dense cloak of fog, you are invisible to the people standing right next to you.

...and you want to ask them why, but you know that will only make it bleed more.
...and you wonder if that really is the only way for them to feel more alive.

And you wonder what they're missing out on.
And you wonder if YOU'RE missing.

And you wonder if you're only a good kid because you've never had the opportunity to be bad. You wonder if, given that chance, would you take it? You wonder if, with that much to risk, would you still try to fly, even if it meant you would fall, plummetting down, a stone dressed as a man, splintering on impact, would you jump?

Or would you be safe AND sorry?

You wonder, would you ever know?

But somehow…

I just don’t know anymore. I just don’t know. I’ve realized just how often I say that now. And I don’t remember up. Which way is it? Because I don’t think gravity is working for me anymore. It’s just not doing like it used to. It’s just not fulfilling its purpose anymore. It’s just leaving me empty, hollowed, unfulfilled. I feel broken. Maybe that’s it. Maybe somebody dropped me and all the little pieces of me-ness all fell out and now I’m scrambling around, crawling on the floor, trying to sort out which is which among the cobwebs and dust heaps, which is yours or mine what I need what I want and what I can do without. Maybe somebody dropped me hard onto a cold floor; maybe gravity does work after all. And I shattered.

China glass, painted careful brush-strokes, roses blooming at the tip of the wet brush, careful, thin as a shell, beautiful but cracked, oh cracked. Maybe I am porcelain and I should not have let myself be handled so rough. Maybe I should pack me up in swaths of soft and box me up and wait, wait, wait for gentle hands to come and use me tender, because I can’t be handled so rough. I’m too fragile, love—I’ll break. Maybe I am porcelain and maybe I am cracked.

Maybe I should pack myself up and wait the slow dropping years until somebody who knows how to handle with care. Maybe then, love, may be.

Maybe I should light firecrackers in my room. Let them explode all over my life.

It’s funny, strange, to be so fed up with life and all its hassles and yet so unendingly hungry for more. Thirsty for more, more, more. I’m drinking it up by the gallon and still my mouth is dry, my throat parched, I thirst for more. Is this nectar that I taste? Sugar, sweet sweet honey on my lips? Or is it the wretched bile spitting putrescence from a hundred hungry empty mouths?

Is this what I signed on for, love?

Is this what I have come here for, walked all these long and barefoot miles, over rock and snow and desert, cut up my feet to tender bleeding fleshy ribbons, love? Is this what I came here for?

the mindless comfort grows when i’m alone with my “GREAT” plans.
this is what she says gets her through it:
“if i don’t let myself be happy now then when?”
IF NOT NOW WHEN?
when the time we have now ends. when the big hand goes around again.
CAN YOU STILL FEEL THE BUTTERFLIES?
-->“for me this is heaven”<--

I’m not ready to die, love, to come crashing down in flames. Just tell me your hands are there reaching out to break my fall, and I’ll have courage. I’ll leap off that cliff and never look down. Never look down once.

Do you believe in what you want?

Written by HI/HJ#1...
"the origination of J.V (junior varsity that is) a long long time ago..there was a young lad named Jamie O'Vogt..what a little hitler let me tell you. Anyways this young lad was trying out for the irish football team, but the thing was, he sucked (literally), he was one legged, and he played like a girl but he had some connections with the "THRILLERY" mafia so there was no way he could be cut..i mean we didnt want any one hurt..so we came up with another team..the J.V team (jamie vogt team) but for reasons of confidentiality they said it was the (junior varsity team)..unfortunetly although jamie made the cut and played J.V..someone did get hurt..Oopsies..."

And as my well dries, ladies and gentlemen, I bid you farewell. My day of creativity and this burst of energy has come to an end, and I can go to sleep satisfied in knowing that I am a writer. But...

I am not a poet, not any more
My quill has withered, along with my mood.
My rhyme is dried as an old well
My lips are cracked, thirsting for art
Inspiration has forgotten my name.


It’s a sad thing, to hang up my name
Scribbled in the corners of pages
Even worse is my past work
Small, young, trivial.
Tiny talent to cover monumental emotion.
I don’t feel now,
But only lie awake numb
Sleeping throughout the day,
As I shake my hands,
Make absent eye contact
As people pass.


I only pain now,
Soft and quiet and aching
An old injury in the rain
I’m sagging now, weighed by this retirement.


I am not a poet, not while the rains persist inside
The storms consume my every thought
Control my movements, stifle my opportunities


I am beaten now, young but wrinkled
Gnarled, thirsting, and numb.

You make me dizzy. Hate catching you looking at me. And wondering if you're looking at me. Or looking through me.

--Right before they decided to open their big fat ignorant mouth.
What are you trying to prove?
It's over and gone
I've got to move
on
Ever had the desire to physically choke someone to keep their words from coming out.
Do you think you're Jesus Christ?
That you'll make everything right?
Because you won't.
I hate when people try to make things better when I know they can't.
I know better.
I know better than that.
Because I know
that you can't break glass
and tape it back together
and expect the cracks
not to show

I feel world-weary.

I hate hearing people talk because in the chattering sounds like little monkeys they make everything is trivial and trite. And words themselves are inadequate because nobody seems to know how to melt them down and mold them into the shapes we want to convey. We’ve misplaced the giant scissors that once cut the fabric of conversation so intricately. We’ve forgotten the location of the master kiln in which all great oratory was once fired. Words are crippled because we cut off their wings.

I hate hearing people talk because it’s as though we have all forgotten about the vastness of space in layers and hints of grey that lies in that endless expanse somewhere between “good” and “bad.” We have forgotten about degrees and superlatives and all the other little pencil marks that shade in the gaps in conversation. We’ve all forgotten how to use words. We’ve forgotten how to talk, forgotten how to write, forgotten how to manage a beast of our own personal creation.

I hate how inane and mindless the society of other human beings is. We fake concern and interest pull a smile out of our pocket paste it on and parade it around the crowded party room then peel it off when we go home at night to a cold and lonely empty bed and cry ourselves to sleep. Your eyes are lined and weary and when you laugh it sounds like crying but you pull out that smile and walk it around the circus ground so that nobody sees the sadness lurking behind those eyes, hiding amongst your teeth so white and show so fully when you smile but when you smile you have to bite your lip to hold back the tears. You need something just like I do you need it and you know it because it’s eating you up inside but the knowledge is eating you up worse.

I’m so tired I’m falling asleep sitting up. I’m so tired I’m yawning and my eyes are watering after first call, so tired I’m dead on my feet and I think I might pass out in the middle of my match, so tired I can’t feel my hands, so tired I almost forget to be nervous, forget how. But I’m not ready to give in yet. I’m not going to give in. I’m so tired my lids are lead weights dragging down my moist eyes and I’m smothering yawns with soft fluffy pillows at the service line. But I’m not ready to give in yet. So I run the tired out of me, run it out, run it out, until I’m truly tired, until I’ve earned the right to feel weary and a medal that says first place and two points toward a league championship. I’m not ready to give in to the things that are dragging me down, not yet, not yet, so don’t you let it pull you under either.

Nobody knows anything anymore. Everyone’s answer is always I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. We’re all floundering around in some dark that’s heavy, perfumed, and thick as it is black and it’s stifling us, pressing down like a blanket over your mouth and you can’t breathe, can’t breathe, and you don’t know, don’t know. Well the answers are out there somewhere, shining pennies on the ground, dropped there by some hand that finds coins too jangly, shining stars up in the sky, thrown there by someone who cut those pieces of white glass and made them sparkle crazy to light up the world and put those stars in our night so that we can be safe and warm when it’s dark and cold and the sharp knife edge of the night is cutting down, biting tight and deep into your throat. The answers are out there somewhere, now go out and find them. The answers are out there waiting for you.
Waiting, like me.

I keep having conversations with people in my head. Planning out what I want to say or what I should have said and how they’d respond. Inside of my head I can get all the words to go right and proper, fit into the holes I made for them. But in practice I keep screwing up and it doesn’t come out the way I mind-rehearsed. In my head I know what I want to tell you and the right way to put it, but then when the time comes I find the words are too carefully planned out and neatly filed, too glossy and manicured for me to force them out.

In my head I say I really like you but if you don’t, and if you’re not ready, well, then that’s okay, too, because I like being friends with you almost as much.

I keep visualizing the way things should go in my head. Playing out scenes like it’s a show on stage and we’ve got the lines memorized, the blocking down. Inside of my head I know exactly what it is I want to do, wish I could, what I’ve been waiting for. But in practice I keep missing the chance or losing my nerve because as slick and easy as it is in the cellophane wrappings of my dreams, somehow when it’s all been un-wrapped it turns out that it doesn’t fit me quite right.

I keep turning things over inside of my head. Around and around, examining every angle, trying to find some way that looks clear enough to draw a picture of, to photograph into my memory. I stay up past six in the morning past my alarm going off so that I can finish so that I can see how it ends. And maybe they’re all on the way to what will make them happy, just as lost as the rest of us. And they can’t build a bridge out of the words they don’t say. And neither can we. I keep having conversations with people in my head. Planning out what I should have said now that it’s too late.

And I keep trying to laugh because life is funny.

I just finished having one of the most refreshing and promising conversations I've had in a long time. We really need to start the, "Embarassed Writers That Really Shouldn't Be Embarassed (EWTRSEB) Club". You have a gift, and you know it, and I'm glad we both decided to get the guts to really bare our souls to each other, even for 45 minutes or so, tonight. But maybe we just felt so much for each other and understood each other to such a degree because we think alike, and have so many similar views. Honestly though, everyone needs to see some of their work, and feel for it, and enjoy it like I did. Unfortunately, horrible AIM+ deleted all but one of the poems, so I'll have to ask for the other ones again ;). Comment, you bitches.



Tuesdays

I would lay in bed with a grin painted across my face on Monday nights,
Because I knew that tomorrow I would see you again.
Dreams would fill my head of the conversations we would share,
And my imagination would wrap tightly around me and become my beloved security
blanket.
The blanket that I would desperately yearn for during my adolescent years.



The memories of you once held a smell, a smell that doesn't satisfy me today.
The distinguishable scent of Chanel perfume, which would automatically trigger complete Utopia.
Such a radiant character, you were my angel in disguise.


There is not a word existing that describes the role you played in my life,
Or the depth of the incredible impact you have stamped on my persona.
Stains of my youthful tear drops will constantly blemish my freckled skin,
Because reflecting on memories reminds me of what I miss with every breath that fills my lungs.



Your enchanting presence filled the room from floor to ceiling.
Everyone wanted to know you, and be associated with such a fine jewel.
Not many are privileged enough to have known such an intelligent, genuine soul.
The magic you brought into my life will never be replaced nor removed.


I was so proud to have you as mine, for I held the greatest bragging rights.
Unconsciously you taught me more than my capacity could handle,
And in me you instilled
the passion for education, friendship, and love.



For this I am ever thankful, when laying in my bed every weeknight,
Hoping that tomorrow when I wake up

…It'll be Tuesday.

If you actually listen to people and absorb the things they have to say, instead of tuning them out, changing your frequency, allowing their words to wash over you, like waves in the ocean, if you actually listen to them, you realize that they exist in more than just three, neat, linearly-defined dimensions.

They've all got their own past history snaking off into a murky foggy beyond that your eyes will never behold but which they can see ever so clearly. They all have first loves and long last kisses goodbye, pages and pages of "IF"--if, if, if--, what-might-have-been, the turns they missed that they now regret, faces and voices so clear to them, echoing in the hallowed passageways of time gone by.

Everyone is packing a whole house-full of people they know and love and hate and miss and worry about and wonder why life treated them so unkind and if they are happy and if it was worth it. Everyone is carrying around hundreds of places they'd rather be, like postcards from another life, of what-might-have-been, valentines from all they loved before and do now or wish they could and find they can't because the spaces of the years, the pages in this book hold just as many ugly and unwanted snapshots, sometimes more.

Everyone can wiggle their ears or fold their tongue into a four-leaf-clover do the twist sing the national anthem speak yiddish knit scarves graduate second in their class and another million secret things that they hide in the back of their closets things that drop your jaw when they take them out shake the dust off and let you see. Things that sparkle even when the light doesn't hit them.

Everyone has volumes of words they wish they had swallowed, choked down instead of spitting out their poison venomous worms that burn holes like acid into your heart.

And they carry cherished volumes more of the ones they wish they had said set free like birds like doves to soar above our heads and calm the skies of all their grey unrest all the please and the wait and i'm sorry and i miss you and i love you all that magic that they hid inside themselves stars locked up in a cage of black what-might-have-been.

Everyone has a road that they are following that will take them wherever it is they want to go and some of us are going to stray off the path and get lost in the woods and some will be guided back by the lights and the anxious voices of the search parties and others will just disappear fade into their own prison of unhappiness and some will climb high mountains scaling tremendous peaks and some will falter too scared to fly or cut their feet upon the rock and they'll shy away and crawl in the shadow of what-might-have-been.

The road that you follow and the one life has taken me have met up for this moment and though they might lead us different ways in the end and the miles of years may alter everything else, just know that here and now you are my friend and you'll always be and don't let today or tomorrow have to dwell in the shadowy depths of the caves of what-might-have-been.

Don't let the words you want to say now fall silent and empty on your pillow late at night in the murky future that awaits us somewhere in the foggy world that lies beyond these classroom walls.

Don't let your star shine in secret but bring it out into the day so that you can be the sun in someone's life warming their heart with your smile.

Don't let it be too late.