tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21874617310727156232023-06-20T21:43:38.001-07:00lesson of the butterflyNicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.comBlogger36125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-21077966453242333082011-10-03T21:22:00.001-07:002011-10-03T21:24:17.238-07:00Going Homeconcrete that tastes<br />like sea salt, asphalt<br />warm like sand, a sun<br />beating down like a hand<br />on my back, pushing me<br />out the door, down the <br />street, going<br />going<br />gone.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-7274160606662548492011-09-25T14:47:00.000-07:002011-09-25T18:59:18.095-07:00The Orchidthe bloom's long withered<br />in it's place, a new leaf grows - <br />seeking tomorrow.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-15727557487177098552011-07-03T18:30:00.000-07:002011-07-03T18:31:18.263-07:00Huzzah!I've just named all of my unnamed childre- I mean, poems. A lot of them were untitled. I realize that if I don't title a poem, I don't even remember it. But if I do title a poem, I can remember what it's about.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-36914965766351306282011-07-02T20:54:00.001-07:002011-07-10T13:36:55.083-07:00BloomI sort of messed this up with two extended metaphors.<br />___________________<br /><br />I have heart strings playing to the<br />tune of your spinal chords -<br /><br />and I’m trying to cut every<br />single<br />one of them.<br /><br />The photos from my camera throat may<br />be negatives, but my chemicals just<br />develop them differently - a concoction<br />of bad memories, of nightmares and photos<br />pushed face down into the desk<br />in the middle of the night in a sweat -<br /><br />ever since the time regret started to<br />bloom like a corpse flower<br />in my chest, my words have been poisonous,<br />passive-aggressive pin pricks;<br /><br />making you sad isn’t a pastime; <br />it’s a cry for cease and desist;<br />look at the photos<br />ejecting from my lips - pretend you<br />were me tonight and see<br />them develop and<br />bloom to color in your night vision.<br /><br />You’d force my photo to the desk,<br />writhe in the uncertainty of my smile<br />and wonder just who in the world could<br />love you best, but if you're like me<br />you'd want me all the while. <br /><br />I’m not trying to make you feel guilty;<br />I know you never meant to hurt me,<br />but my love has been a sprint against a hurricane<br />and I’m trying to find the eye<br />that once smiled so warmly against the storm;<br /><br />I never had to ask the beads of sun<br />dripping through to keep me warm but<br />I never expected night to fall like lead<br />down the billowed cities,<br /><br />and I never expected the light to just<br />keep on falling past<br />the horizon -<br /><br />I've been writing a ladder<br />and trying to climb it faster<br />before my thoughts can leap<br />from the skyscrapers<br />to escape the rain;<br /><br />you can’t expect to get<br />anywhere until the night stops falling<br />but it’s impossible to wait when<br />the furnaces in your basements are exploding, and<br />fear and hate burst like fire<br />into your dark rooms because<br />there’s only so much we can take,<br />only so much we can give,<br />only so much we can hope<br />before the photos curl like<br />cocoons around us -<br /><br />I don’t know who has some<br />growing to do, but my feathers sit<br />on the cage floor like prayers<br />and I don’t feel like singing<br />so off-tune;<br /><br />it’s hard to tell yourself you<br />hopped the wrong line,<br />missed the subway doors, now<br />closing, now<br />closed.<br /><br />Now you're stuck in the storm.<br /><br />It’s hard to believe a mistake,<br />when you see one, lie in the <br />chemical bath and let the wind come<br />tear the photos<br />from their frames,<br />and realize what is really<br />on the paper once the colors fully<br />bloom<br /><br />and with the wind<br />blow away.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-42598661751732991872011-05-02T19:23:00.001-07:002011-05-02T19:23:19.527-07:00AGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!Agh.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-11226739863736616612011-05-01T21:17:00.001-07:002011-05-01T21:24:43.618-07:00A Night to RememberOsama Bin laden died<br />the 1st of May; American citizens<br />lined up in front of the White House<br />to cheer and sing - death<br />has seldom been welcomed<br />with such open hearts, fists<br />in the air, hands joined with<br />ghosts between their fingers -<br /><br />I wonder about the mothers,<br />fathers, sitting in front of their TVs<br /><br />wondering if their sons and daughters<br />can hear the chanting from their pine boxes<br /><br />sitting in the same silence -<br /><br />for this death, no Americans<br />were harmed<br /><br />and none have gone home,<br />some never will.<br /><br />I tell my father, who says “There will<br />be another nutjob to follow in his place.”<br /><br />I’m just having a hard time cheering -<br /><br />death has never made me smile -<br /><br />my fist knows everything but air<br />my fingers thinking of the<br />triggers and the dirt<br /><br />the casualties in body bags<br />the casualties marred in the retinas<br /><br />some things can’t be forgotten<br /><br />what you were doing the day<br />the World Trade Center fell<br /><br />but there are soldiers whose names<br />are worn away by the rain<br /><br />Afghan civilians whose blood<br />will become a part of the soil and all<br />my kids will learn about is the numbers<br /><br />I won’t be able to teach them<br />an Afghan mother’s tears, clutching<br />her dead baby, killed by an American<br />grenade<br /><br />I won’t be able to teach them<br />what those picket signs meant, the thoughts<br />of their holders, what Hell is, why<br />they think American soldiers will<br />go there, why God should be thanked<br />for their deaths<br /><br />I won’t be able to teach them<br />about how Korans could be<br />burned, cultures<br />marred by prejudice<br /><br />I won’t be able to teach them<br />how a child their age<br />can grow up and have a funeral<br />the entire world celebrates<br /><br />I could never, I don’t have the heart,<br />to teach them the meaning<br />of hate, of fists in the air<br />at one man’s death -<br /><br />I could never teach them every name<br />every tear<br />how I cried when my friends went off to war<br />came home from Iraq and got sent to Afghanistan a week later -<br /><br />some things don’t end<br />life is not one of them<br /><br />but never have I seen it amount to something<br />so small, and death<br />so huge<br />and if I had to tell them<br />what hate was<br /><br />I guess I could only show them this<br />fists in the air<br />screaming<br />chanting<br />singing the<br />Star Spangled Banner so loud<br />the entire world can hear<br />the power of our guns.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-29866271754793824152011-05-01T20:14:00.001-07:002011-05-01T20:14:32.693-07:00Aghhhh.AGHHHH!Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-11870436324777583182011-04-30T23:01:00.000-07:002011-05-01T12:16:04.595-07:00ReflectionCrunch time is over. Now its time for some lazy, half-asleep reflections.<br /><br />I sort of repeated a lot of motifs and themes in my poetry. I feel like a lot of my poems are saying the exact same thing but in different ways. I don't really mind much, because my mind has been a bit limited lately, due to the stress of this entire month. A lot of this poetry isn't good enough to amount to anything, but there is almost always a decent line, and I can always compile and rewrite to end up writing things truly good. <br /><br />One of the motifs were love poems. I wrote a painfully pathetic amount of love poems, and this is why: I never wrote love poems. People always asked me to write them love poems and I could so seldom do it, especially if I was in a relationship with them. I could write unrequited love poems, but never could I write love poems because I didn't want to seem foolish. I also started out this month thinking I could use this excuse to write and post public poetry to try and regain my girlfriend's affections during a small break - usually I wouldn't admit this, but I'm sort of sick of checking my words and how I appear for saying what is the truth. I've spent a lot of my life doing that and it is a habit I need to break - I do stupid stuff, I have stupid reasoning for things, sometimes my emotions are stupid, but that's pretty okay. Sometimes its just better to take a chance - usually it hurts more, but at least its a living sort of pain. Point is, love poems were always the hardest thing to write for me. They meant taking something risky and making something permanent out of it, a reminder of something I may miss one day, and in the present moment, its proclaiming something that is scary to say. 'I love you' can be a really hard thing to say, and by stretching that out into an entire poem, well, it can be really difficult. <br /><br />I also wrote un-love poems. I reflected on my past a bit this month, and I think it's because my actions and circumstances could be contemplated and reflected on in relation to my past - how to love correctly and incorrectly and all that, and also there are just a sort of process of forgiveness going on, sort of. I'm working on it, letting go and all. <br /><br />I also wrote about escape a lot - it was after realizing how little I live. <br /><br />I wrote a few gay-ish poems, some about race and such, but mostly I focused on pretty internal concepts - its hard to really broaden my view of things right now when all I can really absorb myself in are AP exams and my own personal convolutions, which have only recently made themselves apparent to me. <br /><br />Next year, I don't think I'm going to do NaPoWriMo in April. I think I'll have to hold my own little personal one in March, or at least type up all of the poems then and just post them in April. I'll figure it out then.<br /><br />Anyway, I was just glad I finished, though some of my poems were pretty lazy, but nonetheless, its better than last year, and next year will be better as well. <br /><br />Well, thats it. NaPoWriMo is over. I guess this blog will be for some ramblings in my head, and other poems. I think I need to keep up a pretty regular poetry schedule so that I keep improving. <br /><br />That was fun.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-19099703886882454072011-04-30T22:57:00.000-07:002011-07-03T18:29:25.817-07:00NaPo 30 - Letting off Steam3 MINUTES!!!!<br /><br />I've got<br />love for this life running<br />laps in my veins<br /><br />rainfall in the ecosystem of my eyes - <br />all of my emotions just come from<br />too much joy; I always know its there<br />a few inches away, I seek it everywhere<br /><br />even when I say I want to scream<br />cry<br />shriek<br />run<br /><br />its because I love this life<br />in spite of my anger and tears<br />I am a rainforest with steam rising<br />to meet the sky.<br /><br />__________________<br />YEEEEESSSSSS!!<br />it may say I posted this at 10:57, but my clock says I posted it at 12:00. <br />I have completed NaPoWriMo.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-89406282317252845842011-04-30T22:56:00.000-07:002011-07-03T18:26:42.660-07:00NaPo 29 - Love PoemI never wrote love poetry<br />then, because you can't write<br />and censor the imperfections - <br /><br />I had a lot of love<br />clasped like crunched paper<br />in my tight grasp.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-55994444166437452192011-04-30T22:48:00.000-07:002011-07-03T18:28:46.699-07:00NaPo 28 - CourageYou held my hand like a wounded bird<br />that didn't know it was hurt, feebly flapping<br />away in fear - <br /><br />I remember the imaginary stares<br />that burned into my back and my mother's <br />words, but words<br />never sounded so sweet as they did when<br />you reassured me - <br /><br />I remember waiting long after<br />the movie to kiss when the theater<br />was empty and how every movement<br />required such careful contemplation - <br /><br />what political stand was I willing to make?<br /><br />I hold your hand every day now, and that<br />bird never fully healed because its<br />fallen from different trees - know that when<br />it reaches out so timidly for you, hiding<br />from the hate letters in their typewriter<br />brains - when I managed to<br />take your hand it meant that much<br />and more - my body always means more<br />than just what it does, and some days<br />I am still in awe that I can do it -<br /><br />I'm not parading my pride anymore, there<br />are no politics in my stride, and I am still<br />that timid bird with feather fingertips but<br />I've nested myself in the sanctuary of your grip<br />for those days when I feel like the world<br />will crush me beneath the weight of <br />picket signs and crumpled hate notes.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-73792379958644943962011-04-30T22:45:00.000-07:002011-05-01T09:57:57.398-07:00NaPo 27 - Lazy HaikuI think of maybes<br />hidden in the guise: today<br />the night is so loud<br /><br />____________________Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-86053558884480285742011-04-30T22:38:00.001-07:002011-07-03T18:28:09.862-07:00NaPo 26 - Landscape of a bodyYou're like silk against my bones,<br />so light sometimes I can't feel you, <br />but all I want to do is bury my face<br />against your shoulder and inhale <br />your presence like when I was a kid and <br />would lie face down in the grass to experience<br />spring from the perspective of the blades - <br />you make me feel small, a starry speck in the sky<br />but I know I'm on fire - a romantic, tried cynic<br />but the glove didn't fit when all I want to do<br />is feel everything bared, inhale the world<br />because it's just so beautiful, a horizon that<br />needs to be remembered from the blades<br />of your shoulder to the wind that rushed<br />to clean out the dust from my broken heart<br />that day when I stared out over the mountains<br />and realized that beauty eventually makes everything<br />okay.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-67560371147508711672011-04-30T11:10:00.001-07:002011-07-03T18:27:41.133-07:00NaPo 25 - A glimpse at the pastOhmygod I am so fantastic. I've written five poems in the last half hour. my god, I am the most amazing fucking person in the world. Fuck yes. Why do I cuss a lot when I am really fucking happy with my fucking self? I am just so fucking awesome. So is my 5-minute poetry. It sucks for regular poetry, but for 5 minute poetry, I am FANTASTIC. Oh, oh, I'm going to go pull out an old poetry journal, pick a really old, bad poem of mine, and make it awesome, like me. YES. YES. YES. <br /><br />Note: I realize, my handwriting has only gotten worse as time goes on, at least when it comes to cursive. But my poetry's gotten better, so its a fair trade off. <br /><br />Note 2: So even though my cursive was better then, I can't even read it. Maybe I can just really bad handwriting. The journal I was looking through was my, not last one, but one before that, so now I'm going to the one before that. <br /><br />Note 3: I found that one and my very first serious Writing Journal ever!! Its full of fanfiction!! x3 Oh the memories. The pathetic, pathetic memories. The other one I found was from my ex. It smells so weird, and it has some reaaaallly bad whiney poetry. Ah, its just so fun looking back.<br /><br />I remember that I used to write poetry about how angry or sad I was, so when he'd come over and try to look through it, I wouldn't let him because I was afraid he'd get upset or something.<br /><br />Well, I guess that's changed - now I'm wearing my heart on my sleeve and all. I guess I sort of don't worry about it, because my emotions which get turned into poetry can't really be held accountable for what I'm actually thinking - my emotions are impulsive, but my thoughts are not. My thoughts tell me everything is going to be fine, but my emotions must get written. <br /><br />I've realized something. I NEVER fill out the last few pages of my journals. Every single one basically has a few empty pages at the back. I think its because I have this issue where I think that I need to conclude it with something awesome and then I get intimidated and just leave those pages blank. <br /><br />I feel the need to chronologize my Writing history through my journals. I will at a later date. Oh this is fun. This journal's smell is sort of sickening me though. I want to spray a ton of perfume on it or something, but I won't. I think that would be some sort of metaphor for sugarcoating the entire, I don't know, period of my life. Okay, I'm going to post something.<br /><br />Oh look, little me was so clever. <br />_______________________________<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Poetry</span><br /><br />Prose<br />on<br />a<br />Diet<br />_____________________<br /><br />A regular William Carlos Williams, eh? Best thing in that entire journal, and I am not kidding.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-87699151575085534662011-04-30T11:05:00.000-07:002011-07-03T18:27:23.144-07:00NaPo 24 - SuccessWords around me ring of success, quantifiable<br />just as much as it is buyable, at the cost of<br />incomplete dreams, perfection, when all that is<br />real is imperfection, and all we want<br />is to dance down dirt roads and find truth <br />in the dust that makes its home on our skin, kicked up<br />by our sub-par moves, but we've got a rhythm <br />when no one is watching us, when no<br />pupil can carpe our diem, only <br />rain puddles to splash in,, rippling<br />funhouse mirrors<br /><br />Sometimes the most success you can quantify<br />is how high you can jump<br />and I have a record of a bajillion feet.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-7246225946261630592011-04-30T11:02:00.000-07:002011-04-30T12:34:59.118-07:00NaPo 23 - PhonyWe've all got our Jane Gallaghers;<br />the ones we think of when we think<br />of genuine - <br /><br />well, sometimes we just have ourselves. <br /><br />_______________________<br />Oh lame. Catcher in the Rye references, again. Lazy poet is lazy.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-11364200035502611822011-04-30T10:57:00.000-07:002011-04-30T12:34:45.547-07:00NaPo 22 - Just thoughtsOh my god, writing poems is so easy once you're on a roll.<br /><br />Jesus, what is it with me and moths?<br /><br />___________________________________<br /><br />Your voice claws its way up my spine<br />a million thoughts away and its times <br />like this that I think of happiness, and<br />my fingers that spell 'everything but' down<br />my temples, and how it screams<br />only of car motors, different State's dialects<br />a black endless carpet to dance along<br />to the farthest corners of the Earth<br /><br />but it's just easier to sit here<br />whispers in my ear<br />than letting everything break loose -<br /><br />running down the street screaming<br />the thousand screams I've kept quiet.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-27274108871517493292011-04-30T10:55:00.000-07:002011-04-30T12:34:30.065-07:00NaPo 21 - DelightLies licked my lips with silence -<br /><br />I enjoyed my personal secrets, but<br />we all want to confess our<br />depravities, our<br />epiphanies<br />that creep up our spine like<br />caterpillars and wing away like<br />moths beating themselves<br />against the lamplight<br /><br />in the glare of truth<br />and scorn.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-3014015629945894162011-04-30T10:48:00.000-07:002011-04-30T12:34:05.628-07:00NaPo 20 - FaceTake me for my imperfections, my<br />neurotic fingers, my brain racing<br />back and forth along my paranoias <br />like my fingertips along your skin - <br /><br />I love the strangest<br />things, the mountain horizon<br />of vertebrae and the way your<br />face curves to meet your neck, and <br />the breath beneath - it's easy to love<br />pieces, but you're notes on a piano<br />put together in a symphony, synesthesia of <br />beauty, and your eyelashes tickle my cheeks <br />like stars when I hold you close enough<br />and I know what I mean when I think of how<br />there are so few faces like yours.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-38566144459991226262011-04-30T10:42:00.000-07:002011-04-30T12:33:49.680-07:00NaPo 19 - SweetIts the last day of NaPoWriMo and I'm 14 days behind. Ooh, a challenge. <br />__________________________________<br /><br />I'm thinking of throwing clementines<br />at your house, instead of rocks.<br /><br />The drive wouldn't be the hardest part<br />but rather making myself throw something<br />sweet your way instead of skipping the <br />stones you've embedded in me against your<br />white waters<br /><br />maybe then<br />you'd learn to smile<br />with a bit of orange peel<br />pulling back your broken lips.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-64089972587223952602011-04-28T21:37:00.001-07:002011-04-30T12:33:21.415-07:00NaPo 18 - EpiphanyI don't care if I'm 15 poems behind. I'm doing this. <br /><br />_____<br /><br />The light rail is bad luck.<br /><br />His voice crashed into my head, the city lights<br />burned the words into my retinas - I never<br />warranted the words I had embedded<br />like shrapnel into my skin - though<br />I seldom do.<br /><br />Sleepers surrounded me in the 1 A.M.<br />voyage, but my mind awoke that night<br />to all the startling realities of my recent<br />life -<br /><br />I was tired<br />of sleeping.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-71608908840095741692011-04-27T17:17:00.000-07:002011-04-27T19:58:40.078-07:00Angry poet is angry. NaPo 15, 16, 17I am not going to fail. I don't care if I have to write crappy, short poems. This is going to happen. <.< (I've already written over 30 poems, but I want to POST 30 poems. Some of mine are unpostable, so I must continue.) I am going to kick NaPoWriMo's ass for being in April. <br /><br />Angry poems! <br /><br />___________________________________<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Anywhere but Here<br /></span><br /><br />It's been a year since I've felt<br />the napalm time bombs under my writhing<br />skin, brain screeching with the same<br />neurotic clumsiness, tripping over my<br />feet with every step, thinking the floor<br />is falling out from underneath - <br /><br />I've got moths in my brain, chewing up my<br />idea of home, burning holes into the photos<br />of everything genuine - everything is<br />phony, <br /><br />but silence sits on my skin like shower mist,<br />sitting in the bathtub drained empty, my will<br />to fight drained empty - I need to <br />move<br /><br />catch a plane to somewhere hot,<br />or cold<br />or sunny<br />or rainy<br />or<br />just anywhere but here<br /><br />because the buzzing is too loud here<br />I don't know where to land here, there's no<br />pond here, I need to<br /><br />wing away, fly south<br /><br />but I've got heavy bones<br />and clipped wings, though<br />my skin screams for everything<br />away from this. <br />_____________________________________<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Growth</span><br />My ribs don't fit right anymore, they've<br />shrunk and fall from my spine, pick-up sticks, my spinal<br />chords sound like a dirge for another me, left<br />in the leaves; how many skins<br />do I have to shed before one fits my<br />shifting bones?<br /><br />___________________________________<br /><br />Every moment is one<br />of preparation, contemplation,<br />like its as simple as crossing<br />the street, opening that door,<br />one step followed by more, a border<br />crossed into anonymity - <br /><br />I'm just so bored.<br /><br />I want to drink life from puddles<br />so close to death I can live, I can't<br />live here, where I'm drowning in<br />silicon - that sidewalk<br />across the street<br />isn't so far away. California<br />isn't so far away, or New Mexico, or<br />anywhere.<br /><br />It's just a matter of getting off the curb.<br /><br />I won't need to hear a single name to<br />remind me of where I've been - each<br />sounds like a lie, my name<br />could be Sylvia Plath, but without the<br />oven; this is not about<br />dying - its about living down a path<br />to nowhere, like a dog running from<br />animal control, I'm losing<br />control, ready to plunge into the chaos<br />of myself, snip the puppet strings, sever the<br />heart chords, smash the alignment on pavement<br />like that Hendrix guy - <br /><br />that crash is music<br /><br />and there is no music here, no voices<br />singing like they used to, just letters,<br />numbers, English class<br /><br />27. a, 28. g, <br /><br />36. n <br />37. e <br />38. e <br />39. d<br /><br />40. t <br />41. r <br />42. u <br />43. t <br />44. h<br /><br />I can't stand this monotony, its ticking in my <br />brain, run run run run run run run<br />run run run run<br />run run run run run<br /> run run run RUN run run run RUN<br />RUN RUN run RUN<br /><br />step.<br /><br />That's the hardest part.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-29151859577329136852011-04-20T09:31:00.001-07:002011-04-20T09:37:45.773-07:00NaPo 14 - How to BeApril is too stressful. next year, I'm going to have a personal NaPoWriMo in March where its an actually feasible task. <br /><br />A stone - a <br />stagnance in a storm, not<br />soft, but sweet - a river<br />pebble in the mouth, lasting<br />loving in the way<br />that only a stone can love<br />water caressing it so<br />soft<br />soft<br />soft<br />like whispers of words<br />quiet, words <br />without vocal chords,<br /><br />so stagnantly, it <br />sighs<br />when against the desert sand.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-55055468275760924342011-04-17T21:26:00.000-07:002011-04-17T21:28:17.019-07:00NaPo 13 - RespectOhnoohnoohno I'm so behind!!<br /><br />On Thursday I went to a poetry workshop during school held by Art From Ashes <3 artfromahes.org<br /><br />We were given 3 minutes to write a poem describing respect with all different senses. When I shared it, people seemed pretty pleased with it. Personally, I think it's a bit cheesy, but what the hell. Here it is. XD<br />_________________________________________<br /><br />Respect<br /><br />There are lilacs in my throat from being told<br />I’m sacred soil to all of the right people, whose<br />love goes down like honey when I’m sick<br />of all the silence - it rings out in a clamor<br />of tambourines, slicing through the heavy<br />silence; music lifts into the sky like fire<br />warming my frozen hands, cold from<br />their frigid glares - but respect can be so<br />clear, colorless, sitting on my skin like<br />rain water dripping and sliding back<br />into the earth.<br /><br />We’ve risen from this same soil, and when<br />we return, I want to be holding hands<br />with those that know the meaning of<br />respect.Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2187461731072715623.post-54321764272006231122011-04-13T18:38:00.000-07:002011-07-18T01:23:05.577-07:00NaPo 11/12 - A Bird in the HandAfter some disquiet contemplation...<br /><br />Blogspot messes with the format, so here's a <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/pub?id=1HnOw19RRP14wvRA3NhH-G7O__puJUtHVM7PwNyhKIYc">link to the poem.</a><br /><br />It's actually two poems which I debated having stand alone, but they work better together. <br /><br />~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454106625441819953noreply@blogger.com0