I Think This Might Be Done For a While

I need to find beauty in something to write. Even if what I'm writing about is ugly, it takes the acknowledgment of beauty found elsewhere for me to be able to write a poem, or a short story, or a script, or anything. Everything just looks gross to me, these days. The world is overflowing with gross things, and I don't believe there's any human brave enough, or any collection of humans large enough, to ever stop it. What's the point in writing about that? Everyone is miserable, and they're right to be. That's all there is left to say.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love All Three Hobbit Movies

I think we reading-enthusiasts might do well to develop a different attitude when it comes to movies that are based upon beloved books. Because we tend to go into frankly disturbing levels of rage when a film commits the unconscionable sin of deviating from a previously established storyline, to the point where we apparently feel like the book itself has been insulted by said changes.

But films based upon books are just that: Based on them. The book serves as the base, the initial inspiration, and from that, the filmmakers essentially do whatever they want. We act as though it’s the duty of the filmmakers to represent the book as faithfully as possible, but that’s ridiculous, because the book represents itself. A truly good book doesn’t need a movie to do the representing, it’s doing just fine on its own, thanks. The filmmakers are taking the most base elements of a book, and using those elements to create something. That’s why it says “Based on the book by Suchandsuch Whathaveyou” and not, “Painstakingly transmogrified into sights and sounds from the words contained within the book by Suchandsuch Whathaveyou”

Sometimes, such films wind up strikingly similar to the books upon which they’re based, like Catching Fire, or Holes. Sometimes, they end up pretty different, like The Shining, or the trilogy based on The Hobbit. And if the movie sucks, the movie sucks, but it’s because it failed at being a good movie, not because it failed to follow the sacred text in every conceivable way. As a reader, going into a movie with a mindset of, “I hope this is a DIRECT CARBON-COPY OF THE BOOK I LOVED” is ludicrous, when instead the mindset should just be, “I hope this is a quality film.”

Why Do You Suppose

Why do you suppose
even for each of those
from whom no goodness shows,
on and on life goes?
If none want to stay,
and all want them away,
then tell me why, I pray,
they remain today.

I keep praying for God to kill me, and he won't do it. He won't even give me the bravery to do it myself. He just keeps me here, unhappy, unfruitful, a miserable stain on my family, friends, and everything they could be. There are so many good people around me and he doesn't even care enough about them to take me out of their way.

Vanessa Carlton is in My Head Today

This song is more or less everything I'm feeling lately.

A Few Small Things

If a BETTER you
is NOT a you,
then what a tiresome thing to do,
to KILL a you
to MAKE a you
over and over before you are through.

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When others know the things I did,

praises from their lips will pour

out about those things I did.

They say, "People should do them more!"

Yes, many love the things I did.

Just not the one I did them for.

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But what relief is there to give,

what newfound cure to try

on they who lack a reason to live

yet lack the courage to die?

Don't Listen to Your Heart

It's hilarious to me that 'trust/listen/follow your heart' is still a thing.

People automatically assume it's sage advice, because....well, their hearts are telling them it's sage advice. They're taking the advice before they take the take the advice in order to take the advice. Whoa.

Let's put this advice through the Bullcrap Translator real quick, and see what comes out.

.....

.....

.....

...Ding!

"Do whatever the heck you want."

Yeah, listening to your heart is just doing whatever feels good. I ask you, how many people have *ever* lived fulfilling lives by just doing whatever they felt like at any given moment?

You may be thinking, "But your conscience! Your conscience is in the general area of the heart, right?! And you should listen to that!" Well yes, yes you should. Sometimes. Not all the time, actually. But sometimes, when we act like jerks, we feel bad about it. In those particular instances, we should act on those guilty feelings and try to fix whatever screwed up thing we just did.

But we only feel bad about doing bad things *because we know in our brains that those things are bad*. Imagine a universe where murder is perfectly acceptable. Killing people is as commonplace as killing houseflies (PETA would be very happy in this universe. Let's teleport them there). In this universe, would you feel bad about cutting down the guy who just cut in front of you in line? No, why should you? You didn't do anything wrong, as far as you know. You swatted a fly.

That's because guilt comes from the voice in our *heads* telling us that we just did a terrible thing. We *feel* guilt in our hearts because we *know* in our minds that we ought to feel guilty, even if we try to push that to the back of our minds.

The greatest mistakes of my life were made because I listened to my heart and did what I wanted. I'm not saying I have any brilliant new revolutionary info here. Others have said this kind of thing before. It just really, really bugs me that they're all continuously drowned out by things like, "follow your heart and you'll never get lost" and "the heart never lies" and other such innumerable falsehoods.

Your heart knows how to pump blood. That's it. Your brain is *specifically designed for the sole purpose of knowing stuff* and yet we still don't listen to it. We listen to the blood pumper, because hey, he looks like he really knows what he's talking about right?

College

I am going to College.

I am terrified because I unmotivated and also unintelligent.

*nobodyreadsthis

*thisisbasicallyajournalnow

*astericksaremyhashtags

*thesearethewaysirebel

The Lost Boy, Part 1

~The Lost Boy~

His eyes were blue as cloudless sky,
the handsome little fellow,
and like his kindred, one and all,
his blood was brightly yellow.
Though he had not yet aged ten years,
his hair reached down his back
in wavy locks that ended curled
and were an inky black.

He had been born amidst the smoke
of everlasting fire.
Though if you were to tell him that,
he’d surely call you liar,
for now he can remember not
a trace of life before
the flying boy took him away,
far from that world of war.

That flying boy took him between
his world and all the rest,
to where adulthood is a sin
and childishness is blessed.
He’d never seen a tree before,
he’d never learned of sand,
he’d never envisioned a realm
as pure as Neverland.

He joined the clan of boys who’d once
been just as lost as he.
“Three cheers for the new lad!” They roared,
“But what shall his name be?”

Then Peter thought a moment,
and gave the boy’s  head a look.
“Your hairs all curl to them,” He said,
“so I shall name you Hook!”

When came the cry, “Three cheers for Hook!”,
and Peter cheered the same,
Young Hook felt joy he’d never known.
Finally, his own name!
He swore he’d always live in fun,
and never be a man.
He came to call that island home…
and idolize The Pan.

Yes, Peter was Young Hook’s hero,
and Hook, Peter’s right hand.
The boys, their loyal followers.
Their great love, Neverland.
They flew with eagles, swam with mermaids,
joined the faeries’ song,
and both thought none of that would change.
I wish they’d not been wrong.

It was years later when Young Hook
was taken by the sea.
He’d been in flight with Peter when
the storm came suddenly.
They’d gone to fetch a new boy,
but a boy was lost instead.
When Pan returned alone, all mourned,
“Our brother, Hook, is dead.”

But Hook was very much alive,
although a world away,
and fate would have been kinder
if he had perished that day.
The Sea of a Thousand Doorways
had opened one for him.
Now Hook was in another sea.
But he still couldn’t swim.

When one’s life is spent in adventure,
foresight is a must,
so Hook’s pocket contained a bag
of extra faerie dust.
It worked its magic perfectly,
though soggy from seawater.
Hook thought of being named, and flew…
and found The Jolly Roger.

In all her majesty’s navy,
the Roger had no peer.
At but a glimpse of her,
the bravest pirate shook with fear.
Hook landed on her deck amidst
a gaping, silent crew.
The Captain was the first to speak.
“Good morning. Who are you?”

“I’m Hook,” He answered calmly,
“and I’m from another…place.”
It was all the Captain could do
to keep a tranquil face.
He introduced himself,
 “James Barrie. Welcome to my ship.”
His hand he kept upon the pistol
holstered at his hip.

But Hook spoke then of Neverland,
of faerie dust and flight,
and Captain Barrie saw an earnestness
he could not fight.
“I have to get back there,” Hook said,
“but I’ve run out of dust.”
“You’ll stay here, then.” Barrie replied,
for Hook now had his trust.

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If anyone's interested in seeing a second part to this, let me know. I figured this would be better as a few separate posts than as a single massive one.

I Don't Want to Be

I don't want to be a boy,
I don't want to be a man,
I don't want to be a girl,
a woman,
animal,
or important to the plan.
I don't need a special task,
or a purpose that's divine.
I don't need a higher calling,
reason,
truth,
or space in which to shine.

I don't want to have a friend,
for I know no one should be 'mine'.
Whether I would call you brother,
sister,
lover,
enemy,
whoever you are is fine.
I'll be yours if you so choose it,
but I will have to draw the line
at playing parts called 'husband',
'best',
'leader'
or anything that you'll regret, in time.

I don't want to make myself known
(I mean I used to, but I think I've grown).
I will help you with whatever problem you will let me see,
but only if you promise that you won't remember me.

I See You

I see her while she's crying,
I see him while he tries
to conjure up a reason
to believe your lazy lies.
I see her while she's smiling
her way through agony.
I see you while you hurt my friends.
But you never see me.

I see you while you craft a god
to justify your claim.
I see you when you crack the whip,
ignoring cries of pain.
I see you while you take her heart
and squeeze it 'til it breaks.
I see your victims wonder why,

and for them, my soul aches.

The One you say you serve knows well
your true identity.
The One whose name you spit upon,
He sees both you and me.
The rulers of a great domain,
you think yourselves to be.
Two monsters who will die alone
are all I'll ever see.

I've Just Had a Wonderful Day

I haven't been okay.
Not in the least, I'd say,
being without you.
Yet out of the blue,
I've just had a wonderful day.
I've no idea why
I'm touching the sky,
or why all the pain's gone away,
but through methods divine,
I am doing just fine,
and I'm hoping that feeling can stay.

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Weird!

Iron & Wine's 'Boy With a Coin'

Because why should this be all about me?

Song lyrics and poetry are decidedly different things. More often than not, trying to turn a poem into a song is disastrous. But on occasion, there are songs that work brilliantly even when their lyrics aren't attached to any melody or beat. 'Boy With a Coin' by Iron & Wine is one of these, and it inspired the previous poem I posted here.

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Boy with a coin
he found in the weeds
with bullets and pages
of trade magazines,
close to a car
that flipped on the turn,
when God left the ground
to circle the world.

Girl with a bird
she found in the snow
that flew up her gown,
and that's how she knows
that God made her eyes
for crying at birth,
and then left the ground
to circle the earth.

Boy with a coin
he crammed in his jeans,
then, making a wish,
he tossed in the sea
and walked to a town
that all of us burned
when God left the ground
to circle the world.

2014

I want to be
                a little godlier,
                                    a little smarter,
                                                         and a little nicer.
I want to think
                    a little more about others
and
     a little less about me.

I want to think
                     a little more with my head,
and
     a little less with my heart.

2013
       was
a
       big
year.

I'd
    like
a
   little
one.

Tomorrow

There's a beast at the door.
It's come here before,
though not so persistent as this,
and I fear it will bore
its way through the floor,
and offer an animal's kiss.

All the windows are barred,
but I've found it's hard
to keep out a beast so enthused,
and I've often been scarred,
and had my home marred
by the weapons I've had to use.

But I'm safe for the night.
The door is shut tight
against beasts, and wind, and sorrow.
I will wait for the light,
and then I will fight,
for it will get in tomorrow.

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Bit of a different rhyme scheme from most of my other stuff. My next poem, ya'll, will be the size of a children's book (think 'Where the Wild Things Are', probably longer), and I've already been working on it for what feels like forever, so hopefully it won't take much longer!

No Idea What to Call This One

I'd Call this 'ABBA Rhyme, Take One', but then everyone would be expecting a poem about Mama Mia and the Dancing Queen, and I would fall tragically short of their expectations. It is my first experience writing in this type of rhyme scheme, so hopefully a fast improvement is imminent.

---------------------

There's something that I want to say.
I can't recall, or just don't know,
just how I want the words to go.
I've tried to think of it all day.

There's something that I want to do,
yet can't remember how to choose
which games to win and which to lose,
or when to break the board in two.

There's something that I want to learn,
but I get in the way of that.
When inspiration asks to chat,
its every small advance I spurn.

There's someone who I want to greet,
but alterations must take place
before I'm fit to show my face.
Too much to edit and delete.

There's someone who I want to be.
He's left me here, and gone his way.
Though granted, if he were to stay,
he wouldn't get along with me.

----------------------

Man, I'm getting almost as annoyingly indecipherable as Coldplay's lyrics.

My Favorite Emily Dickinson Poem, and Something Else That I Haphazardly Wrote in Roughly Ten Minutes

That Thing

Jumping, bumping in the night,

Thrashing, gnashing, poised to bite.

Your every muscle’s tensed in fright

and you cannot avoid its sight.

As to what it is, I have no clue.

But you thought of something, didn’t you.

----------------------------------------------

I was tired, and I felt like blogging. I apologize.

In an attempt to save or at least slightly brighten this post, I am including below a little gem from the magnificent Emily Dickinson. From what I've read of her work, this is my personal favorite piece.

---------------------------------------------

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us--don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

-------------------------------------------

I like to think we would have been friends, Emily and I.

In Which I Go All Retro!Tom On You Guys

This one's an oldie, and I'll leave it to whoever you are to decide whether it's a goodie.

Life (According to a Cynic)

A small and youthful boy was brought into an iron land,
There was no sign of life therein, no tree, no earth or sand,
naught but metal, grey and cold, hard wire and steel plate,
but at the back, flung open wide, was an enormous gate.

The outside world that lay beyond was clothed in natural green,
the sun shone there, the trees and earth made brighter by its sheen.
The boy was placed in front of this entrance to paradise,
his captors knew by the outside his heart would be enticed.

The gate was closed in front of him, was made part of the fence,
and the boy's captors stood to watch, a twisted audience.
It took him time before he realized what he was to do.
He was to clear the obstacle, to batter his way through.

Ferociously he struck the gate with small and fragile fists,
to no avail, it opened not unto that world of bliss.
The crowd silently watched him pound, strike again and again,
he knew somehow that he'd succeed, though he did not know when.

It took him many days and nights, without meals or respite,
until at last he cleared that gate which blocked him from the light.
A filthy wretch, his hair a mess, he staggered through the doors,
and there beheld another gate which had not been before.

In shock he fell onto his knees, what horrid trick was this?
The crowd around him roared and raised their celebrating fists.
They shouted at him to press on, for he had only cleared
the first of rounds, and there were more, yes far more to be feared.

It was days later when the second gate gave way to him,
but though the crowd was cruel indeed, lying was not their sin.
Another gate was there to block the way to liberty,
but the boy only fought harder, so determined was he.

Days passed, far too many to count, and never did he tire.
Year after year he smashed through locks and wiped away perspire.
'Till finally, as an old man, the end came to his wait.
With feeble arms he pushed through doors of gold, the final gate.

And there it lay, that place of life, better than he'd recalled,
he did not care how long he'd spent, though he was hunched and bald,
making his way to this ending, where he could take his rest,
and he then died upon the ground, from his first happiness.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Take this as you will, but at the time I wrote this poem (roughly two years ago), it was only titled 'Life'. Needless to say, I was going through a particularly cynical period, and it was after getting over this that I added the parenthesized bit. I can tell I'm going through a particularly cynical period if I think the longer title is unnecessary.

This poem isn't perfect, but weirdly, I don't think I could write it if I tried, at this point. It's miles better than anything I've recently written, in my opinion at least. Perhaps I'm at my best when cynical. That's a cynical thought to have.

In Which I Post a Poem I Wrote at an Airport Terminal

*Insert opening statement in which I imagine there are people who actually read this blog, and I apologize to these figments for not updating in several *Insert exaggeratedly long periods of time**

The Prettiest Girls in the World


If I were to write my accomplishments down,
they wouldn't exactly fill pages.
I've never shown wisdom that's likely to be
renowned in the world through the ages.
Nevertheless, I stand with an air of
importance and dignity sure,
for to the prettiest girls in the world
I've an irresistible lure.

The prettiest girls in the world
both hang on my every word,
and laugh with delight at the jokes that I tell,
the ones even I find absurd!
To them I am strong, I'm a stone, unafraid.
There is nothing they cannot forgive.
They both think me great, and so great I must be
for their sakes, every day that I live.

So boast of your deeds 'till your face becomes blue;
you'll not make a groveler of me.
I don't feel at all inferior to you.
If you watch me a little you'll see,
that somehow I have earned the respect of the fair, and the pure look at me with a smile.
I am loved by the prettiest girls in the world,
so I should be alright for a while.

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This one's dedicated to Rachel and Grace, my two youngest sisters who take me to the edge of the cliffs of insanity, only to grab me before I fall off. Love you guys.

Stop Having Fun, Guys

We saw you dancing from the loft.
We must turn all the sprinklers off.
We know just why you're this happy.
We know such joy is unhealthy.
We feel your smiles are alien.
We know the secret dreams of men.
We can't allow this to go on.
We're quite concerned about the lawn.
We all know best, we really do.
We know you much better than you.
We know the risks are just too high,
so please, stop having fun, you guys.

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There are people who believe it is better to force yourself into certain despair now, than risk uncertain despair for the future.

I disagree.

Dad's Gifts (With Added Monologue!)

-Dad's Gifts-

I've not the foggiest idea of where my life would be
if it weren't for the set of tools that Dad gave to me.
I was very small when he brought me into his old shed.
Too young to fully grasp his plan or motives in my head.
He sized me up, looked in my eyes, and examined my hand,
then handed me a box so heavy I could barely stand.

I opened it excitedly, then frowned at what I saw.
The tools seemed unimpressive. Still, I quickly set my jaw.
I thanked my Father for the box, and he smiled knowingly,
then said, "You don't yet realize, son, what you're supposed to be.
I chose this particular box for you specifically.
Just use the contents as you should, and one day you will see."

I've gotten stronger since that day, the box seems somewhat light.
I've found that I enjoy Dad's gifts more than you'd think I might.
Sometimes I wish to exchange my tool set for another
with perhaps a brighter sheen, to show off to a brother.
Even so, I take great joy in using what Father gave.
I'm thankful for the help they give, the many roads they pave,
and hope that soon I'll know what I'm meant to use them to do.
Thanks Dad, for giving me your box.  I owe all this to you.

-Monologue!-

The purpose behind this one is to swallow my pride and give credit where I believe it's due.  I'm not good at very many things, so when it comes to something that I actually do have any amount of skill in, I claim it, treasure it, and hold it in a death grip. This being so, I take credit for the things I've written and posted when really, every scrap of the credit goes to God. He gave me this ability, he keeps this ability from dying out, and if He deems it necessary He'll take it away for the sake of my much-lacking humility.

There are many times when I wish I weren't a writer.  I usually want to be something else.  I love to write, and I love to read what others write, but I can't escape the feeling that I've scraped the bottom of the talent pool. To be frank, being good at putting words in particular formation really isn't all that impressive.  But it was God's will that I be given a certain amount of skill in this regard (exactly how much skill is entirely up to your own opinion), and I am darn well going to do my best to treat it right.  I wasn't meant to be impressive, but I know He doesn't want me to be incompetent.

But I love it.  I love what I do, what I feel when I write in my notebook, what I feel when I post my stuff on the internet and when I come up with characters and places and plot threads.  So I figure, maybe it's more important to God that I be happy than that I be impressive.  I'm cool with that.  I'm grateful for that.

Thanks Dad.  You wanted me to write, and I hope you like what I've written.