9th Entry

Laptop

We broke the laptop last night when we fought.
The monitor cracked and the side was mashed up
like the dinner we didn't eat - I
heated it up 'cause we did not expect it to
end this way, I heated it up 'cause we did not know when to say
enough.

But done is done, it wouldn't run,
the last vault of our memory - gone, just
another stain. But still, I tried, and I
asked my friend to salvage its crushed remains.

You might as well give it up,
the
good
friend
said. It's past saving, the drive
r's dead, but I shook my head
and made a row;
I pulled his sleeves and begged out loud:
These are images I
won't give up.
If you were me you'd understand -
if you had my love for the
lights and sounds
its smiles (and frowns) that I've
had saved up -
save it,
I implored him, save it.

He said:
You can try
"Yes how?"
You'll find the path
"Yes, how?"
You'll find the path
etic smiles a chore to stand -
they'll wink once more or twice
and be gone again.

I say then today we're
no longer friends, but he
does not cares - he is not even
there, just staring at the mess,
musing like it's something amusing,

I cried, he sighed -
we never met again, adieu, our
lights and sounds, and
smiles, and frowns.

*

sorry, i forgot that i had to move, so i've been busy...

8th Entry

Smell

The smell of rotten fresh tomatoes
and toast accompanied by a tap
dance and curious
glances is
soothing when you're
losing your mind over a
decided matter. You will
find solace in that certainty that you
won't falter - or will you?
You're not sure, but you are, aren't
you? You know you won't
lose to another what
shername he met one some
nameless date, it's too
late to toast the dead, what's
been said had been
had and the meal's over.
There's no shoulder for
happy men - stand,
and laugh.

7th Entry

editing.

6th Entry

Reprieve

i like my kitty, but she's hurting me. xyzabcdefg rawr!

i can has bandaid?

*

sorry, need to edit it first

5th Entry

A Pencil’s Monologue

The Crafter made me, and He made me a pencil. He could have made me a flute, pair of cuffs, a sword— He certainly could have, but no— He made me a pencil, but that's not why I hate Him.

Because a pencil writes the score, signs the warrant, and is, they say at least, mightier than the sword— but it is not. It breaks.

It breaks, and I broke because the Crafter chose to give— no, remember the food, tuition fee, and nine months— my Crafter chose to sell me to two fools— fools who would throw me at each other in their petty wars. The eraser who used to lie beside me had already left. He is whole now; he did not break under the pressure, and neither would I have if they were the tiniest bit more careful. I tried to be strong, but pencils can only be so strong. I collapsed.

But my masters believe that they can draw straight lines with odd angled pencils. There are sinews of wooden chunks sticking out from my black spine, yet still they would not give up. Bent pencils could still draw straight if one held them closer to the tip— they strangle med. I wish they had something else to write with— wrong— they wish they had something else to write with. But they didn’t, and it is not a pencil’s place to whine so much.

I will stop


***

sorry, i haven't had time to edit them... >.<

4th Entry

My Dad

My dad hated it when I slowed everyone down.
He also hated it when I wasn’t at the top of my class, when I talk about wanting to become an artist, or when I needed help getting out of bed in the middle of the night because I’ve had too much milk, and I’d always been so sorry about all that,
but I was strapped to a wheelchair. My dad hated it when I slowed everyone down, and there was nothing I could do. That was the one thing I could not help, so instead, I’d cry a little and he’d look away.

My dad hated it when I slowed everyone down.
He never said it to my face, but I can feel it in the disdain of his gaze, the slow deliberation of his breathing, and the offbeat tapping of his foot as I try to haul myself up our house’s front steps.
(He wouldn’t help me, because it built character.)
We were a proud people, he told me, but he was not proud of me.
I once walked into his English class to visit him (it was the day I got back from my surgery—he decided to keep on teaching instead of staying with me because he shouldn’t be selfish), and he was telling the class how the corruption of the soul manifests itself in the corruption of the body.
I wheeled myself away and told my mother let’s wait at the canteen to tell him the good news— that it was a success, that I won’t need a wheelchair anymore, that I won’t slow everyone down again.
I didn’t tell her that I saw him see me from the corner of his eyes, and he didn’t tell her that he knew that I knew he saw me from the corner of his eye.
I moved to Toronto the next year.

My dad hated it when I slowed everyone down, and he died last Sunday.
He was old, sick, and, like all fathers eventually do, he passed away.
Mother got angry because I didn’t cry—couldn’t.
She hated it when I smiled and chatted to dear cousins and old friends, she hated it when I laughed at some joke my cousin Damien made, she hated it when I couldn’t make myself apologize, and I was very sorry for hurting her,
but I don’t love him. My mother got angry when I couldn’t cry, and there was nothing I could do. That was the one thing I could not help, and I am glad I didn’t lie about that at the very least.
I am so happy and so heartless. I guess he was right after all.

3rd Entry

Mice

It wasn't a mouse
trap when I asked of her -
it was when you soured
your face and
wrinkled your shirt,
you lurked, and you say you
weren't hurt, I taste
resentment, and there's no smirk
on my face
when I asked if you were still thinking of her.

It was that movie we watched,
wasn't it?
The mouse who fell in love with the cat, and I'm a
mouse and you pounce at my
false starts, s' your nature to
break hearts, and mine to sniff every corner.
Yes, I searched your mind, and
find, I did, I found her, and I guess I shouldn't be
hurt that you prefer your mice
dumb.
Yeah, we're done, but don't blame me becuaase
I didn't run.

2nd Entry

Noone's Anyone

I wonder what more you can ask of me
when all I had was yours (and gone).
Well now our ride is over - let it be;
since "what has never been can't last for long".
Well, Noone loved her Anyone (and danced
his song), but everyone else chanced their dids
(yes these spectators, won't understand
he's missed). And well does it matter how he lived?
But now I do not want to cry again
when I hear the sound of Cumming's sour refrains -
can't think of letting you another chance
and not see us in star moon sun and heavy rain.
Don't ask me then, to try again - I'm not promise-bound
to try and keep a love that we had never found.

1st Entry

So the day's
over, and I'm
over you.
Don't ask who is this,
I'm no whatsherface -
you know my name.
Don't "how's your day"
me, 'cause you don't
care, see?
The plumbs are not sour, and
this is just to say -
I don't either.


can't think of anything else

30 day contest

hello. i didn't post earlier becuz i didn't have a blog >_>

Um. I haven't written too much becuase i'm not too sure what to write, but here it is. one little thing a day.