An Anonymous Submission

brocade of the soul (a poem in the style of Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl”)

I have seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, bodies burning like sockets for transcendence, waiting to be plugged into a Nirvana where it is always night
iridescent, beetle bright clubfarers swilling the sea of crowd with heads held high and
stomachs sucked in, pausing to vomit up the white matter of dreams or brains or White Russians, looking in the pools for reflected stars and the thin fragility of their own stork legs in party shoes
dreary solipsists sucking off cigarettes and smearing goose poop kohl beneath their eyes
to express the longing for despair, knowing it is pretty to look wan gaunt stricken with a poverty more than moral
rubbing flavored oil into aching sex-starved seed-stripped teenage skins in the back of
Virgin Records Megastore because the first time should always be that way, sticks ‘n stones ‘n weed ‘n bombs blasting over the loudspeakers
as the equations of the investment bankers on Wall Street all simultaneously conclude
love = hedonism
life’s too short to waste it with responsibility let’s kill those motherfucking jihadists of
the Axis of Evil and have another round of Bacardi on the house
and midnight throwing up of bowels into scum-spattered toilets (kegstand following
vodka following beer) fucking up against the wall in a holy paroxysm of angeltoangel fleshtoflesh and am I crazy or is heaven missing its angels tonight
they are exchanging needles underneath the Brooklyn Bridge because modern medicine
means death of disease, or jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge because the headlights look most beautiful muted in the water
the purity is in the marijuana river that makes the pseudo beat poets, angel-headed
hipsters crouched in the woodwork like cockroaches, stay up to four in the morning with wild typewritten pages for yr own joy wanting to die
they’re not as extreme as they used to be but they still exist although
the glory days are over, it’s cool to be inchoate now but hard to retrograde once you’ve
come, hard to pretend nonconformity when everything conforms, including rebellions without causes, revolutions in the middle class
if James Dean knew he was an icon he’d wish he’d been buried alive, he’d say
“the ‘50s already happened, stop publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull ”
the true rebels live inside the prisons of their own mind, driven to madness by
the post-bomb generation of madness, keening to the refracted sounds of honeyless bees, the combs with their hexagonal cells of sex ‘n drugs ‘n rock ‘n roll and blissful unconsciousness within which yesterdays last till tomorrows in slippery reality-induced hazes reclining on a couch spotted with last night’s cum and beer and abandoned panties in the deepest recesses of the mind
and am I crazy or are the angels missing their heaven tonight, the best minds of our
generation cowering abject in the valley of the shadow of the porcelain bowl where one must lose his lunch dinner breakfast too in the sweet outpouring of concrete regret and last week’s beer and the bilious desire to remember last week’s beer
and am I crazy or is heaven missing its angels tonight, the last of the hipsters in their
primal squalid dens seeking the starlight beneath the gray of pretended shared dreams & Buñuel films in a language they don’t speak, loving the way it sounds to say I have been to Hell and back
and am I crazy, I often wonder whether it is better to walk the middle line or not to walk
at all, it’s enough to make anyone want to jump, screaming out benedictions silently for only the pope of the private mind to hear;
blacks & whites can fuck each other now, but not in commercials or on the News;
so what you think you heard last night through the walls is irrelevant
it is no more real than the slow saccharine drip of time through the knobbed vertebrae of
the spine and the knotted ache of the genitals, feeling every moment as though it were an eternity, thinking only its unbearable to be here, rather be anywhere but here
everyone nowadays is uncomfortable in their own skin, soft skin that’s been ripped in
beaks, teeth and sex and hot gums pressed against seminal fires
and all the children left behind can all fuck themselves, right, the pregnant teenage girls named
after Christian virtues who dye their hair with red Kool Aid
reciting “I’m no more your mother than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own
slow effacement at the wind’s hand”
yearning to have a flat stomach again and alcoholic tipsy blood flowing to the beat of the
moon
and am I crazy or is heaven missing one of its angels tonight, did she jump (still chaste)
from the window, floating down like a shift loosed on wind
or did she come down like bra thong boxers torn off frenzied at the top of the building so
that they could fall to their death fucking
(but on TV they only showed the clothes and the bloody stain in the shape of a fist and
the words to a Taylor Swift song scrawled beneath the sidewalk)
there’s no place for prudes anymore, even the virgins burn to be cool, write elegies to lovers who
could not bear the heaviness of love because as Ginsberg knew, the weight is too heavy, yes, yes, that’s what I wanted, I always wanted, to return to the body where I was born
and am I crazy or is heaven missing all its angels tonight, how heavy it is to love without
knowing why, well what if
heaven is missing its angels, and in all the world it seems normal (at least, this is the
impression I get from looking in the television set) only to think of cum
cuntbucket cum phallus until it is the new Buddha’s mantra cumcuntbucketcumphallus, cumcuntbucketcumphallus, the whole meeting the part, interior to exterior, folding out the inside of a dissected joint to glitter in the light like the metallic stoned fascination of a gum wrapper
heaven is missing its angels, they are fashion models on asphalt runways wearing gum
wrappers as dresses, stretched over their mountainous breasts and waists pulled in too tight and sewn there
pinched anemic anorexic bulimic dancers with their pink tights hurling into the
vomitoriums of the School of American Ballet, then dragging themselves back for
more food and more vomiting and the conviction to be skinny if it kills, when it kills
and the creamy-skinned girls who party in Brooklyn say they love only black boys but
it’s not true, pulling the chains to flush the toilet so that their nocturnal lovers will not hear their own fingers’ aid to reach that final point, that ecstasy like a lighthouse illuminating waves of solitary cum
and am I crazy or have all the soldiers in Iraq lost their calico camouflage fatigues, clap your hands if you believe in soldiers, the same way heaven has lost its angels and the angels have lost their heaven and there’s no God and everyone is confused
the world must be fucked up if the only lucid ones are the stoners, the only ones who still
pray
genuflecting before some altar from which one cannot draw enough subsistence for life,
that altar, it is life
and ultimately to keep going one must conclude life is holy even if it makes no sense
sometimes
holy is life, even if words and spirits and pictures and numbers meld into a blue mist and
make no sense
holy is the pavement beneath the tromp of a thousand feet traveling to work at 9, and
staggering home from clubs sick into the dawn
and even if the stars are blind, people will keep singing to them and that is holy, that is
sanctified, that is beautiful, and even the alcoholic teenagers vomit in praise of the sky, and even the suicides love wanting to die,
and even the most insincere, self-deluded, masquerading thought is sincere in insincerity,
and it is only in the depths of sober irrepressibility that pretends at intoxication that this wisdom is found
and wisdom is not dreary but holy, as is every light that ever graced the dust-filled gloom
of a warehouse, every sun that ever opened up the surface of the moon with its excoriating eye, even if it doesn’t make sense every wrong step is holy, every footprint left in concrete, every falsity promulgated in speech, every politician’s stock gesture, every whore’s mascara smeared beneath dry eyes, every sentence of a poem that falls with fire and lets you know, though condemned to the inferno, you are alive
and in the silence of retreating glances all thoughts find their meaning, all waters their
stillness, crooning the lyrics to a computer chip, wrapping nails around cabled concrete jungle vines, willowing away in the darkness of inessentialism, brocade of the soul,
America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing America, I’m no more your mother than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow effacement at the wind’s hand America I’m putting my holy disgusted shoulder to the wheel.

Ruby Red

I was angry.
Infuriated.
There was a hot passion burning in the core of my chest, struggling to break free.
His hand grazed her bare thigh as their lips touched.
I looked on, helpless.
Could he not see that I, I was the right one for him?
Did she not know that I wanted him?
Their hands were tightly intertwined, his thumb rubbing her forefinger.
It was not comprehensible to me.
Why?
Why is someone like that with him?
She is my best friend.
Well, used to be best friend.
She could very well blame this little encounter with him on one too many drinks,
Or being under the influence of some type of drug.
But I would know the truth,
Because “best friends” know these things.
She knows I have a jealous streak, and she loves to bring that trait to the surface.
Well, that poor excuse for a girl is done for.
Too many years have been spent in constant competition with her.
Too much time has been consumed hoping that one joyous day,
It would all stop.
The constant fear of not being good enough would disappear, and I would never have to feel inferior again.
So the competition stops now, impish whore, because I’ve won,
And there is no possible way for you to defeat me now.
Ding-dong, the bitch is dead.

Goodbye For Now, My Loves

Happy summer, everybody.

With summer comes the beach, hot hookups, sunburns, and (most importantly) camp. I will be away for two whole months in camp, and in that time I will, unfortunately, not be updating this blog at all.

Let this summer change your life.

Take a road trip.
Fall in love, or lust.
Make new friends.
Live life.

Have an incredible summer, and stay safe.

Undoubtedly yours,
Hayley

Lolita

*Disclaimer: The below poem is an extremely controversial subject. I, in any way, do not support pedophilia. This is merely a short little poem that was inspired by the book, Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov. Creativity comes at odd angles, and this subject matter struck me like lightning. Read at your own risk.






Lolita, Lolita, where have you been?
Enchanting men with your
Charm and grace?
Darling Lolita, how have you been?
Are you still dancing around,
Happy and youthful,
But still oh-so seductive?
Lolita, Lolita, come back to your keeper,
For he yearns for the sweet smell of adolescence.
Your juvenescence is the essence
To keeping him alive and
Satisfied.
Lolita, Lolita, where have you been?

Name In Progress

“Damn”, Ava muttered to herself as she spilled her drink on her new Marc Jacobs dress. Ava Heartwright was at the party of the year, not to mention the party that could determine if she would get the job of her dreams; the co-editor of Vogue. Some of the most revered fashion icons were in attendance at this party, and Ava needed connections. “Ah, Ava! I’m glad you could make it!” Ava looked up from the tragedy that was her dress to see Erin Wheeler floating ethereally towards her. Erin was Ava’s co-worker, also one of her main rivals for co-editor. “Erin! How are you?” Ava said this as she double air kissed Erin, grimacing at her overly strong perfume. “Fine. I think I really have a chance at this job,” Erin said almost menacingly. Of course, Ava being her paranoid self, thought Erin meant, “Back off. This job is mine.”

Ava Heartwright was one of those in between-boyfriends, twenty-something girls who had tried to rebel against her parents by moving to New York City. Everything had been going well: a great job (if not a little too competitive), good friends, and great neighbors, which something almost unheard of in the city. But of course, there was that one itch that she couldn’t scratch; the pebble in her shoe that wouldn’t come out no matter how hard you shook. That pebble was Ben Berman. Ben was Ava’s boyfriend from before she had migrated to the city from New Jersey. Ben was…special…lets put it that way. Not only had they been completely in love, Ava and Ben have had plans to get married since they were 18. After Ava had left Ben in Jersey, still hopelessly in love with her, Ben had become nothing short of a stalker. Leaving Ava voicemails at all hours of the night, singing cheesy 80’s love songs (Wind Beneath My Wings, anyone?) and reciting Shakespearean poems he was reading off the internet, sending her flowers at work, even going so far as to name a star after her. Ben called it romanticism, Ava called it laying down $150 at Bliss for a rejuvenating facial after being woken up at 3 A.M. Ava hadn’t seen Ben for almost three years, yet he was relentless.

“Screw him! Change your number and get a haircut,” exclaimed Stephanie, Ava’s best friend since moving to New York City. “He’s costing you the job of a lifetime, not including the fact that he’s holding you back from any serious relationships.” Stephanie had been dating Mark, the cute boy at the checkout counter at Saks, for the past two years. Ava suspected he would propose to her any time now. “He is not holding me back. I am simply too busy to be in a relationship right now,” Ava retorted. She had to admit it: Ben was stopping Ava from being free. Free to go for the job, free to be happy with a different guy. “Please honey. You spend your nights with me watching re-runs of “Will & Grace” and ordering in Chinese. I don’t think you’re too busy,” Stephanie said jauntily. In fact, that’s what Ava and Stephanie were doing that night. Suddenly, Ava had an idea. “Steph. You’ve cut hair before, right?”

That night, under the influence of life and a few too many gin and tonics, Stephanie cut Ava’s beautiful, long, brown hair, into an Audrey Hepburn-esque pixie cut. “Oh my god. I look…different,” Ava said, obviously in shock. “I’m so sorry! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Here, let me call my stylist. His name is Marco; he’s great. You can get extensions!” Stephanie said this in one, overexcited breath. “No. Don’t touch that phone, Steph. I love it. Thank you,” Ava said confidently.

That day, Ava went to work with a bounce in her step. “Today is the day,” Ava thought to herself. Today was, in fact, the day. On this very day, Anna Wintour, editor-in-chief of Vogue would be announcing her new co-editor. As Ava walked to her office with her head high in the air, she almost bumped right into Anna Wintour herself. “Ava. I like the haircut. Very edgy,” Ms. Wintour said approvingly. Ava, reeling, walked into her office. “Anna Wintour just spoke to me. Anna Wintour just spoke to me. Anna freaking Wintour just spoke to me.” All of a sudden, Ava had this feeling in her chest; a feeling of pride, accomplishment. Like she could do anything she put her mind to. Ava picked up her phone and dialed a familiar number. “Ben? Hi, it’s Ava. We need to talk.”

“No! Stop it Ben…. no of course I don’t hate you! I just need to move on. Ben… it’s over. Please don’t call again. I’ll always love you in a way; we just can’t be in a relationship. Goodbye, Ben. Goodbye.” Ava hung up the phone, feeling no remorse. “I’m free,” she realized happily. Abruptly, Ava’s Blackberry dinged. “I wonder who that might be,” Ava thought cautiously, automatically thinking of Ben. She picked up her phone: one new text message from Stephanie. “aves! good luck 2day! hope u get the job!” Ava put down her phone, her heart dropping into her stomach. The meeting where everyone found out who got the coveted position of co-editor was in two minutes. Ava stood in front of her desk, heart racing, mind in utter and complete shock. Finally, she gathered herself. “I can do anything. I’m like the little engine that could. I think I can, I think I can,” Ava thought to herself as she walked to the large conference room, overlooking the busy city street of Broadway and 42nd.

Anna Wintour sat in the front of the conference room; Ava’s co-workers sat admiringly around her. “As you all know, it is time for a new co-editor,” Ms. Wintour started, in a clipped, slightly Americanized British accent. “This person must be powerful. Cutting edge, fashionable; a true leader. You must be willing to squash the person below you under your Mary-Jane Manolos. I have been examining all of you for the last 4 months. In this time I have seen a lot. But the one person who has really stood out has been one girl. That girl is Ava Heartwright. Not only has she been there for every coffee run and late night at the office, but she has also fought nail and tooth for this job. So I congratulate you, Miss Heartwright. Make me proud,” Anna finished with a tight smile. “Thank you so much, Ms. Wintour. I won’t disappoint you,” Ava said coolly. But inside, Ava was freaking out. “AHHH!!! OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD. I can’t believe this is happening!!! My parents will be so proud! And Steph… oh Stephanie will be so happy. Ahhhh!!!” She could see Erin in the corner, turning as red as her Yves Saint Laurent lipstick in Rouge Volupte. “You are all free to go,” Anna Wintour said nonchalantly. Ava strided back to her office, feeling on top of the world. She thought joyously, “So Steph was right. All I needed was a little bit of freedom."

To the Birch Wathen Lenox Class of 2014, I Love You.

This is not going to be one of those deep, meaningful poems. Hell, I won’t even use my thesaurus. I’m not writing a poem, either. This is merely a thought.

Oh my god.
Like, oh my god.
This year has been… special, to say the least. I’ve made some new friends, and lost a few. But that’s life, right? There’s been gossip, drama, scandal, etc. You name it, we’ve had it. But, surprisingly, every last one of you has been there for me in one way or another this past year. From something as simple as helping me with the Math homework because I had zoned out (yet again) in class, to being that one waterproof shoulder to cry on, just… LEKUJDSHFNA. I’m sorry for that random burst of lettering, I just don’t know what to say. I guess all there really is to say is thank you, all, so very much. It’s not really over, is it? I keep on waiting for me to wake up from this dream, but it’s not fucking happening, and it’s upsetting the hell out of me. It’s 1:21 AM, the day before Arch Day, and I’m up writing a shitty blog post about how much I love you guys. Like, I don’t even know what my emotions are right now. If I’m happy, sad, regretful… I guess you could call it a mixture of the three. Also, I know I’ve been rather hostile to some of you in the past, so I’d just like to apologize for whatever I’ve done; I am not brave enough to mean anything. And let’s be blunt, here: I am quite the outsider in most situations. I’m weird, to put it gently. Well, I’m not sure if it’s because you’re all so accepting, or if you’ve just grown used to my shenanigans, but thanks for accepting me when I needed acceptance. So, I’ll leave you all with these (extremely cheesy) parting words: We’re always going to meet people, but only a few of those people will really leave a mark in your mind and on your heart. Well, all of you have left quite a deep mark, to be honest.

Always,
Me

Inspiration-Gone, Gone

I am so sorry we have not spoken in a while.
There is a reason for my longtime absence.

I have lost my inspiration.

For some unfathomable reason, I am not seeing the world as golden,
Or even dark anymore.
Life is just a blank grey slate, waiting to be scribbled on by something.
The only problem is, I have no idea what that something might be.
It is an arising in my chest, struggling to burst out.
But for some reason, this emergence will never break free.
There is an urge to scream.
Yell.
Get all the inner emotion out, leaving a completely bare palette,
Ready to be painted with the vibrant colors of my life.

Maybe I need a fiery romance,
To distract me from my otherwise mundane life.
No.
That is not what I need.
Although I am missing love in my life, I cannot afford to be hurt again.
I am too tired, too weary of trying to make something out of nothing.

Perhaps I should read more books.
Sylvia and Jack have always been good friends to me.
But Sylvia,
She is too depressing.
And Jack,
He is not a fabulous influence, to be blunt.

But, perchance, all I require is a bit of time.
Solemn, desolate time.
Stone cold loneliness has worked its magic before,
So who is to say being isolated will not work again?
In spite of the fact that being companionless will only make me more morose than I already am,
I am willing to try anything.

So inspiration,
Please come home.
I miss you more than anything that has ever left me.
My very existence just does not have any meaning without you,
And a life without meaning is no life at all.

Oy Gevalt.

Hellooooo there!
Well, unfortunately, I haven't payed attention for most of the year in school.
I know, smart, right?
And for people as genius as me, the end of the school year is torture because we have, wait for it: FINALS.
*Cue the Jaws theme song*
So, all of a sudden, I'm working my motherfucking ass off trying to learn all the shit I haven't been paying attention to.
Yes, I have a dirty mouth.
And yes, that dirty mouth is part of the reason I'm not prepared for finals (I get sent out of the classroom a lot...).

Actually, funny story.

In History class one day, I called Hitler a "douchebag" with a "piece of crap for a mustache".
The latter phrase got me thrown out of class.

Forgive me, for I digressed.

Long story short, until June 4th, there will be no new blog posts.
I know, I'm pretty torn up about it too.
But there should be an influx of posts coming in around June 4th-5th, so don't you worry your pretty little heads off, my darlings.

Fuck my motherfucking life,
Hayley

P.S. Most of you have probably noticed the site counter. If someone can explain to me how to move it to the bottom of my page, they will be rewarded greatly ;) (if you know what I mean... just kidding).
P.P.S. Also, can somebody please explain to me what a water tower is? I'm still wondering from my last post
P.P.P.S. I don't wanna leave you guys
P.P.P.P.S. Please don't make me study
P.P.P.P.P.S. How is everybody? Post your responses in the comments!
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I had a really good lunch. Like, it was fantastic. What did everyone have for lunch? Give me ideas for my next lunch in the comments :)
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Has anybody ever had sassafras?
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. People think I'm a dog person, but I'm actually a cat person. Don't get me wrong, I love dogs, but I just have cats
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I love you...

Ruminations (It was a long night...)

When ice cream starts melting, how does it still stay brain-freezing cold?

Life would be a lot harder if nobody lied.

I do not believe in love at first sight. Maybe an instantaneous attraction, but never immediate love.

I have not even met you and I already sort of love you.

Things I hate: malicious people, an unmade bed (but I don’t mind a messy room), pants, and Miley Cyrus.

Procrastination gets shit done.

It is all our parent’s fault.

How much of our life is controlled by fate and how much depends on our own will?

How do you spell “gray”? Is it “grey”, or “gray”? Come on, people. Choose one.

Are we really living? Or is this “life” we know of just some person’s dream, and when they wake up… poof; we disappear?

No, I do not want to go to your four-year-old sister’s birthday party. I am, in fact, terrified of small children and clowns.

You do not have big boobs. You wear bras two sizes too big, but big boobs is something you will never have.

Being eccentric does not mean that I am constantly high.

People who say they do not get hangovers are bullshitting you.

Why are Belle and Sebastian’s song titles so goddamn long?

People who make all those “Go Green!” flyers are hypocrites. Think about it.

Do animals have their own language?

What do hipsters think when they dress themselves? Do they say, “Oh, do these Buddy Holly-esque glasses match with my purple American Apparel sweatshirt and grey skinny jeans?

It is always embarrassing looking at my guy friend’s web history.

What even is a water tower?

Whenever I found out a celebrity lives in my area, I flip a shit and become immediately obsessed with them.

Are the people who make Lifetime movies being serious?

Although very talented, Lady Gaga is an attention whore.

Whenever people say, “Why are you still single?” to some people, I always want to say, “Because they have bad teeth, are not funny, and do not have an actual personality.”

I just really hate people who exercise excessively.

The only thing I dislike more than people who exercise excessively is when those people try to get me to work out with them. It is like, “No, leave me alone. I am not going on a 4-mile hike with you. So let me get back to my Cheetos and computer, please. Thanks.”

I cried for an hour when JD Salinger died. RIP

Starry Eyed Surprise

The fairies twinkled across the dewy leaves
Like bright stars, illuminating a pitch-black night.
Lightening bugs glowed, moving gleefully with the calm wind.
Crickets sang their happy tune, soft and sweet.
An ethereal image.
Two young lovers,
Embracing under a wise old sycamore.
Flushed cheeks, swollen lips.
Long, light brown hair, knotted from being tangled in the boy's calloused hands.
A discarded navy blue dress.
The ancient quilt that had been lying in his attic for years, scrunched into a loose ball on the grass.
Leaving their woes behind, these two paramours found one another.

They found happiness.

In less than two months time had they known each other,
But that is all it took.
Oh, that is all it took for the girl to fall for the boy, and the boy for the girl.
They both fell hard, like on a cement ground.
But there were no bruises, no scrapes.
Only hot, throbbing summer nights.
This is not teenage lust.
This is starry-eyed love.

Disappointments

Jet-black, velvety ink drips across the page; handwriting small, drops large;
Spreading, contaminating.
The shadow of my pen casts a menacing shadow against the page.
Dark against light.
The virgin sheet, awaiting, a-hoping, for that one black, opaque dot to come to corrupt it.
Corruption.
What a beautiful word, what an ugly action.
The naïve, sanguine girl waits and wishes for her one true prince.
But he shall never come.
A seventeen-year old boy in a motorcycle jacket is what she gets instead.
Nothing special.
Just another one of those hit and run cases.
Nights following the failed attempt at love are filled with
Pain and rain,
Beat, beat, beating against an off-white windowpane,
Not unlike her heart that one frightening, pitch-black night.

All I Ever Wanted

Oh, how embarrassing this is.
I leaned in; lips puckered, eyes shut tight,
To have you tilt back, mouth wide open, eyes bewildered.
Oh, this is awkward.
I thought you were a signal in a world full of dial tones.
But I was wrong.
Oh, of course I was.
All this time, my impression was that there was this undeniable spark to our friendship,
And I tried to make that sparkly friendship into a fiery romance.
Oh, how I failed.
My cheeks are crimson; my tears are rapidly blurring my vision.
A fat drop rolls down from my eye, offering relief to my burning face.
Oh, I need a drink.
There is not a lot in this world that I have for myself.
So why could you not be the one thing that I did not have to share?
Oh, all I ever wanted was you.

Letter to X

Dear X,

I know you are suffering right now, and I cannot even explain how terribly sorry I am for that. But I just wanted to let you know that you are loved.

You are not alone.

At least once in every single person’s life, they will go through the exact same feelings as you; believe me. And I know that right now, the possibility that someone has identical emotions as you do seems impossible, but trust me; it is very possible. God; I can’t even put into a sentence how much I understand you. I get it. You feel worthless. Helpless. Completely, utterly, irrevocably abandoned. No one is trying to desert you; they are simply scared.

Honestly, you are not even doing a good job of hiding it. No one can. People notice the frequent runs to the bathroom and hear the retching behind the door. They can tell when you have not slept the night before because you were up worrying; the dark circles under your eyes tell all. And the puffiness of your eyes is the worst, am I right? Everybody can tell that you cried yourself to sleep, yet again.

Please do not make any rash decisions.

Oh, do not even try to deny it. I know that you planned out how to… you know… commit suicide. I found your plan. Well, do not do it. Do you even know how missed you would be? You do not even how much of an impact you have had on so many people. Also, I am so very sorry to say this, but you would be acting so fucking selfish. Yeah, that is right. I am not trying to sound unfair or cruel; I simply care about you. And I know that I am not a particularly close friend or family, and I don’t even know if they are doing anything about your little situation, and it really isn’t any of my business. Just…

…Talk to me.

I am sorry if this letter sounds harsh; it is called tough love, sweetie. The best writers in the world could not put my pure adoration and anxiety for you into words.

I swear that I will always be there for you. Through thick and thin, sickness and good health, and all that other crap, I am always ready to talk. Please, oh God, please talk to me.


-Hayley M.

Just Dance

Let's dance.
Yes, I said it.
Let's dance like no one but God is watching.
We should throw our hands up in the air.
We can be the epitome of carelessness.
Recklessness.
You can press your gangly teenage body against mine.
I will not mind.
Let's let go of all our pent up angst.
For we are young and free.
Tonight, let's forget about parents and authority.
We are going to break the rules.
You can press your dry, chapped lips against mine; we are caught up in the heat of the dance.
It is okay, this will not turn awkward.
Because we are dancing our hearts out.
Our souls are exploding with happiness.
I love so much dancing with you.
You make me feel free.
In a way, I kind of love you.
But not romantically.
No, never romantically.
Just because we are dancing our hearts out.
Just dancing.
Our feet are tapping along to the rhythm.
Oh, how we love that rhythm.
We are both happier than we have been in a while.
With our hearts racing, our minds reeling.
The song ends, but we are going to keep on going.
Once you have started, you cannot stop.
Lights are flashing before our eyes; they are blinding us.
But all-in-all, we are simply ecstatic to be on this dance floor.
For we are those audacious teenagers.
Emotionally, passionately, irresponsibly, dancing.

The Pursuit of Happiness

My life is spiraling downward.
Down and down it goes.
All the colors of this
Life of mine are being joined
Together in a frenzy:
Of color.
Pinks, greens, reds, blues.
It reminds me of vomit.
Well, is that not what this
Thing we call “life” is right now?
Just a pile of vomit?
It sure does seem that way.
Gone are the days of dancing when no one, not a soul is watching.
To the memories of many a boy throwing themselves at me, hoping for a chance with this
Rumor-ridden harlot; goodbye, dear friend.
And last, but certainly not least, so long best friends. You have given me more than I could ever ask for:
Acceptance.
Acceptance from this cruel world.
I just ask one last thing from you:
Forgiveness.
Please forgive me for all the times I have caused you pain. Forgive me for not paying you back all those times (sorry about that eighty-seven cents).
You may not forget, but just forgive.

But I will wake up tomorrow.
Stronger.
Happier.
Alive.
No, I will not be trapped under the rubble of life.
I will prosper.
So hello, new friend. We are going to get to know each other very well.
Boys will become cautious, slow creatures to me.
I will breathe cool, crisp air, and let the sun’s rays beat down upon my face.
I will be that beautiful butterfly, winging over things too unimportant to even take up a thought in my mind.
Life will take on a shiny newness, and I will only feel one thing:
Happiness.

Nice Guys Finish Last

-Randy Zelin (first picture reblogged from http://therealtopten.blogspot.com/)


You love her, don’t you?
Well don’t you?
You see those bright baby blues, and you can’t help but sigh.
How her wavy blonde hair spins around when she twirls, her dress taking just enough flight to make your breathing fairly heavy.
She makes your life just a little bit more poetic, doesn’t she?
So why the hell aren’t you going after her, you goddamn fool?
He makes her feel like absolute shit.
It kills you every time you see them together.
When he says he loves her, you know it’s just for the sex.
“All the other boys,” he says, “only cared if you put out. I love you. Let’s have sex, but whenever you’re ready.”
Lies.
Absolute and total lies.
You hear him drunkenly slur to his friends about your love.
“Damn, she’s so hot. And since she’s so shy, she’s probably a freak in bed.”
It angers you.
It angers the fucking hell out of you.
You want to shout back.
Scream out.
“Shut the hell up! You know what, that girl you’re talking about is beautiful, ridiculously kind, and the most amazing person on this whole goddamn planet. So you better back the fuck off before I mess you up.”
But you know you won’t say or do any of that.
You’re a coward, aren’t you, little boy?
Stay on the sidewalk, and Mommy always told you to never get in fights!
But haven’t you ever wanted to break out?
Run free?
Everyone has that impulse once in a while.
And it does not matter what fuels these fiery inclinations, whether it be love or loathing.
All that matters is that you satisfy these certain desires.
So go ahead, boy.
Become a man.
Use every underdeveloped muscle in your body to fight back the very monster that hurts your beloved.
It's okay; Mommy is never going to find out.

The Color of Friendship

Really?

I thought you were my friend.

My confidante, my closest companion.

You threw it all away, like an empty lipstick tube, once bursting with light pink.

The color of our friendship.

Not unlike the lipstick, you picked me up, took one last look, and tossed me in the trash.

Now, I see you with the clique of girls and boys we once envied, wearing the color of their friendship:

Light red.

A damask, sultry color.

Lips, as red as a dusty rose, speak harsh words now.

Piercing green eyes bore through my own dark blue ones.

But in those probing eyes, I see our friendship and the way they treat you.

They treat you like nothing.

Garbage.

Sounds familiar, does it not?

But I.

I can see your past.

Our little brawls that were never really fights, just small disagreements.

The hugs and kisses that were shared through thick and thin.

Tears.

Tears shed for each other.

For the pains, the losses, the supposed everlasting camaraderie.

It is surprising and a bit funny, really.

How one of the most beautiful things in the world, friendship, is best epitomized by tears.

Our emotions are raw when we are bawling; we are the most vulnerable.

We show the best passion when crying, and we cried a lot.

So I guess we have shown a whole lot of feeling in our little bond, have we not?

We wept happiness.

Dear Mr. Hyde

Yeah yeah, I know it isn't one of my best.
This isn't even going to be accompanied by a picture.
Don't judge.


You sicken me.
Your McCarthyistic views.
Your utter hypocrisy.
I cannot fucking deal with it anymore.
“You need to respect me. I’m your teacher.”
Bullshit.
You get what you deserve.
So respect me, you hypocritical fool.
My hands clammy, heart racing, I fight back.
I am trying to bring you down.
It is me against the world (the world being you).
But I am building up my allies.
We revolt.
This anger that is fueling us, pumping red hot through our veins, is turning into pure adrenaline.
You are the devil in a beard.
Put on a movie when you are tired; it is only a $34,000 education!
But you’re feelings, you’re narcissistic views, are all that matter.
You are nothing but a two-faced joke.
And you wonder why I call you Mr. Hyde.

Venom

“I started to cry, which started the whole world laughing.”
-The Wallflowers

Balenciaga bags, Hermes scarves.
The uniform of the venomous creatures.
Highly arched brows, waxed to perfection.
Straightened brunette or golden hair, done by Paolo at Blow.
Small, thin lips, coated with frosty, pink gloss by MAC.
These are the physical characteristics of the harpies.
The elite prep school that you are on thin, thin ice with.
Daddy’s paying your credit card bills, so everything is going to be alright.
French manicure; if you are going to tear someone apart, your claws should look pretty, right?
Prada perfume.
Citizen jeans.
It is hard work, being a monster, isn’t it?

But this is just the outside.
And is it not correct that what truly matters is on the inside?
On the interior, you are dying.
Suffering.
You like cause distress others to make yourself feel better.
And do not even try to deny it.
I can see it in your eyes.
It is all in the eyes.
I see your pain, your loss.
That boy who rejected you.
Yet another test you failed.
Your parent’s ignorance.
The “friends” who will never really care about you.
Guilt.
Guilt for that one girl who you spread false rumors about.
Harassed.
Bullied, to put it simply.
You ran her thick, thick rope to a single thread.
Don’t you have any remorse?
No?
Yes you do.
Again with the denying?
Tsk tsk.

Do not even dare mess with me again.
You have not killed me yet, have you?
What does not kill me shall only make me stronger.
I am done with the pity from others
So I am ready to fight back.
No, I am not going to be another loyal servant of the Queen Bee.
I am going to revolt.
Come at me.
I am indestructible.



“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me.
And I’m feeling good.”
-Multiple Artists

Dark Matter

They call me their friend.
We are not friends; I am nothing more than a confidante to you.
If we were friends, you would listen to what I had to say.
All you do is talk, talk, talk about yourself.
Your problems.
You share every little insignificant detail of your life with me.
Who’s mad at whom.
An annoying teacher.
Unfair parents.
I have a permanent weight on my shoulders from all this information.
With all this information, I could cause such destruction.
Chaos.
This... this data is dark matter.
I could cause demolition.

But I won’t.
No, of course of I won’t.
That just wouldn’t be the right thing to do.
Although I do want respect from all these people, I believe in karma.
And karma would come back and bite me in the ass.
As it will my so-called friends, eventually.
So I guess you, my “friends”, should be careful.
Tread lightly.
You never know if this red giant will finally, cautiously, become a supernova.

The Dog Days are Over

A friend showed me this song, and I'm hooked.
Listen to the lyrics; you'll know how I feel about life right now.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1TwqE2X55Wg

Just a quick note...

A whole lot of people have come up to me and questioned me about the story "The End of Something".

"The End of Something" is mostly fictional; I did not have an affair with a teacher. Although this story was stemmed from truth, nothing ever happened with a certain overly flirtatious teacher. That teacher was given a good talking to, and nothing ever happened between me and him again (nothing ever really happened in the first place).

Thank you.

The Beauty of Defeat

I look into the face of the woman staring at me.
She is me.
I see dark bags under her eyes.
Blacks and blues, purples mixed with pinks.
I study her wrinkles.
The deep creases in her face seem to show all her past hardships.
I observe her pale, pale pink lips.
They are not any rosier than the pallid roses you give to a mother with a newborn baby girl.
In her lips, you can slightly see the bright scarlet hue of her adolescence.
They used to call her “Poppy” because of her naturally crimson lips.
I notice her tissue-paper skin that she tried so hard to keep firm.
Her skin is defeat.
It hangs unbound from her high cheekbones.
But then, I behold her eyes.
The same eyes that once made men fall to their knees, begging for mercy.
They are blue-green, like a Tiffany box.
Her eyes still sparkle with youthful energy.
In those turquoise orbs, you can see her entire life.

She is beautiful.

The End of Something

"Isn't love any fun?"
-The End of Something (Hemingway)

It was irrational, to say the least.
You were much older-eight years older, to be exact.
I was but thirteen.
You walked into the room, and I knew.
Oh yes, I knew.
This was only the beginning.
You approached me, flirted with me.

You knew how old I was.

I flirted right on back.
With you.
With the idea of me being with you.
It all started out with a harmless crush; a schoolgirl infatuation.
But it soon turned into something more, something dangerous.
Danger.
It was so alluring.
You, being the literary type, compared us to Romeo and Juliet.
Forbidden love.
I, being a teenager, compared us to Edward and Bella.
Someone was going to get hurt, and we both knew it would be you.
But we were living foolishly in the moment.
A few precarious months passed by.
We drank.
Smoked.
Loved.
But a colleague of yours caught us in the hallway.
You were fired.
I was suspended.

Six months after you left, I began seeing someone.
He was great.
Kind.
Gentle.
Not too smart.
Most importantly, nothing like you.
It was time to let go of you.
We had e-mailing back and forth for a couple months.
Our now platonic relationship had grown awkward, like the first time you kissed me.
You smelled like must and tasted like cigarettes.
You tasted older.
And that was the first time I realized how very wrong this was.

I am officially ending it with you, ex-lover.
Too many nights have been spent crying over you, thinking of the cheap beer you kept in your fridge.
I would never drink that beer.
It was too stale, like how our relationship had grown.
Insipid.
Tiresome.
Familiar.
So goodbye.

Goodbye.

An Ode to You, Little Girl

I’ve noticed a change in you, best friend.
A change for the worse.
Gone are the days of being carefree; they have been replaced with worries.
I always imagined you as an ethereal being, floating thoughtlessly on light pink cloud.
My mind has been poisoned with images of tears and rain clouds and black, black nights.
I worry for you, best friend.
Optimism was what first made me love you as I do.
But now your pessimism is distressing me.
Of course, I only want the best for you, little girl.
Although I may not act like it, you are, to put it simply, one of the most incredible people I have ever met.
You are strong.
Wise.
Scintillating.
If any of that changed, love… I’m not sure what I would do with myself.
Sure, it is not any of my business what you do.
But in a way, it is.
It is like I have a precautionary shield that is surrounding you and me, protecting us from any harm that comes our way.
See, we aren’t like other people, you and me.
We are what they call “unique.”
I call it weird.
We sing and laugh in the streets.
Obsess over the strangest things.
Listen to the most eccentric music.
To put it lightly, you are the only one who is even a bit like me.

So, best friend.
What have we learned here?
I:
Love you.
Admire you.
Am proud of you.
Worry for you.
And finally, most importantly, I miss you… the real you.

Rebel With(out) a Cause

People don’t seem to understand that I honestly don’t give a fuck.
Some people say “they don’t care what people think of them”.
I scoff at those people.
Yes, you do. You wouldn’t say that if you didn’t care.
You act like you have this carefree attitude; you listen to indie music, act like a rebel.
But I know the truth.
This is all just a masquerade.
The truth is, you are nothing like the façade you put on.
At night, when you are sitting alone in your room, you will put on some of the newest, most mainstream music.
When your parents (who you feign hatred for) call you down for dinner, you shall eat all your vegetables and thank them and God (who you also feign hatred for, much to the delight of your parents) for this wonderful meal.
This is all well and good; you should love your parents and God (if they suit you).
But don’t pretend.
It is despicable.

I’ll say it again.
I don’t give a fuck.
Not caring doesn’t mean that I hate my parents or anyone else, for that matter.
People’s adverse opinions don’t have any negative consequence to me.
I hear the words under their breath.
Pretty face, ugly body.
Stupid.
Bitch.
Fat.
Theoretically speaking, these people think they are hurting me.
Ha.
I’ve been hurt before, and I’ll be hurt again.
Over the years, I’ve grown a protective shell towards these words.
So I cannot hurt anymore.
When I hear the mutters of some bigot, I just smile to myself and walk on by.
At least I know that one day they will see.
I will rise above the masses and become the beautiful butterfly that I know I am.
My iridescent colors will glow.
But for now, I’m stuck in my cocoon.
So keep the words coming.
I have steadfast armor.

Butterflies

She put her pencil down. The blond hair that once shone brightly in the sunlight glinted faintly from the glow of the industrial lights.

Memories of the summer danced around in her head, taunting her with the bliss of ignorance. How simple life was then. She remembered bonfires on the beach, the stale taste of beer on his tongue; fireflies illuminating the night. The never ending feeling of no tomorrow. No schoolwork, no drama, no parents. Just... life. There was nothing but life in store for her. Waking up at noon, spending the day with him on the beach. His slender fingers tapping light patterns onto her flat, tan stomach. Letting the cool, sea breeze brush across their hot skin, offering relief from the warm summer day. Her hair would slightly knot, the eyeliner would smudge below her eyes. Soft kisses, light as butterflies wings, would be exchanged under the pale moonlight that night, the fire burning bright and red in the background.

But all good things must soon come to an end. Two wonderful months together had come and gone, and all it ended with was a quick kiss and a wave from a ferry. Back to their lives they went. The surreality was over.