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I wish the world were a kinder, easier place to live in. You know something's wrong here when you're the only girl in your grade to leave class and go to the restroom just for the sake of peeing and not so you can gossip to your friends in hushed tones. I was just thinking about that today! It's terrible, and quite tragic. You know, this isn't my only log. I have two now: one hand written one, one on the Internet. An excerpt from my log, dated October 21, 2008:
"I wonder if pigs ever will fly. Will they? Is life, a) A reality show in Hollywood being filmed without my consent, or b) Am I really the person I am today? Well, the answer (definitely...), is b). I ask life's questions with an open mind; not hoping to have the answer handed to me, but to learn something by trying to figure them out"
I wrote that entry about two years ago. It's impossible for me to tell what I was thinking when I wrote that. I mean, it's totally pointless! Who asks if pigs really ever will fly? OF COURSE THEY WON'T! Unless we humans genetically alter them and graft into them avian genes, of course. Everyone knows that, right? Oh God I hope so. What am I thinking of at the moment? Well...of my childhood. I wrote this poem, The Music Box, and it started to make me look back on what my past was like, relating it to this poor little girl who lost her mother when she turned ten. I'll share it here:
The Music Box (Unedited version)
I twist an ornate silver key
Watching her dance on
Porcelian toe shoes
And a lost, forlorn symphony
Twinkles and glitters in my ears
Memories of stormy mornings
Spent piecing together endless puzzles
Your smiling countenance tells me to keep
Trying, even when I want to give up and
Never try it again.
Memories of a weather-beaten swing and an
Old oak tree, happy light laughter
Blossoming on oxygen bubbles.
A warm summer breeze
Gently caresses your hair.
Memories of glowing candles
Pushed into a cake you baked
My grin is wide, eyes sparkling...
I hear them singing from far away
As I put the candles to rest.
Memories of a forest path I now hike alone
Each footstep a reminder of your absence
Everyone says they're so sorry
He embraces me, wipes my tears away,
Acting like he understands, but I'm sure he doesn't.
Memories of bitter tears in my eyes
On a rainy morning as they drive me away,
Down the road my home grows smaller.
The little yellow cottage and towering oak tree...
The things I once knew are now but a memory.
Memories of a dodgy escape
From a foster home's artificial care
I'll feel lost on my own street in the night's cloak
Until his eyes find mine from a lit window...
Tears blur my vision as he approaches me.
Memories of kind, comforting words,
And he pressed the music box into my open palm.
Tears are rivers of liquid diamond on my face
I asked him where he found it
He said it was on an abandoned forest path
Drowned in a muddy puddle, the key catching his eye,
Almost exactly where we'd spoken yesterday.
So now on this crisp autumn night
I sit on a weather-worn wooden swing
The sound of my mother's music box
Twinkling and glittering in my ears
The ballerina like a spinning disk
Faintly, very faintly...there is the sound
Of light,happy laughter,blossoming on oxygen bubbles,
The wind caressing our hair...
The melody is part of me, something I'll never forget...
I'm a music box without a key for turning
The beat of my heart powers it
The breath of my lungs is an endless song
To the story of my life.
I actually did a little bit of editing, but not too much. I think that I'll bring it to school tomorrow. My English teacher loves my poetry. I hope she's in tomorrow...she had emergency stomach surgery or something...yikes...I'll probably let my best friend read it. She loves my stuff too. I don't know what it is about my work that draws people to it, but I do know that I have some sort of a special talent for making adults cry. It's the funniest thing! They'll read my work, and then when they try to comment on it, they'll be all choked up. My mother tells me all the time how talented I am at it. I think I'm okay, pretty average. I'll never be like any of the greats, like Emily Dickinson or Edgar Allan Poe. But that's only because they made it their way, and I'll definitely do things my way, right?