There's More Where That Came From.

Here comes the boom boom boom boom

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I don't even know why I'm still Blogging on here. I love it.
I Love writing and hoping someone will read it.
Read me.


Taste this on your soul.

Don't Judge a Poem By it's Length

It's 10:30, and it's cold.
tree's grow from the sky down.
into the cold, cold dirt.
securing its daily bread from the clouds,
and its roots digging deep underground
out of eyereach of the sun.
Searching secretly,
Searching for something the clouds don't offer.
Something even the birds won't chatter about.

It's 10:45, and it's dark.
the sidewalk is one long piece.
no risk of breaking mom's back.
It doesn't even curve.
THE NIGHT IS SO DARK,
your hand can't see your face right in front of it.
darkness so thick you can't blink.
you can't close your eyes
and tell yourself it's all fake.
This is real.

It's 10:59, and i am drifting.
if this were a dream,
I would be happy.
Walking aimlessly
I AM A ZOMBIE,
minus the dead part.
Or am I?
I hear a tear slide down my face,
like a lightning bolt strikes earth.
grass dies where I step
but with less enthusiasm.
Leaves Crunch under my heavy step,
but without the satisfaction

It's 11:00 and the street lamps just went out.
It's impossible but,
it's darker and colder than before.
I AM FACE DOWN IN THE GRASS.
only it's like razorblades now.
more dead than the zombie I may or may not be.
No more nonsense.
Time to give up.
Time to leave.

I guess I'll just lay here awhile.

and sleep.

It's 6:00, and I wake up.
It's cold and dark still,
but they're loose like,
big shoes.
the grass still hurts.
BUT I'M HEALING.
Like a lizard that loses it's tail.
I am getting up.
I'm standing now.

It's 6:15, and I smell birds chirping
I've been standing for awhile now.
I take a first step,
like a toddler,
and it hurts.
but it's the opposite direction as before.
AND IT IS GOOD PAIN.
the kind that hurts really bad.
then goes away really fast
like stubbing your toe.

It's 6:30, and it's not dark anymore.
The sun is singing off in the distance,
and the birds are singing back.
I'M WALKING ON A TRODDEN PATH NOW,
warmth seeping into me
like a new tea bag, freshly steeped.
I see fresh footprints.
in the same direction I am going.
And I see her in the distance.

It's 6:45, and my steps are confident
I walk a little faster than the girl,
I will catch up to her someday.
but there are flowers blooming,
and new smells wafting,
and there is light.
light inside of me.
that is also blooming.
The Sun looks down on me comfortably
like a stream in the shade.


AND I AM STRONG.

Real talks

he has funny little freckles on his nose that don't look all that great because they don't match his personality and because they aren't really noticeable. he tries to wear nice clothes with dark pointy shoes and skinny things because he just wants her to look at him. he wears these fake glasses to try and get people with real glasses to connect with him and start a conversation with him but he gets all flustered and admits they're fake. he once tried to find fake braces, but he had to settle with the glasses. tomorrow he'll try to fit in with three different crowds by the way he acts, the music he listens to in the morning, and the way he ties his shoes. he takes AP classes because one crowd he likes does. and he isn't very good at them. and he won't fit in because 1+2+3=4 so he can't be 1, 2, or 3. he's just a four. no one likes the number four. he sleeps with his shirt on, unlike the other better-bodied-boys his age because he is scared of his own family seeing him shirtless because there are no muscles there. he is scared of going swimming with friends, in fact he won't. unless he can wear a shirt. he is pretty good at making music, but there will always be some blond, or asian kid better than him, so he doesn't really try. he tries to write, and maybe he's good at it, but he'll never know. because no one will stop and listen, to his poetry that took him ages to actually finish because he can't quite ever finish anything significant he tries. he moves at a snail's pace, because he believes life should be enjoyed. he likes a girl that's in love with his worst enemy. he does not have his own standards, he lets the people he tries to be set his standards for him and he hates himself when he can't uphold them. he doesn't believe in love yet because he thinks you're not going to marry anyone you meet in highschool, unless you divorce and meet someone at a reunion. he will never be quite good enough for his life. or is circumstances. But he is in charge of his own life. And I'm sure I'll figure it out someday.

They had nothing to say to each other

They meant everything to each other

Blueprints

"Oops"

God; up there in the sky.(I think)
I know he's a busy man and all.
and I ain't got nothing on god.
it's just, why did he have to have wet hands while he was drawing me.
while I was just still a concept.

He was eating a burrito.
A big open-ended one,
the kind that drip out the bottom.

Well some of that dripped onto my blueprints.

Some sour cream (Godly sour cream) plopped right onto my legs
and smeared them up to my knees and called me nonathletic.

I was supposed to be a football star, you know.

My elbows got drowned into my shoulders,
ruining my to-be quarterback throwing arm
and everyone knows when your shoulder is as uncoordinated as your elbow.
well....
everyone knows...

God tried to lick up the lettuce and beans that fell onto my face.
now hair grows on my chin and my eyes are as beautiful as the inside of my ears.
I get chancres on my face instead of inside my mouth.
and their full of puss. And they're ugly. And they multiply if you touch them.
because there was a little mold on my blueprints
God left it out, unrefrigerated.

I was going to be a model, you know.

my tongue bled down into my stomach,
now i can't give speeches without getting butterflies.

I was supposed to be a senator, you know.

Some got in my eyes,
I need glasses first of all, not to mention the clouded judgement.

I was supposed to be Supreme Justice, you know.

Where my brain was
smudged in red greasy taco sauce
smudged down, down into my heart.
I guess that's why I've always thought with my heart and not my brain.
a little got into my hands too.
I think with my hands and wrists and heart.
Words flow from my heart
and out into my finger tips where they linger.
and sometimes disappear.

Fingers don't have a memory, you know.

My heart still thinks he is a brain.

Silly heart.

Silly God.

Paris is Burning

Enclosed in this letter there's a picture
Black and white for your refridgerator
Sticks and stones have made me smarter
It's words that cut me under my armor, they say

Movies Flicks and Silly chicks

My favorite movie of all time...
Holy crap that's a hard one.


Twilight easily...

:):):)


I'm hungry.

Where The Wild Things Are.

The most amazing, beautiful, innocent movie ever created.

Wow.

It is so quiet and perfect.



There were some buildings... There were these really tall buildings, and they could walk. Then there were some vampires. And one of the vampires bit the tallest building, and his fangs broke off. Then all his other teeth fell out. Then he started crying. And then, all the other vampires said, "Why are you crying? Weren't those just your baby teeth?" And he said, "No. Those were my grown-up teeth." And the vampires knew he couldn't be a vampire anymore, so they left him. The end.


Will you keep out all the sadness?
I have a sadness shield that keeps out all the sadness, and it's big enough for all of us

I can show you your kingdom. This is all yours. You're the owner of this world. Everything you see is yours. Oh, except that hole over there, that's Ira's. The tree's yours, but the hole is Ira's. But everything else is yours. Except for that rock over there, that's not yours. That little rock next to the big rock. But everything else in the kingdom... except for that stick. That little stick right there, that's not yours. I want you to be king forever.

 
Happiness isn't always the best way to be happy.

We are learning to make fire.

Welcome to writing class Fire Class 101

Does your fire look like this?

Well I have good news and bad news.
The bad news is some of you will not take all the steps. And your little flame will go out forever, and you will never grow. I'm sorry but it's true

Now, Luckily there are some of you who are tedious enough to endure and pray and fast through all of these fail safe ways to become a good writer pyrotechnic.
Pretty soon your itty bitty flame will become like Nelson's:

Take your newspaper, like this, crumple it up real nice, like this, can you see?
You're going to end up with a little ball of words and letters and semicolons, but ignore these because they aren't important, as long as you have the words and letters and semicolons you'll be fine.

Oh! I forgot!
You will need a nice sized fire pit, one that is dug out a little bit with a shovel and surrounded by rocks to stop your fire from spreading to much, especially you kids who are super indie...  You don't want others to have your fire do you??? NO way! keep your ideas inside until they are big enough to show to the whole world.
make a circle or a square with the rocks but I'll warn you squares are NOT creative.

Next you'll need kindling.
 movies, poems, poets, paper, lamp, Bon Iver music and Sufjan Stevens of course, not to mention a classroom and desks and backpacks

Next we have small sized sticks.
A silly English teacher will do. Rough him up take small bits of him and put them on top of your words and letters and movies and poets and music. Pencils and pens will also do, but the English teacher is necessary.

can you see a potential fire yet?

Next you'll need some hefty logs to keep burning for eons and decades.
Ideas, glasses, HANDS, a brain, inspirational quotes, Jealousy, Rage, Depression, Parents, School, just your basic emotions. Great you've got some hefty logs.

And lastly. Propellant of some kind. This will be the hardest one... You'll need some nice pixie dust, motivation, inspiration, gold powder, marijuana, cocaine, you get the idea.



Oh and I forgot, you'll need a match.
And that seems to be the hardest part.
I believe in you










Class dismissed 

I want.

http://allpoetry.com/poem/8494113-anyone_lived_in_a_pretty_how_town-by-E._E._Cummings

I wish I would've come up with this.
Gosh.

me Cheating off e.e.cummings

it is so good.

I wish I was more original. And I wish I didn't have to try so hard to be creative. I wish I didn't have to listen to sad music, smoke pipes and say 'quite'.
I wish I didn't have to squeeze my heart
and not just the blood, no
pulp and all, onto a new page every single time.
i wish i wasnt scared so much of bad grammar and spelling errors
and capitalization.

I wish I didn't have to feel the obligation to make sense and shoot myself with a nerf gun.

"Make me creative God"

what my prayers consist of.

"God, make me a better writer than I was yesterday."

"God, should I write you a letter God?"

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
with by spirit and if by yes.

I wish that I could write a stanza like this, and not need to feel like explaining it.

what the crap is he even saying. 

He doesn't even capitalize his own name and initials.

i wish i wasnt selfish

I envy how other writers can compare anything to whatever they are talking about, or write a story about a boy who fishes everyday and only eats bread and make it turn into a lecture about why love is the only thing that is both constant and chaotic at the same time.

 I wish I could control Chaos like they can.

....There once was a boy, and he fished and only ate bread.

Words.

I think a lot of people have forgotten that there is still beauty out there to be discovered.

Even me sometimes.

 

Courage

Courage;
Guxim
شجاع
քաջություն
cəsarət
мужнасць

i don't really know why i wrote all those different languages...
my bones told me to.

i am not capitalizing because,
my bones told me to.

we could just use that excuse for anything.

i killed a man,
because my bones told me to.

Sometimes though, my bones are scared too. And we both look at the floor and listen to music when we walk down the hallways.

My bones and I, we're like a portrait and it's frame. Neither really work without each other but they exist all the same. My bones and I, we get along sometimes, but sometimes I have to break my bones to stop me from looking up or speaking my mind. My bones and I dance sometimes. We swing each other round and round, till one of us drops.
And we all fall down.
Sometimes my bones and I, we talk to that girl. 

My bones like to draw pictures but I won't let them, so they don't turn out good.

Crackle Crackle they go, trying, trying desperately to make me phenomenally uncomfortable in my own skin. 
They are good at it by now.

Sometimes I do what my bones tell me to,


But sometimes I don't give them calcium on purpose.
 

Only not.

I go back to a time
in between dreams
dark and cold and light and warm
the soft pitterpatter of summernight rain
keeping rhythm to our
minds racing.

Knocking at my door

Lying in bed.
Under my sheets, even though they make me cold.
Blanket up to my nose, my hands grasp the top of the blanket'
White knuckles clenched.
It's getting darker and darker
And the barbed wire is getting tighter and tighter.

My feet are frozen, and probably blue.
but I'm too scared to look at them,
because they are so far away,
at the end of my bed, dangling off my mattress.
The draft whispers at my mouth and nose and ears
and ruffles my hair.

Barbed wire tight and cutting.

It's just me and death,
and he looks me in the eye,

well I don't know because of the hood,
but I pretend.
Because it feels like razor wire now.
Tight and cutting.
Blood.

it must be time, I think.

"I'm scared."
Death says 
"Me too."
"Why are you scared?"
"Because anything you are scared of, will always be just as scared as you are."

Razor wire, wrapped around my neck.
tight and cutting.

It's even darker than before now.
which up until this very second of my life thought was impossible.
It's colder now too.
and my feet are so far away, and
The door is further than my feet.
Which I also thought was impossible.
I know I can't leave,
because my legs are like a slow computer
jerky and slow.

It's foggy in my room, and it's funny,
because I don't remember buying the fog machine.
Death gets closer to my bed.

Death is the only thing that seems in perspective.

Death smells like roses.

which I find strange,
because it's death we're talking about here.

But then again, 

a rose will still smell like a rose,

long after it has wilted.

I'm Uneasy

I'm scared.

I'm scared of a lot of things like horses and maggots. Rational things like death and spiders, and irrational things like power outages, and microwaves.

I'm scared of bugs in my bed.
I'm scared of bugs in my hair, and eyelashes.
I am scared of the dark.
I am terrified of not having a Mom.
Scared of straws getting stuck in my throat and scratching the back of my mouth.
I'm scared of worms. Earthworms, heartworms, flatworms...etc.
I am scared of having to many fears.

I am scared of waking up one day and having nothing.

I am scared of what people think about me.
I am scared of running out of new things to try.
I am scared that I will always be who I am right now.

I'm scared that one day, I won't be able to control my anxiety.

I feel like someone is watching me right now.

I am scared of Marijuana

I am scared that Girls won't get around to liking me.
I am scared that things won't mean anything to me anymore.
I am scared that everything I have, all the moments I have collected will disappear. And I'll know they are there, but I won't be able to get them back.
I'm so scared all the time.

I'm scared of the outside world and not being able to fit, because we were all born on third base. Not having the experience that I need, to know how to use a doctor's office, or a Redbox machine, or how to use the emergency room when I most desperately need it, or not knowing how to use a train, or a school registration process. I am scared of making promises. I am scared to break another fucking promise that I knew I couldn't keep in the first place, but made it anyway so you would be impressed with how much I know.

They tell me to allow my fears to control my body for 10 seconds. And I won't be scared anymore.
But I'm scared of first steps in new directions. So I'll bottle up these fears and keep them to hurt someone another day, for a rainy day when I least expect it. The bottle will break and I'll lose it.
And I'll lose you. 

and you,
and you,
and you,
and you...

I am scared to say 'I love you'.

I am scared that I will run out of words.

I am scared.
I don't want to be scared.
But I always will be.

It goes something like this

A new kind a coup is happening in my heart.
The kind that leaves little fireflies to their own devices
and butterflies to flying around in circles
once in awhile caressing the lining of my stomach
with their recherché wing tips.
And even though I'm not ticklish
It still sends little messages
up my spine and into my brain
where it makes me dizzy,
and makes my body act all wrong.
I'm scared I'll say something stupid.
But something inside of me doesn't even care.
Being here with you is enough for me
Being here with you is all I ask
Being here with you makes me ticklish again.

stuff that happened to me

Let me compare some things

I'm thinking about you like Djs think about Cds

and Cds think about Ipods, 

and Ipods think about Djs.

like Rubber bands think about tires 

and how they'll never be one.

I'm thinking about you like Death thinks about cloaks

and Horocruxes, 

and Edward Cullen.

I'm thinking about you like girls think about boys,

and boys think about sex,

and girls think about holding hands and kissing,

and boys think about sex.

I'm thinking about you like cancer thinks about killing 

like cells think about dividing

I'm thinking about you like meteorologists think about the weather

and geologists think about faults

and critics think about faults.

I'm thinking about you like monkeys think about bananas

and pens think about ink

and ink thinks about paper.

I'm thinking about you like crazy.

Love; a Noun.

 Since I am obviously the master of love and have the most experience you've ever even heard of in the love subject; I will dispense all of my secrets about it now.



I Have No Idea.



Love is an emotion. Love is a black hole? Love has no end.
We've all heard the Yatta-Yatta from T.V. shows and movies and books.
But do we really know ourselves?

As stated in the dictionary:

1. a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.

2. a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or friend.

3. sexual passion or desire.

4. a person toward whom love is felt; beloved person; sweetheart.

5. used in direct address as a term of endearment, affection, or the like: Would you like to see a movie, love?

Who decided all that. Can we really expect to be able to define an emotion?

It's all so subjective.

Maybe we're supposed to interpret passionate feelings in a bad way, something we should stay away from.

Maybe Love was never meant to be pleasing but the bodies natural sign to run away, or hide.

Maybe love was never intended to be pleasant.

Love is the weed sticking out of the crack in the driveway, no matter how many times it dies, it will always grow back.

Love is the season of Summer, always to short, and perfect.

Love is getting mugged.

Love is a brier patch.

Love is a plane with one engine left, on the left side.

Love is a boxing match(with yourself?)

Love is an oak tree.

Love is black ice.

Love is my zipper.

Love is the knife drawer.(and yours too)

Love is a domesticated wolf, living in your house.

Love is a thumbtack.

Love is a film camera.

Love is The city of Atlantis.

Love is a bag of potato chips.

Love is a black guy?

Love is a potato

Love is an empty street corner.

Love is a rusty scrapyard.

My favorite books are Infinite, but here come a few:

 I cheated, here's 10:

1. a. Forest of Hands and Teeth
    b. The Dead-Tossed Waves 
    c. Dark and Hollow Places
   (All written and published by Carrie Ryan)
   (this series counts as one, or I'm out 3 favorite books)(you choose)
2. The Perks of Being a Wallflower
    (Stephen Chbosky)...(did I spell that Write?)
3. a. Summer of the Monkeys
    b. Where the Red Fern Grows
    (Wilson Rawls) (I cried so many)
4. a. I Am the Messenger
    b. The Book Thief
    (Markus Zusak)(these 2 count as one, or else I'm done....)(once again you choose)
5. Lord of the Flies
    (William Golding)(Don't judge me, I like it larts)(good human nature book)(poor piggy)
6. Twilight
    (mmmhmmmm, there are no better love stories out there)
6. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
   (Jonathan Safran Foer)(I like the pictures)(Nelson suggested this book to me)
7. a. Samuel; Moroni's young warrior
    b. Samuel; Gadianton's Foe
    c. Samuel; Thunder in Paradise
    (Clair M. Poulson)(yeah, I'm religious)(and they are super good)
8. The Road
    (Cormac McCarthy)(Absolutely Lovely)(another great human nature book)
9. The Count of Monte Cristo
    (Alexandre Dumas)(Classic)("Wait and Hope")
10. The House on Mango Street
     (Sandra Cisneros)(Perfect Prose)(<---Alliteration)

Get Some Reads.

Intro about I

Hi,
My pen name is Ed Kennedy(Edward?) Don't really know.
anyway he is a character in a book that super good.

Maybe you have heard of it.
I Am The Messenger by Markus Zusak
You should read it.
I like reading.
I like blogs.
I like to write and post
and paragraph(paragraph should be a verb)
I love pineapple but that doesn't really matter does it?
I like to read oh wait...Said that already
I like to repeat myself
I like to repeat myself
and say my punctuation(period)
and i like to miss spell and not capitalize on purpose to make you think or hate me.
Whichever comes last.
Atlantis is real.