Remember

You are allowed to be tired.

You are allowed to be less than perfect.

You are allowed to cry.

You are allowed to breathe.

You are allowed to sing in the shower at the top of your lungs.

You are allowed to choose what you want from life.

You are allowed to be angry with yourself.

You are allowed to let that anger and shame go.

You are allowed to forgive yourself.

You are allowed to take long walks.

You are allowed to swim.

You are allowed to sit and think for a while–in fact, reserve some time just for that, every day.

You are allowed to count your blessings.

You are allowed to succeed.

Note that success is not necessarily the sort of success people think of today, in business, in school, in other things. Success can just be getting out of bed every morning, remembering to eat breakfast, or watching a sunset.

You are allowed to let go of your expectations.

You are allowed to adapt to reality without changing who you are.

You are and are allowed to be important.

You are and are allowed to be yourself.

You are and are allowed to be an individual.

You are and are allowed to be different.

You do and are allowed to make a difference.

You are allowed to remember others with fondness.

You are allowed to not want fair weather friends; good on you!

You are allowed to want to do more than date, work, get married, get a house, have a kid and that’s it. You are completely allowed to do more.

You are allowed to change.

You are allowed to break if that’s what it takes to build a better you.

You are allowed to walk in the sunshine.

You are and are allowed to be free.

You are allowed to laugh.

You are allowed not to laugh if that’s what you want.

You are allowed to scream at the top of your lungs.

You are allowed to talk about it.

You are allowed to not like coffee, or chocolate, or other things everyone else seems to love so much.

You are unique. Remember that.

You are different. That’s okay.

You are human. Think on that when you fail. Failure is a challenge. It’s a beautiful prelude to success.

You are beautiful. Don’t let other people make you ugly.

You are vulnerable. That’s what makes you so very strong.

You are yourself. Don’t ever try to be anyone else. Don’t try to live up to other people’s expectations. Think of the best version of yourself and try to be that. Let your failures make you stronger. Let yourself be. Let yourself breathe. You’ll grow. These things take time.

You are allowed to smile. (For no reason at all, and for every reason in existence.)

Scarlet

Scarlet.

The war is scarlet.

Fields full of poppies

Roses growing in a tangle about a grave

Light streaking the sky at sunset.

Oh, yes.

The war is red.

Flannel wrapped around freezing fingers

Cold skin so blue it’s almost red

Eyes burning from crying.

And blood.

Crimson fading to brown on stained uniforms

Decorations post-mortem

The stages of grief washed in violet

And red—

But who knew that red was the color of despair?

Bleak words at funerals

Meant to be tender, but seeming out of place.

Dirt staining cheeks of innocent boys—

They were innocent, once.

Shadows penetrate so deep the soul is blackened—

And blood-red-crimson-scarlet-hell is the color of despair.

An Apology And Character Studies

My last post was just an outpouring of a lot of emotions that have been building up for the past couple months. I probably should have warned you guys about content for that poem, but I was kind of concentrated on just getting the feelings out. I’m sorry about that. I’ve been really busy lately; my Spring Dance Recital is coming up, and I have a ton of school work to do over the summer because I want to graduate when I’m 17 not when I’m 18, so my apologies that this blog has been so neglected. I’ve been trying to post more, but I think everyone else is just as busy–so good luck with school plays or finals or whatever you’ve been up to. I’ll be praying for you.

I’d like to request prayers for me; as you could probably guess reading that last post, I really need them. Thank you so much.

I’ve also been kind of sick with a horrible cold, so all of you stay healthy, okay? Release that stress and remember to smile.

And now, I have a special treat for you; character studies of three of my characters! I’ll probably be doing more for other characters later because it really helped me see the characters better. I might post those too. I’ll also probably post a sample chapter of the story these three are from; I’ll just have to make sure it’s a chapter that doesn’t have spoilers, because this story starts building right away.

Anyway, there are two girls and a boy, Calliope, Ryin and Eridun. I want you to try to guess which is which; I’ll confirm or deny your suspicions in a later post, mwahahaha!

Without further a due;


She’s the girl who you really shouldn’t like, but you do. She’s the girl you first had a crush on; cliché, you know; pretty, smart, athletic, with an enormous smile and a load of friends. She is the girl who is taller than everybody else and you should resent it, but you don’t. She’s the durable pair of jeans in your closet that you wear on your comfy days. She’s the huge sweater you wear because you can. She’s the fluffy socks you wiggle your toes in, and just love holes into. She’s the smell of the salt sea or your favorite Grandmother’s sweet perfume. She’s the raucous, adorable laughter that makes an entire hallway smile for no reason whatsoever. She’s dark, perfect skin and pearl teeth and gentle teasing and a comfortable leader you’d follow over the edge of the world.

He’s the boy who is shorter and less muscular than the other boys and who goes unnoticed a lot. He’s the boy who plays piano and has long, graceful fingers and a smile like hot cocoa, warm, sweet and wonderful. He’s the gentlemanly boy who always asks the wall flower to dance. He’s the boy who is really pretty when you get to know him; it’s only after you notice the flower that it starts to blossom. He’s that warm, old quilt that you curl up in on cold winter nights. He’s nights of watching stars and whispering secrets with your very best friend. He’s the smell of old-fashioned flowers on a hot summer day, the feeling of water on your skin when it’s broiling out. He’s dancing, heart breaker brown eyes and sweet smile and beautiful laughter and the friend you’d rather die than leave.

She’s the girl whose smile is the first thing you notice. She’s the girl who can’t stop drawing and whose fingers are constantly stained with pigment or charcoal. She’s the girl who never wears makeup and really doesn’t need it. She’s the girl who is stronger than she looks, the one who can hide a lot of pain with a laugh. She’s the sturdy boots that keep you warm all winter and never wear out. She’s autumn leaves crunching underfoot, a welcome home hug from your sister. She’s the smell right after it rains, the smell of chocolate chip cookies, and the smell of wind after a day inside. She’s the soft burr of an accent that warms the pit of your stomach and leaves you feeling better. She’s the freckles that pop out the first day of spring and hang around till the last day of fall. She’s fiery hair and indescribable brown eyes like a chuckling brook and artistic fingers and determined jaw and the friend who is loyal to a fault and who always makes it better.


So; those are my three sweethearts from this story. Can you guess what the story is about?

Anyway, have a frabjous day and may God bless you all!

Me

I wish that I could stop existing here

Caged and imprisoned by my own fear

The future ahead is so unclear

Heart pounding, here I wait.

 

It’s only me that makes or breaks me

It isn’t life’s fault, wherever it takes me

The world ahead stares and it shakes me

Imprisoned, but not by fate.

 

It seems I have forgotten why

The reasons I used to smile or sigh

I find myself wanting to cry

Alone, I am afraid.

 

It’s my own fault when I break or fall

The cage is made of nothing at all

But desire to walk and not to crawl

How often is this act played?

 

I just want to be good so bad

And it leaves me tragic, sad

Sometimes I feel I might go mad

In this prison I have made.

 

My heart is made of broken dreams

The reflection of the world it seems

Written in pageless, endless reams

I can’t seem to make a way.

 

My expectations, that’s all I fail

My ship has a mast with a broken sail

I make all the progress of a snail

Will I ever have my day?

 

I hide my pain behind a smile

And no one sees that all the while

I’m standing on the other side of the stile

(There’s no grass to be green).

 

I only want to prove my worth to me

That’s all I’ve wanted for eternity

And yet I struggle endlessly

My fight goes on unseen.

 

I project emotions, too scared to show

What I don’t want anyone to know

I’ll never shine, I’ll never glow

Worthless is all I’ve ever been.

 

Would it help if I could scream and shout

Or just let go of my self-doubt

Or figure out what I’m about?—

You see, I just don’t know.

 

But here I struggle through my pain

Through thunderstorms of dirty rain

And if I ever go insane

I don’t think they’ll ever know.

 

We are our own worst enemy

Or so at least it seems to me

I don’t exist—I’ll never be

Worth anything to anyone.

 

Angel Wings surround my head

(But I can’t see) At night in bed

I’m fighting monsters in my head

But i am not the only one.

 

My struggles aren’t comparable

To any other person’s, though

I’m not like, (quite) invisible

It’s just I don’t exist.

The Last Day

Dawn light comes from the east.

The little girl turns her head to look up.

Nights of blood and darkness are gone.

The light has come.

Long dead warriors around her rise to their feet

Reaching toward the shining beacon on the hill,

Brighter than the sun behind it

Brighter than the turn of the universe.

They should be unable to look upon such brilliance;

But they can.

The form of a man stands in the center.

He steps down the hill, and the glow is ever brighter.

Some of the men and women shy from him.

Others run to greet him.

The little girl cannot move.

She wants to.

He turns toward her, and the sky is high in the heavens.

The men part, to his right and his left.

Glimmering, shining creatures appear to his right.

Ravening beasts crawl to his left.

He reaches his hands toward her.

She still cannot move through the field.

He moves to her.

His arms wrap round her,

Tight.

Familiar.

She has missed them so much.

He lifts her,

His large, gentle hands enveloping her.

He holds her for a long moment,

And then sets her down,

Taking her hand,

Leading her through the field toward the sunset.


Like it? Hate it? Got some crazy interpretation to share?
Please feel free to tell me in the comments, and may God bless you all!

Unidentified Snippets

The old manor house off Kingsbury lane was nothing more than a museum of relics of bygone times. Some of the richer, wealthier citizens both living and dead were immortalized there in portraiture of the style of whatever was in fashion at the time of the painting. Post-mortem photographs were occasionally featured on the walls. Passersby entered the huge house to gawk at the imposing oversize pictures on the unimposing undersized walls, to gossip underneath opulent chandeliers and to sample the delicacies still prepared down in the kitchens as though the family yet survived.

But the reason some came was because of a portrait, unsigned and untitled, set ignominiously to one’s right as one climbed the stairs to them main gallery. It was a fantastically done piece. Perhaps it was the crisp lines and the excellence of the brushwork that drew viewers. Perhaps it was the color or the unusual, disconcerting charm of the piece. But more likely it was the subject matter.

A girl stood in a ball gown, facing away from the viewer, her head turned slightly so that a fragment of her profile was visible. Her upper face was concealed by a black, feathered mask, through which shaded eyes peaked, their color shadowed and indiscernible. Her lips quirked upward in a smile which was nearly mischievous; her hair was dark, but one could not be sure that it was the natural color of her hair due to the style of the girl’s dress. The dress was definitely the formal uniform of a mask, the anonymous law keepers who performed acts of courage in protection of crown and kingdom.

Legend and myth had grown up around the masks, with the natural sense of mystery and romance that any gallant, anonymous young person incites. There were portraits of masks in other places, imagining what they must look like unmasked, but the portrait of the girl was distinct and singular. There was no signature, no trace of any known artist, and certainly no attempt to assign to the girl in the mask any particular identity. She was simply there, a vigilante with impermeable eyes and smile.

But one day in June, with the weather hot and clammy and the balls, picnics and summer engagements bringing gossip to their peak, a piece of white paper was found stuck in the frame, with a single name on it, and a mailing direction.

Lilian

            Return to sender

Grins Evilly Do I have you hooked yet?

Snippet

Aren taught Ivy to love watching the stars, early, early, early in the morning, when the city lights were out, and the streets were quiet. He taught her countless other things. He talked to her about God too, sometimes, but it was through prose and poetry, quotes and the wise words of old and gone theologians that he taught her. It was a slow process, respecting her boundaries and teaching her the limits and bounds of beauty. Garret, after a few weeks, adapted to all Ivy’s boundaries, and danced around them like she had known Ivy going on forever, the same way she did with Aren.

It occurred to Ivy that Garret loved Aren like she loved no one else, and thought more of him than she did of herself. But Ivy soon learned that she loved Aren too. He had become an essential part of her. It was both disturbing and beautiful, and in that, it was something like life.

Ad Memoriam

Ad Memoriam

It seems to me sometimes that the world is terribly old.

It seems that I am terribly big

Recalled beyond the touch of growth or time

Suspended,

Stretched out,

Forever,

Written in countless stories.

In every story, it seems.

For in the end, I will touch you all.

I am so terribly old.

I know that I am,

And it makes it all the harder, all the worse

To be so old and so ancient,

So big, so unknown

So feared.

I am not a gruesome truth, as some would have it

I am merely a continuation of what has always been.

Although

At times I fear myself.

Children do not know me

Hate me, when they touch me

Fear me, when they look for me—

Children do not love me.

Children love the touch of time’s bitter hands

Do not know she will steal their best days

And breaths

And take from them all they loved and believed to be forever.

They adore the breath of love

Barely being able to breathe

Or feeling infinite comfort and friendship;

But I can forgive love for her cruelty

For she doesn’t know any better.

She only wants them happy;

She doesn’t understand how cruelly kisses wound

How sweet touches mend

How bitterly ice burns the skin

How fire freezes corners of the soul that never recover.

She doesn’t understand how she brands us all.

Even me, the old-timer.

Or perhaps that’s wrong;

She’s older than I am.

I wish I could leave you all alone;

But all I can do is to be as kind as I can be.

Funny isn’t it?

Death has no escape;

Because I’m not even alive.


It’s okay if you hate it. I don’t think it’s very good.

But love you all, have a wondrous day, and God Bless!