At night, after the party

As the color fades around my eyes, I stare ahead, hearing the angels' voices sing
on the breeze, on the breeze.

As the water chills in the glass, I pour it down my throat, feeling ice
on my lips, on my lips.

Recalling the fading light and a sea's wind and a fleeting wildness
in my blood, in my blood.

As the music pounded in my ears, in my feet,
in my blood, in my blood.

And the sun escaped below the horizon, red and glistening with pearls
of sweat, pale sweat.

And songs tore from within me, within me
and my feet danced under me, under me
and a turtle's image appeared on my arm

And it was nothing if not everything

Because without the wild
what is there to the world?

Poems and Thoughts of Israel

It's nearing one a.m. and I just spent the past hour and a half finishing a book of Hebrew poetry.

I don't know.

I've been wanting to finish it for a while, and now I need to reread it because I'm so tired that I'm not sure what stuck and what didn't.

But what did stick was beautiful. I really like this book, almost as much as Hazel loves An Imperial Affliction.

But I suddenly thought about going to visit Israel - this Wednesday as it happens - and I'm terrified as hell, honestly. How different will it feel? Will my happiness fade again? Where will I be after going back to that place?

I've forgotten so much, honestly I have. I had forgotten, until today, how the streets in Tel Aviv connect and how it felt to be there and being away from my friends and everything. It hurt, and I think I forgot that a little. Suddenly I remember all these things from the evening I got this book of poetry signed and how good I felt that night, and being close to my family, and having Hebrew all around me.

I'm kind of alarmed at how much this trip crept up on me. It was always kind of in the near future and all but never really this close. In seventy-two hours I'll already be there or close at least. It's scaring me. Deja vu to this time last year, before I changed.

But how much did I stay the same?

I don't know right now. I don't know anything right now.

Ode to Homework

Homework, O Homework,
how I despise thee
with your dastardly questions
and time-consuming monstrosities,

and projects and studies
and diagrams and tests.
I'd light you on fire -
you annoy at best.

And though teachers say
that you're easy and fun,
wherefore, oh wherefore
hath anyone begun

to torture us children,
poor beasts as we are
with assignments and workbooks -
when did they start?

Homework, O Homework,
please do go
to the remote mountains
of ice and snow

or volcanoes and fire-pits -
doesn't that sound lovely?
If you went, I'm sure
that we'd all love thee.

And maybe, just maybe,
we'd all be friends!
Homework, O Homework,
I beg of thee, END!

Archaic Writings of Moi

I've been reading over my old poems. It's fun and it makes me feel like such a self-centered genius because I think, "oh hey, these are pretty decent!"

I also came across a story that I started in fourth or fifth grade. To be perfectly honest, erm...it's absolutely terrible. It is so very cliché and repetitive in the field of word choice. Not that I've made much improvement in that sense on first drafts, but when I go back and read it I think I might have spent more time choosing the font and formatting than actually writing. Whoops. 

But at the same time it's amazingly okay, because it's not much more than you'd expect from me back then. You kind of look at it and say, wow this is terrible. Makes you think of the fact that you're so much better at word choice, grammar, and just general story-making.

As for showing it to other people...I don't think that's going to happen anytime soon. *reads it over again* Yeah, I don't think it will happen...EVER.