Trampled

The Aftermath

2005-12-04T14:25:00.000-08:00

I pull at your hair, grasp at your fingernails, scratching skin beneath my teeth, trying to rip a piece of you away and digest, so that I can finally feel you in me, break you apart into tiny bits I can manage to swallow.

You've never really and truly opened up with me, peeled back the layers of skin and showed me your pulsing, beating heart, the veins that wrap around them so perfectly, and the story that's behind every sparkle in your downcast eyes. You just rest your head against my shoulder and tangle your fingers in mine and look past my hair and eyelashes into something I can't see. You can read me like an open book, and I can see your pupils flit back and forth, as though reading actual lines on my face, letters and phrases that you've come to memorize over the years.

But staring at you, hearing your words, feeling your fingers stretch against mine, it's all just motions, gestures, thoughts and sounds I've grown up with that blend together to make me who I am. I can't read into you, because you're a piece of me and I've never been strong enough to realize that when you take something, you never give it back. And so, for once in my life, I try to curl my fingers around something of yours I can keep and hold if only for a second, to remind myself that this, you, we are real.

Because all I have to show me that this reality is the gaping hole in my heart that whispers, "something's missing." I thought love was all about tender touches and being swept of your feet and feeling whole and complete, but it's just giving and giving until all that's left of you fades away, and wondering whether someday, somehow, someone will give you something of theirs to fill in the holes, the missing spaces.

But my heart can't beat well on borrowed pieces.Love isn't about butterflies and sunshine and fairytale endings, it's thorns and storm clouds and a uncertainty flashing red behind your closed eyelids.I can't remember the last time I did something just for me, or the last moment I ever felt spoiled or selfish or lucky or loved.

Can I have my heart back, pretty please? I don't trust them being cradled in your human hands.

I'm too easily satisfied, and maybe it's time I fell in love with myself.

I think this is what you call self-actualization. Or maybe it's what you call being alive.

Frost

2005-10-21T18:59:00.000-07:00

The wind cuts back the veil of my thin, blondish hair and I close my eyes shut until all I can see is black, so fierce it's almost red. If I listen soulfully, I can hear the whoosh of warm blood coursing through my freezing fingertips and the steady ticking tucked deep inside my brain, and the whisper of the late autumn breeze in falling orange leaves. One, curled and browned around the edges spirals violently and then rests on my shoulder like a soft feather, light and colourful. In my mind's eye I envision frosted housetops shimmering in winter sunlight and pinprick birds, black as night, swooping against the pearly dawn sky. I taste familiarity on my tongue, sweet and bland, and swallow it deep into my throat, tucking it somewhere between my heart and my stomach, hidden beneath the folds of flesh and the pulsing blood. I've been here before, felt the whisper of the branches above my head, the smell of winter death in the air, tasted the finality of it all in my cool breath forming mist against my lips.

I purse my mouth and funnel a stream of fog into the frosty air, curling my tongue against my teeth, pretending I was smoking a long, thin cigarette. My small artist fingers curl around the imagination, flicking red-hot ashes into the snow under my feet, and I twirl the cigarette around between my fingertips, watching the glowing tip until it swirls into a steady oval of auburn flame. I've never smoked a day in my life, I've always had weak lungs; but I'd love to feel fire between my lips, sucking it in and letting it course through my body like a rampant sort of blood, hot and painful. I read from a glossy pamphlet that it's the smoke that kills you, but I've always believed it was the flame. My fingertips halt in the cutting cold, and the cigarette drops to the snow, extinguishes. My pale hands disappear within the folds of my soft winter jacket.

My feet curl in their woollen socks, mismatched, grasping warmth by dancing toes. I painted them red last night, because they were cracked and dry and ragged along the edges, and for the first time in months, I soaked my feet under warm water with the scented bath salts my eldest daughter gave me for my last birthday. My feet looked so pretty, soft and fresh like newborn skin, and I rubbed them dry with a fluffy pink towel. I rummaged through my velvet makeup purse until I found a silver nail clipper engraved with my mother's initials and a painted purple flower that had faded to blue. I rounded out my crimson toenails until they curled perfectly against my flushed toes; half-moons the colour of grapefruit.

I stretch my aching feet, and in doing so, crush the smouldering cigarette even further into the frosted cement. I glance at my grey rubber boots, and wriggle my beautifully painted toes between the soles. The wind is brisk and I taste snow in the air. It's too cold for flame, but the icy air burns my skin. I shiver briefly, and the orange leaf resting on my shoulder slides into my skirted lap. The biting wind pricks my newly shaved legs, and I search for the familiarity I tucked somewhere deep inside. In a surge of irreverence, I slip out of my grey boots and peel off my mismatched socks, revealing my shining scarlet toes. The gritty gravel slides against my skin like scented bath salts, and the half-moons glimmer in the wintry light. I cradle my boots in my arms and sprint, my striped skirt blowing back into the wind, my toes a crimson blur beneath me. I run past frosted housetops shimmering in winter sunlight and pinprick birds, black as night, swoop against the pearly dawn sky. I suck in the wintry cold, and it's almost tastes like fire, but my lungs have always been too weak for cigarettes. I can't taste death on my tongue anymore, but I can hear the whispering leaves all around me and familiarity of being beautifully alive.

Desolate

2005-10-10T11:48:00.000-07:00

You're not that pretty when you smile; you're lovely when you're desolate.

With your auburn hair swept low against your forehead, your emerald eyes downcast, a fringe of dark lashes blanketing your model-cheekbones. Your lower lip, full and red, trembles, and the sparkle of tears dot your lower eyelids. All the colour fades from your forehead and cheeks, and rushes to the curve of your upturned nose in a perfect pink circle. Your frail shoulders shiver and your finely-shaped fingernails sit in your lap in two perfect green rows. Your sneakered feet tap against the wooden worn floor, and for a moment, your lashes sweep upwards, and vacant ocean eyes search for a familiar face. A silver ring sparkles on your left thumb, and a simple golden chain threads around your slender neck, a tiny metal cross swinging in time with your silently moving lips. A small leather bible is tucked between your pale knobbed knees, closed firmly shut, but the edges of the covers are worn out and turned up, the pages lined with faded gold. Tears sting at your nosebridge and sunburnt cheeks, and you rub your eyes against the rough sleeve of your cotton blue sundress. Your yellow knee-high stockings don't match, and the bustling nurses around you don't seem to mind; it's colour in their white white world, and that makes all the difference.

It's on cold October days such as this one that I remember you sitting against that plastic orange chair, rocking back and forth, mumbling the Lord's prayer and counting fallen eyelashes. Waiting in the narrow hall, tiny feet planted squarely between to seperate tiles; one black, one white, for fear of breaking your mother's curved back. Breathing in the sharp musty hospital smells, early morning sunlight falling against your slim shoulders and poised back. Freckles spread against your pale arms, lips twisted in quiet childlike agony. Waiting was something you were never talented at, but you look so pretty when you're pained.

You never saw me, though, tucked into the shadows, peering over the curled edges of a worn magazine. You looked so lovely, dappled with autumn sunlight, toes tapping to the quiet hush of desperate prayers and breathy lullabies, green fingernails interlaced perfectly in your skirted lap, auburn bangs brushing against your eyebrows. You'd be the perfect subject of a portrait, painted in earthy tones of browns and greens, with the broad strokes of watercolour, smudging all your delicate features together until all you can see is urgency. I'd name that painting, "Epiphany", and frame it in varnished oak. I'd hide it away, push it deep into the depths of my closet so that my heart wouldn't ache everytime I saw it. But when I'd feel alone, I'd crawl into the musty closet and curl up with this huge painting in the quiet dark, and maybe, I'd pretend I was waiting with you too. Maybe we could wait together.

I saw you once more after that, wearing suede boots and a pink tee shirt, slouched against a wire bench, waiting for the subway. The cool air breeze ruffled your blonde-streaked ponytail, and you sat with one bronzed leg curled under the other. You looked happier, with your lips smudged in lipgloss and dimples embedded in your creamy skin. Your freckles faded and your green eyes didn't look so green anymore, more of a smoky grey hidden behind blue mascara. You were smiling, but you didn't look as pretty as I remember. Your full lips thinned out when you smiled, and your once-pretty eyes crinkled until you couldn't tell the colour. Your hair was silky thin, but it didn't rest against your shoulders in the russet curls I remember. Gone were the low bangs and yellow knee-high socks; you wore a light-blue mini skirt that rested above creamy midthigh. I almost walked past you, almost didn't recognize the girl that stared out from me in the closet.

But then I saw the glimmer of a gold necklace, and knew that somewhere, hidden beneath the layers of newest fashion, there was a wooden cross swinging back and forth to your whispered Lord's prayer. And your heeled boot was tapping against the worn cement floor, and I knew you were thinking about waiting, something you'd gotten better at over the years. But you weren't lovely and young and naive, and no longer were tears sparkling against your eyelids.

You're not that pretty when you smile; you're lovely when you're desolate.

I no longer wish to wait with you.

Beautiful Day

2005-09-15T17:55:00.000-07:00

Death wails, and it's such a beautiful day.

Black combat boots crunch over untouched snow, and the silver clasps glimmer in the dawn sunlight. Two double knots, and then tucked into the laces, just like you taught me many summer nights ago. I still remember my fingers, small and trembling, covered by your soft and guiding hands as I looped and tightened my way through my first laced tennis shoe. Something painful swells in my chest, brushing against my ribcage, and I miss you so heavily I can barely breathe. I remember the flashes of your dark brown hair, the way you tucked wayward wisps behind your ears almost forgetfully, the low swoop of your forehead, the clear wisdom in your forest eyes. You never knew what to do with your hands, gangly limbs that never stayed in place, flitting between your hair and lap and knee until you'd finally set it on the top of my blonde head, ruffling it slightly with your fingertips. I'd hate it with a passion, quickly swat your hand away and smooth down my curls with disdain and a nasal, "Mo-om!"

I'd give anything for your nervous hands to slide against my hair, shaved close now to my head, bristling yellow sprouts like sunwarmed grass. I wonder what you'd say now, staring at my war-dimmed eyes, my calloused fingertips, my sallow cheeks.

You'd tell me I was the handsomest boy on the block, and tears well along my eyelids.

But big boys don't cry, your teasing voice resounds in my mind, and I can almost hear your tinkling laugh, like silver bells at Christmas time... mellowed with love and age and the sweet alto that only accents with motherhood.

The sky spans angrily in front of me, like a quilted blanket dipped in grey. The wintry sun is hidden behind those rumbling clouds somewhere, and so are you. I hear a flap of crow's wings, black as night, and colour them white and sparkling in my mind; angel's wings. The wind kisses my face and freezes my tears on my tongue, and I can't help but wonder whether you're trying to run your fingers through my hair.

A shriek slices the air in front of me with a leaden dagger, and the deafening thunder of gunfire erupts all around us in a deadly rumble. The crow flails its dark matted wings almost violently, and soars over the mottled battlefield with angry squawks. The ranks around me drop their bodies to the snow-crusted ground with mighty 'thumps', but my eyes are trained on that sole black body fighting against the northern winds, and the pain burning at my side flicks like fire, and my heart's crimson tears bathe my hands and chest, and I fall to the snow, eyes fluttering closed. The wings, white as milk, sparkle and flutter in front of my eyes, even though all I feel is blackness.

I wonder what you'd think now, Mother... my mind whispers for the final time and the pain overwhelms me with avalanche force... all I feel is cold, except for the warmth of fingers on my head, bristling back and forth in the tender way only you know.

"You're still the handsomest boy on the block." I can hear your laughter in my head; silver bells. Christmas time. I want to go home.

The wintry sulight peeks through the rumbling clouds and spills over the marred battlefield.

Death wails, and it's such a beautiful day.

--

You've flown far too high, boy
Now you're too close to the sun
Soon your makeshift wings
Will come undone...

Because paper wings can't hold up every broken dream you've ever slung across your back.

--

Listen to: "Because of You" - Kelly Clarkson

"My heart can't possibly break when it wasn't even whole to start with."

--

Busride

2005-09-13T18:30:00.000-07:00

I tilt my head so that it rests against the cracked leather seat in front of me, and let my curls fall against my face so you won't see that I'm staring at you.

You've been here before, I can tell by the easy way you rest against the warm window behind you, leaning against the sunlight so that gold catches on your pretty features. You balance a black-spiral notebook on your knees, and your slender, artist hands move with quick, earnest strokes, like the fluttering of sparrow's wings. I wonder what you're drawing with such excited intensity; you're so concentrated a tiny dimple shows on your chin. A strand of dark red hair frees itself from your messy bun, and tangles itself on your lower lip. You jerk your head slightly, and I can see the tiniest of moles beside your mouth, very Marilyn Monroe-esque. You have the clearest olive complexion, and the bright, wide features of Spanish blood. You're a subtle beauty; pretty in all the accidental ways I was never gifted with, and the tortured pain hidden in the depths of your hazel eyes highlight your best feature.

My mother always told me a person's life story was hidden between the laces of their sneakers. I stare at yours, black and white converse, worn around the edges. Someone wrote on the white plastic part with red felt tip pen, and on the battered sole is the hand drawn sketch of a broken heart with two sets of initials penned inside. The frayed hem of your light brown corduroys hike up, and I can see men's dress socks, green with red squares, pulled up your slender ankles. A lime-coloured MP3 player peeks out of your sweatshirt pocket, and only one white earphone is plugged in, the other dangling from your neck; more fashion than function. For a brief moment, your gaze lingers to the sunlit window, and you sigh quietly, breath forming a mist against the glass. You raise your hands to loosen the rubber band on your wavy hair, and the tangle of bracelets on your wrists tinkle quietly. Your nails are shaped square and the wine-coloured nail polish is chipping, but still catches the light.

Some might say you're a broken rebel, but I think you're just a little worn around the edges.

You glance at me for just a moment, golden brown eyes no doubt sizing me up under unassuming eyelashes. I wonder what you see, looking beyond all your pretty display of subtle teenaged rebellion. What flickers through your mind when you stare at me unabashedly, calculations whirring through your mind? I wish I could crawl out of my skin or disappear through the floor. All my life, I've been calculated and sized up, only to be painfully discarded when friends like me shift out of fashion. That's why I'm so drawn to you, you seem so comfortable with yourself, in your own body, feet dangling over the edge of the bus seat, leaning against a sun warmed window, perfectly fine just being you. I envy you so incredibly much that the prickle of hot tears line up against my eyelids.

I wish I were confident enough to wear green socks with red squares, men's dress nonetheless. To wear my hair up in a messy bun and let my nail polish chip off instead of double coating. To be pretty and to be unaware, to be the controversial teenage rebel that no one expects and yet everyone secretly wishes they could be.

But most of all, I wish I could draw. To feel the pencil flying beneath my fingers, forming something beautiful and all my own, something that would exist without me, something tangible and real.

I've never been good with staring games and I shift my gaze shyly to the window behind you, and yet I still feel your persistent eyes on my face. I hear the faint scratch of pen against paper, and I realize that you're drawing me.

The bus rumbles to a halt, and I hear the quiet click of gears as the driver manoeuvres the door open. Your eyes flicker away, and you tuck the notebook underneath your sweatshirt. Your quickhand sketch isn't complete yet; it still lacks a few of the smaller details, and cries for depth and shadows. The artist in you knows the painfully obvious, I can see the way you burn the drawing behind your eyelids... sketching in that sparkle of my eye and the glimmer of a necklace catching the light. The artist in you knows I could use a little shaping up, a little brush of colour. And yet, the artist in you drew me.

I fumble down the metal-framed stairs and step into the sunshine; I can smell home from here. From the corner of my eye, I see the flash of your red hair against the square bus window, and I can't wait to see your finished piece.

--

Candlelight

2005-09-04T12:53:00.000-07:00

Her skin feels smooth and soft from the touch of another's hopeful intentions, and her hair smells like perfume. She lets her terry bathrobe slide to the tiled floor, and as an act of habit, her fingers conceal the bluish-grey bruises on her stomach and thighs. The same colour as the cigarette smoke curling under the door and into the bathroom, the same scent that stays on her linen bedsheets, no matter how many times she scrubs them under scalding hot water. Her slim, thirtyish frame could have been the envy of many women, but for her sloped, hunching shoulders and shuffled walk, revealing a lifetime of insecurities and mistrust of men.

Her foot, pointed like the ballerina her mother always wanted her to be, glides into the tub water, her toenails glinting a pretty shade of pink. The bubbles gravitate and cling to her for a moment out of dark waters, and scented candles dance golden shadows on the pale walls.

For tonight, and just for tonight, she's feeling beautiful for no one but herself.

Bath salts blanket the bed of her tub, like gritty sand on the lakeshore, filling the spaces between her toes as the waves would lap against her pale legs. She pushes 'play' and the harmonies of Vivaldi suffocate the voices from the basement floor.

Her body falls, reclines and finds itself nested in the warm, wet arms of warm water, the embrace of a longlost lover holding her close, concealing her scars with silvery fingertips. A quick, shooting hiss passes through dry lips that were always too thin as she hears the muffled sounds of footsteps on thick carpet outside her bathroom door. But they fade away, retreating to a place where he can't hurt her, a human-shaped shadow disappearing down a dark corridor along with a trail of blue-grey smoke.

Just for a little while, she'll be safe in the arms of lukewarm water, with just herself and her thoughts to fill her mind with the calm serene noises of someone who doesn't know pain.

Her fingers pick up the mail that has piled high of days not worth recognition. The words mean little, for their relativity has come and gone and life had carried on. Her water-wrinkled fingers pick up the bathside phone, and she dials glowing numbers that have been burned behind her eyelids. It's always the same, three sharp rings and then the click of the line being picked up. Her hands are shaking, and water droplets thread through her fingers and down her arm, and suddenly she feels so cold.

She knows it's him before he even speaks, because of the shallow, childlike intake of breath before the slurred word, "H'lo." A rush of emotion washes against her ribs and hot tears fill the creases of her eyelids, threatening to floor over onto her sullen cheeks. She cradles the phone against her chin for just another moment, savouring the sound of her young son's breaths and committing every detail of his childish slur into her mind. Like every night, she'll replay this three-second conversation over and over in her head until she falls into a restless sleep.

"Anyone there?" He asks with a touch of impatience, something from his father, she notes with surprise. But she can still picture him, close-cropped curls the colour of chestnuts and mishevious blue eyes, set atop a thin, athletic frame. Perhaps tossing a baseball in the air, elbow jutted against the tablecloth, gaze set on the backyard from his kitchen window. He got his curls from her, and his restlessness.

Maybe this was why she did this every night, to find something of herself in the little boy she'd never seen in six years. Trying to hold onto something that proved her identity; grasping for evidence that she existed, that she hadn't been washed away by the pain of her past. These few seconds of conversation was her reason to live, to go on.

"Wrong number," she hoarsely answers, and before waiting for a reply she sets down the cordless phone beside the tub.

The glow of the candles light against her chestnut curls and catches the shimmer of silver hair, suddenly catching her angular features and casting an eerie, ancient mask on her face, making her look much more aged and haggard than she was in actuality. She steps out of the murky water, sopping feet leaving greyish footprints against the spotless tile. She lets the water stand cold.

Her breath extinguishes the flames and the smoke exits desperately from her third floor window, west into the sunset.

--

My priorities are changing and rearraging, and I find I like who I'm becoming.

I'm learning to reinvent myself, and I'm starting with you.

--

Listen to: "Leaving 99 - Audio Adrenaline"

"It's dark and lonely and the path is unclear."

--

Sunlight

2005-08-26T10:55:00.000-07:00

My inspiration... Lily. (click)

Soft morning light slants through the butteryellow drapes, and dances into the quiet room, painting the walls with golden splashes of light. Raindrops still cling to the glass, shimmering under the brilliant sunlight and casting dark shadows on the tiled floor. A tall, metal-framed machine chugs quietly in the corner, tangled in a network of cords and wires. Soft 'beeps' fill the hushed room, and a large monitor glows on top of a stainless steel cabinet. Bright green lines vein along the flat black screen, rising and dipping in a perfectly timed pattern. A long counter runs along the side of the room, crowded with metal utensils and steel trays. A large sink stands in the corner of the pale room, its faucet dripping faintly. Someone had forgotten to twist the handle completely.

Something rustles against the yellow curtains, and a young, pleasant-faced nurse comes into view, clasping a clear plastic clipboard along with a manilla file folder. Her white running shoes squeak against the waxed tile as she reaches toward the patient, folding back the white hospital sheet and tucking it under the waferthin mattress. A small, underweight girl, perhaps in her early teens, peers up at her under sleepy eyelids and the whisper of a smile touches her dry lips. Bright blue-gray eyes come into focus, and the girl bites back an enormous yawn. The nurse taps the child's freckled cheek tenderly and presses two manicured fingertips against the girl's tiny wrist.

"Anna," the girl coughs hoarsely, lying her head against the pale pillows for a brief moment, then labours to speak once again. "How much longer, do ya think?" Her accent sounds southern, almost Texan, and the words flow together like a song.

Anna musters up a smile and gently whispers, "Not too much longer in here, I'm sure. You'll be up on your tiptoes in no time." But the weakening pulse thrumming against her fingertips seems to insist otherwise. The flat-screened monitor skips a beat for a faltering second, and then resumes it's regular rhythm. The young girl tilts her head against the pillows with a contented smile, sucking in her breaths. The nurse picks up a glass of filtered water from the bedside cart beside her, but the patient already seems asleep. Anna runs her fingers through the girl's thinning dark brown hair, smoothing it away from her warm, damp forehead.

Anna reaches for the blue-ink pen in her lab coat pocket and scrawls quick notes onto the clipboard in hurried Cursive. A low moan from beneath the bedsheets halts her frantic scribbling, and her clipboard skitters against the tiled floor as Anna rushes to her whispering patient.

"What was that, Lily?" Anna asks quickly, carefully pushing up the girl's malnourished body so that her back could rest against a wall of pillows. The thin hospital sheets slide down the girl's slim frame, revealing a paper hospital gown.

"Will I be able to dance again?" Lily asks, readjusting herself slightly to get comfortable. "In front of all those people, clapping and cheering, and singing out my name?" Her tear-studded eyes are out of focus, staring at the butteryellow curtains and the golden shadows on the wall.

"Of course-" Anna starts, patting the young girl's knee reassuringly, but Lily interrupts, almost dreamily, "I wonder, if I... if I fall asleep and never wake up, will people ever remember who I am? Will I ever get my chance to be under the bright lights, just moving to the music... just feeling alive and free and beautiful..." Her words are quiet and almost harsh, and hot tears fall down her cheeks without volition. Her breath catches in her throat, and her coughs come out wet and ragged. Her entire body trembles, like a little girl afraid, and she grasps around her with shaking fingers for someone who wasn't there.

Anna collapses to her knees, pale fingers clasped in silent prayer, legs folded against her chest; trying to make herself as small as possible so she wouldn't feel the numbing pain of a young girl dying, along with her hopes and dreams. And still, in her semiconscious state, Anna could her the quiet creaking of Lily's cot, with the hurting hiccups and cries. And then Anna finally realized... Lily was dancing again, in the only way she knew how.

She was remembering the chanting crowds, the glittery makeup, the beautiful clothes, and the music. She remembered the music best of all, the way her body would just unravel, finally free. Her and the music... one.

The flat-screened monitor let out a high-pitched chord, and the chugging of the machine halted abruptly. All the room was still, except for the squeak of white running shoes against the newly waxed floor.

Anna was dancing in the golden sunlight, arms flung free, feet moving to the music in her heart, under the bright lights with the clapping audience surrounding her. She felt herself unravel, and felt suddenly alive and beautiful and free, just one with the music.

And the angels could almost swear they saw Lily's lips touched with the whisper of a smile.

--

Invisible

2005-08-10T17:22:00.000-07:00

My inspiration... you. (Click)

I fold my small body along the curtain drapery, hidden behind the shadows of the wings. I don't know why I'm here, playing hide-and-seek in bright red cloth, waiting to see your face, but something about you won't let me go.

I don't remember your name, and I can't place you in my mind's eye, but something about your face draws me in. Perhaps it was the prettyness of your eyes, or the tilt of your lips when you say "hello". It seems familiar to me, like I'm watching myself in the mirror. The way you walked away from me still strikes me now, you had an awkward limp to your walk, like someone struck you right above the knee. You wore silver spike-toed heels that clicked against the patterned tile, shoes that seemed so out of place with your screened teeshirt and your scruffy blue jeans. You had outrageously fuschia hair, so out of the ordinary that it looked elegant against your pale cheeks and slanted eyebrows.

"I'm an actress," you told me in your pretty accent, handing me a slip of flourescent green paper. I'd always wanted to paint my bedroom walls that colour, or perhaps even my mousy brown hair. Maybe then I'd become this wild, rebellious, unpredictable girl who everybody secretly admired. Maybe then I'd be an oxymoron, an antonym. I've always been sort of ordinary, very "blendable" my mother tells me. Always lost in a crowd, blurred in between every teen who wants to make a statement in a world too big for them to handle.

In all my life, I've never wanted to make a statement, to make my voice heard.

I don't think anyone wants to hear what I have to say, anyway.

I hear your ridiculous silver heels snapping against the linoleum stage floor, and I fold myself deeper into the curtains. I suddenly felt this piercing urge to slide down the plastic steps and walk out of the theatre, back on stable ground where I won't make any more irrational decisions. Maybe I could finish up some of my algebra homework; I was never quite the exceptional student, because nobody expected me to be exceptional. And I wouldn't want to prove people wrong, that didn't seem fair.

But something about the lilt of your voice invites me to stay, to make myself comfortable in the folds of Irish velvet, and I realize that no one in the dimmed, plush-seated audience can see me.

When I was little, I always wanted to be invisible.

I don't remember a word you said, but you looked very pretty under the bright lights, the rays hitting your purple hair perfectly and setting off your china-white skin. You stumbled once, your breath catching, but you smiled and continued on, your voice as clear as a silver bell. Your brightly-painted hands don't even tremble, and you smile easily, but your left heel grinds ever so quietly into the stage floor.

And I feel so proud of you in that moment, you nameless beauty, the girl with the purple hair who had the courage to go on, to say what she had to say, to let her voice be heard.

The polite applause of the audience fills the small theatre, and you look so happy and relieved, waving awkwardly and blowing a quick kiss, your silver heels sliding across the scratched gray floor as you walk offstage.

I don't know who you are behind the curtains, but I know you look awfully pretty on stage.

Maybe you're just an ordinary girl like me who's tired of being invisible. Who wants to make a statement, to be a statement. To let her voice be heard.

And if that's the case, the applause in my heart was the loudest of all the audiences in the world.

I tuck your neon green flyer into the back pocket of my jeans as I slip down the plastic steps and let myself out through the stage door. Maybe I'll dye my hair that colour, one day. Or maybe I'll finally get the courage to ask your name.
--
Listen to: "I Need You" - Kristy Starling

There's a freedom in your arms, and it carries me through...
--
Happy 5th Birthday, Marcus... because you're only the cutest kid alive, and I miss you. :)
--

Blue

2005-08-08T18:23:00.000-07:00

Silence strangles the life out of me

... as I stare into your winter-blue eyes. You have such beautiful eyes, the strangest colour. Swirling beneath your thick snow-kissed lashes, the ocean rages within your soul.

I could never read your gaze, for fear of being sucked into the frosty whirlpool that lay just beneath your surface. I was afraid there would be no one left to hear my cry, to pull me out to safe, dry shores. I didn't want to know what it was like to be you, and the harshness of that thought makes me gasp.

You stare at me, and it's the deepest I've ever felt in so long. I feel a rush of something quick and painful, yet wonderfully beautiful in my chest, a fluttering in my heart that could only belong to lovestricken butterflies. Your cheeks are pale; it must be cold. But all I feel is the warmth rising from within me, swelling and stretching like a newborn cat in front of a roaring fire.

But the silence is what frightens me. Quells sleep from my drowsy lashes, causes my heart to lurch tearfully. Your lips are sealed and fastened, ridged with cold and ice, and I can't even feel the frost of your breath against my hair. I brush my fingers against your mouth, waiting for the fire in my heart to warm your lips so that the sweet Texan-laced words would pour through like a fragrant perfume. But all I feel and hear and taste is cold.

I stare into the blue, blue depths of your lifeless eyes, and I finally let myself go, let myself search deeper, throw myself into the sucking torrent of the ice beneath your surface. No one's left to pull me out of the freezing current of churning ice and water, and I let myself fall.

It all turns black, but all I see is blue.

You have the most beautiful eyes, even out here, in the freezing cold.

And I'm glad I finally let myself go, even until your dying day.

--

Listen to: "Let it Rain" - Michael W. Smith

Open the floodgates of heaven...

--

Make every passing moment a reason to live.

You're my favourite reason.

And you have no idea of what a life-changing inspiration you are, by just being *you*.

I miss the late-night talks, sipping steaming hot chocolate, watching our breath form mist in the night air, talking about our fears and dreams, and who we want to be when "we grow up".

The truth is, I want to be exactly like you.

--

Aloha, once again...

2005-08-05T16:08:00.000-07:00

It's been such a long time since I've sat in this chair, fingers racing across the creaking keys, ideas in a whirl, shaping and crafting sentences together to create some semblance of my thoughts. These past few weeks have just been so incredibly busy, and blogging has slowly but surely descended down my list of priorities.

Thanks to everyone who sent sweet birthday wishes and thoughtful presents. It really helps to have filthy rich friends who don't mind blowing some cash on their favourite 15-year-old :). You guys are the uber-coolest.

As I leaf through my back-dated entries, I realize how vague I am, so much that I can't even recognize myself past the multi-syllabic words and the disjointed phrases. Do you even see me through all the haze and fog I surround myself with? Even in my own journal, where I'm permitted, encouraged, even, to spill my thoughts and dreams and fears, I hide away behind pretty sentences and "deep" comments that even I can't begin to understand.

Why can't I just let my hands slip over the keys, grammatical mistakes allowed, and finally climb onto the rooftops and scream? To let it all hang loose, appearances be darned. Just declare to the world *exactly how I feel*? Why is that such a blinking big deal?

Because I care too much about you think, that's why.

And I kind of like it, being this girl that you can peg at a moment's glance. The one who always fits in, who can slide into any conversation with ease, life picture-perfect, bright and hardworking, with a pretty smile, but nothing more than an impression that'll never impact you or make a difference.

I like being the girl who will never surprise you.

But I'll never be her.

--

Listen to: "Something More" - Kristy Starling

"On the days I feel like I've failed you..."

--

The Truth

2005-07-16T11:54:00.000-07:00

"Are you gonna miss him when he goes away?" A nameless voice speaks through the mist of my consciousness, the hundreth time someone's asked today.

Smooth, reassuring "big brother" fingers would close over mine, and when he walked beside me, with his Batman shoes clunking over the uneven pavement, I wouldn't feel so afraid. There'd be a first grade swagger in his gait, oversized baseball cap slung low over his pretty-boy brown eyes. I'd scurry to catch up with his huge steps, the cotton of my flouncy dress brushing against my newly scabbed knees. My brother had taken up trying to teach me skateboarding over the last weekend, much to my conservative mother's dismay. "You'll make a boy out of her, Benson," she'd cluck, followed by the audible sigh of permission. No one could say no to the famous pleading pair of Joseph eyes and pouting lips, and now I had the violet scrapes to prove it. I'd do anything to make him proud, he was my very best friend, and at one point of my young kindergarden life, I wanted to marry him and live in a pink-shuttered house with a herd of happy cows and a tire swing.

After school, we would watch Ninja Turtles on the flickering colour television in the den, and sing along with the theme song; we knew it word for word. He'd show me his toy car collection, and then I'd let him help me style Barbie's stiff hair. He'd push me on the baby swing whenever my tiny legs got tired, and I'd watch with childlike wonder when my big brother, ever so strong, would struggle crawling from the bottom of the plastic slide to the top, curve and all. He'd wake me up at seven-thirty every morning with a pitcherfull of ice cold water and tickling fingers that knew my every weak spot. He'd band-aid all my bruises (most of which he'd inflict himself), he'd help me name my countless dolls, he'd sing my favourite songs to me so I would have a "good night's sleep."

When he leaves, I'll miss the trill of his snore echoing off my walls late at night, I'll miss his mottled high-pitched singing in the shower, the way he always leaves his vegetables for me to finish off at the dinner table. I'll miss his lessons on life and love, the way he can always make me laugh, his selflessness and his wisdom. I'll miss the curl of his lower lip when he smiles, the way his eyes crinkle when he cries, the faint stubble on his chin when he forgets to shave. The warm spot on his bed when he wakes up, the way his room is never quite clean, the way he remembers every little thing about me, the way he can read me with just a glance.

"Of course I'll miss him," I answer with a laugh, but the reply sounds shallow, even in my own ears.

--

--

Yesterday marked my first year without you.

It still hurts inside, sweetpea.

--

Counting City Lights

2005-07-05T12:04:00.000-07:00

Model: Myself

--

Sunrise

Lying here on your hood,
Counting city lights for stars,
Whispering "forever" under peppermint breath
Brushing hands in purposed accidence.

And in the closeness of your voice
I swear tonight is ours.

Your hair tangles against my fingertips
And I rest my cheek against the rough stubble of your neck
Your chin dimples when you laugh.

You once told me I was your sunrise.

Steady hands point out glimmering constellations
Spread out against the velvet heavens
Orion, Bootes, Ursa Major
The blue of Venus' heart.

All I can see
Is a little girl
Reaching out to a little boy
Asking her to love him.

City lights fade.

All that remains is a shimmering ballroom of dancing stars
Wrapped in hope and promise
Moving to your heartbeat
I can feel it surround me, soft and rhythmic against my throat
A baby bird with fluttering wings
Feathers spreading out in hope.

And dawn breaks.

Stars faint against the rising sun
The constellations disappear
But the little girl still reaches out
Childlike hope burst through.

The car radio spins out a love song
I know every word by heart.

I might be your sunrise,
But you're my night sky.

Lying here on your hood,
Counting city lights for stars.

-Joanna Joseph

--

No one said you had to be sad to wash away.

--

Summertime

2005-06-29T17:43:00.000-07:00

Model: Myself

Part 2 of my "Summer Memories" collection.

--

Where I'll be hiding away this weekend.

Pentecostal Conference of North American Keralites 2005

--
Painting

Your wrists are a painting
Of simple life
Of daddy's-girl days
Blue eyed smiles
And silk screen kites

Ours are a painting
Of anger and strife
Crimson tears
Dark childhood years
Of black and blue thighs
And sad-mommy sighs

Your smiles are real
And light brighter then the sun
Our shattered smiles are nothing
Right where we begun
We were once like you
Innocent and content
Our bodies weren't broken
Thrown around or bent

A lattice against smooth white palms.

Crimson tears are real.

Sad-mommy sighs get lost in the wind of time.

Once you come here
You can never go back
Your nights will be dark
To match your sense of humor
Your pills will be taken
In front of the mirror
Light will be dreaded
Dark is all you've ever known

No matter what you do
You'll always wish
You weren't you.

And you'll run away from who you are,
Until all you can do is die to yourself.

A blue-eyed girl laughs in the summer sunlight.
Her silk-screen kite catches in the breeze.

Weep in the ashes of a longlost soul.

-Joanna Joseph.

--

Click to read the lyrics of "Fractions" - Emery.

"Dancing under starlight glow..."

Who am I?

2005-06-25T10:12:00.000-07:00

Model: Me

Part of my "Summer Memories" series.

--

Don't be fooled by me.

Don't be fooled by the face I wear.

For I wear a mask, a thousand masks,

masks that I am afraid to take off,

and none of them is me.

Pretending is an art that's second nature with me,

but don't be fooled.

For God's sake don't be fooled.

I give the impression that I am secure,

that all is sunny and unruffled with me,

within as well as without,

that confidence is my name and coolness my game,

that the water's calm and I'm in command,

and that I need no one.

But don't believe me.

My surface may seem smooth, but my surface is my mask,

ever-varying and ever-concealing.

Beneath lies no complacence.

Beneath lies confusion and fear and aloneness.

But I hide this. I don't want anybody to know it.

I panic at the thought of my weakness and fear being exposed.

That's why I frantically create a mask to hide behind,

a nonchalant sophisticated facade,

to help me pretend,

to shield me from the glance that knows.

But such a glance is precisely my salvation.

My only hope and I know it.

That is, if it's followed by acceptance,

if it's followed by love.

It's the only thing that can liberate me from myself,

from my own self-built prison walls,

from the barriers I so painstakingly erect.

It's the only thing that will assure me of what I can't assure myself,

that I'm really worth something.

But, I don't tell you this. I don't dare. I am afraid to.

I am afraid your glance will not be followed by acceptance,

will not be followed by love.

I'm afraid you'll think less of me, that you'll laugh,

and your laugh would kill me.

I'm afraid that deep down I'm nothing, that I'm just no good,

and that you will see this and reject me.

So I play my game, my desperate pretending game,

with a facade of assurance without

and a trembling child within.

So begins the glittering but empty parade of masks,

and my life becomes a front.

I idly chatter to you in the suave tones of surface talk.

I tell you everything that's really nothing,

and nothing of what's everything,

of what's crying within me.

So when I am going through my routine,

do not be fooled by what I'm saying.

Please listen carefully and try to hear what I'm not saying,

what I'd like to be able to say,

what for survival I need to say,

but what I can't say.

I don't like to hide.

I don't like to play superficial phoney games.

I want to stop playing them.

I want to be genuine and spontaneous and me,

but you've got to help me.

You've got to hold out your hand

even when that's the last thing I seem to want.

Only you can wipe away from my eyes that

blank stare of the breathing dead.

Only you can call me into aliveness.

Each time you're kind and gentle and encouraging,

each time you try to understand because you really care,

my heart begins to grow wings,

very small wings,

very feeble wings,

but wings!

With your power to touch me into feeling

you can breathe life into me.

I want you to know that.

I want you to know how important you are to me,

how you can be a creator - an honest-to-God creator -

of the person that is me

if you choose to.

You alone can break down the wall behind which I tremble,

you alone can remove my mask,

you alone can release me from my shadow world of panic

and uncertainty, from my lonely prison,

if you choose to.

Please choose to. Do not pass me by.

It will not be easy for you.

A long conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls.

The nearer you approach to me,

the blinder I may strike back.

It's irrational, but it's who I am.

I fight against the very thing that I cry out for.

But I am told that love is stronger than strong walls,

and in this lies my hope.

Please try to beat down those walls

with firm hands

but with gentle hands

for a child is very sensitive.

Who am I, you may wonder?

I am someone you know very well.

For I am every man you meet

and I am every woman you meet.

-Author Unknown

The End

2005-06-21T17:57:00.000-07:00

--

It's the end.

The end of hopes, dreams, laughter, and tears. The final sigh of something lost, of a whisper that seemed so real and imminent, but just a trembling in your ear. A whooshing in your heart, faces and words flash in your mind's eye like spears of lightning, the black-and-white spool of film that flickers and spins, going forwards and backwards all at once, until all you can do is wonder where you are and who you are becoming.

It's the end.

High school. I remember walking through the musty, art-covered hallways a late night in February, sneakers squeaking across the freshly waxed floors, breathing in odours of grown-up men in football pads, wafts of perfume from giggling girls, the scent of yellow chalk and thick textbooks worn with age. The echo of clicking high heels, secrets confided, stolen kisses in a quiet hallway, bitter tears under a lonely stairwell. And I remember shivering in my pink sweater and gazing up around me, at the winding, twisting hallways that all looked the same, at the rows of uniformed lockers that stood in precision at either side, at the sea of faces I couldn't recognize, feeling so small in a school so big, and pushing back this sudden urge to cry.

It was all too real, all too sudden.

I didn't think I was ready for it all.

But now, as I flip through the worn pages of the carefully-decorated scrapbook tucked so shyly in the folds of my mind, I realize that I wish I could go back. Staring at those snapshots of time, frozen moments, a grasp into something only the human soul can feel, I wish I was that little girl in her soft pink sweater and brand new sneakers, holding a well-worn blueprint in her trembling hands, searching for a friend in the hustling crowd. Searching for a touch of something old and familiar in a strange, new place, grasping for some part of me that felt like I belonged.

I do belong, now. I settle into each day with an eased smile, relax in my step, blending in with the backdrop of everyday high school life.

But I've had to grow up. Experience change. Watch those close to me change and evolve, like some sort of warped metamorphosis, into someone I could no longer recognize. I've had to feel the hurt of a girl who lost her father to the clutches of suicide, a girl who I hardly knew. I've had to wipe the tears of a boy whose mother no longer loved him. I've had to shoulder the burden of a young woman whose trying to make it on her own, trying to break out of the prison she called her home. I've become so many young girls and boys, the mother that you needed, the brother that was never there, the quiet listener who never said a word, but just held you to her chest and let you cry until it didn't hurt so much anymore. I'm so many women, so many characters and feelings, each one better and stronger than the last. I've changed. I've evolved. I'm no longer that wide-eyed wanderer who felt so small and so alone.

I'm that girl who's seen so many lives, dried so many cheeks, and heard so many stories that I can't help but change. So many pieces of me belong to someone else, but others have filled the broken gaps in my soul, made me feel complete again.

You never feel truly whole until you've given yourself away. Only when there's nothing left of you do you feel complete.

It's the end.

But it's the beginning.

And a little, wide-eyed wanderer dressed up in a pink sweater and brand new sneakers smiles as she finds a face she remembers. She's growing up, at last.

--

Happy Summer Solstice, everyone.

I love you so much my meiosis speeds up when I think of you. (Aren't I clever?)

And because you're all studying for science exams, I leave you with this.

--

Listen to: "I Will Remember You" - Sarah McLachlan

Don't let your life pass you by.
--

Ode to Nelly

2005-06-17T16:41:00.000-07:00

Alicia Thomas, you are my world. Because penning down odes to random overworked caretakers in purple glitter ink is just what you do.

I love her too much *not* to copy and paste.

Ode to Nelly

Dear Nelly,

We admire your work attire,
You shoo us out of bathrooms like there's a fire,
Your lawn maintenance is oh so nice,
Too bad the school is infested with mice.

The way you wheel your cart is so cool,
Don't you wish you worked at a nicer school?
Whenever there's a loud noise, all the girls scream,
'Cause it's Nelly, the custodial machine!
The way you've got that vacuum zoomin',
You've got us wondering - are you human?

You plow through the halls like there's no tomorrow,
When you hit a student, you feel no sorrow,
You dress in blue, right down to your shoes,
I have never seen you away, do you get the flu?

If ever a student is to vomit,
Clear the halls! You're right on it!
Oh Nelly, your size is to be afeared,
Overall, your talents are quite weird.

The way you handle that broom and pan,
You've got us confused - are you a man?

La Fin.

Par: Alicia Thomas

(And here I was, thinking nothing in the English dictionary would rhyme with vomit. You are my hero.)

--

Won't you take me by the hand and carry me away?

You stare at me under dark lashes
Lips pressed together in a quiet frown
Strong hands tremble, the thickness of a silver ring
Hands that danced across the strings of
A broken guitar
In a rambleshack room
With just you and I
And the whir of a metal fan
And the static of two hearts
The flutter of shy smiles
Sent across the matted carpet
With newborn wings
Falling in love
With your blue blue gaze
And the sensitive sweep of your mouth
And the way you would hold me in the dark
In the quiet
You stilled the tremors of my soul
With calloused fingers against the soft of my back
And lips brushing against the skin of my forehead
Humming a song your mother sang so prettily
As she rocked back and forth
In a glazed wooden chair
Slender hands tangled up in red yarn
Knitting a sweater for the cold.

I stare into the blue expanse I know so well
Fold my fingers into yours
And lose myself in your warm grasp
You smell like the hard green soap my father washed with
The leathery smell of ancient cologne
And a dash of mint aftershave on your chin
Just to prove
You're a man.

Words flutter in my throat
Colourful butterflies with light, raspy wings
You kiss them away with feathery touches
But I know what I need to say.
I've been caught up in this place so many times before
A rush of deja vu,
Lost in the warmth of your gaze
I still feel the hurt
As real as the tears that streak my cheeks
I gather the strength to pull away
To break your gaze
To reveal the pain
And speak.

"I've been hurt before
Broken.
I gave my heart away
A piece of me
And it's never been returned.
I've waited for love,
But all I've ever felt
Was a whir,
A whooshing in my ears,
A whisper of what it could be.
You keep taking all I am,
And I'm left with open, gaping holes.
I need a heart
Something to call my own
I need to be loved and nurtured and cared for
Like the golden-haired princess
Swept off her feet
No tears or heartache
Or a prison of insecurities holding her captive.
Just a smiling prince
Who gives it all away
Just for her.
That's what I deserve.
Don't take me away
And leave nothing for me.
Nothing left to fill the holes
But half-hearted smiles
And apologies you can't feel.
For once, I want to be loved.

But you can't hold me down.
One day, I might find the strength
To give my heart away
But that's a different boy
A different story.
A different ramshackle room
And a special feeling of rising and lifting and falling
And feeling so utterly complete.
Of hands that fold into mine
And eyes so beautiful they take my breath away.

But right now,
What I've got to do is walk away,
To speak all the words I dared not say.
You can't hold me down."

I turned and walked away,
And felt the resistance of hard-tipped fingers
Holding me to you once again.
The touch of the wind cooled my tears
And I felt the strength of your steady blue gaze
And all the words you dared not say.

And remember that you were not yet a man.
And that I was not yet broken.

And as I skipped across the edge of the deck
Waves lapping at the splintered wood
I felt this unexplainable feeling of freedom
Dancing against the sunlit sky
Like a golden-haired princess just swept off her feet.
My heart has been reborn.

And one day, I'll fall in love again.

Under my cracked breath,
I hum a song I once heard, locked in my memory
Your mother with her hands wrapped in red yarn
Her eyes lost in the clouds.
And I finally break free.

This is the story of how I walked away.

-Joanna Joseph
--

Listen to "I'll Be": Edwin McCain

Stop me and steal my breath.

In You

2005-06-15T16:33:00.000-07:00

In You

How such things are able to be connected,
like constellations,
or how time passes by through the
sand in an hourglass
is beyond comprehension.

The words that slip through your lips
are unattainable, uncapturable,
like the monarch butterfly
on a rainy day.

The messages that seep through your
eyes are undecipherable, like an ancient language
yet to be discovered by nine-lived cats.

My wings were created by the fallen ashes from a moth's mercy
on my life, and I found refuge
in a castle in the air.

In and out they came, the other angels
that would never accept me,
although they would tolerate me,
like the silence after a storm,
where the ocean no longer sings.

In your heart I found a cavern,
filled with too many holes that needed mending,
with all the memories scouring around for sadness to eat upon.

Black became white, and
white being unable to tarnish,
blinded my swollen eyes
and dried out my tears.

In your arms I found myself
With fragments of you
The shimmer of your spirit
The brilliance of your mind
The gold around the edges.

In your silence,
I find my soul.

-Joanna Joseph

Take me away from here.

Carry me to a fairytale paradise where everyone lives "happily ever after", finds their handsome Prince, and can be anything if they try. Where impossibility is lost within the pages of the dictionary, where every little girl can touch the stars.

Take me away from here, from reality.

It's the only thing that's holding me back.

Coffee House

2005-06-13T18:20:00.000-07:00

--

The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts around me as you watch the white-walled clock under curled lashes. Pleated cotton scratches against your delicate shoulders and spike-heeled shoes pinch at your painted toes. A black-and-white television murmurs softly from its perch, and yellowed newspapers rustle with the whirl of the plastic fans creaking from the low wooden ceilings. Waitresses, pretty-eyed girls like you, with thick lipstick and peroxide curls peer at middle-aged men with overflowing belly tucked into pressed blue jeans. The lashes do their trick, a flutter of mascara and a touch of glitter against the cheeks, and a twenty-dollar bill pushes crisply against her manicured fingernails painted a gaudy shade of red. The colour of sin. Of revenge. Of betrayal. A flicker of lace and a flash of creamy neck, and you reach deep into your square pockets for a spiral notebook and a chewed up pen. "Whatever you'd like, sir," you whisper behind a sultry gaze, and polished fingers race across yellow-lined paper, expert and flawless, a touch of something routine. Your hands are long and slender, your palm soft and narrow. 'An artist's hands', your mama once told you, 'just like mine'. You give your latest conquest a wink, smudging mascara below your eyelid. Your Maybelline pout does it's trick, and you wonder what your mother would say, as you flash past hungry eyes with a too-short skirt and spike-heeled shoes.

The thin-boned mother who smiled up at you beneath hospital sheets, winter sunlight flooding the small white room with something heavenly. Holding your smooth hand in hers, asking what you'd done to your beautiful dark hair, why you'd grown so thin. You stared at her fingers then, noticed the thick blue veins rising up from her pale, parched skin, and the strands of white against black. She'd always had black hair, dark, like the wing of a raven. Caressing her china-white back with waterfall-waves, never a hint of faded colour. "White", you whispered then, smoothing your hand against her brow. "You've got white hair, Momma." And then she looked up at you with her steady blue gaze and smiled sadly, and whispered that you were growing up to be a lovely woman, that you had your mother's eyes and your father's smile, and that you made her proud.

Your trained hands shake as you stir powdered sugar into a patterned mug of flavoured coffee, your steady blue gaze on the white-faced clock. The memories sweep you off your heeled feet as you saunter back to the round table, heat in your step, childlike tears trembling inside your soul. As you stare into the eyes of a man who never knew pain and hurt and the fear of pretty-eyed girls, you wish you knew what it was like to smile. The hands of your mother, small and narrow, set down the pretty saucer and cup, and you feel sudden nausea flooding within your throat and threatening to breakthrough your cotton-candy lips and separate like tiny water droplets, into words. Bits of information that you can chew on and digest, emotions that can be broken down and be understood. But you hold the tide back, dam it with reflex and responsibility. This man is old enough to be your father, old enough to have held your mother's soft hand and given you his dimpled smile.

Lips appear, parched and dry, curled with something ugly and crude. A fleck of white is caught in the stubble of his chin. Words tumble out of his mouth, rough and deep, and calloused fingers brush against your bosom, against the pressed cotton of your blouse. Something cool bites at the soft flesh of your neck, and you step away, tears gathering in your steady blue eyes.

"Does this open?"

He points with a thick finger, and his wedding band glitters under the dim lights. You run your fingers against the smooth locket that dangles between your breasts, the small heart-shaped piece of silver that a shy-eyed boy once gave you, long ago.

"It used to."

--

My First Dance

2005-06-11T11:01:00.000-07:00

--

A Night to Remember

(Music Banquet Pictures. Don't "borrow" without permission, please.)

Resting my warm cheek
Against the cool of your arm
Smelling the scent of your butterflower perfume
The rustle of your satiny dress
Shimmering under the dimmed lights

The click of your spike-heeled shoes
Against smooth patterned tile
The glint of freshly-painted nails
A colour so carefully picked to match
With the butterflies strung up in your hair
With the stars clinging to your eyelashes

You look so beautiful tonight,
A lazy ringlet springing out to sleep against your cheek
Escaping from the perfect French Twist
And a dozen stabbing bobby pins
Your hair unravels around your heartshaped face
Spinning out like silk against my fingertips

You look so adorable when you dance
Swaying unsteadily from foot to foot
Grasping at shifting rhythms
Eyes shiny with tears as you strain to be one with the mass
Listening to the rantings of a millionare-teen
Ears thrumming with the blasting bass, the clashing cymbals,
The music of the 'now'.

You listen to sappy country love songs in your rusted car
With an old heart-broken man and a scratched up acoustic guitar.
You swing your hips when you stand at the tiled sink
The ancient record player crackling in the corner
Washing dishes with yellow hand soap
And a wrung out purple sponge.

You're so out of the ordinary,
The polite, tender smile staring out of a dark cave of writhing bodies and groping hands
A dark-haired stranger asks for a dance
He looks so handsome in his polished shoes and his clean white shirt
He's grown up over the summer
But he's not yet a man.

You blush and shake your head,
Silky strands tangled in your lipglossed pout
You whisper that you're waiting for your husband,
Wrapped up in a beaded wedding dress,
Waiting for that special moment to dance under the stars,
With that one and only.
The glitter of a promise, curled against your finger,
tangled in a hand of a man,
So strong with his love for you.

All around you are the sounds
Of giggling, pink-cheeked girls
And the rustle of something stolen away
The low rumble of broken promises
And the click of high heels against the smooth tiled floor
Pretty eyed girls holding roughened hands
Dragged into a dark cornder
Where no innocence can hide
The cry of a newborn baby fades in with the crowd
Girls trying to be women, boys straining to be men
Behind locked closet doors and darkened dance floors
They don't know where they're going.

Your pretty blush
And quiet innocence
Seem so out of place here,
So bright and soft against the dark backdrop of lingering sweat and churning bodies
With loud music ringing in your ears
And pretty ringlets framing your starry-eyed face
Like spun silk against the moonlight.

The girl who wants to dance the night away under the stars
Promise glittering on her fingertips
Who slips her hands into the sink
Her arms wet with fragrant suds
Hips switching back and forth
In time with the clicking record player.

Waiting for that first dance.

Wait with me.

-Joanna Joseph

Disaster of the Soul

2005-06-09T16:48:00.000-07:00

--
The tears of the sun run down my back
Searing rivers of flesh with a molten stream

The skies shake and tumble, crumbling into blue dust
Shifting everything once thought stable and true

A volcano, a mountain of hardened fire and rock
Sleeps under the perfect white moon

Something alive stirs within
Flames spew without, twisting and turning in the wind of the heart

Waiting to awaken and destroy something beautiful.

I hate every perfect day,
It whispers, staring out from a stone-carved eye
Waiting for the moon to bleed
And stars to flee into the blackness of eternity

Waiting to wake up and stretch forth
With a sweltering gush of life
For the flickering of a soul
Beneath its massive rock face

To prove bigger than the world
With a rush of life and death and flaming apocalypse.

Golden magma swirls forth within the stone bowl of time.
Fiery. Hot. Blood tastes like copper against my tongue.

The stars look so bright at the end of time
A choir of angels watching the earth
Sink under fire
A single tear drops from the sky
Unnoticed and unaware.

Beautiful disaster of the soul.

Erupt within me; shift everything stable and true.

-Joanna Joseph
--

Le banquet de musique est demain!

Doesn't that make you want to cry with happiness?

It's a feeling too beautiful for words.

--

Maybe

2005-06-07T18:53:00.000-07:00

(Click image for larger view)

--

Maybe pain is her best friend

Maybe crying is her favorite song

Maybe being alone is a chance for her mind to catch up with her heart

Maybe her secrets are in bold for you to notice

Maybe the hand that she's using to push away is really for you to hold onto

Maybe a new life would solve her problems

Maybe her life isn't as perfect as it seems

Maybe she's quiet because she has too much to say

Maybe she hates the scars

Maybe her home is a prison and she has nowhere else to run

Maybe she's spinning out of control with no one left to catch her

Maybe she's actually not okay

Maybe you made her this way

Maybe, but she'll never say

-Joanna Joseph

Here's an excerpt from my summative English monologue that I found especially meaningful to me.

"They don't believe in sacrifice. To sustain a life, another must be taken away. For every newborn baby, there's a coffin rolling up the drive. You've got to learn about balance. About human life. Without sacrifice, there is no victory, no triumph over evil. It's crazy youth like Miss Summers and Mrs. Hutchinson that send the whole balance of life and death spinning madly out of control. Some say it's superstition, I say it's the only way of life I've ever known. So don't be speaking to me about kindness and compassion, because I've never gotten any... A life taken away. Propitiation and remediation for mankind, so final and tested and true. What you don't understand, is that that tiny black dot on that slip of paper symbolizes so much. Hope, courage, freedom, dignity. A sacrifice for a nation...Sacrifice hurts, right here. *hits heart* So don't spout off your mouth, talking about hope and love and the miracle of life.

Because all I've ever felt is pain."

No matter what you do, you;ll always wish you weren't you.

Don't make me feel guilt, that rush of something sweet and sour, that urge to hold you in my arms and whipser something deep and beautiful.

You've sucked up all the deep within my soul and left me searching for words I can never say, can never murmur in the solace of my heart.

You've stripped me... of me. Of emotion. Of feeling. Of that swelling in my heart that I'll feel when I first fall in love, the hurt that hammers in when I first fall with no one left to catch me. With no feeling, I can't heal the wounds. I won't even know that they're there. I'll be dying a quiet death, a silent death, unaware.

You are an oxymoron. Barbed velvet. Roughened silk. Poisoned honey.

You're the best of the worst of me, I can't seem to let you go.

At least now, I can't feel you hurting me.

Never again will I trust.

Until, for that first time, I fall in love, and I start hurting all over again.

Listen to "When I Fall" - Rachael Lampa

Looking for a silent storm in the sky...

Spring Eternal

2005-06-05T15:55:00.000-07:00

A hot tear rests inside the crease of my eyelid as I stare at my mother's peaceful face, framed by pale hospital sheets. I hold her limp hand in my own, tracing the shrivelled lines of her palm with a trembling finger. A hoarse cough breaks through my mother's parched lips; her eyes are squinted shut, struggling against the pain. With a choked sigh, she lets her hand slip from my hold and her frail body falls back against the thin mattress.

Winter sunlight pours through the open curtains and paints the white-walled room a golden-orange hue. She looks so beautiful, bathed in shimmering sunlight, her chest rising and falling in time with her breaths. So calm, healthy, and whole. As though cancer wasn't eating away at her body and easing her from my childlike grip. My eyes flicker to the window, a portal to a world unaware of the sharp heartache and loss I feel at this moment. My eyes flutter closed and I let myself remember a time so long ago.

With dirt-crusted fingernails my mother paws through the fresh-smelling soil, poking and prodding at the earth with a small shovel. "What are you doing, mama?" Light rain dusts my forehead and cheeks as I shiver in my rubber coat.

"Planting flower seeds. Daffodils. They'll look beautiful in the spring." My mother pours a handful of small kernels into my cupped palms.

Crouching down on the wet grass beside her, I let the seeds trickle through my fingertips into the damp soil. "But mama, these don't look like flowers. They look like pebbles. And they're so small. How could they make it all the way up to the top?"

My mother opens her fist to reveal a single seed. "Wrapped up inside this little seed is a beautiful flower. But beautiful things need time to grow and change. So we hide it in the dirt for a while." She pushed the seed deep into the ground and covered the pinprick hole with soil. "Then it can find the strength it needs to grow its roots deep into the ground and push through all the filth that's in its way. And then on one warm spring day, this little bud will poke its head out of the ground and feel the sun in its face and realize that it was all worth it."

"But, mama, once winter comes and the sun grows cold, the flowers disappear. What happens to the seed then?"

My mother sets her shovel down and pulls me into her lap. "The centre of the flower is filled with tiny seeds. When the wind tries to tear the flower out of the ground, these seeds float away and touch the four corners of the world. But the little seed that anchored the flower down shrivels and dies." She brushes tears from my eyes with her earth-stained fingers. "But it's okay, don't you see? Because of that one little seed, hundreds more could stretch out to touch the sun. When those flowers finally burst through the earth, you know that winter's gone and spring has come."

Years later, I watch my mother slowly dying before my eyes. Such a beautiful flower wrapped up in a shrivelled shell. Her earth-stained hands falter as they stretch open, waiting to feel the sunshine on her face for a final time. To touch the four corners of the earth and realize that spring has finally come.

And as I finally let the tears fall, I realize that it was all worth it.

Thank you, mama.

-Joanna Joseph

This is one of the stories that got published, and it means a lot to me, personally, because it was inspired by Kayce's death in the summer of 2004. When chaos and hurt was swirling around me, I let my broken heart mend by writing this piece of literature. It's very simple and short, different than my usual style of writing, but it comes from my soul.

It's days like this, hot and humid, the sun shining down and the whipser of a summer breeze, that I remember.

Listen to: "Surrender" - Joy Williams

Everything I held so precious... I give it all to you.

Violin

2005-06-03T17:57:00.000-07:00

Model: Me

I adore that dress. It's so pretty and free, and the loveliest shade of red. I was able to keep it after wearing it in the play of "Romeo and Juliet" last year.

--

Thick hair tangles between my lips
And summer wind wraps around me like a warm jacket
Golden sunlight clicks behind my soft heels
I've got heat in my step

Painted fingernails skim across my wrist
The thrum of something broken and alive
Catching against the tears that slide across my cheeks
A requiem of what could have been

I let myself come undone
Fall apart in shimmering pieces of flesh and skin
Chips of white bone sweeping against patterned tile
My being floating just above my breathing body

Last night I saw my soul
Flee out of the cavern of my heart
And run to you
Barefoot against the dewy grass
To you
To you
To you

Warm breath curls against my skin
Like a second atmosphere
Meteorite showers
Against my soft hair
A dash of something brilliant
The gust of a weeping child
The death of a star
Against eternity's skies

Wish, little girl.
Close your eyes
And fantasize
Until nothing but dreams
Dreams that will never be
Are all that are left

You played violin up my spine
With practiced fingertips

Played a symphony against my soul
A chorus within my mind

The humming of a girl
Who has the faith to fly.

Thick hair tangles between my lips
And summer wind wraps around me like a warm jacket.

I'd do anything to feel you close around me
Until all I can breathe is you
And all that's left is the scent of fallen stars
And wishes left untold.

-Joanna Joseph

--

I love you Leadians, you fellow overachievers.

My heart melts a little when I think of you.

--
Summatives are almost over! **bounce**

Woohoo summer sunshine!

And these are the "lucky" girls who I have taken on as my "MatchMaking" projects for Music Banquet. By the end of the night, you *will* be dancing. **menacing scowl**

1) Sarah Burnett, my hero. You speak fluent French, so beautiful it brings me to tears.

2) Bethany Philpott, my spring blossom. You're black, and yet you're blonde, so therefore you = cool.

3) Colleen Malfara, my redhead passion. You are just so strange and attractive. AND HOT. SO SO HOT.

4) Allison Chong, whom I don't even know. But she's gifted. And I love her laugh.

5) Melissa Lo, giftie number 2. So smart, her head is so fat from excessive brain tissue.

6) Ivanela Naneva, my only desire. You are just so beautiful and tall, and I like it when you smile.

7) Hira Majid, my one-person fanclub. Oh, I love you.

8) Serena Chin, who will kill me if she ever finds out about this.

Isn't that so EXCITING! Well, I've got my work cut out for me, considering the quality of people I have to work with (KIDDING! You're all so beautiful.)

I am accomplished.

And I get to wear a pretty dress and pretty shoes and put my hair up all pretty and spend time with the people I love the most. Oh, I heart you so much, fellow Music geeks. You are my soul.

Even though musicians blow.

OH SNAP. (haha)

--

Last Train Home

2005-05-30T18:11:00.000-07:00

Oooh, I love the sky in this picture.

Inspired by my layout.

(Click image for full view)

--

The Last Train Home
Joanna Joseph

I watch a train go by at the break of dawn
A glimpse of life amongst the d e a d
Dusty pews a comfortable shade of green
Windows streaked with morning light

A lone teenager rifling through a sticky magazine
Lips pushed up in a quiet frown
Long feet draped in crisp blue denim
Sneakers crossed in front of him
Scuffed soles tapping to the rhythm
Of the clattering wheels against hot metal tracks

A flash of sun against his an gu lar face
And he turns up his chin to meet the warmth
Almost invisible facial hair glimmers under the rising light
He's not yet a
M a n.

Deep green eyes flicker to my lone image,
Silhouetted by the burning sunrise
Darkened and dulled behind his tinted windows
As the metal train streaks past
An image burned behind his eyelids

I wonder what he sees
A girl walking home
Watching a boy
Streaking off to nowhere
A cloud of rising dust
Marking where he once
Listened to the
click i t y
clack
of a rusty metal train.

I wonder where he's going.
I wonder why he's never been loved.
With his sensitive little mouth
And his beautiful eyes
And the way the sun streaks across his cheekbones.

I wonder why he has no home.

I grow up again in every mile between me and yesterday's train.

I wonder where he'll sleep tonight.

The sound of sneakers tapping against dirty floors,
Of a young boy listening to the
click i ty
clack
of a rusty train.

The most beautiful sound in the world.

--

Click

This started off with a picture of Bethany wearing the gorgeous dress she's wearing for Music Banquet, but I changed it a bit.

Sorry I had to crop out your face, darling, but your expression wasn't *quite* setting the mood I was aiming for.

I hope you like it.

(Even though you're buying your tickets from*Colleen* [aka the evil she-woman who is stealing all my potential ticket-purchasers!!! *megapout*])

Go to Music Banquet! It'll be such an awesome time, believe me. You get to dress up all pretty, wear those stunning shoes, [haha Colleen... MANICURE!] and shimmy the night away with some of your favourite music geeks! What's *not* to love? All for the non-refundable price of $32.00! (Actually, 30 bucks if you buy them off of me, your very favourite Grade Nine Rep! *sharp objects are thrown @ Colleen and her minions*)

[speechlessness]

Yeah, I know the feeling.

So get them now, while those babies are hot off the press!

w00t markham music!

And no, there was no exchanging of money @ any time between me and other Music Councillors for me to say this. None at all. *pizie smile*

And if you don't attend, you're a sorry loser and nobody like you and you should go home and lament.

Open up your love bubble and DARE TO CARE.

*End mandatory music councillor rant.*

Haha, I just ranted. That was so special.

I feel like *such* an emo right now. Let me huddle up in corner and write some poetry that doesn't rhyme.

--

How can you *not* see that you are so utterly lost?

That your so blind with pride and perfectionism that you can't see what's missing.

You're what's missing. You're not even there. There's nothing true about you.

Just ugly lies covered in mascara and lipstick.

I wonder what goes through your mind when you stare at your mirror and wonder where you disappeared.

Where you lost your soul and lost your way.

You can find your way back if you just open your eyes and follow your heart.

Find your heart first, under all the ice, and then everything else will fall into place.

Someone told me in passing that I never talk about things that teen girls usually write about, and that I'm overthinking my life.

Well, this is what I wrote up as my answer:

"This journal is not about me.

If you came to this site in an attempt to learn more about me, because up to this point I've simply been known in your mind as "that girl with the black hair and the pink sneakers", then I suggest you find a better past time.

You will not learn who I am here. This journal is just a facade. As fake as my haircut and co-ordinated outfits and the contents of my wallet and my oh-so-alphabetical CDs. Aren't we all so materialistic? Isn't this what you wanted to hear?

I'm not saying the contents of this journal are useless. They do provide some entertainment value. This is just a spoiler. Don't believe everything you read.

In the end, I'm just giving you what you want."

Paper Wings

2005-05-28T18:12:00.000-07:00

I hope you like the outcome, Jordie... :).

--

The night is a skin around me
I poke holes in to see the stars.

Wakeful hours, wide-eyed trying to see
out there while perched on the trunk of my car.

The night is a skin around me.

Blue-black, straining to see
myself in the blue moon, red of mars.

Inside of me
so many fireflies, in too many jars.

Night. Skin around me
reaching out in tiny puckered pores.

Image through the lens, tiny planet sea
of sometimes sparkles, desert land, drying shores.

Refocus me
forget the scope, forget mars.

The night is a skin around me
I poke holes in to see the stars.

--

I know I've fallen in love
When some pretty eyed boy draped in a woollen scarf
Lays a mittened hand on my shoulder and
whispers,"That sweater brings out the gold in your eyes."

--

I'd like to eat sunlight like an orange,
and let lighty juices run down my jaw and chin and neck like afternoon rivers.
I may burn my lips, but that is nothing compared
to the sweet, resinous heat of summer
roving over your body
like a golden hand.

One last thing I beg you please just before you go

I've watched you fly on paper wings halfway round the world

Until they burned up in the atmosphere and sent you spiraling down

landed somewhere far from here with no one else around

to catch you falling down

And I'm looking at you now

and I can't tell if you're laughing

between each smile there's a tear in your eye

there's a train leaving town in an hour

it's not waiting for you, and neither am I.

- "Paper Wings": Rise Against

--

Maybe I'm finally being truthful to myself.

Because for once in my life...
your's wasn't important.

--

Watch: "Behind These Hazel Eyes" - Kelly Clarkson

Here I am once again, I'm torn into pieces.

--

When you lose yourself...

2005-05-27T19:14:00.000-07:00

Model: Sinead... once again. You're lovely.

If you'd like your picture to be edited, let me know through e-mail, and I'll do my best to swirl a bit of html magic around it.

--

Everything seems to be harsh and cold around me lately. Hot metal against my skin, searing the soft underside of my heart, making me recoil in fascinated pain. It's almost become second nature; it shouldn't hurt anymore. I keep telling myself it doesn't.

You took my hand today, brushed the rough fingertips against the smoothness of my wrist. Blue eyes flash for a moment, a blink of heat against the ice wall you've so carefully built. You've got the most beautiful eyes, rimmed with dark eyelashes that fan against your pale cheeks like halfmoons when you sleep. Now, all I see is cold in your eyes. Cold, frozen pain, sinking deep into your soul and cutting slow. Drawing out as much hot blood as the ice allows.

If I were to die from extreme heat or extreme cold, and I had my choice, I'd chose the blistering flames. So I could feel alive, even as I died, fire licking at my cheeks and hair, feel emotion swell up within me as I crumble into smouldering ashes.

When I was little, and my family went camping, I'd crouch by the small pond and watch tiny fish gasping under the cracked river ice. Huge gulps of frozen air, beautiful silvery scales rippling in the cloudy water. Tail thrashing against the throbbing cold, grasping for momentary warmth. Stormy eyes bulging and blinking, eyelids a delicate gold skin sweeping over dark, furious pupils. Until finally, the tiny fish stopped thrashing and flailing, sinking almost gracefully to the sandy river bottom, beautiful fins like transparent wings fluttering in the water.

In the cold, all you can feel is the ice. A freezing chill that sucks the breath out of you and chokes you with a silvery vice; wide, lifeless eyes magnified against a icy glass screen. Frozen alive. A twitch, and then another, until all is still and the ice tightens around you like the last embrace from a lover's touch. And all you can feel is cold.

You took my hand today, brushed the rough fingertips against the smoothness of my wrist. You made it seem ordinary enough; your smooth, easy gait, your casual smile as I walked in the door. As though you weren't choking on your own breath, frozen alive, just a twitch of life under your skin.

I'm waiting for you to die. To sink to the bottom of the sandy river floor and fly with transparent wings against the tide.

--

Your vision will become clear only when you look into your own heart.

Who looks outside, only dreams; who looks inside, also awakens.

--

Listen to "With You" - Sarah Kelly

When I'm with you, the whole world disappears.

Unbreakable

2005-05-25T17:31:00.000-07:00

Why you can't break me...
Model: the lovely Sinead... (thanks sweetie!)

--

I watched you with fresh tears running down your face, your thick, unruly hair in wild, tangled clumps, your forehead bruising red and throbbing. Calloused fingers that once wandered down to clasp at my small fingers now tug and pull with purpose, running over the hard copper of your guitar strings. Mismatched chords spin out from your hands as you let your bitter tears fall against your cheeks; lanky body swaying to the untuned melody that sprawls out before you. Fingers slide and grip at the wooden instrument, rising up and down the long, splintered neck and playing a symphony of horrible melodies that sound so wrong and out-of-place by themselves, but when played together, make something hauntingly beautiful.

With a choked sigh, your fingertips rasp against the metal strings and settle down into a melody that is soft and quiet, tugging at the heartstrings of your soul. That little hushed lullaby in each of us, crying to be let out in a stormy rage of song.

Your ancient guitar is your solace, your hiding place. When tears flow down your rouged cheeks and your trembling hands curl into steel fists, you glide up the curved oak staircase and collapse into your twin bed, falling against the Cinderella sheets with your scratched up guitar and your unpent anger. It's where you run to when everything's dark and nothing's going right... your little alcove of peace and mismatched harmony. Where all the pieces click together, and everything makes certain and absolute sense.

You're my solace. My hiding place. My ancient guitar, propped up against yellowed bedroom walls, crying out for me to hold you and let out my lifestory through your raspy heartstrings. To play that mismatched melody that only I can play. That only you and I can understand. That secret connection of fingers to the human soul, spinning and sprawling into a symphony of horrible melodies that sound so wrong and out-of-place by themselves, but when played together, make something hauntingly beautiful.

You make me beautiful.

I watched you with fresh tears running down your face... and I watched myself in your eyes, trying to figure out my life with just four yellowed walls, an ancient guitar, and the strange and sudden melody within my soul.

Thank you.

--

The Seventh Stair...

2005-05-23T11:14:00.000-07:00

She's still waiting for her heart's return.

For the emptiness within her soul to light on eagle's wings and for something that matters to fill her hollow chest. A dash of meaning against her pale, cracked skin. A whisper of a smile to ghost upon her too-thin mouth.

And so she waits, twirling in fields of wilted dandelions, waiting for someone to carry her away.

--

Shame comes in many forms, many shades, many levels, but it's all the so hidden, so dark, so painful. And sometimes we long to fade away with it.

--

I'm still hanging onto hope every breath I take.

I can't sink, I can't swim. I can only float, headfirst, breathing in my liquid thoughts, wishing dawn would come and sweep me onto shore.

I'm still hanging on.

--

Emily sits on the seventh stair
Just outside the lion's lair
Holding the magic in a bowl
She feels complete
It makes her whole
She takes the hand of a passing boy
Treats her like a battered toy
She doesn't know she doesn't care
She breathes the magic in the air
And how do tell her it isn't real?
How do you say it's a short end deal?
How do you save a passing glace?
How do you give her another chance?

--

I don't believe in second chances. Not anymore.

You took my faith in childlike things and crushed it between your fingertips. I wish I could take it all back and live again.

I wish I could believe.

--

All my life, I've been playing with shadows, dancing along the fringes of darkness.

I've never mustered enough courage within my faltering heart to step into the golden light, to slip away from the black of broken dreams.

I'm not strong enough to be free.

And so I dance, quietly, painfully, along the fringes of my past.

No one can hurt me anymore, I'm beyond feeling.

Numb.

--

When life keeps changing on you, you have to try to adapt. Grow and change with it and become something stronger, bolder, freer...

--

And if losing myself
Means becoming a part of you
Then I know I'm becoming something beautiful too

--

Listen to: "This Is Your Time" - Michael W. Smith

This was her time, this was her dance.

--

I Wish...

2005-05-19T16:19:00.000-07:00

I wish I could cry until all that was left of me was a rivulet of tears vaporizing into the golden sun.

I wish I could sing until all that was left of me was a flurry of black-tailed notes that fluttered to kiss the wind, and then disappeared, never to be seen again.

I wish I could dance until all that was left of me was the quiet, rhythmic tapping of white-soled sneakers against a worn oak floor.

I wish I could disappear.

Until all I am to you is the weeping within your soul, the song within your heart, the hushed beat against your chest that reminds you that you're still alive. Your broken body moving to a song only you can hear.

I want to be that song.

--

Happy birthday, sweetheart. You're the candle that burned in me when everything else was dark and cold. You warmed me with your memories. I could feel it then.

I feel it now.

Kay Salingas: May 19, 1990 - July 16, 2004

God sent me an angel
From the heavens above
To heal my broken heart...

--
The milky light of the moon wraps itself around this planet tonight. With a mother's bent arm, she cradles earth to sleep, her velvety eyes sweeping closed against it's scarred, ghostly face.

I wish I could reach up and snuggle against its crumbly roughness, to float about the atmosphere, to feel no gravity at all, to be tossed and turned by the tides of time. To sail among the silver stars and fly free against the bonds that tether me to the ground.

I want to fly until I'm seperated; soul and body. As though I'm a beautifully free eagle, looking down on my yesterdays from up above.

I want to feel triumph again.

--
You know you're in pain, when you open your eyes and all you can see is tears.

--
Happy 15th, Jake. You mean more than the world to me.

--
Listen to: "Someone's Watching Over Me": Hilary Duff

When I'm standing in the dark I'll still believe.

--

My Letter to You...

2005-05-15T18:41:00.000-07:00

Dear _________,

Every time I look at you, I feel a wave of immense pity and loathing wash over me. How horrible it must be, to have to live in your body every single day, to live such a warped, double-faced life, only to hide all the flaws with a mask of perfection. I hate the way you make me feel like I'm worth nothing. The way you demean me and cut me deep with your words. I know you mean them, and that hurts me even more. I hate the way you know exactly what to say to make me sob helpless tears into my pillow at night, clenching fistfuls of fabric and hoping with childlike faith that you would just go away. I hate that you're such a hypocrite. Smiling and sugary sweet one day, the social butterfly, that quaint little woman who would never hurt an insect. The epitome of Proverbs 31. The first in line to heaven's gates.

And then, when the tides change, you're fierce and hating, spitting and hissing, cursing and mocking. I wish I could hold your shoulders and shake you until you just STOP. Until you realize who you are, what you're doing.

I know my flaws, I'm quite aware of them. I hold my worn Bible in my lap every night, clasp my hands and pray to God that I can be the woman he calls me to be. I know I'm not perfect, and I'm glad. Because if I'm already perfect, then why do I need to change? How can I be molded and made into something beautiful that is so uniquely me? How else can I be that woman who you think I will never be. And I can feel it too. I'm growing and changing and blossoming into someone who I think I can be proud of.

But everytime I slip or stumble, you're always right there, beady eyes glistening with victory, accusatory finger punched through the air between us, waiting for me to fall once more. The perfect saint, the One-Who-Does-No-Wrong.

Oh, what a sorry life you must lead. I ache for you, pain for you. Waking up every morning; your only purpose in life to criticize and belittle others, to make them forget every good thing they have ever experienced, every beautiful thing they have ever felt or known. Is your life really that shallow? Is all that matters to you is your reputation and destroying mine? A curse in a blessing's disguise. A ravenous wolf in a dove's outfit.

Well, I'm going to let you in on a secret.

I'm standing on solid ground. I won't let you win. You're creul, deceitful, and spiteful, and bring out the very worst in others. But, I know you can't harm me because I'm standing on the Rock of Adonai. I can feel His arms around me even now, can feel his love swelling over me in gentle ripples. I can taste his grace surrounding me, and I feel lighter than air. I'm breakable, but I've got Someone to put me back together. I've got the Creator of the Universe on my side, and if He's for me, who can ever be against me and prevail. No weapon formed against me will ever prosper.

You will never, ever prosper.

In Victory,

Joanna

--
Wow, that's one of the hardest things I've done.

Typing all of that out, pouring my soul on screen without any dam or inkling of holding back... that brought me to tears.

--
You won't see me shatter.

Listen to: "Glass House" - Jaci Velasquez

--

Reality

2005-05-12T16:22:00.000-07:00

Time takes it all, whether you want it to or not.

Time takes the hurt, the pain, the smiles, the joy, the life within your soul.

Time buries it away, hides it in the cold.

And, in the end, there is only darkness.

Sometimes we find others in the darkness.

And sometimes, we lose them there again.

--

I wonder what it must be like, not being able to seperate dreams from reality.

To wake up with starry eyes in the morning, fresh-faced and eager to touch the sun. Living out your beautiful fantasy in a warmth that spread from your heart to all over. Feeling the brisk wind of purpose skittering across your back and chilling you to the bone, until you could do nothing but shiver in the realization that you are who you hoped to be, those long, wistful years ago. That you're living out your destiny.

How beautiful it must be, to sleep dancing on heaven's clouds, only to wake up in the morning with life's frozen blade at your pale neck, eating away at you with quiet precision. Tearing your dreams apart like heavy fabric and throwing them into the fire of time.

A young girl, tall and slender, with long brown hair dancing gracefully along a shimmering garden path. Her small, angelic face is upturned to the heavens, a pink cherub mouth upturned to a solemn smile, dark lashes sweeping over sloping cheekbones.Her silky fingers clutch the edges of a simple white dress, revealing satin-slippered toes gliding over the polished stone. A burst of orange flame spews forth, licking at the branches of an ancient oak tree. Crimson fire ripples across a field of sweetgrass like flowing water, hissing and spurting and churning its lethal lava.

The fire rolls out onto the stone pathway, a scarlet wave washing over the universe and scorching all that is beautiful. The sky thunders with rage, furious black clouds racing over the horizon. Swords of white lightning flash and crash into the swollen earth, splintering into a thousand flames.

And yet the beautiful, willowy girl dances on, with light footed steps. Her eyes closed, her face upturned to heaven. Tiny fingers clasping at silky folds. A single tear threads down her cheek, and the fire collapses over her, her body tumbling into dust.

--

So let me feel, I don't care if I break down

Let me fall, even if I hit the ground,

And if I

Cry a little,

Die a little,

at least I know I've lived...

--

Spring Concert was outrageously beautiful.

I let myself drown in the music.

Escape was what I needed. A place to hide away.

I never want to rise to the surface... I can't swim, but I love the water. Let me drown in you.

--

Beautiful Warmth

2005-05-10T18:07:00.000-07:00

"So I juzz 'wen right up to the gyal 'n told her straight up... 'holla back, cuz you ain't got jack! you like-a it like dat, cuz BABY GOT BACK.' 'n i juzz busta move n disappeared, 'n she wuz all 'foh sho!'"

-Jenna... impersonating a Chinese man with an Italian accent trying to act black. Lovez it. (Haha, our new "nerdy" phrase for the week.)

--

I watched you as you walked away.

Felt the wind of your breath still tickling my nose, heard the sweep of your sneakers against the dusty floors, tried to grasp every last piece of you between my faltering fingertips. I couldn't brush the tears streaming down my cheeks because I didn't even realize that you were really, truly gone. That you left me with nothing but your scent and your memories. That when you said 'forever', 'forever' wasn't true. It was a pretty, thoughtless word you hid behind, a child sneaking under the covers in the pouring rain. You never meant to crawl back out and save me.

You watched me drowning, gasping for air, reaching out with ghostly hands, and you watched me with a faraway smile on your dreamy face. Just a wisp, just a cloud on my horizon, two arms that would never hold me, two eyes that never really looked into my soul. You promised me your heart, and then left me cold and frozen in the storm, shivering because you stripped me clean with your glazed words and your starry-eyed promises. I left myself bare underneath your stare, took my broken heart and placed it in your hands to mend it. You left me in the dust, in the icy embrace of your insolent arms. You ended up hurting me more, making me bleed until I couldn't even breathe.

Just release me and let me be. I'm strong. I can take it. But don't look at me and expect something back, something that matters. Don't ask for a piece of me, because I'm not willing to do that again. I can't get hurt... I'm afraid I can never be put back together. That the pieces won't fit, won't click and slide together like perfect pieces of a puzzle. Parts of me are missing, gaping, empty holes that are left unexplained. You ripped a piece of my soul, and I'll never be the same, innocent trusting girl that you once knew, and maybe even loved. I can never heal, the hurt's too deep, the pain's too real. But I can cover it up with fake smiles and real friends, and I can go on living like you don't matter and I don't care. Like I don't remember, like I shouldn't even try.

You're the worst part of me. I hated who I became, who I still am. I'm glad you took that away from me.

I watched you as you walked away. And then, with a final tear, I shivered in a new warmth I had never realized I had before. The warmth you tried to rip from my heart, the warmth I kept hidden deep within my soul, waiting until you finally left me and let me live. A steady, pulsing beat of life that heats me from my toes to the crown of my head. The thrum of heartbeat against my fingers, the swell of my being against my chest. My heart finally feels so wonderfully... free.

I feel it now.

--

Listen to: "Beautiful" -Christina A.

This is for you; you know who you are and what they've done.

But it doesn't matter what they say... you're still so beautiful.

--

Butterfly Wings

2005-05-08T16:27:00.000-07:00

At night, shivering in the cool of my room, I would prop my hands underneath my chin and watch the butterflies dancing outside my window. My frosted breath would fade into little clouds of mist on the glass until I couldn't see myself in the reflection. All I could see was a puff of smoke, quickly vanishing, and unblinking liquid brown eyes watching in wonder, trying to find my face beneath all the cold. I wish I could breathe myself away until all that remained of me was you.

The vibrant wings of butterflies tapped against my window, shining like bits of chrome underneath the moonlight. I felt the burning longing deep within my chest, flowing up inside of me until I could feel hot tears against my cheeks. The way those butterflies flew, not even looking for a flower, just flying for the feel of the wind, split my heart down the seam.

I remember when I used to live just to simply *live*. Just to feel the wind in my face and sun in my hair and breathe in all that I could of you.

--

There is no better loss than to lose myself in you.

--

No one will ever know.

Scars you can't feel, screams you can't hear
An inner demon clawing out your soul with steel fingertips
Sucking out the life in you
Until you can't breathe

My silence comforts
Words I can never say, words they will never have to hear
My exsistence hidden behind velvet curtains
A role I've never been trained to play
Chased creully by the winds of fate
By the whispers of the past

My smile withstands
Slivers of hope shimmering under the ice of my heart
Love has soothed the ache in my soul
But pain has given me meaning.
I have never felt so cold.

Still, no one will ever know.

This vague and empty feeling
Mistakes have been made, the past dwelled on...
Whirling and churning within my soul until all I feel is
Black.

You left me when I needed you most.

Let me live on with the things I've withheld
This dying torch, this smoldering flame
I hold with battered pride above my bleeding heart.

Life has given me passion
But God has given me faith.

I will sleep in assurance that tomorrow
Will be another day.

No one will ever know.

-Joanna Joseph
--

It's not until you lose everything that you are free to do anything.

Only after disaster can we be resurrected.

I can see the fire in your eyes, that threatens to consume you. You want to destroy something beautiful.

If you can wake up at a different place, in a different time, can you wake up as a different person?

I want to be reborn.

--

Every evening I died, and every evening I was born again, resurrected.

-"Fight Club"

--

In the arms of an angel... fly away from here.

Listen to: "Angel" - Sarah McLachlan

This glorious sadness that brings me to my knees.

--

His luscious locks...

2005-05-06T16:03:00.000-07:00

"Jay" and Ken.

Oh yes, I love his long curly mop. It looked so *cute* on him. Like a furry, dead animal sleeping on top of his little white head.

And then, his mother made him chop his luscious tresses. Told him he looked like a hobo skater man. (Her words, not mine.)

Delicate sunkissed curls, fluttering to the tiled floor with one watery breath of finality.

Haha, and then we styled his hair and gave him pigtails. It was tres fun.

Don't you love the shirt? *puffs out chest* Oh yes, my great Christmas-present-picking skills amaze even me and render me speechless. I must say, the purple stripes add that little hint... of femininity. On the *top* of my to-do list: Buy a straightening iron for Jay.

--

You can't break my heart... it's already been shattered.

Don't cut yourself when you pick up the pieces.

I look at your beautiful pale hands, so soft and smooth. Untouched and pure, like the silk of a dove's wing. Unhurt. No hardened streaks of black blood, no angry-red bruises, no swollen bumps of pain. Just gorgeous white skin, delicate and perfect.

I've tried to pick up the pieces. And I've hurt myself even more. Pierced the fractured glass even deeper. Watched the blood pool up and overflow.

Sometimes, it's better to leave the pieces on the stained floor, to wait for the wounds to heal, for the pain to dull into a pulsing ache. To trace the stains on your hands and remember. To watch and wait for the wind of time to blow the pieces away, until nothing remains except for your scars and your memories.

--

This is for you Bethany.

Listen to: "Homesick" - MercyMe

I hope you find what you're looking for.

--

Elections!!!

2005-05-05T16:11:00.000-07:00

This week has been a week of revelations.

I've always seen the tiny cracks and crevices in your friendship, veining up from the foundation with spindly arms and wrapping around it, straining and squeezing, waiting for that one apocalyptic moment when everything would shatter and churn into flaming ashes. (Wow, that was one long run-on sentence.) Some days, you'd try your best to fill in those cracks with smiles you didn't feel and apologies that you didn't really hear. Other days, those cracks would stare up at you like a gaping wound, pulsing and gasping for one last breath before it died. And you knew, before it happened. You knew it was going to fall through, to tumble into rust and dust and be chased away by the wind of your memories.

Buildings fall. But they can be built back up again.

One brick at a time. One step at a time.

You never dared to say what you wanted to; what was yearning in your heart. Words that bubbled forth, but you strained to stop them.

Maybe that was the trigger. The fact that you finally said what you needed to say.

The fact that for once, there was something true.

--

Oh em gee, I am so amazingly proud of our school.

For once, we looked past appearances and chose some strong, powerful leaders to be part of our student council.

I believe that everyone who truly deserved to get in, did get in. Thanks for looking through violent, pointless, random videos that showed absolutely nothing to do with their passion for the school, and choosing that lone Asian boy with the sparkling grin that announced that he cared. For that geeky, sweet African American who skipped up the stairs and told us just how much he loved the school.

For once, it wasn't a popularity contest.

It was about those who could make a difference.

--

"Promises sometimes get broken," she whispered against the wind. Her trembling fingers ran against the smooth silver of the locket dangling from her neck as she turned her face to hide the shimmer of tears. Cold pentrated through her, ice touching her soul and reaching out to touch the bottom of her heart. Hard, flashing images of *him* streak through her wounded mind as she recoils in wrenching pain. Tears flash down her cheeks like melting silver and blur with the pelting rain. She holds her arms around her shivering body, hoping to grasp some momentary warmth.

Alone on a paint-stripped bench in the rain. In the cold. With nothing but the hate-hot memories of *him* to warm her. To bid her blood to run through the ice and into her frozen heart.

Her fingers move in a white flash of rage and fury. A painful tug, and metal tears against damp skin. A drop of crimson blood bubbles up, but she's beyond feeling. She rasps the jagged metal of the locket between her fingertips, watching scarlet scratches appear on her skin. The scars he left.

She bites her lower lip and stares into the sky. A ray of winter sunlight shimmers down, painted her grey-streaked world with a haze of silvery rainbow. She remembered what it felt to be joyous and free, to wipe the tears from her moist cheeks and live for the moment. To be able to smile in the realization that yesterday has disappeared, that all we have is now. That she couldn't turn back time and live life over. That all she had is this small slice of time, a gift from heaven that only she has control over. Here and now. That's all she could hold on to, all she could grasp, all she could live for.

"Some promises are meant to be kept," she whispers against the sun. She tucks her broken locket into her jacket pocket and walks away from the rain-streaked bench, warming herself with memories.

--

Broken Angel

2005-05-02T18:34:00.000-07:00

He remembered her sketching him at his bedside. Pencil in hand, delicate scratches of pencil to paper. Dark brown eyes glowing with inspiration, olive fingers sweeping past the page and into his heart. Small lips twirling into a beautiful smile as she mapped out his features and let her vision fly free above her. She had planted a peck on his chiselled cheek and told him he looked like an angel when he slept.

That was before he hurt her. Threw her into the burning flames and watched her fall to blackened dust. Tossed her into the churning, raging swells until her body struck the bottom. Tightened the rough cord around her neck and watched as she drew her last, strangled breath, hands reaching blindly for the face she once knew, the hands she once trusted to bring her to safety. To life.

The hauntingly beautiful drawing laid across from him caused his heart to spasm and his pulse to race. Fire licked his throbbing veins. He wanted to fall to his knees and scream until there were no sounds left under his skin.

No longer did the angel sleep peacefully. Instead he lay on a bier of stone, flames and jagged rock rising all around. The elegant wings were perfect no more. Iridescent crow's wings sprung from his shoulders, one twisted and broken to flop uselessly on the stone, the other a bloody stump, mangled feathers dangling from the matted remains. His eyes were no longer closed in rest. They were open, ice blue and burning with rage, a rage that was clear in every line of his face. She had captured his own expression perfectly, he knew. But he couldn't for the life of him remember when she had seen him that... raw. That broken. The figure in the painting was bloody and beaten, a shattered sword in pieces on the rocks around him. But he could tell by the tension he saw in the body, by the slight flex of the wrist that this creature had not surrendered.

Lucifer may have been cast out of heaven, but he was prepared to fight and claw his way back, damning all those who stood in his way.

She knew, even then. Even while he whispered his love and twirled her silky black tresses through his fingertips.

She knew he was going to hurt her, to tear her apart, to crush her in his filthy grasp. And she loved him anyway.

The broken angel never sleeps. Only lies in the fire, waiting for her return.

He knows she never will.

--

Listen To "Drops of Jupiter" - Train

Did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?

Whispers of Goodbye

2005-05-01T15:52:00.000-07:00

It is a doorway between past and present, opened by a subconscious hand of heart-felt regret that is caught in an angle of light and hidden repression.

It is a glance in the mirror of retrospection, looking back into the burning flame of a candle blown out in the quiet turbulence of night.

It is the wounded cry of a child dangling from the bridge of life, small hands clasping at what she once knew, feet flailing about churning water.

It is me, inhaling the scent of your hair that you left on my bed, breathing you in, staring out the misty window with uncried tears and a weeping soul.

It is goodbye.

--

I slept horribly last night. I tossed and turned, tugging the sheets around me until I was sweating and trembling and tangled in a web of fabric that pinned me down. I had a strange, empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I could almost feel two eyes watching me. Regarding me. Observing as I thrashed and flailed in my own skin, in my own home. She watched me with quiet eyes that seemed to know me even better than I knew myself.

I flipped the covers off of me and turned down my blinds and shut my bedroom door. I felt a cold shiver down my spine as I heard a swift rustle, and a sharp tappping sound against my window. I silently collapsed into bed, pulling the sheets up to my chin, closing my eyes shut, praying that heavy sleep would take me away.

It took me until midnight to realize.

It was me. Watching me.

--

Silence
settles around me -
overwhelming in the sudden darkness
I feel the presence.

It's breathing barely audible -
purring softly almost unheard,
as it sweeps by me.

The shadows swirl together
hiding the entity in
their black black depths
and I feel it's breath on my neck.

Chills
climb down my back -
I fall
it's knowing eyes glow in the dark

Silence overtakes me
and then I am nothing.

Something I made because I couldn't do anything else.

I'm thinking of your forever.. I don't know what you're going through, so all I can give you is words.

Sound invades me,

raging like a storm.

The black sky swirls above me,

flooding my mind with clouds of thought.

Lightning singes my heartshocking it into oblivion.

The white-capped ocean wavescrash against my soul,

floating away as they leave behind the

silence of forever.

Yes, these are my words, my thoughts, my emotions. Please don't take away the only thing that I have.

(Copyright - Joanna Joseph)

Live like today never happened.

Listen to "Dare You To Move" - Switchfoot

Salvation is here.

Twilight

2005-04-29T18:50:00.000-07:00

You're staring at me with heavy green eyes that scream at me with words I can't understand.

Not at me, but through me. At a piece of wall just above my left ear. Avoiding me but regarding me, waiting to for me to ask the question that hangs in the putrid air between us. My lips feel like sandpaper as I swallow a bitter block of betrayal down my throat so I can form words. My eyes are dry, I won't let myself break down in front of you, because of you.

You're not worth it anymore.

Dark circles sweep out under them like crow's wings. You've been staying out late again. You twirl an invisible cigarette between your slender fingers and shake a mass of curls back from your forehead. Your mother always told you to clip your hair back so that people could see your beautiful face. But that's not what you want. You want to hide behind a tangled mess, curl up into a trembling ball and hope that you won't get hurt again.

You blink your darkened lashes, and for a moment, I can see the silver glimmer of tears.

You watch me staring at you and for once, you don't quickly shift your gaze. Your eyes cry into mine, spilling out with broken apology and halted whispers of truce. You blink again, and your eyes are dry.

It must have been a trick of light.

I haven't seen any real emotion from you since the day you came crying to me in third grade because your heart hurt.

--

Rape. It just sounds so unnatural, like it doesn't belong. The rough roll of the 'r', the strained sound of the 'a', the quick pop of the 'p'. It tastes so bitter in my mouth, attacking the flesh of my tongue, eating away at my throat and rendering me speechless.

I can't even imagine.

The blur of heat, of bruising cold, hard, rough fingers clasped around your delicate wrists, hot eyes boring into your own. Recoiling from the touch you despise, searing at your soul with a fire only you can see. Burning down the walls of your innocence until all that's left is ashes. You want to break open your mouth and scream until the earth shatters, but all you can do is wait in painful silence. Die a quiet death. Close your eyes and hum a lullaby until you can't feel the hurt anymore.

Sweetie, I don't know what to say.

Words from a broken girl, a broken heart:

"Stop trying to buy my innocence, I already sold it.

It went for a high price, you'd never be able to afford it. I hate when you bid on me."

That conversation will forever be burned into my memory, my heart, and my prayers.

--

Canvassing for the Canadian Cancer Society gave me this beautiful golden feeling that spread from the pit of my stomach until it touched my heart. I met some unforgettable people, had some unforgettable moments, and I can't get that lovely little old lady out of my head.

"You're going around and doing all this for me? I have cancer, you know. You're just so beautiful to do this. No one's ever done something so nice. The pain doesn't hurt so much anymore when I've got children like you looking out for me."

I wanted to hold her frail little body in my arms until she stopped crying.

I wonder what she went through in life... that a group of mismatched students asking for some cash could bring her to tears.

--

I burrow deep into my bed and shove the covers over my ears so I can't hear you scream anymore. Can't feel me clawing at your heart, searching for something real behind the steel. I'm watching you destroy yourself with your thoughtless lies, your painful memories, the hurtful words that dance mercilessly in your ears. I'm counting the days until you die. Die to yourself, die to the world. Until you die to me and let me be.

I can't get you out from under my skin. Release me.

--

Something about her voice speaks to me. Haunts me.

Listen to "Twilight" - Vanessa Carlton

The Song Unsung

2005-04-27T16:05:00.000-07:00

When life stands still and all you do is watch. They keep moving but you stop. The motion moves so fast your feel sick.

You want to tell them what they've done wrong but your out reached hand can't touch their sweating body. Your eyes are glazed, their eyes are wild. You feel full and they look empty.

I'm back in my movie theatre and you're all just a show to me. Watching you from my tinted mirror, waiting for the pain to stop, for life to wash over me and take me away.

You're dying in a coffin you can't even feel.

--

Last night I cried for no reason at all. When the tears overflow and you just can't stop them.

The breath inside of you gasps for composure

Your inside breaks and you don't know how to mend it.

I'm a child that needs a hand to hold

I'm a child that needs to be rocked to sleep at night

I'm a child that needs your hush to subdue me

Hold me tight and tell me I'm beautiful.

--

You hate me for the things I left unsaid, the feelings I left untouched, the song I left unsung.

I feel like I want to run away from everything and everyone, to stand against the pouring rain until nothing's left of me but silver tears.

Wash away the pain.

--

I want someone to tell me they like the way I live.

--

I feel my insides crush and expand, leaving me reeling. Hot tears sting my eyelids as I fling my closet door open with all of the strength and rage I can feel. The walls shake around me, I feel myself fall into the blazing inferno of my soul.

I stuff my mouth with old fabric and I scream loud enough for the house to tumble into dust.

But no one hears, and the tremors still. All I can feel is the hushed cry of a newborn baby.

--

The anger has simmered down to a painful disappointment. I walked down the tiled halls, my hands stuffed in my jean pockets, my chin tilted high, my hair brushing back against my blushed cheeks as I glided past you.

I could smell the shame on your shoulders. The heavy thump of your sneakers against the marred tile. I could feel your blue gaze against my back as you pleaded for my gushing forgiveness to carry you to safety. I dammed the door to my heart, I slid the lock until I couldn't feel the pain. I won't let myself overflow into you.

I never turned around, but I could feel you surrounding me with murmurs of broken promises and shattered dreams. You didn't see the tears filling my eyes as I walked down that dark corridor and out of your life forever.

One tear slides down my cheek. You deserve no more.

I toss and turn in bed, shivering under the cocoon of my tangled sheets. There's not enough anger left to warm me.

--

My thoughts are all over the place, beating and crushing against my heart, blurred and distorted like splashes of paint against an easel. I wish I could break out of this body and fly free.

Tonight, I'll be canvassing for the Cancer Society. Every step I take through the rain, I'll remember her with a wistful smile.

In Remembrance of the Sisterhood.

(Kayce Salingas: 1990-2004)

--

This is the story of a girl
Who cried a river and drowned the whole world
And while she looks so sad in photographs
I absolutely love her
When she smiles

How many days in a year?
She woke up with hope but she only found tears
And I can be so insincere
Making the promises never for real
As long as she stands there waiting
Wearin' the holes in the soles of her shoes
How many days disappear?
You look in the mirror, so how do you choose?

This is the story of a girl
Whose pretty face she hid from the world
And while she looks so sad and lonely there
I absolutely love her

This is the story of a girl
Who cried a river and drowned the whole world
And while she looks so sad in photographs
I absolutely love her
When she smiles

When she smiles

--

Nothing more to say.

2005-04-24T14:57:00.000-07:00

Last night I felt you. The rustle of clothes that were always too big for you, the soft thump of slippered feet, the quiet tinkle of the friendship bracelet I bought you in Grade three. I smelled the scent of your vanilla hair and heard you hum words to a song I never knew.

Maybe it was a song you learned in heaven.

I always loved the way your nails would round out perfect and smooth. You ran the tips across my cheekbone and watched me as I fell asleep in your slim, childish arms. You rocked me gently, like a child against her mother's breast.

You left your scent on my neck last night, and everytime I turned and smelled you, thinking you were there.

--

Dear Joanna's heart,

Calm down. You're getting waayyyyyy too emotional about the littlest details. Take a pause, wipe your tears, relax. They were just words. Just something that flew out of her mouth without her realizing. Words can't hurt you. They slip and slide and melt into a silvery puddle frozen at the bottom of your soul. What you've got to remember is the good times. The delicate blooms of spring against winter's chill. This is just a temporary block of ice blurring out the sunshine. Every friendship needs some hurt to help it grow. A butterfly can't fly without struggling out of its hard cocoon. But somehow it manages to break free. And one day, when the hurt dries up and all that's left is forgiveness and love... you'll realize that it was all worth it. Forget the words, because that's just what they are... words.

And don't pull that PMS card on me, sweetie. Been there, done that.

Love, Your Brain.

--

I hope I can find it in my heart to forgive her. To hide the scars with a smile.

To move on, let go, and live with no burdens on my back.

I hope I can find that in me.

But I think it might be too late.

--

Post Anonymously

1. Tell me a secret

2. Compliment me

3. What do you hate about me

4. If you could give me one thing, what would it be

5. Lyrics that remind you of me

6. Age

7. Do you consider me a friend?

8. Come on, give me a hint to who you are

And I'll guess who it is... :)

--

Happy 15th, Brittany. I hope you get all your heart's desires.

--

I'm sorry I can't be perfect...

2005-04-23T11:27:00.000-07:00

It's amazing how much my silhouette has changed. How much I've grown, matured. How my dreams have evolved and taken form, molding me into something I never thought I could be.

I spent nights bundled in my sleeping bag, looking past the meshed opening of my camping tent and to the stars. Watched them twinkle and glow. I wanted to reach out and kiss one. It was so beautiful, so sacred, so very far away. Something I could see, but something I could never feel or touch. I felt safe enough that I could daydream, content at gazing wistfully at what I could not have. Safe enough to dream, knowing I didn't have to pay a price. Didn't have to unzip myself from my downy sleeping bag and leap into the cavern of the sky. I didn't have to do a thing but stare and wish that it was mine.

I'm not a stargazer anymore. When I was little, I wanted to be an astronaut, to touch the stars and feel special and beautiful.

Now I want to change the world.

--

silhouette n. A drawing consisting of the outline of something, especially a human profile, filled in with a solid color.

tr.v. silhouetted, silhouetting, silhouettes

To cause to be seen as a silhouette; outline: Figures were silhouetted against the setting sun.

Sleep a dreamless sleep, where everything's perfect, and nothing's as hard as it seems.

But don't forget to rise to see the morning sun.

"Cuz we lost it all

Nothing lasts forever

I'm sorry I can't be

Perfect

Now it's just too late

And we can't go back

I'm sorry

I can't be

Perfect."

I'm sorry DON'T NEED TO I can't be perfect.

Nothin' but Mammal

2005-04-19T19:13:00.000-07:00

Cabaret = sweet hunk of burnin' love.

--

THE ZOO KEEPER!!!
Amanda's homocidal rantings and her wanting to pluck the tails off every single animal we saw. And pull out their hair. And chop their heads off. And watch their intestinal organs glisten in the summer heat.
Ryan Osborne and the monkey butt. {loooong story}
BLUE PEE and my not-so-frozen popsicle?
The ugly animal that had no name. "Aww... wow... it's so... ugly. It's like... big and hairy... and stuff."
The baby hippos in the water! And their wittle fwapping ears! And their wittle wiggling bums! And wanting to ride on its back into the sunset with Audrey, lol.
The POLAR BEARS rocked my flip flops. Especially when they tried to eat each other.

Mr. Pritty: "They're not quite EATING each other... let's just say the heat is getting to them." Ew.

Trying to jump onto Ryan's back and falling and basically dislocating my head.
Playing truth or dare on the bus. And the fact that thirty unicorns had to die to make Hannah's hat. {just kidding, sweetie, I love you and your fuzzy head}
The cashier @ Harvey's and his "burger" innuendos.
All the little babies with their little umbrella-hats. So cute that I wanted to eat them.
I TOUCHED THE LLAMA. IT WAS HOT.
Talking about elementary school and meeting new people that I didn't even know came to MDHS.
James Mabey (aka ultimate white boy) teaching us fluent Cantonese. Apparently he grew up in Unionville and was the asian mafia's "gangstur pale dawg".
Thinking about Mr. Pritty sunbathing naked on top of the zebra roof.
OOooh... I really liked those llamas.

Zoo = "ME AND YOU, BABY, AIN'T NOTHING BUT MAMMALS. LET'S DO IT LIKE WE DO IT ON THE DISCOVERY CHANNEL". OH YES.

Post your name on the tagboard, and I'll tell you something beautiful I admire about you.

I can't believe you're doing this to him.

I'm speechless.

Completely and utterly speechless.

I'm going to take a nap so I don't have to think about life anymore.

Cabaret and other randoms...

2005-04-18T21:37:00.000-07:00

Sorry about the uber-late post. I blame the enormous group projects that the teachers pile up on us at this time of the year. *crosses arms and stamps foot*

Cabaret was muchos awesomeness! Too many good times to count. Those who weren't there seriously missed out on some amazing music. Some highlights were...

- Sammi Rice and her beautiful singing and piano! White Houses = makes me cry. Even though I can't help but giggle during the "and a little bit of paiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin... my firrrrrrrrrrst timeeeeee..." Haha.

- Danny and Tay doing a great job of em-ceeing! Haha, loved the time machine and usual Tay-greatness. "HAHAHAH... *grunt*" Oh-em-gee, I heart French impersenations. (AND THE BEARD.) My asian hero-boy-child, Danny.

- Jodi taking my breath away with her gorgeous singing... she looked so adorable, staring into Simmon's eyes (seductively...? >.<) LOL ("take it off, then I might be able to get in the mood")

- Percussionists doing their thing on the garbage cans. Absolutely amazing. (Ahhh... alliteration. I'm gooooood.) Their sticks flying in a single arch, banging on those metal cans in absolute rhythm. The audience went WILD. They were just as good, if not better, than Torque. *bounce* YAY YOU! {uber props to the only girl in the team... takes lotsa guts, and lotsa talent.}

- All of the bands playing some seriously beautiful jazz.

- THIRD STREAM... Ahhhhhh! You sang *my* song. (croons) MOOOON RIVER!!! I wanted to cry, right then and there. All of you looked and sounded stunning! (YAY HOT PINK TIES)

- Haha, loved the teacher's act. Mr. Jull as Yoda? Loved Miss Caswell's little suggestive comments, "We are Family", and Mr. Caswell singing Italian opera... in pitch. FRIGHTENING.

- Stef! I loved it! (Haha, grunge girl singing?) "SOMEBODY TOLD ME THAT YOU HAD A BOYFRIEND THAT LOOKED LIKE A GIRLFRIEND..." {oh yes, hot metrosexuals! >.<} HERMAPHRODITES. I'm sorry. I'll stop.

- Scurrying about in the Drama Room with Jeff and John, setting up the little platters with food. Throwing grapes @ Priscilla. Trying to irish dance in my dress. Smelling each other's feet. Having random guys "eat from my plate"... haha. Loved the dips and carrots, Adam.

-"Waitressing" the food and having a scary old man staring @ me.

- SISTERS OF SONG. Haha, I loved the catfight in the middle of the song, and our little "angel" act. Muchos fun. {the fifties' rock my socks! colourful scarves = HOTSTUFF)

- So much more that I've probably forgotten!!! But everything was really great. You're a huge LOSER if you didn't come, so go home because no one likes you. I can't wait to go next year.

--

"What if love was only skin deep? So shallow that even strangers can believe they are in love.
What if love was a thing of the present? Never concerned for the next step, we would all then live for the moment ceasing to think about the future.
What if love was just about those words you say? Sentences that you know one day you can't say anymore, ending in broken promises and broken hearts.
What if love was just only a dream? When wishes and fantasies are being dreamt of every day, when we all get the things we want, when the cruel truth crushes it all once we figure out its not real, a beautiful dream caught in the painful spiral of reality.
What if your love for me was just all those things? Just a shallow, feeling of the present, molded into something more by the words you say and the dreams you dream. So do not seek me, do not wish for me, do not love me."

--

Filming the play for english? Haha, dressing up as ditzy cheerleaders was priceless... and the chase scence around the playground... and "SPITE MIDGET"... and "BRRRRRRANG", and playing in the sand. Uber fun. Let's do it again.

--

Tomorrow = zoo. My llama friends and I shall be reunited. OH YES.

--

Perfect...

2005-04-14T16:40:00.000-07:00

Perfection. It isn't about making things fit, making it work, walling everything in glass. Perfection is taking all the doubts, the fears, the flaws and the cracks, and understanding that they exist. And being able to love, despite them.

Because of them.

Moving through them, with them. Perfection isn't something you create. It's something you embrace. Because it's real. and it's there. You just need to see past the tinted glass to find the sun in all its glory. And embrace the light. Because whether you see it or not, it's there, shining the way.

And it's your choice, whether or not to follow the light. Come with me.

--

And that is my story, for better or for worse; for not all stories end in happily ever after, not all chances are taken when given, and not all princesses live to find their perfect prince.

--

Any moment,
everything can change,
Feel the wind on your shoulder,

For a minute, all the world can wait,
Let go of your yesterday.

Can you hear it calling?
Can you feel it in your soul?
Can you trust this longing?
And take control,

Fly
Open up the part of you that wants to hide away
You can shine,
Forget about the reasons why you can't in life,
And start to try,
cause it's your time,
Time to fly.

All your worries,
leave them somewhere else,
Find a dream you can follow,
Reach for something,
when there's nothing left,
And the world's feeling hollow.

Fly
Open up the part of you that wants to hide away
You can shine,
Forget about the reasons why you can't in life,
And start to try,
cause it's your time,
Time to fly.

-Excerpt from Hilary Duff: Fly

I usually hate her bubblegum-pop songs, but this is one of few that actually makes sense.

You can't fly unless you spread your wings and take the chance to fall.

--

Don't act, be.

2005-04-12T15:16:00.000-07:00

I changed the layout. Sorry... but if you're trying to surf through my archives, some of the apostrophes end up looking like a bunch of really odd-looking symbols. I'm too lazy to manually change every single one of them, so you're out of luck, princess. Haha, I love me being lazy and sluggish. It is uber-fun.

Change is good sometimes. It breaks you out of the ordinary and opens a creaky doorway to the unknown, the unexpected. A chance for you to start clean, start fresh, pretend yesterday never happened and today is all that matters.

If only it was that simple.

--

There just aren't enough hours in the day to truly live out everything you need and want to venture into. I'm constantly racing with the clock and battling with the fight against physical exhaustion when I just don't have time to deal with being tired.

I had the strangest dream last night, involving:

1. Me waking up in middle of the night to find my black flip-flops. (Which actually disappeared in reality.)

2. Me driving a schoolbus (?), except it had a sunroof. I was propped on phone books so I could reach the steering wheel. (Grrr... my alter-reality still mocks my height - or lack of it.) Jake was singing in the back with an accordian, and he told me he liked my feet.

3. Me arriving at school (Jake disappeared...?) and trying to find Sinead. (Because that is so greatly related to the rest of the dream.) Sinead "forgot" her Math homework and asked to copy Mitchell's. (Even though he's gifted... and not that bright.) Mrs. McLeod skipped by in a toga and expelled Sinead because she was wearing her Hurricanes hat (which she hasn't worn for the last two years?...)

4. I was getting married to some random person and I was telling Sarina how I wanted my reception to be in the Bat Cave... even though it's about 3 ft. wide? She said she'd bring the chicken wings.

5. I saw Mr. McCall in the halls and I yelled to him that I'd give him the history paper next class. He gave me a cool "head-nod". (Y'know, where the guys tip their chins and raise their eyebrows and bit and go 'yehhh'... never mind.) Except he was a bleached blond surfer dude... wearing orange Speedos.

6. We got pulled away by the crowd and I ended up in the middle of third hall listening to a brass quintet. Eric Probst was rapping, while playing his tuba. Come again? He was holding an egg shaker.

7. I started suddenly running to first hall because I wanted to make it to Geography class before the 1-minute mario song was over. Mr. Pritty nodded his head at me and told me I looked like a dying duck when I ran.

8. I burst into tears and walked inside the classroom, only to find myself at the zoo with my Grade 8 class.

Note: We were all older. I don't remember looking older... we just were.
Note 2: What the heck???
Note 3: The image of Mrs. McLeod in a toga has forever been burned into my memory. *shudder spasms*
Note 4: I *really* want to find those flip-flops. =( It's so gor-gee-ous outside!

--

Haha Colleen. "YOU ARE MY BLING-BLING."

--

Cabaret is coming, and it's gonna be the best Friday Night *you'll* ever have!

Ooh oh, pass the ice honey, cuz that burn's gonna need some healin'.

Haha Music Council memories.

Oh... 'n you better come, 'cuz... I'll eat you if you don't. *insert evil, malicious laughter*

**pause**

Not that you weren't planning to come in the first place or anything. *blinks lashes*

Wow, you're such a fake.

If you're so busy trying to be someone else, who's being you?

--

Make me smile...

2005-04-09T16:38:00.000-07:00

65 things that never cease to make me smile...

1. Dancing in the rain.
2. The smell of homemade cookies baking in the oven.
3. Getting a hug when you didn’t even realize you needed one.
4. Random acts of kindness, especially from strangers or from those you wouldn’t expect it from – it gives you hope for humanity.
5. Long talks in front of the fireplace holding mugs of hot chocolate and whispering about our dreams.
6. Stepping away from the “normal” and just daring to go a little “crazy” and live a little.
7. Knowing I’m too old for snow angels and making them anyway.
8. Swinging: seeing how high I can reach, feeling the cool air whoosh all around me and being high enough to touch the sky. Laughing, feeling like a child again.
9. Poetry. The most beautiful way to express your feelings, other than silence.
10. Crazy little inside jokes that no one else understands but you and me.
11. Newborn babies. Wide, blinking eyes, soft eyelashes, rounded cheeks, fingers reaching out and grasping you, trusting you to hold them tight and protect them from the world.
12. The smell of a favourite book.
13. Dog-eared notes that we passed in class. Fragments of conversation that I’ll cherish forever.
14. Photographs. A beautiful way to capture memories. A way to hang onto something you wish you still had.
15. The first snow of the year.
16. Kids – they’re crazy imagination, optimism, and innocence is just so overwhelming.
17. Setting out warm milk and cookies for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.
18. Quiet walks in the night. The way the neighbourhood seems to fall asleep, the hush of nature, and the stars shimmering in the black sky.
19. Family. I can’t even find words to explain.
20. Our little brick wall in 2nd hall. Our own little refuge, our meeting place, where we’ve had some of the most amazing experiences of high school.
21. The thrill of being on stage – you can be anything you want to be; anywhere… in one spot.
22. Sappy love songs that you pretend to hate, but listen to in the closed quiet of your bedroom when no one’s home.
23. Dreams you’ll never share with anyone else.
24. The fact that you always have me all figured out.
25. Knowing that I’m the only one you told your secret to.
26. A cup of orange pekoe tea with lots of sugar and milk.
27. When you know exactly what to say to me.
28. Those cute little jumper snow pants with the downy filling. Oooh the memories.
29. The fact that you didn’t laugh at me when you learned I was afraid of the dark.
30. Jake’s “ab” workout. (GOOD TIMES.)
31. Fresh sheets rustling against my cheeks and the smell of clean laundry.
32. The way I can’t fall asleep when I think about you.
33. The way my room glows that golden-yellow hue in the morning.
34. Sitting on my porch, talking about nothing at all.
35. Silly compliments that keep me smiling forever.
36. When I laugh so hard that tears roll down my cheeks.
37. When you break down your walls for me.
38. The way you say my name when you’re proud of me.
39. Memories that aren't even mine.
40. When you did something sweet “just because”.
41. The feel of sand sliding between your toes on the beach.
42. When you miss me as much as I miss you.
43. All the times you’ve ever said goodbye, and yet somehow ended up coming back.
44. Camping out in my backyard and looking up at the stars.
45. Sweet dreams.
46. When my daddy told me I was his “number one princess”.
47. The idea of home.
48. Mama kissing my scrapes and bruises all better.
49. Sleeping in.
50. Inspiring teachers who’ll never know what an imprint they’ve left on their students.
51. The construction-paper heart Valentines that you got in kindergarten.
52. Getting tucked in at night.
53. Holding my hand when we crossed the street.
54. Telling me about that house we’d have with the white picket fence, the big oak tree, and the tire swing.
55. Long bus rides to nowhere, watching the scenery fly by.
56. Seeing someone you haven’t seen in forever
57. “Real” fireplaces.
58. Teaching me how to skate, and pulling me up when I stumbled and fell.
59. Time – when it passes by at just the right speed.
60. Knowing that in the end, everything will be okay.
61. Hearing the words “I love you”.
62. When walked all the way home with me “so nobody comes by and shoots you or something.”
63. When you tried to cook for me and your house almost burned down.
64. When you laugh at my jokes when they’re not even funny. (read: most of the time.)
65. When everything else crashes and burns around me, and still feeling safe because you’re here.

-Joanna Joseph

--

Don’t you know my heart breaks every time I tell you ‘no'?

You're my very best friend, and no one could ever replace you. You're a piece of who I am, a piece of me that laughs, hopes, and lives. You're the one I can turn to when I'm frightened, the shoulder I can cling to when I feel like I'm about to fall. I wish it was simpler. No… I wish it was more complicated. That there were more twists and turns, that I could bury myself in a curve of a road, a lie that I'll never believe. I wish there was more to it than me saying “no”. Than me walking away from you, heart breaking with every step, whispers pounding in my ears, tears welling up in my eyes.

When I see you gaze at me with that look in your eyes, I wish it were more complicated than me taking your heart and crushing it between my fingers.

People say I’m much too nice. That I sacrifice all that I have. That I care too much about people, that I should pay more attention to myself. But these people, they’re wrong. I wish I wasn’t such a horrible person. That I could tell you how I feel and have you understand. That I wouldn’t feel like I’m destroying you, ruining you with my confused, hazy words. Words that drip out of my mouth, pressed and pushed like droplets from a leaky faucet. I wish I could hide away into a little corner and pretend like I’m not hurting you.

--

Sometimes you've got to weigh the good with the bad and realize that maybe it's worth it.

--

When I fall...

2005-04-08T16:02:00.000-07:00

“Fall down seven times, stand up eight.”

A hot tear rests inside the crease of my eyelid as I glare into the darkness, searching for the one who broke me. Who took what I gave them and threw it against the wall, shattering me into bits and pieces, a beautiful requiem of shimmering rainbows on the crimson-stained tiles. I feel the blood pooling up at the back of my throat, threatening to choke me with its bitter black vice, darkened fingers grasping at my neck. I let my eyelashes flutter closed, because I can’t stare into your face. I can’t look at the one who betrayed me, pulling me in for a warm embrace with a dagger hidden under her sleeve. Flashed brilliant smiles while the grating wheels turned inside of your beautiful head, cold and calculating, waiting for the opportune moment. For me to fall. For me to bleed. For me to rest against the cool tile and realize that life isn’t worth it all. To give up on myself and those who love me, to close my eyes shut and let death wash over me in waves, carrying me into the blessed sunrise.

But then, you’ve won. So I let the tears fall, touch my fingers to my heart and rise. This is my promise. My promise to defeat you. To take back everything you’ve stolen from me and place it on the highest peak so that the world can see that I’ve overcome. To be able to stare into the eyes I hate and find the strength to look past the blinding shame and into the flickering flame of the future. It’s far away, but I can reach it. Can bring my bleeding fingers close to the fire and feel it’s warmth. Touch the whisper of what was mine.

With tears streaming down my cheeks, I gaze at you for a long, hard moment. Then I turn, and walk away, quieting footsteps running down the corridor of your broken dreams and out of your life forever.

“I love you.” I whisper in a cracked voice. Too hushed for you to ever hear.

Have you ever thought that maybe there was more to life than what you’re making it out to be? That there’s something more than just wanting more?

That you could change the world if you just opened your eyes and tried.

Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.

--

Through the wind and the rain,
She stands hard as a stone in a world that she can't rise above;
But her dreams give her wings and she flies to a place where she's loved.

Excerpt from "Concrete Angel"

--

R.I.P. Anna, my sweet angel. You left us all too soon.

Cause of death: Anorexia Nervosa.

When someone tells you you're beautiful, believe it, because it might just be true.

I'm back.

2005-04-02T16:10:00.000-08:00

Mood:Dreamy...

One of those "bold all that apply to you" quizzes...

01. My hair is still its natural color.
02. I have yet to lose my virginity. (And won’t lose it until I’m married.)
03. I get annoyed when I don't get to finish telling a story.
04. I like to wear pink.
05. Sometimes I wish I could do something really, really amazingly well.
06. I drink a lot of water.
07. I hate the smell of cigarette smoke.
08. I’ve got a thing for guys that play guitar.
09. I'm a sucker for sweet talkers
10. I love taking pictures.
11. I have really tiny wrists.
12. I can identify some close friends by smell.
13. I'm far too nice.
14. I hate when people confuse "your" and "you're".
15. I think dorkiness is attractive.
16. I've never had a fake screen name.
17. I wish I had a pug.
18. I miss someone.
19. I have pretty good eating habits.
20. I have a hard time making up my mind sometimes.
21. I wish my hair naturally curled.
22. I can't live without lipgloss.
23. Simple things make me smile.
24. I like classical music.
25. Striped pants are hot.
26. I think Schylar is a really cool name.
27. I usually don't get sarcasm.
28. I wish I could look in a mirror and constantly be satisfied with myself.
29. I shift between being sleepy and awake when I'm really tired.
30. I hardly ever vacuum.
31. I hate racism.
32. I want someone to hold me.
33. I like watermelon flavored things.
34. I'm a snob about grammar.
35. I am a terrible liar.
36. Axe deodorant smells.
37. I wish I knew how to speak in Italian.
38. This "100 things about myself" list is harder than it looks.
39. I am learning to be happy wherever I am.
40. I have no idea what my school musical is about.
41. I appreciate honesty.
42. I need a manicure.
43. I love Dr. Pepper.
44. I twirl my hair.
45. I wish my hair were straight.
46. I don't own a cell phone.
47. I’m very predictable.
48. I'm not old enough to vote.
49. I live in the past far too much.
50. I need to remember to be a teenager sometimes.
51. I want to see most of the world.
52. I don’t know what I want to be “when I grow up”.
53. I have a faith.
54. I believe in love.
55. I rarely cry.
56. Today is Wednesday.
57. I've read more than 100 books.
58. I hate hearing songs that sacrifice meaning for the sake of being able to rhyme.
59. I like feet.
60. I like getting compliments.
61. I want the world to see me.
62. I think it's funny when girls wear so much makeup that their faces become incandescent.
63. I hate seeing kids that think they're different because they like Slipknot and shop at Hot Topic.
64. I have a fear of wearing too much perfume.
65. I love wearing skirts.
66. I am tactful most of the time.
67. I had to look "tactful" up.
68. I'm afraid of spiders.
69. I get too attached to some people.
70. I'm usually on time.
71. I forgive but I don't forget.
72. I think way too darn much for my own good.
73. Sometimes I just want to be alone.
74. I’m a dreamer.
75. I usually think objectively and practically; not a spur-of-the-moment person.
76. I talk to a lot of people I don't like because I hate being rude.
77. I sing in the shower.
78. Laughing turns me on.
79. I don’t believe in myself.
80. I love the sound of rain.
81. I never have enough energy to do what I'm doing.
82. I want to change the world.
83. I’m a Daddy’s girl.
84. There is no nail polish on my nails.
85. I am unafraid to change.
86. Comfort over style.
87. Goodbyes make me sad.
88. I’m happy with the way I’ve lived my life.
89. I love cuddling.
90. I run when I'm bored.
91. I wish I were more attractive to others.
92. I worry too much sometimes about what people think.
93. No one knows my story.
94. I like long car rides with certain people.
95. I’m not good with expressing my feelings.
96. I wonder a lot who I'm going to end up marrying.
97. I listen to the things no one else cares about.
98. I can't draw from imagination.
99. I love writing.
100. I think I’m beautiful.

--

The rain falls down

Cool, blessed relief

As I race against the heat of my memories

The lightning smashes

Thunder roars

The battle within me groans in time with nature's fury

Blasting wind against my face

Hair whipping against my forehead

Swiping my tears away

With the rage of the night

With the icy fingers of the storm.

I am running from myself,

From the binds that tie me down

To keep me from destroying me.

- Joanna Joseph

--

No matter what you tell me, I'm enough of a woman to stay strong to who I am.

You can't tear me down.

I won't bend and mold to your will, to the ideal image of who you want me to be.

I'm not that kind of girl.

I'm not that kind of woman.

--

National Skip Day? >.<

2005-03-10T14:14:00.000-08:00

Mood:Sane... ;)

I push and pull at the red-stained bonds that

Bind me and hold me in place,

Fingers grabbing and clawing at what I once had,

What I let slip through my hands

And out of my heart

Bleeding myself onto the stained floor

And leaving me

Limp.

Gasping for air.

My fingers tangled in my own crimson blood,

Trying to dig you out from underneath my skin.

Release me.

-Joanna Joseph

Yes, I know it doesn't rhyme.

It doesn't flow together beautiful, and paint a stunning watercolor picture of the pretty, perfect sunset of my life.

This isn't a poem.

It's not polished and smooth. It's rough, cracked, torn around the edges, hard and unfathomable, deep and cutting. Hurting words.

These are... my thoughts, my feelings, my inner rants and rages, my screams building up inside of the cage of my soul... threatening to explode within me if I let my heart, instead of my head, take control of the pen tightly gripped between my fingers.

This is my soul's song.

It's not beautiful and perfect and pretty.

And no, it doesn't rhyme.

Life rarely does.

Hockey players.

They make me laugh.

Guess what I spent all French class doing? *rolls eyes*

So of course, I was wedged between Bozo # 1 (Cameron) and Bozo # 2 (Jack-o) during our review session [Mlle Brady's explanation? Something about stimulating their learning enviorments. //blank stare//] We had a heartwarming discussion about curly armpit hair, invitro fertilization, and the fact that my sweater was probably made by millions of starving children in Ethiopia, albeit child labour is sorely condemned and looked down upon among the upright civilians of Markham.

Or something along those lines.

Haha, they're so odd. They remind me of... a pair of baby hippopotamuses. Cute and innocent-looking at a distance, but sort of frightening and odd-looking... you sure wouldn't want to live with one.

And we've gone over most of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" in English class, and as a culminating task, we're supposed to put together the major scenes in the play as a dramatization. Guess who was cast as Hermia? You betcha. The character description? (Dark-haired, beautiful. Spunky and likeable, with a strong will. Small in stature.)

Small in stature, my beehind.

I'll grow.

*looks wistfully to the sky*

Pleeeeeeeeeeeease?

"But what fools these mortals be."

-William Shakespeare. Dude, he was smart. Even though he wasn't *completely* straight. Heh. //shifty eyes//

It was a beautiful letdown

When I crashed and burned

When I found myself alone,

unknown and hurt

It was a beautiful letdown

The day I knew

That all the riches this world had to offer me

Would never do

In a world full of bitter pain and bitter doubt

I was trying so hard to fit in, fit in

Until I found out

That I don't belong here (I don't belong)

I don't belong here (I don't belong)

I will carry a cross and a song

Where I don't belong,

I don't belong

- Excerpt from "The Beautiful Letdown": Switchfoot

Ex-best friend...

2005-03-09T13:08:00.000-08:00

Mood:Smiling...

I walked by. Didn't turn my head, brush the hair from my eyes, offer a smile.

I never thought she was beautiful, though the male half of the school would beg to differ. But then again, my definition of beauty doesn't necessarily coincide with the rest of the world's.

My ex-best friend.

On hip thrust back, the other shoved out, delicately tracing the tiles with the tips of her Nike sneakers. Chest pushed out to expose tan stomach. Silver hoops swung from her ears, brushing against her cheek and clinging together at each rapid turn of the head. Her dyed hair was smoothed out into a high ponytail, thick bangs sweeping against her makeup-caked forehead and wisping against her mascara-coated lashes. Her perfectly straight teeth caught her glossy, lower lip into a fake pout as she surveyed the throbbing mass. Blinking her Maybelline lashes, waiting prettily for a wave hello or a welcoming hug. Her highly polished fingernails grip at the waistband of her jeans, pushing them down subtly, fingering the silk of her belt. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows falter for a moment, then crush together in an impatient frown. Waiting for a smile. Waiting for acknowledgement. Waiting for a friend. For something she had yet to find, something that she had yet to understand, yet to truly appreciate.

A darkly tinged tear threads a river down a pale cheek, mascara seeping along her eyelids like blackened blood. She's bleeding inside and she doesn't even feel it. Doesn't even know that she's being pushed further and further into a blazing ditch that she's dug for herself. Doesn't know she's on the edge, about to fall in.

My ex-best friend. I've never thought of her as beautiful.

I walked by. Didn't turn my head, brush the hair from my eyes, offer a smile.

We don't always know what lies behind certain doorways. Even the unsure darkness can carry a hidden blessing. And discovery in itself can be a beautiful thing... sometimes.

I'm smiling and I don't know why.

Maybe that's what a girl does when she's trying not to cry.

Maybe that's what a girl does when she's trying not to die... to let her soul wilt and dry and fall against the soil... soil that can never grow love again.

Maybe I'm being too dramatic, too over-the-top, too weak and frightened.

Or maybe, I'm just being me.

Tomorrow

2005-03-07T17:47:00.000-08:00

Mood:Contemplative

Another flame burnt out yesterday,

The fire lost its spark and died.

I sit back and wonder how this happened,

Thinking possibly that God had lied.

Could it be that my flame is growing,

Smaller and smaller each day?

I begin to worry with anticipation,

Deep inside my conscience this thought lays.

How could it be that in just one day,

Another flame would die?

Helplessly it withers away,

And my soul finally begins to cry.

Day by day my fire is beginning to fade,

As my flame starts to flicker.

Life is an adventure to taste -

Life is something to crave.

I'm growing short of breath,

As time slowly runs by.

I have to do all I can,

Or my life I shall regret.

Today is beckoning,

But tomorrow there will always be.

-Joanna Joseph

The tears dissolve the last block of ice in my throat. I feel the frozen stillness melt down through the inside of me, dripping shards of ice that vanish in a puddle of sunlight on the stained floor.

Words float up, ease through the burning in my throat.

And I trust myself to speak.

"Let me tell you my story."

Eyes, aged and ancient, weathered and pierced through the fire of time, stare out of a child's face.

"Maybe God has a bigger plan for me than I had for myself. Like this journey never ends."

- Jamie, "A Walk to Remember"

I love this movie. It moves me to tears.

Last Train Home

2005-03-05T10:02:00.000-08:00

Mood:Normal

"If you want something you've never had, you've got to do something you've never done."

What do my eyes say to you?

I can't see them, are they blurry? Bright? Lost? Excited?

If you came and sat behind them the way I do, would you just watch or would you listen?

Does the world look tainted? Tinted? Black and white? A series of photos sliding back and forth; a slide show of the surface value. Stop on that picture, fastforward through those. Would you please rewind, I've forgotten what you look like.

I’ve forgotten that you used to matter.

I miss writing. I miss this journal, I feel like I abandon myself sometimes by not reading. It's as if I choose not to express myself, I choose to keep it inside and pretend like I don't need an outlet. I do. I need an outlet more than most of the things in life I do possess. Writing to me is beauty, it logs my thoughts, my waves of emotion, my growth. I need this journal to show me that despite how I feel, I'm not standing still.

Sometimes I want to get lost in a fantasy, where heaven and hell meet. Where good prevails and evil screams for mercy.

If you'll hold me, I'll hold you. If you'll give me hope, I'll won't leave you. If you don't hold back, I'll let loose.

My eyes clamp closed to dam the impending waterfall pooling beneath my eyelids.

You promised me.

No one will ever see the scars you make, I’ve tucked them deep inside my soul.

Thankfully, no one ever ventures that far, explores that deep.

Touches the gaping wounds and asks me probing questions that I cannot find the strength to answer.

I sense a presence before me, and quickly blink back hot tears, moist lips curving into a picture perfect Mona Lisa smile that doesn’t quite reach the cavern of my eyes.

The rumble of a train approaches, telltale white lights slicing through the murky darkness of the murmuring subway. A brisk wind envelops the quiet subway, causing an involuntary shiver to creep up my spine. I adjust the lapels of my worn jacket, grasping momentary warmth with slippery fingers.

The train lurches to a halting stop, and the silver-plated doors open with a polished swish.

The portal of my escape, of my journey into the unknown, the refuge from my yesterdays.

“Where’re you off too, ma’am?” The eager, acne-scarred face of a teenaged boy peers out at me, eyes fresh and dewy, searching for a world that he has yet to explore.

“Anywhere. Take me anywhere but here.”

There I am,
A leap, shout and shadow away
But still unseen.

Look past the masquerade I play so well.

Open your eyes, see me.

I love the time and in between
the calm inside me
in the space where I can breathe
I believe there is a
distance I have wandered
to touch upon the years of
reaching out and reaching in
holding out holding in

Oh the quiet child awaits the day when she can break free
the mold that clings like desperation
Can't you see I've got
to live my life the way I feel is right for me
might not be right for you but it's right for me...
I believe...

I believe
this is heaven to no one else but me
and I'll defend it as long as
I can be left here to linger in silence
if I choose to
would you try to understand it

I would like to linger here in silence
if I choose to
would you understand it
would you try to understand...

- Excerpt from "Elsewhere": Sarah McLachlan

Try to understand.

And she finally says what she needed to say...

2005-03-04T18:09:00.000-08:00

Mood:Reflective

No image today. A picture speaks a thousand words... and maybe I don't want to have to speak today. I feel like being quiet, and holding onto anyone who'll listen to my silent cries.

She lies in a crumpled mess on her unmade bed, tangled in a web of sheets and pillows. Tears leak out from the corner of her eyes as she clutches a worn teddy bear to her blossoming chest. Her cracked and parched lips move to form words only she can understand as she rocks her limp body, warming her icy skin with her own embrace. Her dark lashes flutter closed as she concentrates on someone just beyond her grasp, someone who only appears in the fragmented corridor between sleep and consciousness. Where all her fears rise up from the shadows, taunt her and torment her, berating her battered soul, only to vanish like mist by morning. Her small hands form leaden fists as she tries to forget. An onslaught of sobs wrack her frail form as she falls into the pool of memory that she always finds herself drowning in, suffocating on the liquid of her past.

She wishes that song on the radio would stop.

--

"To be nobody-but-yourself — in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else — means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting."

Keep fighting, angel. I know you’ll overcome.

--

Even the best fall down sometimes

Even the stars refuse to shine

Out of the back you fall in time

I somehow find

You and I collide

Even the best fall down sometimes

Even the wrong words seem to rhyme

Out of the doubt that fills your mind

You finally find

You and I collide

-Excerpt from "Collide": Howie Day

Random thought for the day: Dutch exchange students are fascinating. Heh. They're so... white. :D

For once, Sinead [aka coolio cantaloupe], I know *exactly* how you feel.

Sometimes, when it's all quiet and everything's perfect and still, I just wanna scream it out. Take off my mask and bare my soul. To stand up and cause a little disruption in a picture perfect world.

Does that make me wild... rebellious?

No.

That makes me... me.

My Ponderings...

2005-03-02T13:54:00.000-08:00

Mood:Calm

Only as high as I reach can I grow. Only as far as I seek I can go. Only as deep as I look can I see. Only as much as I dream can I be. To laugh often and much. To win the respect of intelligent people and the trust and affection of children. Earning the appreciation of honest critics and to endure the betrayal of false friends. To appreciate beauty, to find the best in others. To leave the world a bit better. To know even one life has breathed easier because of you. This is to have truly succeeded.

I am at my best with the wind in my face. When over coming the challenge with pace. The pace that requires more strength. It's easy to sit back, placid and calm but comfort is only a momentary balm. Progress needs movement, energy, drive. No chance for improvement if I do not strive. Whether you think you can or you think you can’t. Nothing's for nothing. Cause and effect. Give me the wind. Let it blow in my face. The more I confront, the more strength I'll embrace.

To be content. Seek elegance rather than luxury. More refinement than fashion, to be worthy first then respectable. Wealthy, not rich. To study hard, think quietly, this is to be my symphony. I live my life in widening rings that spread over the earth and sky. I may not ever complete the last one, but that is my dream. I'll circle around God`s primordial tower, and I`ll circle ten thousand years long.

After an eternity of seeking leaves me filled with a strange paradox of ecstasy and grief. I was born with eyes. How strange that a part of me grieves for blindness? For what is it to be blind, but to find safety in the darkness and to become the spouse of habit whose name is ignorance. We chase the honeycomb but find it taste bittersweet. Facing my greatness seems to be harder than facing our smallness. So accustomed have we become to the tight fit of our clothes that nakedness frightens us and takes getting used to. So I will adjust to the feel of my skin naked against the elements & free of confines.

To the crazy ones. The loners. The rebels. The trouble-makers. The round head’s in the square holes. The few who see things differently. They're not fond of rules, and they have no respect for status-quo's. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify, or belittle them. But the only thing you can't do..... is ignore them. Because we change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do.

I would rather be ashes than dust.... I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than have it be stifled by dry rot. I would rather be a destructive meteor with every atom of me in a magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet in the system. The proper function of a man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time. I will make each day equivalent of three lifetimes. I'm not gonna break down// I'm gonna break out // And sometimes I get a little out of control...

The longer I live, the more I realize the impact, of just attitude is on life. Attitude is more important than facts, than the past, than education, money, circumstances, than success. It is more important than appearance, gift, or skill. It will hold the power to break a company, a church, and a home. Now, we have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace. We can not however change how people will act, but I am convinced that life is only 10 percent what happens to me & 90 percent how I react to it. A time ago I was plagued with fears. Though none of those was a fear of being inadequate. It was a fear that I can be more powerful beyond anything. I learned the oddity to some people it is the light - not our darkness that frightens us. There are a rare few, who ask who am I to be so talented, or gorgeous, or brilliant? But playing small does not serve this world. Will no longer be hesitation in actions, so that people won't feel insecure around you. I've at times, held back from shining, but I realized as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously send and give others permission to do the same. So I liberated myself from all fears.

I've been thinking a lot lately. Which is odd, because the past few days have been some of the busiest I've ever had.

Odd. That's an interesting word. **ponders**

"J'adore votre utérus! Beacoup! Beacoup!"

Jack trying to translate french. Heh heh. He's so strange; he makes me laugh.

On the other hand, some of us just never seem to quite grow out of childhood *smirks*

I wanna get carried away

I wanna get tossed by your waves

I don't care where or how deep

I'm gonna jump in with both feet

I wanna get carried away

I wanna get lost in your ways

I wanna be held by your truth

I wanna behold all of you

I'm gonna be all yours today

I wanna get carried away

- Excerpt from "Carried Away": Sonicflood

OVF

2005-02-25T16:30:00.000-08:00

Mood:Happy, but sick... :(

I'm more than you just see,

Through your tinted vision.

All you see is fabrication,

An object of social domination.

And maybe I do play the part,

But a part it just is.

A mask I put on to keep myself safe.

If I hide, I won't get hurt,

I won't fall down again.

So don't judge me by appearance,

I'm more than meets the eye.

Who I really am,

I get to decide.

-Joanna Joseph

--

A multitude of voices are raised, lifted up to the cathedral-ceiling, eyebrows furrowed together and eyelashes sweeping closed as the audience shivers in reverie of the beauty of the song. As one, the choir moves, breathes, lives. Not single voices, but a sweet blend of harmonies and melodies, embracing the sound that surrounds them. A single tear threads down the judge’s cheek, as he watches young children touching their hands to their hearts and singing their souls out. He gently places his notes down, and leans back against his overstuffed chair. This was more than just a performance. This was what the song was meant to be written for.

--

Man, I hearted OVF muchos. I loved every single choir that sang, they each did something special to the music to make it distinctly their own. And I think we also grew closer together as an ensemble, standing up in front of strangers and singing our hearts out. We really had to learn to depend on one another and learn to trust. To hold hands with an invisible grasp and let the music flow from us into the audience.

--

www.mdhsmusic.com ---> my passion, my love. :)

--

I’ve chosen what I’m gonna take next year! **bounce** Communications Technology, Vocal Music, and Grade 11 Anthropology, Sociology, and Psychology.

--

Heart and Stroke canvassing on Wednesday was great… it was amazing to spread awareness around Markham about the disease and collect donations to help the cause. It was also nice to bond with the people that I canvassed with. Although it was freezing, and by the end of the night I couldn’t feel my fingers, I’m glad I signed up. Even though I didn’t do much more than knocking on people’s doors and asking for money, I have that warm, fuzzy feeling around the heart, the feeling you get when you know you made a difference.

--

It’s amazing… the lengths some girls go to find love, to be swept away by their perfect knight in shining armor.

I just hope they realize that fake beauty is only skin-deep, and that what’s on the inside is true beauty. It sounds cliché, but it’s so terribly true.

I wonder if they ever wipe away their makeup, crawl into their pajamas, stare into the mirror and cry about what went wrong, what made them so ugly inside.

Create your own little world where you're the only person that matters, but leave me out of it. Because I have to live in this one.

--

My Refuge

2005-02-20T15:12:00.000-08:00

Mood:Bleh

My heart is sometimes like this bench; filled with people I care about.

But some would get up and walk away, and never return to fill that empty space again… that special space that belonged to them.

But once that space has been taken by someone else, they can never, ever get it back.

Splintered, washed-out, and empty.

Yes, my heart is sometimes like this bench.

Worn, torn, and wet from the rain, the pain.

--

Happy 13th Sarah! [aka the girl who is approximately a foot taller than me, 2 years younger than me, and still has 3 years to grow. nope, not envious of her in the slightest.]

--

You feel like you have to wipe your tears away, to swallow back the bitter pain and smile. To push your hair back from your bruised face and struggle against the hefty burden crushed against your back, a burden that you can never escape from, can never let go of. You clench your jaw and stare with worn defiance at the enemy that glares back at you in the mirror, the one you love as much as you loathe. The one you wish would just disappear into nothingness. The one you wished would never be.

Until you realize that if you simply set your burden down on the ground, and cast them before His feet… until you realize there’s Someone there to cradle that burden for you, to throw it into the deepest sea… only then can you realize that you can finally stand tall, let the tears fall, and smile like you mean it.

Only then will you truly understand, and just let it be.

--

I take my refuge in the palm of Your hand

I take my comfort in Your perfect plan

I take my sorrow and lay it down at Your feet

I take my refuge where I can be free

In You, Oh Lord

In You, my God

When there's no where to turn

And there's nothing that's true

I find my peace here in You

There's no where elseThat I'd rather be

Than where there's more You, Lord

And where there's less me

- Excerpt from “My Refuge”: Sonicflood
--

Me and the Music

2005-02-18T14:37:00.000-08:00

Mood:Kinda tired... :/

As the last shimmer of moonlight sinks past my dreams
I lay awake in the hush of morning
Eyelashes closed, draped across my cheeks like heavy fabric
Murmured words beat against the cage of my battered soul
Words of memory, heartache, and pain
The whisper of your name
Against cracked, parched lips
The blush of my cheeks souring into white
As I remember
Words sweep out from under me
Crow’s black wings
Carrying me home
A single, hot tear rolls down the roundness of my cheek
A single tear.
You deserve no more.
The dawn sings her haunting song
And the first hues of daybreak appear.

-Joanna Joseph
--

Some days, you have to let loose… just to convince yourself that you’re still alive.

Let me fall over the edge… over the brink of what I thought I knew…

--

Volunteering @ OBA was an amazing experience that I’ll never forget.

I had the chance to listen to so many different bands perform such beautiful music together. Each ensemble had something indescribably unique about them, and the way they lifted the notes from the sheets in front of them and transformed it into heart-tugging music was truly something memorable. A huge, high-walled chamber filled with swirling notes and chiming melodies, eyes closed as they breathed life into their instruments, swaying together into a wonderful, beautiful *something*.

As I was listening to them, to the thrum of the brasses, to the sweetness of the flutes, to the clang of the cymbals, to the dull roll of the drums, I was completely enthralled. Completely lost in it. I just closed my eyes, and felt the music wrap around me like some sort of familiar embrace, felt it ease at my heart, felt it grasp at me with warm, honeyed fingers. Each song that was chosen had something beautiful, something to be remembered.

Music is a language that anyone; everyone can understand. Everyone can feel.

I want to go back there again…

Just four walls, me, and the music.

--

Man, this week has been brutal. But I've got so much to do... *yawns*

I will not fall asleep.

I will not fall as

High school

2005-02-16T13:57:00.000-08:00

Mood:Meh.

Haha, Ottawa Trip. **oooh the memories**

Adjusting the straps of my brand-new backpack on my shoulders, my eyes anxiously scanned the long, brick-walled building that was unfolding into view. A sea of overly eager students crowded the sidewalks, faces shining with enthusiasm and a touch of apprehension. Laughter floated in through the bus window, and I could hear fragments of excited conversation as we wheeled into the freshly paved parking area. So this is high school, I mused to myself, hopping down the steps of the bus and losing myself in the throng of hope-filled students as they made their way to the front entrance.

To say the very least, my first day of high school was a day that will be forever etched in my memory. As the balmy days of summer slowly disappeared, a delicious feeling of nervous excitement seemed to flood my entire body. But I think the full impact of high school never dawned on me until the very first day itself. From the time I dragged myself out of bleary-eyed sleep to the time I nervously boarded the school bus, there was only one thought racing through my mind: I’m going to high school. Images of my parents holding my tiny, trembling hands on the first day of kindergarten flashed through my mind, and I smiled thoughtfully. I was a “big girl” now, tough enough to face my own problems, independent enough to make my own dreams, and strong enough to make them happen. High school is an open doorway for me, a doorway to my hopes, my aspirations, and my future. It’s where I’m allowed to discover who I am, make an imprint in people’s lives, and spread my budding wings and soar.

When I envision myself ten years from now, all I can see is a perfect blank page. Nothing’s been written yet… but when my future slowly unravels itself on that page, I know that the picture I’ll see is something utterly beautiful. Thoughts, questions, and emotions are swirling through my head, and I know I won’t have all the answers at just 14 years of age. But High School is helping my paint that picture, and slowly but surely, I’ll understand who I am. To tell you the truth, the thought that I’m laying out the blueprint of my future in the next 4 years does terrify me. But beneath that fear, I’m deeply excited, as well as curious, to discover who I will become, and what I will accomplish. And even though High School is a small step in that process, it is a very important and memorable one. I’m encouraged to make my own decisions, voice my own opinions, learn from my mistakes and move forward. I can create a new path for myself and take pride in knowing that that road is my own. I can hold to who I am and who I’m going to be, and take bold, confident steps into the future.

I’m no longer that nervous, pig-tailed girl in kindergarten. I’m a focused young woman who has high hopes and dreams, and has the power to make them a reality. A small smile graced my lips as I stepped past the threshold of Markham District High School and into the doorway of my future.

--

This was something I found on my computer, that I wrote last September for English. It’s incredible; the difference that 6 months make.

So here are some of the things I’ve learned from my half-year @ Markham District H.S.:

· The second-floor bathrooms smell like rotting socks. And those hardened white blobs on the ceiling? Don’t think it’s tissue paper… =x
· Never *ever* judge people or groups of people by first impressions. It might sound terribly cliché, but it’s very true. If you judge the book without reading it, then you’re missing out on some pretty special people.
· Take chances. That’s what high school’s all about. Don’t worry about messing up, doing it wrong, or humiliating yourself. If you don’t take risks, you’ll regret it later on.
· Clubs! Clubs! Clubs! Join as many as you possibly can. It’s a fun and practical way to meet huge amounts of people with the same interests as you, as well as a way for you to do what you love.
· Work hard, play hard! High school is supposed to be the best four years of your life, and it probably will be, with all the great people and opportunities… but just remember: school is also a place for you to learn. Don’t expect to put your academics on the backburner… or you really will go up in flames.
· Have as many acquaintances as you’d like, but choose your friends wisely. It’s so amazingly easy to be caught up in the wrong crowd, and to be pressured into doing something you don’t want to do. If things start to get out of hand, leave. They weren’t worth it; you deserve much better.
· Be respectful of teachers: their jobs are a lot harder than you think.
· The first day really isn’t as horrible as they say. Just put on that charming smile of yours, be sure to be prepared with your supplies ahead of time, and embrace the fact that you’ll end up humiliating yourself sometime throughout the day. Haha, flashback: [fades in] “Hey, Mr. Teacher-Man… do you know where the gym is?” [fade out] And it was actually a lady… and she was standing in front of the gym. Oops.
· Be yourself. Don’t try and change yourself… if you try so hard to be someone else, who’s there trying to be you? Stays true… don’t act, but BE.
· But seriously. *Don’t* use the second-floor bathrooms.

---

Could it be that my flame is growing,

Smaller and smaller each day?

I begin to worry with anticipation,

Deep inside my conscience this thought lays.

How could it be that in just one day,

Another flame would die?

Helplessly it withers away,

And my soul finally begins to cry.

Day by day my fire is beginning to fade,

As my flame starts to flicker.

Life is an adventure to taste -

Life is something to crave.

I'm growing short of breath,

As time slowly runs by.

I have to do all I can,

Or my life I shall regret.

-Joanna Joseph
--

Starry-Eyed Dreams

2005-02-15T16:24:00.000-08:00

Mood:Stressed-out

A small girl sits cross-legged on the edge of a river bank, framed by the dangling vines and soaring oaks surrounding her frail form. Her hair is pulled back from her dainty face in two perfect braids, and wisps of light brown hair fall against her smooth forehead. Snow-white fingers sift handfuls of fresh-smelling dirt and gravel, as her childish body leans back against the cool smoothness of a rock. Eyes the colour of a rain-washed sky stare unfocused as her bow-shaped mouth moves in quiet rhythm to the water’s churning and bubbling. A lone bird swoops onto a gnarled tree branch, bent and shuddering against the sudden burden. Sun-dried leaves spiral slowly to the dew-softened ground, landing on her head and lap; covering her with nature’s warm embrace. A single tear drops down her cheek, and she smiles… the most beautiful smile in the world. The smile of a girl who sees a world beyond the one she’s trapped in, who can close her eyes and see the beauty and simplicity of a world far greater, far more perfect. Perhaps only she, a blind girl, can truly see.

Perhaps only she is truly living.

Some days we need to open our eyes and see the reality of the pain around us. And sometimes we need to close them, to be blind to the obstacles, and smile and what could be: what can be.

And some days, we just need to sit by the riverbank and listen to the water.

--

Thoughts disappearing like tears on the moon
My arms outstretched towards the gaping heavens
The stars shimmer in quiet reverie
Spinning around me, constricting close
And then weaving apart
Fireflies swarming around my swaying soul
As my heart thrums in the rhythm
My bare, ashen feet move to the dance
The steady beat as old as time
A cool wind whistles through the clear night
And I stop, tears threading down my face
Frozen in their place
And wait for the thundering applause.

-Joanna Joseph

--

All the Grades received the course selection outlines today, and it’s sort of overwhelming… so many opportunities and choices to pick from. Your future imbedded in a small yellow rectangle. I'm excited, but definitely intimidated. The knowledge that nobody is peering over my shoulder, jabbing their fingers and commanding me what to do with my life. The knowledge that I can finally make decisions for myself, decisions that shape who I'll be for the rest of my life.

But a lil scary.

Knowing that if your life comes crumbling down around you, it's solely and wholly your fault and your fault alone.

… So many major decisions to make, and some of those decisions have already been made, without your knowledge. “If you didn’t take that prerequisite course in Grade 9, well then, oops! You can’t get into that really great class”... and “Remember to keep your wanted profession in mind when you choose those electives!”

I have absolutely *no* idea for what career I want to get into, and it scares me, because everyone else seems to have their whole life planned ahead of them, perfectly blueprinted out. I’ve got my family’s expectations, and I’ve also got my own to live up to. Regardless, I’m going to do the best I can possibly do, and then at least I’ll have no regrets when it comes to choosing career pathways. All I know is: whatever I do, I want it to be something that makes me want to get up in the morning, something that changes people’s lives and refreshes my own. Not some boring old 9-5 paperwork job, but something that’s spontaneous and wild and something I’ll never grow bored of.

If only I can figure out what that “something” is.

Sometimes living life by the moment has it’s drawbacks.

Whatever. This is me. Take it or leave it, ‘cuz sunshine, you better believe it.

--

Defying Gravity

2005-02-14T20:23:00.000-08:00

Mood:Relaxed

All your vision suspended in me today

But I can not have shown you more than I understood.

It is like film draining and glowing beneath light or

Feeling at the edges of a dream and sensing it slip through.

Channelling myself through you I cringe at reflections.

And I breathe in and out recycling myself in time.

Constraining my response my skin starts to peel

Because I have grown a dependency on your affection.

I wear independence as the invisible arms that cradle the soaring back of an eagle–

They hurl me into the sky, testing how far I can fly

All because you showed me who I was.

Defy gravity;

Take flight.

-Joanna Joseph
--

Do you ever wish you could press the playback button on your life?

Do you ever wish it was a black and white silent film from forty, fifty years ago? One of those movies that don't quite stream together right. It jumps ahead, it jumps back and little black dots flicker on the screen, but no one really bothers to notice. And then for some of the time there isn't any motion, just awkward photos taken at moments you least expected to be held accountable to years later. Do you ever wish your life started with one of those classic count downs? 3.. 2.. 1... tick. And there you are. No need for the sound of speech because this way you can put a record on and play a soundtrack for your life.

Two dollar popcorn out of one of those red and white striped paper bags you only see in the movies. The film strip plays and there's young couples in the back seats clasping sweaty hands, trying to pretend its not awkward and uncomfortable with the plastic armrest in between them playing the third, uninvited guest.

Red satin curtains border the film and they actually draw closed at intermission, pulled by a man with a bell boy hat on.

You're famous, you're beautiful, and the film gets rave reviews in the 10-cent chronicle.

At the end of the day, every girl wants to be in some boy’s spotlight.

Until the curtains swish close, the adoring audience leaves, the costume is hung, the pain and fame fades away, and all that’s left in the dressing room is you, and your reflection.

There are things in life that we don’t want to know,

but have to learn;

Things you don’t want to hear,

but have to accept;

and things we can’t live without,

but have to let go.
--

You set the stars to shine
In the night sky
I know that I’m the
Twinkle in your eye
You let the laughter
Run
Like water
I’ll be the one
The one to make you smile
Make you smile

-Excerpt from “Smile” – Laura Woodley [Tehillah T.O.]

Happy February 14th home-salads! **jumps out of her chair and hugs everyone**

Chocolate hearts, a dog-eared book, and a bottle of raspberry-scented bubble bath. I’m set for my special Valentine’s night in.

Some days it’s good to pamper yourself for a change.

“…Cuz it’s a party for two… just me and you… tonight…”

Never mind the fact that the book I’ll be reading is my well-worn Geography textbook *sheepish grin*.
--

Where is the Love?

2005-02-13T12:39:00.000-08:00

Mood:Reflective

Early this morning, with my chin cradled between my fingertips, with my Bible opened on my knees and the stunning sunrise spread out before me, I thought about love.

My mind whirled to my innocently naïve daydreams of a knight in shining armor and a castle underneath the sun. I remember sitting underneath a tree and thinking about my future husband, my future partner for life, my very best friend. I wondered how he was feeling right at that moment.

Was he sleeping? Was he wide awake? How was he feeling: angry, depressed, cheerful, or reflective? What were his hobbies? Does he like reading, hiking, soccer, or singing? Does he play any instruments? What are his friends like?

Or perhaps… is he thinking of me at this very second? Does he want to protect me and love me with his whole heart? Will he be open with me, or will he hide his past? Will he freely give his love to any girl, or will he cherish the thought of me and save himself and his heart until that special moment? Will he love me for who I am, or for who he wants me to be?

I don’t know. Sometimes I think children know better than most of us.

--

What does it mean to truly trust? To put your whole heart and soul into the palm of someone’s flawed and imperfect hand?

Sad fact is, human beings are not worthy of trust.

It is human nature to deceive, to stumble, to lose your patience, to stab back, to make mistakes and fall.

No person would and ever should put their trust in merely a human being.

That’s why it’s God’s will to force the humanity out of you and make you into something better.

So we can learn to trust ourselves again.

--

Happy 12th to Roshin, my punkalicious princess.

Who is utterly adorable and whom I heart dearly.

--

Did you know Shakespeare was *not* straight? Tee hee… I didn’t. Oh, the things you learn.
Yesterday I had a nap. It made me feel better… and not as grossly sick-ish.

I coloured a pig for math homework. I couldn’t find any pink pencil crayons, so I ended up colouring it bright purple. Meh. (How I love Mrs. Brosseau… she’s so… old…. ;))

Tomorrow I’ll be in the Music Room @ lunch helping with the Valentine’s carnival, and after school I’ll be in a rehearsal for Sisters of Song (all girls choir). We’re supposed to be all dressied up with our black dresses and dark nylons and open-toed high heels and shiny hair and such… I get to look pretty!!! *whee!* And on Thursday and Saturday I’ll be volunteering at the OBA festival as staff… I’ll be doing the emceeing and clinicians’ greeting, as well as talking with the conductor and keeping the crowd settled. And *then* I’ll be canvassing for the Heart and Stroke Campaign… Wahooness!

I spent my afternoon explaining to Mr. Caswell how I *wouldn’t* come to the MC Carnival tomorrow wearing a fake beard and clown costume… even *if* it was for the “sake of music council’s spirit”. He ended off the conversation with: “Well… since you’re kinda small you could come as a midget.” How I love that man.

Oh, and I’m gonna tie you to a spork and burn you if you’re a music student and you’re not there tomorrow @ lunch. Just in case, y’know, you weren’t planning to come. ‘Cuz I know where you live, and I can hunt you down with my plastic scissors. Haha, I kill myself with laughter. (and the rest of this update is written from the grave.)

Tee hee. We’re giving away chocolate.

*skips away humming*

And I just finished painting the sign for the Carnival, and now my fingertips are caked with pink paint. I’m going to wash them now. And then take a shower. And then maybe read a book or listen to music. Or maybe look for that red sweatshirt that seems to have disappeared from my closet.

Still can’t say unique?

--
People killin', people dyin'

Children hurt and you hear them cryin

'Can you practice what you preach

And would you turn the other cheek

Father, Father, Father help us

Send some guidance from above'

Cause people got me, got me questionin'

Where is the love

- Excerpt from "Where is the Love?": Black Eyed Peas

My Story...

2005-02-12T06:09:00.000-08:00

Mood:Reflective

Yes, it's me. :)

I lay here, waiting

Waiting for a shimmering star

To rest upon my cheek

I close my eyes, wonder

How earth could dance on its

Tiptoes

Across the star-laden sky

Holding me loosely

About my waist

To a symphony

As old

As time itself

I let my eyes fly open

As I gaze into earth’s

Brilliant, soul-searching eyes

And I realize, with my arms

Strewn around her neck

That to be touched by a star,

I must rise to the heavens

And above.

-Joanna Joseph

Everyone tells me I’m changing, that I’m not the same.

But maybe I was pretending; just playing a game…

And here, before you, unveiled and unmasked, is who I really am.

There’s more than just one side to every story.

Open the pages and read mine.

Trampled

The Aftermath

Frost

Desolate

Beautiful Day

Busride

Candlelight

Sunlight

Invisible

Blue

Aloha, once again...

The Truth

Counting City Lights

Summertime

Who am I?

The End

Ode to Nelly

In You

Coffee House

My First Dance

Disaster of the Soul

Maybe

Spring Eternal

Violin

Last Train Home

Paper Wings

When you lose yourself...

Unbreakable

The Seventh Stair...

I Wish...

My Letter to You...

Reality

Beautiful Warmth

Butterfly Wings

His luscious locks...

Elections!!!

Broken Angel

Whispers of Goodbye

Twilight

The Song Unsung

Nothing more to say.

I'm sorry I can't be perfect...

I'm sorry DON'T NEED TO I can't be perfect.

Nothin' but Mammal

Cabaret and other randoms...

Perfect...

Don't act, be.

Make me smile...

When I fall...

I'm *back.*

National Skip Day? >.<

Ex-best friend...

Tomorrow

Last Train Home

And she finally says what she needed to say...

My Ponderings...

OVF

My Refuge

Me and the Music

High school

Starry-Eyed Dreams

Defying Gravity

Where is the Love?

My Story...

I'm back.