Recipe for Peach Pie

Half a teaspoon of pity for the peaches separated from the others

Another tablespoon of sadness for the wheat stripped of colour

Two dashes of regret for the lemons grown and lived sour

A sprinkle of hope for the yummy taste to de determined within the hour

The five teaspoons of sugar to make the heart all better

And just to be sure…

A few walnuts to harden the sympathy for the soon-to-be eaten

So the feeling of remorse can easily be beaten

One more pinch of cinnamon to spice up the day

And a bit of salt to melt the coldness away.

Half a bite of joy for the boys and girls baking it

And eating it

A bigger bite for the children

Who fight and bicker over it

An hour to make peaches into pie

An hour to devour peaches made into pie

An hour to savour the peaches devoured in the pie.

The Road

White

Dashed

Lines

Lead into the endless possibilities

Of endless adventures

And endless discoveries

Of self and world

The long awaited trip back

Is met with easily solved arguments

Into much needed laughter

To peel away the stress

Layered onto of one another

From the tedious days of fighting for more

But the

White Dashed Lines

Turn into

White Solid Lines

Still signifying my fragile boundaries

Of fragile promises

And fragile rules

For me to follow and you to expect

Scared

Soft murmurs have quietly exploded into the air

Fireworks illuminating the cold winters

Of my worry

And FRIGHT

Gossip seems to travel faster than the speed of light

Never stopping to catch a breathe

Just dimming

Slowly

Painless anxiety chases down my dreams

Hammer and anvil are dropped down

From the heavens

Turning nightmares into reality

Who’s heard what?

When the story becomes a legend

And truth is swept

Over an ocean of whispers

The nails that hold my floating bubble

Catching the sparks from the brightly lit sky

Confuses me

And makes me doubt my reasons

If everyone believes the rumor

Does that version become reality?

And no one needs

To hear me

Summer is For FUN

I swear, being told education is never ending is one of the most unsettling things a student can experience. I'm at the point in life where I want to never hear anything unrelated to the actual process of living life. Knowing all the wonderful scientific facts and reading all the amazing English literature isn't going to improve my life, especially since my brain decides to forget all of the material the second I finish school anyways.

Like today when I couldn't even remember the words I read from the textbook a billion time the previous night.

UGH!

Endless Secret -- Cat's Eye FanFic

The endless space of a color that only appears to be blue. My eyes wonder aimlessly, staring at the details of the airplane. To my right, a hibernating man oblivious to the shouting and screaming of the passengers. The weeping of the women and children deemed the weaker specimen, file into a mob and exit to the front of the plane. They will be spared. After all, my friends are extremists of peace.

I am hurled onto the ground of the business class, warm from the frantic footsteps of the terrified people. Everyone remaining is told to “get down!”

They are not terrorists. They are not hijackers in my head. The familiar looking comrades simply completing a task crucial to the research I was a part of just yesterday. This is what they believe in. If speaking my opinion about the science I uncovered was a crime, then I would be criminal as well: a person without the right of forgiveness. Instead, I am to be a forgotten marble, buried under the bridge of the living. Unaware of my tendency to exist.

My colleagues in search of their own definition of “just” are now looking through my clothes for an electronic, my baggage for a clue, my seating area for an answer. The words that I was to present on to the scientific community are now scattered onto the ground. Those are not the papers they want. The wingless butterflies fall on top of a few nameless, faceless victims. But I am not a victim. I am the target.  The reason. The unwanted broken glass in the bottle of prized marbles.

I feel like an onlooker until an acquaintance picks me up off the ground.

“I’m sorry, Stephen.”

My research and speculations are unwanted. I am a danger. To the lives of the passengers who have the misfortune of sharing their plane with me. So I stand up and run. I won’t get far. It’s simply my distraction. Unlike the secret of the universe, which will spill onto the Earth eventually, the action of defiance belongs to me.  I open the painted door of the airplane that leads to a space without humans; the air without breathe. The coldness bites into my eyes shocked open far too wide. I close my eyes.

The men know they are after me and silencing my work. They know they must mimic the actions of a hijacking. They know the value of life. Better than anyone else.

To those people, I am only a common marble. Just like the marbles I found on the playground discarded by other children because they were cracked. I hid them in the center of the jars of puries and water babies and cat’s eyes. Even broken marbles deserve to belong somewhere.

I hear the ringing of the trigger and cracking of the finger and the silent whisper of goodbye. The aqua particles of water await my blood and bones; the moisture will be my resting place.

I fly.

Dear ____ ,

She really wants to find a way to convince herself that fighting for the attention of that person is useless. He's not just nice to her. He's nice to everybody. It's just another one of those crushes she had.

"I'll follow with my eyes and never confess to you."

"I would anything you wanted asked of me, but never appear willing."

"I can love you more than anyone else you've dated before, because I know your personality inside out and you're the only person I can talk to."

She really wants to hit herself for believing they could ever be together, even for a second. It's not the racial problem. It's not a problem of class. Compatibility isn't the problem either.

The problem is the first move. The words no one is willing to speak.

She really wants to forget herself in a hopeful fantasy where she can "the one" he chases after, "the girl" he would do anything for.

She really wants to be herself around him, but there's a wall she built a long time ago to protect her heart. It's too strong. There are small dust fragments that crumbles in front of him, but his not really capable of understanding her pain and her trauma. He sees the world in black and white. He's against superficial appearances, false words, broken promises, ill-intentioned actions; everything which she has frequently done in her mis-guided journey. And he's simple enough that he'll never ask how her became so closed off. Yet, he's the closest person to her at the moment.

Their perspectives are so different it's like they're not apart of the same world. But the lack of attachment allows her to say anything in front of him, because he wouldn't repeat it. The reason being his kindness and loving nature, or the certain indifference of his friends, she wouldn't know.

She really wants to wake herself up from this unrealistic nightmare. She rarely speaks to him in person, so the only interaction they really have in social media. 

"Maybe I'm just an entertaining way to pass the time."

"Why won't you reply?!?"

"It's okay. I know you're busy. I'll wait for you to come back."

She really wants to move away from the feelings of suffocation. Unrequited love isn't happiness, right?

"I don't write your name down, because you deserve your privacy and I demand my secrecy."

"I don't write your name down, cuz every time I see your name my heart beats a little faster."

Hiding Behind

Soft murmurs have quietly exploded into the air around my body
Fireworks illuminating the bitter frost of the cold winter
When I worry and fear my own complexion
PARALYZED passion

The nails that hold my floating bubbly fantasy
Catch the sparks from the cloudy sky
Doubts my rash decision of avoidance as a falling raindrop
PARALYZED passion

The reckless excuses for painting a void conversation
When I have important people and more important things
Flash through my conscience evicting no guilt
I'm paralyzed with raging passion
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I should talk to him, right?

"PARALYZED passion"

I shouldn't tell him about my feelings though.
He'll hate me.

"PARALYZED passion"

I would do just about anything if I could find the answer to my affection.
Or at least stop the tugging on my heart every time I see him.
He doesn't know I exist.

I'm paralyzed with a blind passion
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Painless anxiety chases down my dreams in the icy mornings
Trying to avoid the certain glance I always make
Since the emotions cannot be accepted and the hints are not acceptable
PARALYZED passion

What I Don't Say

I bet you wish you knew what was going on in my strange little head. The words I want to say but don't have the strength to. There has a time when the tides seem to break me apart for being myself. For being a person. Or as close to it as I can get. It's not that I'm particularly difficult or pained. It's not like I hasn't been through all the ups and downs of the painful side of my life. It's not like that. There are just words I can't bear to say. Please, no more asking.

Feeling Unwanted

I always feel helpless when the world seems to be unjust, but it's not really my way I handle things around my life. I talk about them. I complain about them. Hell, I'd say I upset myself over the matter simply to prove how trivial it was in the first place. But it's not always about me. It's about other people. Life is about other people.What good am I, if I can only comfort myself? What good am I, if I can only save myself? I'll die from loneliness.

Still, the feeling of helplessness invades my mind more than I can remember.

Jazz Club

So I always go to this jazz club and they always give me a hard time on the style of the brass I like. But the way they play it... It's like the music isn't even hitting my world in a way. The world cannot tell me what I want to hear. It's not like the world is still spinning and it's not like I could care. It wasn't anything of use to me and I don't know if I care. But there's this starling noise humming through every single one of my thoughts and I can't understand what it means. The reasons behind the dull pounding haven't gotten me thinking or made a revelation. It's not the way it works for me. Music simply gives me a small escape form the rest of the world and it gives me a reason to look on the brighter side of things. The sound of the brass is what makes the symphony exciting and new. The jazz with a breezy feel and serious message gives me a reason to smile, or cry depending on the circumstances.

But the way they play it that jazz club... It's so FAKE. The tenor sax is playing, but the sound doesn't ring through the room in the same way. The alto sax is playing, but the sound isn't booming the room in the same way. The piano is playing, but the keys aren't producing the same quality of music, as the piano that's tuning in my dreams. The trumpet... The bass... The drums... It's not the same. None of it is. It's not the same music I once gave up my life for. It's not the same music I fell in love with. It's not the same music I listened to in my dreams.

How do I explain this? The jazz club in great for business, with it's new popular music selection and rowdy teenagers.

Heart's Over

He walked down the same alley way he did an hour ago, a month ago, a year ago. He sang here when he was drunk from the numerous successful expertise business meetings, desperate with a broken heart, high on drugs killing his life.

Yet, this time it was different. He stumbled around looking for a couple dollars of change on the ground so he could start saving for his next shot. Kevin needed hallucinogens to forget about the pain of mourning and escape the hopeless society he once called home. But drugs don’t ease the pain for very long, and when he couldn’t handle his broken heart any longer without contemplating suicide, he turned to drugs. Now, the drugs have turned on him and taken him into a dark abyss.

Kevin found himself lying on the ground of the alleyway, finally too tired from lack of sleep and proper nutrition.

As his job, friends, wealth and family one by one abandoned him, the musical melody that was stubborn and strong stayed with him. Giving him the inspiration and heart the write the most incredible songs, he still couldn’t pull his life together to continue his career as a singer - song writer. It was easier to stay in the alleyway, peddling money until he got enough for his next dose, his next prescription of medication for the wounds his dead wife left, anyways.

No one could heal those terrible slashes.

‘Why bother forgetting?’ he thought, ‘It’ll get better after I get. It’s the only way to freeze the images of the blood won’t stop flowing. It’s the only way to escape the reality where his wife killed herself from depression; a reality where he never noticed.’

“My heart won’t stop aching,” he said aloud, breathing heavily, on the verge of tears.

Like any other time when the hurting of his shattered heart became too much to bear and the next available hit of his narcotics seemed too far away to imagine, he sang.

The ocean of flooding hearts

Open up a hole to hide

The scattered parts

Of my love that has been shot from the inside.

The sea of lost emotion

Could not understand

My painful under-estimation

Of the King of Kings and the sovereign holy land.

The love he took away

The hope it stole from me

The nights that blend into day

Make me unable to believe

She’s really flown off to a better place, he finished in his head.

The applause should have startled him, but at that time at night, the roads and alleyways were not the most respectable place a person could be singing, and sudden noises were things he quickly adapted to. His life as a homeless man was an infinite amount of times less stressful than his musical career. But that might be due to his lack of reason to live. Death didn’t shock him. Blood didn’t startle him.

His wife had already abandoned his dimension, and the purpose of life was lost that moment.

The check for a thousand dollars that had been handed to him, however, shocked him to no end.

“Who are you?” Kevin demanded suspiciously, taking the check nevertheless. Only thinking about when the nearest bank would be open and how quickly he could rid of the heart ache, most of what the gentleman was saying was lost to the wind. The question was only a distraction so he could run away if the man offering him help was police.

Deciding to suddenly turn away from the man in front of him that was introducing himself, Kevin felt the other grab his arm. Tensing him muscles and getting ready to fight if needed, he found himself facing the second shock of the night.

“You can start over, you know.”

Kevin shook his head.

Life wasn’t that easy. A person can’t just wipe the footprints he imprinted onto the path, clean; can’t go back in time in prevent events; can’t deal with problems differently.

“A person’s heart can’t erase its memories and start over, you know.”

Marching

March is suppose to have something significant, right?
Like January is New Year.
Like February is Valentine's Day.
Like every month of the year is suppose to mean something, right?

All I can think to look froward in March, is March break. Still, it seems too long, already. For me, it wasn't the biggest deal is elementary school and it's not a big deal now.

Especially this year.
Especially when my mother hates my dad and my dad has finally had enough. There a startling revelation that decided to explode over my head like a hand grenade. The intimidating silence is already haunting my dreams and I haven't even thought about the "separation." My parents are too business for a divorce. It's bad for reputation.

There's really not much to look forward to March break. When the only time I get off, is to think about whose house I want to live in, how much money I can squeeze out of my parents, and how many nights a week I get to spend sulking, cause all friends are with their families, maybe you can get my drift...

It's not the prospect of a vacation that sickens me. It's me.

I know I shouldn't be taking out my anger on a month.

A Few Months Ago

My parents split up three months ago, in the fall, but they said the three of us would still go to this Mexican resort for Christmas because we already had the tickets and all that. By the time Christmas rolled around my mom said no way, she’d changed her mind and my dad said okay, it’ll just be me and him going to Mexico. Then, on the day we were supposed to leave, my dad wasn’t at his place and I couldn’t reach him on his phone and I said to myself thanks guys, you’ve really pulled out all the stops this year, and I went anyway. I mean I went into my dad’s spare room and took his “rainy day” money and my ticket and all the hotel information and I called a cab to take me to the airport.

The road to the airport was an unfamiliar one. As I looked out the window, trying to ignore the guilt quietly slipping onto my conscience, I suddenly felt so tired. I was fed up with all the fighting, the conflicts, and the problems my parents seemed to make up, only because they were frustrated from their own broken dreams
My phone rang at that moment, interrupting my thoughts. The taxi driver turned to stare at me, probably wondering why I wasn’t picking up and whether I was a troubled run away, teen. The tension broke after I turned my phone to vibrate and the airport was in sight. Without looking back at the road that led me here, I walked in. Standing and waiting for the line to diminish at the check-in desk, I desperately tried to suppress that unbearable sense of regret; I had done nothing wrong. I just needed a break away from the disaster area I called home.

When it was finally my turn, I went through the usual procedures of the airline and sat down in the designated waiting area. Waiting again. I didn’t if the empty feeling could cut me any deeper than it did already, but apparently I had no idea what pain felt like. I got a text message.

Where are u, darling? Your father’s in the hospital and the doctors diagnosed him with a stomach ulcer

The tears rolled down my face. But I boarded the plane nevertheless. I was tired. I didn’t have the strength to look back. I didn’t have a justified answer for my actions. How was going to explain to them what it felt like to be in the middle of WWIII and while both of them are armed and ready, I’m fruitlessly trying to negotiate peace? I didn’t have a home to return to anyways. It was easier to just let the uncontrollable feeling of HATRED numb. I was tired and I needed to run away. Knowing my father was sick would just add to the suffocating atmosphere. It was easier to run away.

Plus, it’d be such a waste of money if they weren’t going to use the tickets.

Oh, Internet, How I Am Dependent On You!

Today, my Internet broke. Like 5 times. So I called technical support 5 times. And technical support was like, why the F*** is your Internet still broken....

And I’m like why the F*** are you so useless....

I pay a LOT of money for high speed Internet. A LOT of money....

So I have no way to actually post this online till my access to the World Wide Web is up and running, again. I will wait patiently while this STUPID thing takes another 5 millennium to work again. I am seriously thinking of throwing my modem into the wall and watching it break into pieces, because that spectacular show of flying plastic is more useful than my useless modem right now. Unfortunately, my modem belongs to Bell and I cannot afford such luxurious products during my time of despair.

Yes, I am severely pissed off and I have issues with my life right now. Since the only way I can communicate with the outside world in the comfort of my non-germaphobic-inducing space. Yes, I have issues. And while I am forced to type this on Microsoft Document, instead of www.blogger.com, I will complain. As the sound of the keyboard represents my anger, I will be screaming at more technicians to ensure that my frustration is thoroughly understood.

There are, however, very few things I can do to enjoy myself without my handy little icon to the web, which is why I am actually writing a legitimate blog posting today. I would even put in a picture demonstrating my needs, but, like I said, the Internet has gone on strike and I don’t know what to do.

As I leave my, now, worthless computer to do something important, like math homework, remember my pain, and think of the poor children who cannot afford computers.

Sounds

Why does he sound happy?

He sounds like he's delighted to be here, when I know he's not. When I know he was focused here but the bullies. By the rulers of the hallway, he follows them like a loyal subject. Not for any reason I can think of. And I want to ask him to justify his actions, but I'm afraid I'm reading the situation wrong. I'm afraid that I'm making a mistake, and that he really wants to be here. But I also know I wasn't hallucinating when I observed the scene from yesterday. I know I saw a look of desperation.

As my friends walk towards me, I tear my attention away from boy before me and turn around to laugh at some lame jokes I don't really understand. My head is pre-occupied by what I witnessed yesterday and I'm still hung up about it. I can't shake the thought and I can't hear clearly the words being spoken around me.

Only the words he said are running through my mind at an infinite speed per hour and I see the fear in his eyes. There's no doubt what I heard was right.

"Please. Stop. I can't take it anymore," he sobbed.

But I'm still afraid to speak up. I'm still afraid to do something. It's wrong, it's twisted. It's just... not right.

Luckily, I have a little bit of courage in reserve, somewhere buried deep inside my conscience. Maybe the guilt brought it out or maybe the regret from not doing something at the first moment I watched the event brought on this newly produced bravery. I find myself walking into the office and writing an incident report, not quite sure what to describe. So I stop. I grab the first teacher I see in the office and I talk to do her. I tell her honestly what I heard, what I saw, and even what I felt.

Feeling a little lighter as a walked out of the office, I set out to make a new friend.

Say the Words that Matter

I have to say it like I care. Like the world knows me and I'm important. Say like I can make a difference and influence the thinking of others. I want to say it confidently and I want to say it well. But really, honestly, there are words that should be left unsaid and words that are are best buried under the sand of unforgiving skin. Sometimes the stares are hardest to bear, but I can't seem to speak up and do something about it. Anything. If I said anything, it would be different. I have to say it with the effort I can't find right now. Say it. Say it like I care.

Focus

The problem of being able to focus for a long period of time when I need to always arises as a problem. There's always something else I could do and that something else is always something else I'd rather be doing. There's no help in the nature of procrastination and no saviour for me.

Anxiety

A fallen anxiety
tries to reach the bottom of that pitch black
HOLE!
Only to be bounced back by the waves of
warning signs that convince it to
RESURFACE
So it can be reconsidered for any other emotional branding
other than
Unwanted
Because the feelings influence more than
the brain, that is eternally logical, is
Screaming to throw away the pieces of doubt

But just a trace of anxiety is enough to haunt
My SLEEP
And break into my restless being...

A cute escape

Replay

I trudged onwards knowing there was no exit. Onwards down the metallic hallway without the closest door squeaking even a little in my tired presence. But what was the use? Without a way to escape my hell, the best I could do in this situation was the prolonging of the pain given to my already scarred and blood-deprived body. Even though every step was an effort almost too great for me to withstand, I managed to muster up the will to go on; the thought of seeing my brother kept me going.

As I tried to push open another doors I knew was locked, somewhere in the desperation of my mind, I prayed for a miracle. Any divinity that could get me away from this hallway, I would be willing to worship for the rest of my existence. Still, dreams cease to be reality.

HIS steps behind me were silent and the only indication of his presence was the aura I was now slowly getting used to. The only feature I remember about the man was his scarlet, red eyes. Before, fear would strike my entire body, but I felt almost nothing as his gloved hands came up behind my delicate skull and wiped the blood around my neck, almost gently.

“I’ll be alright,” he purred.

While my breathing was ecstatic, my heart beat was still strong. The thought of living to see my brother scrambled inside my mind as the only coherent thing that existed.

Growing up with someone was the single most annoying thing in the world. When every word my brother spoke was as predictable as my failing grade, I came to know him better than I should have. I’d seen him laugh till he cried, and smile till all the emotions he would bury in silence flooded out in the form of silent tears. Yet, I’ve never heard him scream. Not like the blood rupturing sound that assaulted my ears. It wasn’t a sound of pain or frustration. It was a sign of absolute lost hope. Feeling as if my own world had been tortured by merciless devils, the air suddenly became too dusty and the endless hallway seemed too constrictive. My breathing went out of control.

However, it wasn’t until I saw the crimson splatter onto the maroon carpet, did I realise the knife He was holding had plunged into my arm.  Still, the pain never hit me. The tear did first. Along with the salty tears that came in the same volume as the never-ending ocean water, the thought of dying along with my brother struck me.

I vaguely remember my capturer whispering something incoherent into my ear, as I fell onto the floor staining it a new shade of crimson red.

***

I woke up surrounded by a nurse working roughly over me in a room with lights too bright for my newly opened eyes.

“You’ve just been in a car accident. It appears as if you’ve had an allergic reaction to the medication the doctor prescribed and you’ve been hallucinating. ”

Her words didn’t register in my mind.

***

The downward spiral continued until I heard him say, “It’ll be alright.”

I was laying in His arms now, head completely unsupported. My eyes flipped to the back of my head as the sight of the carpet welcomed me to a new kind of terror; a different scene of fright His scarlet red eyes didn’t show. The carpet may be the key to silence in his hallway and maze and the carpet didn’t extend to the room with the light coming underneath the door.

But I was now close enough to the dried fluffy surface that I could see the maroon wasn’t an even shade. The once white carpet was stained with the colour of dried blood.

***

“Don’t worry. The drug should wear off soon. Your brother’s in the waiting room. Would you like me to call him here? Blink once for yes, or twice for no.”

I summoned the strength I didn’t know I had and blinked my eyes. As she left my annoyingly beeping monitored-room, I breathed a sigh of relief; the first in a long time. My brother was okay and I, to some degree, would be okay, too.

My bother entered my hospital room with gleaming eyes. It was so hard to look away, so mesmerizing that I almost didn’t notice the man with the white coat walking in. Immediately, my brother’s blissful laughter over my recovery was tuned out by the motion of His hands hovering over the two of us.

That man...

With the scarlet red eyes...

http://omegle.com/

It's strange. I had this three hour conversation with a random person and the feeling of connecting with someone is actually very bonding. We talk and we lie, but at the end of it, it took my mind off the things that was upsetting me and it was carefree. Everything was relaxing because I didn't have to think about the stressful things in my life and I could forget about the little issues that were bothering me. It's not that big of a deal, but I felt like a needed a place to vent out my anger on.