My Inmost Self

Hey, look, a poem! (I know, right?!) My little sister called it "dark". Do you agree?

What Freud would call the id,
What I will call the soul
Where secrets are all hid,
Inside of one big wall

My soul is like a courtyard,
with an old decaying wall
The remnants of a creation
That once stood bright and tall

Inside you'd see,
Right by the door
A collection of thoughts
scattered on the floor

There's a rose garden to the north,
A pagoda on your right
A path that leads you forth
to a fountain out of sight

Brimming from this fountain
are thoughts, ideas, and such things
When I've run dry, that's where I go
To feed the body that makes me sing

There's a dark place, off to the left
Where no one dares to go
A place full of ugliness and grief
That I would never show

And right in the center
inside a metal fence
A place I've never been to
But what is there, I can sense

Unlocked potential, unconscious dreams,
a love that no one owns
A decision or two, a black locked box
and a purpose that can't be loaned.

But let's instead leave that alone
It was never anyone's to know
Instead I'll take you where
I keep the nicest thing to show

Once inside the pagoda
look right up and you'll see
locked in a smoky glass box
My heart, the life of me.

Beauty and the Beast

I'm calling this prose... 'cause that's what it's supposed to be. Haha. Anyhoo, it's not a fairytale, just a role reversing look at the idea of Beauty and the Beast.



Beauty looked at herself in the mirror, seeing not a flaw. There was none there, nothing that would hinder her superiority. She was perfect, from what was seen. She was beautiful, from what was perceived. She was flawless, from what was visible. Beauty was nothing more.

The Beast cowered in the corner, dwelling on his mistakes. There was nothing, nothing good in all he had done. He was imperfect, from what was accepted. He was ugly, from what was known. He was flawed, from what he'd caused. The Beast was nothing more.

Beauty saw the advantage she had, she laughed gallantly at her gift in appearance. She knew that men look no farther than the exterior, and discovered the world was at her beck and call with just a glance. She realized her power; upon it she acted. Beauty was going astray.

The Beast saw what he was, and wept for his wickedness. He knew the world would look no farther on him than his past, and he could not move forward in the same direction. He realized his mistake; upon it he turned around. The Beast was going back.

Beauty frowned at suffering, and smiled at good fortune. She glowered at poverty, and gazed at riches. She scoffed at ignorance, though she was it. Beauty was on her way.

The Beast frowned at good fortune, and smiled at suffering. He glowered at riches, and gazed at poverty. He sighed at awareness, and he was it. The Beast was on his way.

Beauty embraced the world for all it had, she greeted it with a smile and a kiss. There was nothing she denied herself. She drank in the wealth of the world like an expensive wine, and all was hers, but nothing was hers. She was beginning.

The Beast embraced hard work for all it had, he greeted it like an old friend. There was nothing he couldn't do, or wouldn't try. He was drank the punishment of the world like a nasty medicine, and nothing was his, but all was his. He was beginning.

Beauty had travelled all the world, taking what she could. Fame, riches, food, and drink. Everything was hers, but the things that cannot be owned fled from her presence. Love turned his back, though lust ran rampant. Friendship was not to be found, though fair weathered companions were everywhere. Family was non-existent, though false comforts told her it was fine. Beauty was lost.

The Beast travelled all the land, repaying all he'd taken. Money, time, labor, and favor. Nothing was his, but the things that cannot be owned found him. Love was present, lusts faded away. Friendship was formed, fair weathered companions fell behind. Family was re-united, and false comforts were no more. The Beast was found.

Beauty had faded, her imagery gone. Wrinkles adorned her brow, and her once vibrant hair muddied to but a dull sheen. Sorrow was etched in her eyes, regret in her cheek. Life had rejoiced in her for a while, but it left her as a passing wind. Beauty tore at her hair, and beat her chest. Everything was gone, and she cried out, but no one heard. Beauty became the Beast.

The Beast had faded, his harshness gone. Wrinkles of hardship adorned his face, and his hair had turned to white. Yet happiness was etched in his warm eyes, and relief in his cheek. Life had cursed and beat him for a while, but it changed as the passing of the season. The Beast rubbed his face, and blinked his eyes. Everything was there, and he was silent, his family and love by his side. The Beast became Beautiful.

The Beauty-turned-Beast groaned with her last breath, bitterness and regret her only companions. Her fleeting ways, her passing joys, all left her empty, cold, and alone. And there she lay, soon to be forever gone, with nothing left of who she'd been. No life left in the ugly frame, only a creature more fearsome than hunger and want. And life was gone from Beauty.

The Beautiful Beast smiled with a deep breath, love and family his dear friends. His ways he'd changed, and his repentance had brought him fulfillment, warmth, and companionship. And there he sat, much time still ahead of him, with nothing left of who he'd been. No pain left in his body, only a creature more kind and gentle than affection and compassion. And life was full for the Beast.

Hey, Barbie

A cheesy little poem I finally finished! (It finally got that last stanza! YES!)

Hey, Barbie, on your department store shelf,
I’ll take you home and have a toy for myself
With your pretty blonde hair and dresses so large,
My mommy says you make her feel like a barge.
When I grow up I’ll look just like you,
I don’t know yet what’s a real size two.

Hey, Barbie, sitting in one of your many houses
Your closets filled with all of your blouses.
Want to be an astronaut, cowgirl, or bride?
There’s just so much; I can’t decide.
Are you a role model for girls like me?
Are you a good picture of what I should be?

Hey, Barbie I’m too old for you now
I look at all of your stuff and think “wow.”
Why’d I spend all those hours dressing you down
Then up nice and fancy in great big ball gowns?
Now outside is my place to play
I could ride bikes and climb trees all day.

Hey, Barbie, you thing of the past
I knew you and Ken would never last.
Your smile is plastic and so is your face
Playing with you is just an unpleasant taste.
Your arms can’t bend, not even your legs
You’re just trash like leftover coffee dregs.

Hey, Barbie, I'm all grown up now
And I spent six long years wondering how
I could ever possibly look like you.
But when I stopped trying, I came out of my blue
And someone saw me for who I am
Now I'm his Barbie, and he's my man.

Fireworks, Some Ducks, and a Miniature Dragon

Just a little something I discovered called "Flash Fiction" for an online writing contest. And no, it's not supposed to make sense :)


I walk towards the house, and when I hear fireworks coming from within, I sigh heavily.
"Why, hello Carrie, come on in!" I'm about to drop my bag on the floor, but when I see the miniature dragon huffing puffs of smoke, I change my mind and place it, along with my shoes, on the end table.
"Roman is hungry" a small girls informs me, while strangling her pet dragon in an attempt to bestow some sort of affection upon him.
"Duck!" yells a boy, as a duck flies over my head and out the door. He tries to follow it, but I redirect his path to the kitchen with my hand atop his head, and close the door. Sorry, duck.
Despite the children's pleas, I don't let the dragon eat at the table. Even if it is convenient because I let the macaroni cool too long. The duck is quacking to be let back in, but I ignore him. The dragon is brooding under the table.
"Roman doesn't like macaroni," the girls tells me.
Then the fireworks go off again, and another duck appears in the fireplace. I grab the duck, and throw him outside with the other one, which doubles the quacking.
By the time I come back, the dragon has set fire to the macaroni, and I send the kids over to the wigwam while I put it out. They whine about being hungry, so I heat up some sort of leftovers from the refrigerator. They devour it, and promptly turn a deep shade of purple.
"Not again!" the boy screams, a sound masked only by fireworks and a third duck's incessant quacking. I send the boy to the wigwam for yelling, and the girl grabs my sleeve, dragging me over to the laundry room.
"Isn't it pretty?" she says, stroking the bubbles formed on the partially melted washing machine. I assure her it is, and usher her out and the troublesome dragon in. "Roman will make more pretty bubbles," she says. Judging by the flames emitting from the base of the door, I assume he is doing just that. We go to the wigwam, and find it full of pixies, one of which I step on. Sorry, Pixie.
I drag the boy up to his room, trying my best to avoid the swarms of pixies now free-flying about the house.
"Brother let the pixies out again. Brother's in trouble," the girl says, trailing behind. I put them both to bed, without singing a lullaby, as I hear more fireworks go off downstairs. I set to work bribing the pixies, who have already brutally slaughtered the newest duck, back into their cage.
When all the pixies have been bribed and look the same shade of purple as the children, I hear the unicorns in the driveway and the parents come in.
"Hope they weren't any trouble!" The mother says as she hands me my pay.

Insomnia: a poem!

Here is the poem I wrote! (That Mr. Burns didn't like!) I know. You know. Now read it!

The sun has set and night has come
But when the morrow shows its face what have I done?
Everything is just a blur,
I lie in bed but my mind’s a stir
Monotony, you are my foe
Because of you I’ll not have slept when I hear the crow
Can I make it through the night?
Something must give in this great blight
But how to begin?
To remove all the din
To end merely waiting for tomorrow to arrive
Stop beginning to sleep as the sun lights the sky
Finish starting things that have no end
And quit listening for the reprimand
To take a moment to sit and feel
Like a human and not a wheel
To stop turning for a little while
And take a break from work so vile
I want to learn, to realize
I must stop hearing words of the stern and not worry about the size
I’m over my head, I must confess
Jesus take me from this mess,
I’m choking, I’m drowning
So save me before the trumpet’s sounding
The sand is falling
The time is gone
But more stuff is calling
For me to “come on!”
I’d stop to cry,
But I’m on the fly
Like butter spread too thin on toast
I’ve nothing great to show or boast
And even now I’m wasting sleep
To pen and put my mind to ease
The morning is already near
I will collapse, it is my fear
To look back at what I’ve done
And frown into the setting sun
For life is brief, yes life is short
This boat soon sails for another port!
So all aboard or you’ll miss your ride
But I’ve already forgotten which side
To run and jump aboard the ship
Oh, I want to stop and sip
Some tea to moisten my dry lip
For my mouth is full
The world is dull
And still onward soars the gull
I must be quick! I must be fast!
To finish what’s begun at last
But on I trail, throughout the night
My sleeping time is out of sight
And yet I’ve nothing truly said
And so I can’t retire to bed
Oh, the dance continues in flurries
Without me it repeatedly hurries
It pulls me here
It pulls me there
My arms shall soon break from my chest
And maybe then it would be best
For I’d have to sit and wait
For Heaven to open its great gates
But it’d abandon pulling and start to shove
And I’d call for the Lord to send me a dove
To rescue me from this strange plight
And let me sleep another night
All is well, but the time is gone
I can already see the dawn
And there’s an old man sounding a gong
And the ritard at the end of a song
I’m tossing, I’m turning,
My brain is a-burning
The earth is a-blurring
My stomach a-churning
The beads of sweat form on my head
Wouldn’t it be better if I were dead?
Zoinks! I cannot sleep one wink!
Maybe I’ll wash dishes in the sink
And I still am on the brink
Of going, once for all, truly insane,
Everything I do is inane
The ceiling is ghostly
And now I am mostly
Certainly, truly, quite awake
Feeling the world beneath me shake
Egad! The sun’s risen
And now I must listen
To another day’s gabber
And many peoples’ blabber
For the alarm is blaring
And I am staring
At the start of a day
Without any play
The sun is here,
But my life is not near.

No More Pictures

So the assignment was to write about a world in which creativity in all forms had been banned/outlawed/been deemed illegal. So no dancing, singing, painting/drawing, music, creative writing, etc. This is a story of a little girl who loves all of these things, and kind of how she finds out she can't do them anymore and how she views the world. My big sister really likes this one, and I'm pretty happy with it, so have a go. :)


I know I’m not supposed to, but I just can’t help it. I was born with it. No really, I was. When the doctor first handed me to my mother, I was already wailing at a perfect C# my father says. Mother says for him to be quiet about that. When I first became successful at sitting up, I began to clap my hands and giggle. Father says the clapping was in ¾ time. Mother says he was hearing things. When I was eating baby food for the first time, I spilled it out onto my high-chair and drew squiggly lines in it. Father laughed at me. Mother frowned at Father. Father says my first word was “la”, and I sang it all day long. Mother says that my first word was “papa”, not “la”. When I finally mastered walking, Father saying I began dancing and bouncing all around the house. Mother says that was just walking. When I was learning to write my name on my notebooks before the first day of school, I drew hearts, stars, and smiling faces all around it. Father said they were beautiful. Mother got me new notebooks. When we were writing sentences about our pets in school, I was so excited about it that I also wrote a story about a dog with fairy wings that made it so he could fly. I showed my parents when I got home. Father said he wanted to frame it and hang it on his wall. Mother said no.
The tales of such things go on and on, every time Father praising my song, picture, dance, or story, and mother being unhappy. I didn’t know why for a long time, but I do now. Those types of things are simply not allowed. I am not supposed to sing. I am not supposed to draw pictures. I am not supposed to dance. I am not supposed to write stories. I was sad when Mother told me this, but Father relieved my sorrow later that evening.
“Alice,” he endeared lovingly. “Whenever you want to sing, draw, dance, or write, you come to me, ok?” he said rather firmly. I nodded my head, but he wasn’t done. “Don’t tell Mother.” I nodded again. “It will be our little secret,” he finished and winked at me. We did our secret handshake, and I went to bed. As he tucked me in, I asked him why I wasn’t supposed to draw, sing, dance, or write stories. He replied that a silly man made a silly rule that was just plain ridiculous. I said “Oh.”
And so, very often I would go down to my Father’s home office and draw pictures for him on paper. The first picture I drew down there was of Father and me standing in front of a sunset. That was my favorite picture I ever drew. He also let me paint the walls, and they were continually changing. I molded sculptures out of clay for him and placed them all over the room. Whenever I wanted to try a new dance move, I would go there to practice. If I had the urge to sing, I would do it in the comfort of that room. He also had a piano keyboard hidden away in his closet, and he taught me how to play, always making sure I had the headphones on when I did. And when I wanted to write songs or stories, he let me have all the notebooks I needed. That office was my retreat. And Mother never went there. And I was very, vary, happy.
Until the day Father went to work and never came home. Mother told me he was killed by a drunk driver. I didn’t know what a drunk driver is, but I pictured it as a big bear with blood dripping from his awful fangs, and a three inch long claws about to grab a large stone and throw it at my Father. Mother then told me it was a person who was under the influence of alcohol who shouldn’t have been driving in a car. That made me sad, because I didn’t know what alcohol was either, but I pictured it as a raincloud hanging over a person who was very, very, sad. Rain clouds follow people, you see. People who are very, very, sad. The drunk driver couldn’t see the road because of the cloud and he ran into my Father. The drunk driver should have met with someone to make him happy first so he wouldn’t run into my Father, but I guess he didn’t. I told Mother I hoped he could become happy.
“The drunk driver?” she asked, amazed. “Don’t feel sorry for him. I hope he rots in a jail cell for the rest of his miserable life,” she replied angrily, and broke down in a torrent of tears. I feared that Mother would soon be a drunk driver too, under the influence of alcohol, and not able to drive. But no rain cloud appeared over her head. I knew Mother was very, very, sad, so you must have to be very, very, very, sad to be under the influence of alcohol. I felt bad for the drunk driver that drove into my Father. What could have happened to make him so sad?
After Father’s funeral, Mother began to clean up his home office. She had a fit when she saw the wall covered in paintings of sunsets, rainbows, princesses, rain clouds, shining suns, and butterflies. She whimpered at the pictures tacked up all over. She clapped a hand to her mouth at the clay statues placed all around the room. She clapped the other hand to her mouth as she saw the piano keyboard in the closet, and she cried when she saw all of the stories I had written. I tried to cheer her up with a dance, but that made her collapse onto the floor. I missed my Father very, very, much.
The next day, I woke up to the sound of ripping paper. I went down to see what it was, and saw mother ripping up all of my pictures and stories. I yelled for her to stop, but she just told me to stay out of this room from now on because I was a “bad girl”. Father always told me I was a “daddy’s girl”. I quickly snuck into the home office that day and retrieved the picture I had drawn of my Father and me standing by a sunset. I liked that picture very much. I hid it in my room away from Mother. I didn’t want her to tear that up, too.
The next time I looked into my Father’s old home office, the walls were just boring white, no longer covered in my pretty paintings of sunsets, rainbows, princesses, rain clouds, shining suns, and butterflies. Just boring white. Father would have hated that. All of my statues were broken up and sitting in a heap at the bottom of the waste basket. I felt sad, because Father had liked the statues. As I left the room, I started to hum song (very quietly, so Mother couldn’t hear) about Father and sunsets and pretty pictures, but lost my voice when I looked out the downstairs window into the backyard. I saw my Father’s piano keyboard all smashed into itty bitty pieces and lying on the pavement. Seeing it all broken made me start to cry. I would never be able to play on that piano keyboard ever, ever, again.
I put the picture of me and Father inside my sock drawer at the very, very, bottom, where Mother would never find it. I was no longer able to sing, dance, write, or draw. I became very, very, sad. I began writing a story about a little girl in a world far from our own, who liked very much to dance, sing, draw, and write. Nobody told her she couldn’t. Everyone told her how she was so good at singing, dancing, writing, and drawing. She was happy. I wrote about her everyday. When I finished it, I hid it in m sock drawer with my picture of Father and me.
A few weeks later, I had a babysitter. She seemed very nice, and so I showed her my room when Mother left. Then I showed her my notebook with the story of the drawing, dancing, writing, and singing girl from a far away world. She frowned, and her face turned very, very, white. She took it away from me. I screamed and cried and hid under my bed the rest of the night as she yelled at me to come out. I didn’t even come out to eat my supper. I stayed under the bed until Mother came home. I snuck down the stairs to hear the babysitter tell Mother about my notebook. But she didn’t. Mother paid her some money, and she left. Then I snuck up to bed.
The next morning, I went to look at my picture of Father and me, but it wasn’t there. I looked everywhere for it, but it wasn’t to be found. I wanted to cry, but couldn’t tell Mother why when she asked. I knew the babysitter had taken it, along with my story. That was the last time I ever wrote a story. That is when I fully realized that I would never be able to draw, sing, write, or dance ever again. I wish I could. It is all still inside me. It screams to be let out whenever the teachers at school tell me how I need to try harder in math, history, grammar, physical education, and geography. But I can’t. I’m no good at those things. All I am good at, all I ever want to do, must be kept bottled up inside. I’m very sad, very often. I don’t feel happy anymore. I try to draw, but my picture of Father and me comes flooding into my brain and I am reminded that I’m not supposed to draw because a mean person will steal my drawing away. That happy picture is no more. And neither is anything I ever had, or ever will, love. Without art, love is nothing. Love isn’t really love. And life without love isn’t really life at all.

Breathe in.

This is a story about the briefity of life, and how it passes by in just a breath. It shows how our desires change and grow over time. Each paragraph is an age, and each paragraph showcases a desire that is like a birthday wish. From age three, to the end of the girl's life.


Breathe in.
Look at the candles. Three in all. Blow them out, don’t let sissy try. She’ll spit on the cake. Yummy cake. Chocolate cake? Let’s find out. Stick hand in cake? Yes. Then we’ll know, and mommy will give it to me and sissy. It’s chocolate cake. It’s very good. Mommy looks mad. Oh no. I hope I’m not in trouble.
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. Six in all. Look around the room. There’s Bekah, she’s wearing a pink princess dress. It’s prettier than mine. Mine is purple, but I like pink best. Sabrina’s dress is green. It’s got an ugly white bow on it. The cake has a princess wearing purple though, just like me. Maybe purple is best after all. Yes, I think I like purple best after all. Maybe the inside of the cake will be purple, too.
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. Ten in all. I’m a big girl now, double digits. Being ten will be exciting. My cake has flowers on it. I made them myself. Mommy helped, and hers look better than mine, but I still like them. There’s even a frog jumping on my cake! He’s a cute frog. Maybe this year I will be tall enough to go on the Lily Pads at the swimming pool. I hope so.
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 14 in all. Middle school is boring, but there’s a cute boy in my math class who smiles at me. I told Sabrina about him, and she thinks he like me. She also said he’s on the basketball team. Oh, I wonder if he likes me?
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 16 in all. The cake has a picture of a car on it; the car Mom will buy for me if I get all As this semester. I know I will, but I’m nervous about my Algebra grade. Mrs. M is a stickler.
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 18 in all. I’m done with high school in a month, and I’m off to college. College sounds scary. I’m going to the same school as my boyfriend, Brett. I look over at him, and he’s smiling. *Sigh*
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 20 in all. I feel so old, and I don’t like it. I thought I had my life all figured out, but man oh man was I off. I transferred schools after the first semester. Brett and I only lasted two months at college, before he dumped me for some stupid Freshman. Oh well. I’ll find someone new, someday.
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 25 in all. I glance over at my fiancée. He’s smiling. It reminds me of years past, and beaus past. How stupid it all seems, the drama we went through. The heartbreaks and aches. I’m glad I found the one. But he’s going off to war, I hope he’ll be all right…
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 31 in all. The baby’s crying, and I might too. Mom’s trying to comfort her, but she won’t stop. I look over at my toddler, as she swipes a bite of frosting. Oh, I’m too tired to discipline. George will do it later. I just want to enjoy this while it lasts.
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 42 in all. George, please take away Alexis’s cell phone. She’s texting that boy again. I just want a family night for once. Why is this so hard to get? George, Frances is playing on his Gameboy under the table. Can’t you make him behave for five minutes? I want a quiet evening.
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 48 in all. Both my babies grew up and left me. Alexis never calls from college. I told Frances to write, I even bought him stationary and stamps. He doesn’t. I don’t want to lose them, I need to hear from them.
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 52 in all. Alexis asked me to go wedding dress shopping with her. I could hardly believe it when she called me up! But George isn’t so happy. We’ve only met her fiancée once, when they visited for Christmas. Lord, I hope he’s an honorable man that will take care of my little girl.
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 57 in all. Oh, little Chelsea got into the cake frosting. I can’t tell her no though, she’s so sweet. Alexis grabbed her. Frances is laughing, his girlfriend is too. It’s so nice having the family all together, but the visits are few and far between. I want the family to be closer.
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 63 in all. Alexis called me on the phone today. Chelsea ran away from home. Oh, the poor dear. I don’t like the way she dresses at all. It’s all dark and scary, and even in pictures she rarely smiles. I wish she’d get over this phase and come home, poor Alexis is trying so hard.
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 69 in all. I don’t think I can blow them all out at once. There are just so many, is this really how I should be wasting my breath? It’s so scarce already. Chelsea says she’ll help me. I smile, she’s such a nice girl when she comes to visit. Her little baby is very cute, but she won’t introduce me to her husband. In fact, I never even got wedding pictures…
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 75 in all. George is gone. Oh, how I miss him. Oh! I can’t bear it. Alexis and Frances comfort me, but it’s not the same. Oh, George.
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 81 in all. This home is lonely. Everyone here seems so old. But, yes, a visitor! Chelsea, and she’s brought little Andrea. Oh, the sweetheart brought me a puzzle! Maybe they’ll stay a while and help me put it together.
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 89 in all. The world is getting fuzzy, my eyesight is leaving. A boy came to visit today, he’s very young. I called him Frances, and he looked scared when I did. My little boy… why are afraid? Oh, my little boy, come close to me!
Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 95 in all.
Breathe out.