4:00 a.m., 2 Hours To Go. I'm Wearing Out A Lonely Glow

Hello, my amigos and others! Whoever you are, I hope you aren't a human. Because, not gonna lie, having, like, a warlock or an alien read this would be pretty sweet. There's no denying it. Absolutely no denying it.

Here is the post that I like to post about things that bug me. So I guess I'm pretty much wrapping you up in fruit by the foot. You might get annoyed by it because you'll be all sticky and whatever, or you'll be like, "Awesome! Lots of free Fruit by the Foot!" Yeah . . . And all that jazz. You get the idea, right?

Anywho, there's one thing that REALLY drives me crazy. REALLY. It's when people refer to others as "Children" or "Sonnyboy" or etc.
i.e "Now, children, this status is to see . . . Blah blah blah."
Or "You know I don't like that, sonnyboy!"
Yeah. It's annoying. Mainly when people say it and actually kind of mean it. They seem to think they're way cooler than me, even though my ranking on the coolness scale of life is UNMEASURABLE because I'M SO COOL. So cold I made Titanic sink.
That. Freaking. Cool.
I don't mind it when people are joking as they say it or as they're telling a story, but it's when they say that to replace my name.
I hate it. It makes me want to punch their face in, just like Hercules does to Hades in the Disney Movie. Just like that. Do you even know how satisfying? It would be so satisfying . . . Like the first bite of cheesecake. Yum.

There's that. And now there's this. It bugs me when people don't even care about grades. Actually, I take that back. Because the less they care, the better chance I have at doing AWESOME for the rest of my life.
Eat it, lazy suckers.

Nevermind. I guess I don't have that much to complain about. I guess it's just because life is pretty good. It's a strange feeling, because I, for once, don't know how to deal with my feelings. I feel happy, but I have nothing to complain about. I seem to ALWAYS have things to complain about. And now I only have that one thing. WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME?
I'm officially crazy.

This week is going to be awesome. Totes. I can feel it in my bones and in my blood.

Oh! You guys need a poem update! Here is my sestina. Let me explain it really quick. It has six stanzas (plus one) that each consist of six lines. There are six words that I pick previous to making the poem. And I have to end each line with one of those six words, but it has to be in a specific order. You guys should just look it up. Sestina.
So this one is about a guy who loves this girl and she leaves and he goes insane.
Enjoy.


The roads of this town, encrusted with ice
Reflect the map of his mind
His dismal smile reveals nothing
Like the smooth drawing of a knife
Through flowered concoctions of water and ink
Those ripples, that only he sees, are beautiful.

He sings out to the girl he calls beautiful
As the sun's fascinated touch melts all miserable ice
He recalls her hair, her perfect hair, he drew from ink
She smiles, and away escapes into his mind.
He knows of no secrets, of any hidden knife
And the sun's heavenly value, its glorious worth, seems nothing.

She breathes, "I can't . . . " and sparks the nothing
She whispers, "Someone else . . . " and vanishes the beautiful
She leaves. He is left alone, understanding not this knife.
Though once impossible, he feels heart slow with ice
Though once unthinkable, he loses control of mind
Though he stands silent, he can already witness despicable ink.

From his own vein, he draws out the necessary ink
Needing a secret release from this putrid nothing
Cold darkness, known too well, clouds and infects his mind
The red writing becomes the night's beautiful
He stares, eyes pulled open with insane ice
"Don't use it." He says. But he wants, he needs, he must use that knife.

He crawls back to her, guiding him the knife
A shriek! And out pours roses, delicate roses, like bleeding ink
Hands won't move, frozen with spreading ice
He fantasizes, he believes, he knows he is guilty of nothing
He feels fire coursing through, he understand the new beautiful
He laughs. He heeds no mind.

Dragged away, those empty white-coated shells attempt enter to his mind
Those pens they use stab like that knife
He doesn't want escape; he lusts for that new and short-lived beautiful
"Calculate and analyze, you can't understand my ink."
He says. They say nothing.
He loves the ice.

In his mind, back seeps the ink.
He knows he must bring out the culling of the fold with that familiar knife and rid those worth nothing.
For it is beautiful, this guilty ice.



You like? It's kinda creepy, but I like it. And yes, I did write it. I'll keep you updated and more poems shall come your way!

There's always something worth living for.
The harder it is to find, the more you'll fight to keep it alive.