I am from adrenaline,
From excitement and constant yelps of alarm.
I am from having too much energy than is good for anyone,
From grass stains, callused hands, some wound from somewhere,
And the occasional splinter
When things come crashing down.
But I am from being okay,
From Band-Aids or not even bothering.
I am from shouts and bruises,
And after a while, everything is numb.
I am from awkwardness, judgement, and being the weirdo (and I’m proud),
And am I a social antisocial
If the social socials only stay in their herds,
And there are more antisocials than socials;
By that logic, they would be the antisocial socials and I’d be the social social,
But anything is alright.
I am from “Titanium”,
From “Walk Away”, and most definitely am I from a “Mad World”.
I am from never resting my voice, not even on sick days,
From “singing Radiohead at the top of my lungs,”
And begging, “Please don’t stop the music.”
I am from string-sawing and stiff, cold fingers
That somehow, when they feel like it,
Create nicely flowing melodies
And spontaneous old tunes.
I’m from a picture,
And it has much too many dreadful details.
I am from fixing something too much or too little.
I’m from too many spheres, fruit, fur, flowers, trees, lines, and tortoises.
Don’t forget the blending, houses, more lines,
Vehicles of transportation, notorious angles, and clouds.
Especially the clouds.
And why do I always end up with shiny hands no matter the precautions I’ve taken,
Or splatters of color in the most random of places?
I’m from heavy backpacks with heavy binders,
And even heavy folders inside.
I’m from being the “Goody-Miss-Two-Shoes” and the “Teacher’s Pet”,
But seriously, I was only aiming for the A... Plus.
Okay, maybe I actually participated in class.
I’m from a cycle of procrastination, stress, and last but not least,
Thinking about how I really needed to get rid of this habit.
I’m from saying afterward, “Nah, maybe tomorrow.”
I am from “just another stride”,
Lacking the speed, but never the spirit,
And I still recall the chant of B-O-R-O, Boro Boro, go go!
I am from watching others get cheered on,
But the voices never found my name.
I’m from a new and better suited home, trying to get this flick in the wrist,
That perfect angle, and unconsciously achieving the desired C.
I’m from umbrellas, a foot and two inches,
From Dad, bagels, and bipolar weather.
I am from missing by a few feet, dropping my arms, and strange run-ups.
Luckily, I didn’t get speared, squashed, or decapitated from stray implements;
We’ll see how I am in a few more seasons.
I am from witnessing my favorite characters getting killed by bombs,
And from experiencing authors who just really wanted to kill all of their characters.
I’m from a place where “people are real” and “people matter”,
Where we are always as hungry as a caterpillar,
And where I see plenty of mice, but sadly, I never have any cookies on me.
I am from always wanting to adopt a female dog named Jack,
Or even befriending a wolfdog named White Fang.
I am from the house of Gryffindor, and I’m obviously Divergent.
I’m from a world that has horrible endings, endings that I want to frame,
And where some endings are not actually endings at all,
Because there’s always a sequel.
I’m from never finding the perfect reading position,
But I’m always too comfy to move.
I’m from starting to travel on my own,
From staying up until one AM for the food that never arrived,
Or three AM playing ping-pong and hanging out,
Or even until five AM, teasing the Zombie and ranting about the KKS.
I am from business plans and nails and last second preparations,
From a scary arm for throwing things, especially foam footballs,
And from inventing the new and best version of the knock-knock joke.
I’m from the high altitudes, maybe even too high,
Joking around, making shapes with my Tsamba, and enjoying my yogurt.
I’m from watching failing attempts at shoveling manure,
And from song trade-offs over the walkie-talkie.
I am from effects of an earthquake, stones in the river, thunder, and sandstorms.
I am from a haunted house, dolls’ eyes, and the darkness,
Although light is even worse.
I am from a fictional alternate universe I’ve created in my dreams,
From three-eyed mummies, giant laughing frogs, and flashing faces.
I am from “The Storm” and “Pack”.
I am from the number nine, 7:43 AM, and from being twice misidentified,
Thrice if typos count.
Where am I from?
Ultimately, I am from Earth,
Or from the stars.
I am from the first Hydrogen atom,
The first living organism.
I may be from a giant man standing among clouds,
Or a giant spaghetti monster in the sky.
I am from Life, Death, and everything in between.
In the end, I am from friends, family, and strangers,
But most importantly,
I am from Me, Myself, and I.
I wrote this for summer reading. It's probably WAY too long, but I mean, I HAD to do this.
Yes, I've started my photography phase, and I love it! So, basically, I take a bunch of really cool pictures, and then I "fix them up" and they turn out pretty cool. Again, please rate them from scales of 1-10!
If you are reading this,
You don't know me yet.
Your youth prevails
And so does your luck.
One day, though, you will meet me.
Whether we meet in peace or violence
Is completely up to you.
And the circumstances, of course.
For my friend Danger is everywhere -
In darkness and in light,
In happiness and sadness,
Even in the safest of safe conditions.
You little humans are so delicate,
So easy to destroy.
But I will not harm you much.
I'll also leave that up to you.
Many fear me,
Some embrace me,
Some even worship me,
But no one understands me.
Oh, who am I, you ask?
Just wait awhile.
Whether that is a second or a century,
I promise you that we'll meet one day.
So, I'm trying to play the piano while singing the song, "Titanium" by David Guetta, featuring Sia.
What do you all think of it?
(By the way, they notes are all pretty much the same in both. They are verses one and two of "Titanium")
On a scale of one to ten, one being horrible, ten being insanely amazing, please rate these paintings! Please excuse the quality of the images!
I am here,
I am a flower bush,
Roots firmly gripping hold of the earth beneath me,
My trunk strong and centered, stretching towards the sky,
With my branches and leaves growing outwards to meet the hands of my neighbors.
My buds are excited to see the sunlight for the first time.
Already existing flowers boldly stand out with their different, neon colors.
My pollen spread all around, landing little specks of yellow on other flower bushes.
I am a rain drop,
Falling and falling and falling quickly from thousands of feet from the sky.
The gray clouds above have dropped me and released me into freedom.
As I register this new feeling, fear fills my watery self.
The ground is coming in quickly, and I don’t know what to do.
I flash by in the air like all the other rain drops, but I refuse to show my fear.
I will not be the first to show weakness.
I am an antique china vase,
Sitting off to the side, not really belonging with the other vases.
My designs and postures are different, weird,
But I still love myself when others don’t.
I sit there uselessly while other vases are being filled with my owner’s objects.
Because I can’t take it, and if I was broken, I would break into a million pieces,
Never to be put back together ever again.
But most of all, I am human.
Walking tall on my two long legs and swinging my arms back and forth.
Making mistakes and problems wherever I go.
Trying to lessen other’s suffering by suffering with them.
I am so imperfect.
So imperfect to a point where I’m...
Because I’m only human.
I am still here,
I stand with my petals shriveling from brilliant vermilions and neon pinks
To muted beiges and ashen grays as time passes by,
Next to a sign so rudely piercing through my thin, delicate roots,
Destroying my life source.
Drooping my once proud head towards the earth from which I grow,
I feel the thick exhaust from passing cars asphyxiating me, poisoning me with its stinking fumes,
Taking away all colors until the world is covered in its sickening black clouds.
I feel my stalk begin to weaken and bend as the humans take away my nutrients,
My leaves becoming sicker, turning into old parchment paper with burns tracing the edges
My will to live decreasing as the land around me is being destroyed for the humans’ shelters.
Then the murderer arrives, its deadly sharp blades spinning dizzily,
Its roars to be heard from fields away, announcing dread and death with them.
I stiffen and count down my final moments.
It’s heading towards me.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
And now here I lie,
The life slowly draining out of my weak body,
Which is broken and chopped into little pieces
On the perfectly cut green grass,
As my delicate roots slowly die next to the sign.
The sign I can finally read with my final moments.
The sign that says “New houses, new homes, the beginnings of a new life!”
The richness of ice cream was dancing on my tongue.
Birds chirped and tweeted their beautiful melodies.
The sweetness of warm cookies wafted into my nose.
The friendly breeze teased, and combed my loose hair.
The sun was shining, oh so brightly, like it was smiling.
Then the storm came.
My ice cream melted and fell into a small, pathetic puddle.
The cheery birds migrated away, and were never seen again.
All of the cookies were devoured by greedy others.
The breeze, that was once friendly, became a gale that ripped and tore my hair.
The grinning sun was replaced by grim, heavy clouds.
And the storm came.
Distinctive bitterness took over and destroyed the pleasantness from the licks of ice cream.
The doomed souls screamed louder, and louder, and louder, than ever before.
Rotting corpses, from an old grave, stank while exposed to air.
A strong downpour of rain, of hopelessness, of despair, mercilessly lashed down on me.
An unsettling grayness surrounded me, suffocated me, tortured me.
And the storm stayed.
It is like trying to live, while being enclosed by death, or fighting a losing battle.
Every step I take, every motion I make, is slowed and held down by the storm, like I am sinking.
Everywhere I go, the storm chases me down like prey.
No matter how hard I try, though sometimes somewhat succeeding, to rid of the storm, it still follows.
No one cares, no one sees the storm, and so I pretend that it is not there.
But it’s difficult to ignore something so obvious, something ruling over my life, too difficult.
If someone would listen, if someone would help, if someone would pay attention, just for once, they would see the pain, the suffering, the storm.