It’s sitting by the overcoat,
The second shelf, the note she wrote
That I can’t bring myself to throw away
And also
Reach she said for no one else but you,
Cuz you won’t turn away
When someone else is gone

I’m sorry ’bout the attitude
I need to give when I’m with you
But no one else would take this shit from me
And I’m so
Terrified of no one else but me
I’m here all the time
I won’t go away

~Matchbox 20

Live Deep :: Live Long :: Live Calm :: Live Strong



The whispers of the aspen tree

Rustle gently in the dawn breeze

The sun is slowly peaking up

And over

The calm

Serene

Iridescent

Mountain ridge

Just waiting

Gently

In the tiny

Box of shadows

Softly peeking

Creeping

And waiting

For the dew drops

Of metallic sunrise

To wash away my

Misery




I had good teachers when I was at Alfred State College. I also had some bad ones... but I had some very good ones that inspired me, touched my soul, whispered to my heart, and helped me surrender my mind. My 3rd semester, I had Debbie McDounough, a sweet, tall, slender lady with short spiky hair, and black framed glasses, who, when done teaching at Alfred, went on to be my younger brother's English teacher at his private school. She always had her office open, coffee on, weird, neurotic, fucked up, and otherwise demented poems, toys, and paintings decorating her office. The worlds of film and poetry lying at her feet. In the film class, every Monday night, we watched old silent movies. Poetry class, Wednesday afternoons, we got together in the conference room with coffee, pastries and big coushie blue chairs to read the works of the masters: Edgar Allan Poe, Shakespeare, Emerson, and Browning. Mrs. McDounough had always liked me, and durring the day, in my 2-4 hour gaps between my classes, I used to sit in her office and we would discuss music, poetry, literature, and other topics of interest amongst ourselves, and the other students that popped in and out. The poetry class inspired me to write more than I already was. I had already been writing poetry for years. My first poem, I had published when I was 12. Debbie talked me into writing more and into getting my boring, mundane, and supposed "unreadable" work published. That semester, at the fresh age of 13, I had 4 poems published in a literary magazine called Ergo. Ever since then, I've been on a role. I can't stop writing, and I can't stop trying to get things published.



Frank started going to college with me when we were 15. He’s 2 months, 2 weeks, and 2 days older than me, and he’s my uncle. (talk about a redneck family) We would walk around campus aimlessly, attend class on occasion, doing the minimal work required to get through. I frequently pulled assignments out of my ass, and got A's on the paper, and in the class. There came a point in my life when I realized that just because it’s college, doesn’t mean it is difficult. Alfred State College isn’t anything special. The brochure makes it look nice and pretty (and complicated), and it is… it is beautiful, but they fail to mention to you that EVERYTHING is uphill from the parking lots, and it gets really icy during the winter. So icy, in fact, that half the campus shuts down entirely for weeks on end. The employees of SUNY Alfred aren't exactly....reliable... at least Records and Public Safety. (Records caused me many problems, and one time, in fact, I was 12, and Public Safety gave me a parking ticket for a car that I didn't own. They said I double parked in a handicap space, which was a nice trick considering I didn't even have a license.) SUNY Alfred is like an extension of highschool. As if to provide a nurturing environment for people that aren’t yet ready to enter the real world. We would walk around, almost as in a daze, too exhausted, and wired from staying up playing chess until 5am the night before, surrounded by long blonde hair, skimpy clothes, and all the boobs we could ask for. If I recall, we were both quite disgusted actually. Boobs aren’t really my thing, and blondes aren’t his type. Once or twice a day we would sit around in the campus center. I would sip my smoothy from the little Smoothy Shope upstairs in the Central Dining Hall (CDH) and he would sit there sipping a Pepsi. We would usually be talking about our random nonsense…. The typical things we always talk about. Books, cars, philosophy, classes, people, swords, languages, video games…you name it. Occassionally a girl would walk by and Frank would say, "dude... don't make it obvious, but check her out."



My books started this rant, you know. This...expression. It all goes back to my books. My journals are my outlet. When everything in my life is going wrong, when I stop caring about everything else in my life, when I have reached complete and total apathy for my existence, I still have my journals to turn to. I’m addicted to outlets. I need to express; I can’t stop. When I do stop, even if just for a few days, I begin to feel depressed and suicidal. I understand and realize it is completely and utterly irrational, but that is how I feel. I desperately want to share my journals with the world. I want to show the world how I feel, and tell them what I love. I want to give them my passions. The world shall inherit my passions when I die, but I want to take them, and throw them into the world. Let the stars play with them. So many people wouldn't even notice if I were to bear my soul. If I ran up to someone and handed them my soul, and my passions on a silver platter, they wouldn't even notice. The select few would. The ones that matter. The ones that care. The ones that I don't regret, and the ones that I love. The ones that make me happy, and content. They would care.

"Express yourself totally and completely."


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Romanza
By Andrea Bocelli
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