i hate txts (3)

i hate txts
all over world
no sense in i head
tick tick in school
no gone ever
i can no stop
u no stop 2
u and i no stop
2gether
i hate txts

i hate txts (2)

i hate txts
get in way
i never like them
do u not like 2?
long time txts in i head
bleep bleep no gone
i hate txts

i hate txts (1)

i hate txts
don't u?
txts mess i up
no go txts
all txt, all time
never ending
i hate txts
don't u?

Adoption = Jeff D.

Laughter

Laughter is cheer, it is light, it is the very life that is living our lives. It spins us around in our emotional beings. It sits us down and throws into the air all at the same time. Either high, shrill voices of skipping children, or the bouncing lumps of chuckles of the old man in a wooden rocking chair, it shall pass all paths either willingly of the partaker or forcefully by the victim. Laughter is cheer, it is light, it is the very life that is living our lives, your life.

Adoption = Jeff D.

Yellow

It comes in many shades.

Light and dark clash to harmonize with each other.  In reality as well as in our unconscious minds. It sits atop our heads, as well as our feet. It is the smell of a thousand days of dry wheat and sweaty brows. It is of the calmness and calamity of the ocean, As the sun rises upon its ever expanding domain. It is of happiness and of greedy riches. It sits as the highest of quality for kings, and yet shows hunger of the needy and poor. We see it forever until we give up the will to live or become that of a goat. Never gone always here in our skies, bellies, and ground.

Adoption = Jeff D.

Leader

"Leaders" are everywhere.
Sticking out their chests.
Smiling fakely to small children.
Giving hugs to the elderly,
While cursing under their breath.
They stand on the podeum,
Taking in all the attention.
Their suits are tailored
To their specific body size.
Forever lying to everyone.

Leaders are rare.
Starting in young age,
They help all that needs it in sight.
In elementary school they stop bullying.
At home they settle disputes.
In the summer he runs the water
For all the run under.
In middle school he runs for leadership.
Winning over the love of man
Through the honesty and love he gives.
In high school he
wears a coat to mark his leadership.
In the future he will go on to  become
What he wants to become.
A boss of a fortune 500 company.
The president of the United States.
His memory and generocity will forever live on.
Your memory and generocity will forever live on.

Cinnamon

Ground from sticks, I was crushed from my original form this pathetic life form.
I will never return to the gracious stature of truiumph of the wild again.
For I am in shame of the tradgety. I shall never return to my brothers in the jungle of spices.
Nutmeg, paprika, pepper, basil, and thyme will for ever laugh at me for my disgrace.
And why am I like this? For the pleasure of man.
For their pleasure of taste, smell, and sustanence of life.
A brute force shall forever keep me ground, I shall never be a stick again...

Summer.

The room was bare, even the walls were stripped clean. The carpet smell rank with what ever that days food time was, mixed with body odor. The blinds were closed, letting in a small amount of light in.
I sat on the floor, waiting for my chance to strike. Waiting for the time of revenge for many days i would go with out brought by the regretful hand of power hungry whore-mungers.
Everything they did i hated. Wrath would boil up inside of me every time I would think, hear, smell, feel, see, or taste them anywhere. and i planned the day when wrath would boil inside of them just to think, hear, smell, feel, see, or taste me anywhere.
i scheduled on any unknown date when I would fly in spirit to a place unknown to man. or even in body to a place of lush fruit and salty water. on the day that i would be set free if that unsightful prison. The day i could turn around to the jailer and give them the childish sign of hatred, the finger.
But before the year and a half before the final day (or maybe a eventful day before that) had come, a savior stepped down from her pedistool next to the jailer, risking everything. she knelt  by me in that such ungodly place and wept for me. she felt pity on me, a worthless creature to my master, the jailer. A person she once stood with as they did their uncanny deeds of ruthfulness.
she rose up against them, and rallied against them. finding help in a unlikely, but very resourceful, place. The people who were kind to show me the greatness of humanity that was mine to own.
A higher power, above the jailer, came down upon my master. Letting light into the darkness, seeking out the lost soul that was mine. The warrior of this higher power reached down to me with a human hand and told me to stand up and take defense against that what had killed me and beaten me down for so long.
When the light came in I was blinded, seeing visions of the distant past. Seeing the jailer as my mentor, my provider, my best friend. Felling betrayed by the savior that knelt beside me, had wept for me.
The higher power's warrior receded from the prison when the power behind him faded and wavered from his side with the darkness of the night. But when the light shined again he stood up with the same valor and my eyes adjusted to the light that he shined in on me in that bare room.
From there on i stood up. Reaching up to the sky and finding the long lost humanity that had been taken from me. With help i recovered it all. I remembered myself. I was able to let go of my past, and yet still not forget it. To grow stronger, smarter, and more free from my past. Others from the higher power reached into that bare room where i had rooted to the floor and broke down the walls. Forever breaking me free from that bare room back in prison on a summer day.

Philosophy.

The universe started at one point. Where did it start from? God? or the middle of the universe? Most would answer God. Answer that a giant man, that with a wave of his hand created all that we are in seven days. A smaller part of a more logical part of the world that we live in would answer with their minds, the thing that works everything.
I will join those who use what is there to help them survive the harsh beatings of life. To say that God is not real, he is not here, he is not anywhere. He is a figment of imagination of man's ever evolving mind. There is no man, spirit, or thing in this universe that could create our world and everything that did, does, or ever will exsist in it in just seven days.
People say that he is almighty, a perfect being, and that he will save us all, but where is he now, how is he saving us from our own destruction. He is the one that sent us here to "test us", but if he was perfect he would already know who was on his side and who was against him.
Were there any that believed in him from the begining? Did they see him with their undeveloped eyes? How did they speak to him? Did they speak at all? How did he comfort them? Did he even go to them?
The answer is no! he does not exsist. If he 'loved' us then he would sit beside us and talk to us today. Show us the way to be perfect. No war. No death. No disease. Nothing.
But that is exactly what we would be, nothing. If it were not for the imperfections of humanity, Life itself would not occur. Our lives would be as dull as a blank peice of paper. To see things perfectly would include the garentee of discovering nothing. To learn nothing. To be no one. The personalities would be all perfect, giving us all good qualities, but to do so would make it were we would constantly not be ourselves. This would then cause disruption, thus we can never be perfect in our personalities.
If humanity is to try and become perfect is good enough. This makes us better people. We constantly learn and judge to 'good' and 'bad' around us. To be imperfect is a gift that evolution has given us. It is our whole life, and I will never ask for more.

Fan Letter.

Dear Mrs. Noelle Knight,

My name is Chelsea Connor. I live in Kansas City, MO. i have read your book and I think it is the most discriptive and realistic as it can be. I think on your last book the ending was very interteresting because you made a character and didn't reveal their motive. This made it to where they could have been out to kill Noelle or to help and watch over her. With this kind of ending I thought there would be a sequal to the book. Will there be a next book? Or will you leave it as a one-hit-wonder? I feel as though you should continue the seirse.

Sinserly,

Chelsea Connor.

Darkness' Edge.

Finding the edge of eternal darkness is not easy.
It is hard, challenging, an adventure.
To turn back the clock to the beginning of forever.
Going back to the beginning of the end.
The bells  ringing from memories of distant past.
There you start to move to the future.
For better of for worse the motion of time continues.
The time to find the edge of eternal darkness is not easy.

Costume

I dressed up for Halloween, because it is my favorite holiday! I painted my face like a clown, and just answered the door for trick or treaters. I probably need to buy more candy next year, or still go with our back up plan (start giving them fruit snacks after we run out).

I Cannot See... (Voices)

I cannot see…

I cannot see. In front of me, not only of physical being, but the future.

I cannot see. I am blinded by the past pains that haunt me.

I cannot see. Her beautiful hair obstructs my view from life.

I cannot see. The regrets I face of letting this happening.

I cannot see. She is gone now forever more.

I cannot see…

My Bean, Curtis' Adventure.

Me and my Bean Curtis went on a Ghost Adventure. We went to go talk to those who walk the cemetary

at night. We met up with an old sailor who had been visiting Utah. In the year he happend to be visiting

was one of the most tragic  droughts in history, thus from lack of water he died.

It was pretty sad, but at least he has been able to tell his story.

My Dreams

There are many types of dreams I could speak of. Those of late nights and that of the future. That of

stellar content and those of mid-day biology class. The ones of nights are of comfort and the love, but

some betray the aspect of ‘sleeping tight’. The ones that tear through the fabric of time and space, and

some that takes you to a new level of insanity. Some are for collage, some for children, and some for a

million dollar car. Some that let take a journey half way across the world in a matter of seconds with

out leaving your seat. Those of wonder, swirling, riveting ideas. But all in all there are many, and only

 the ones with a pure heart may be true.

My Clothes

My clothes are unique to some, but definitely not original to others. My clothes are baggy, yet I think

they are a good fit for me. Most are long pants, even in the summer. Most are shorts, even in the winter.

Hoodies are almost in fashion, and skater shoes are my slippers. Writing on myself is the new planner of

art and schedule.

My House

Small but indeed comfortable, my house resides in the suburbs. The one always described as ‘The one

with the purple shutters’. It stands alone with yellow patches of grass and weeds prodding their heads for

 air and sunlight. Messy in some spots, with anything such as calendars and electric typewriter; to guitars

 and boxes of spices. On the other hand, it is clean to any hearts content. Mounds of DVDs, but no

mountains of CDs. A home to few, but when a few come to visit all come to visit, and all are welcome.

My Bed.

Made out of wooden frame work, my bed is creaky. The mattress is big and billowing over. Sheets are

white with a few stains on them from nail polish and tiny nicks of holes.  The comforter is either the soft

 and white with snowmen, or of a big billowy comforter, maroon and green with splotches of purple.

What I Want to Write.

               I want to write about war. The uncleanly action of protection, rights, intergrety, of life. The beginning of the end. the end of it all. The giving of life for the cause, and the taking of it too.  The precence of war and the abcense of it. To see it from far away and to be drenched in it. The life that flow into it, the blood that flows from it.

Fleeting Enemies Through Forever.

Hands strike as knives in the dark

Swinging sharply with dull edges

Whistling through this crystallized air

Of the chilled winter fog.

Pine needles wafer into my unguarded nose

Crunches under our fleeting feet.

The taste of gushing, rich, warm

Blood from my bitten tongue.

I fall, tripped from a large pine root.

Scrapes on my knee sting,

And a snap comes to my ears

As though a whip cracked,

My ribs splintered unforgiving.

Looking back, pain ripping me in half,

Soyer stalks up to me, the look in her eyes

I saw so long ago the Senor Citizen’s Home.

But we’ve never been in

A place for care of the old.

Although my teams strength was great,

We could not match that of those Soyers;

Even when the Falcons were on our side.

It was jank that we were a target,

Even more redunkulous that,

The falcons were defeated.

Even though Falcons are strong,

Thus the slurred T’s brought them defeat.

You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit!

Is what kept us strong from greed and envy?

The dirty fingers of streaming viruses.

And still we wade about as

Death over golden meadows.

There I fell, turning over leaves as a bug.

There Frank lay on the damp

Ground scrounging for life.

Now I saw a light shining from a place

Unknown. There I saw the past and the present,

But not the future, it was blocked and black.

Lungs and ribs regurgitation blood, and

Everywhere guided me closer to escape, but

All paths led my soul to its doom.

Fide vivere, mori honeste.

The trees lurch over us,

Shedding leaves as tears, making way for

Death to take me away.

As Soyer leans she reaches,

And chilled air swirls around us,

For Death is on his way.

this is a towel walrus that i had found in my picture album. awww. so cute.

Funeral of the Past.

For of all the time we had

We always look back

On the better or worse

Taking in the battles, crying,

Wars, death, anger, greed, envy,

Killing, cheating, sneering, and bad

We stand here, in the present

Seeing the damage, and

All we remember is the past.

The battles, crying, wars, death,

Anger, greed, envy, killing,

Cheating, sneering, and bad.

So here is to the past.

The memories,

The people,

The pain,

And to a brighter future.

Inventing Life in Death's Hands

If I could kill all but the god

From the signs of Death’s hands,

I would know nothing

About the lies of the reaper.

If the reaper were made by

God I would know

This was a confrontation where a god

If I could look down but nothing

Holy I would know

About the Death’s hands and I could kill

The lies remaining and god of

Death’s hands, the reaper

My soul was a wisp with blood

In a deep withdrawal and daunting darkness.

I could fill the abundant requests with courage.

And keep death’s hands among the fiery

Depths of the after-life, among the

Daemons of their dreary holes.

I could kill Death’s hands in my loyalty

And put down the lies with pure might in the depths

The dirty blood between my figures

I could crush the despicable souls who always lie colossally

About life especially in Death’s hands with its wrinkled palms

So I must slash across the palms to kill the reaper evil monarchy.

If I could kill the one thing that killed kindly souls,

I would strike what was unholy

To this very day, I would kill Death’s hands

Life from death-like the misunderstood disowned

Archangels of the war of heaven

Or the heavenly funeral, that closed heavenly

Doors and forsaken man-kind.

Foreign Language Saying.

My favorite saying in a diffent lanuage is something in russian, of course I can't write it in russian. (I don't know how to, especially in english.) it is pronounced  knee - zar - SHtow. In english it means "No Problem."
I learned this in ASL (American Sign Language) class from a sign that means the same thing.

My Sister Jen.

My sister Jen stands tall,

Gently caring for those who have fallen.

Dishy she can strike with iron fists,

Pressing any one, who apposes her,

To the ground. She loves with a passion,

And debates all debate worthy causes to

What she thinks is best, as we all would hope to.

My Bean; Curtis.

My bean, which I got in Creative Writing class, is named Curtis. I don't know where he got his name from but I like it. Curtis is married to Lana, and has no children as of yet. Curtis is a professor of Harvard collage, he teaches law.

He likes to listen to Beethoven and sometime Mozart. He likes to read in his spare time, and doesn’t know how to change a tire or the oil (he is a bean), so don’t ask him to.  He likes to be gentle (in most cases, he is a lawyer).

He doesn’t like Mrs. Sides because she has kept him inside of a bag for so long, with all kinds of different beans, some he didn’t get along with that well either. All he ever wanted was to go home and build a bigger relationship with someone. He doesn’t like talking about cooking (especially beans).

Imitation Poem

They don’t walk they stalk,

Wading through shallow waters.

They don’t smile they smirk,

Prodding their beaks

At every fish they see.

Not even to compliment,

But to make fun, fluffing their

Feathers trying over shine our neighbor

Not only flying low, but

Striking at those who try to

Take the others territory.

Wondering the places of green,

Looking for that one true love.

Dancing and swaying, bobbing

Heads and bracing arms.

Where I'm From.

I am from classic books, from Gateway and Dell.

I am from the small, Hicksville town.

I am from the planet Pluto, the icy cold, I love it.

I am from Super Bowl Sundays and political issues in debate.

From Knight and Jones and Cannon.

I am from the jokers and debaters.

From earwigs eat your brains out and eating bugs in the night.

From “You get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit.”

I am from the forgotten promise of my beloved God.

Forgetting the love of eternal family and of heaven

I’m from northern Europe and the West.

From mean meat loaf and shrimp dip.

From the accident of laughter of falling at Disneyland,

The amazing ride and the repeating memory loss of close people.

I am from grandma’s kitchens, and grandpa’s old barn.

From the steaming hot biscuits, and “that’ll turn your knees black”

From horse back riding, and fresh spring trough