Groo Grux

What I said: "It's sort of a love song album, isn't it?"
What I meant: "I like that five of the thirteen songs make me think of you."

Gretel

slippery
slinkily
slumbers

warmly
willowing
wonders

flowery
finnicky
fumbles

punctually
peppery
pummels

looks back only once
to determine
not his gait, but her whereabouts.

Is That Alright, Yeah

Warning: Uncertain, angsty, love-ridden, midnight-produced musings to follow.

I spend a lot of time planning my independence, which makes me feel like I've been inwardly independent for some time now.

I'm trying not to plan so much and to pray more. Mostly because worrying as much as I've let myself is not healthy. Plus I trust God more than I do me, which is always a good place to be in.

If I spend enough time away from someone, I can usually convince myself that I don't miss them anymore. After a while, I remember why I feel so helpless.

New favorite song: "Details In the Fabric" by Jason Mraz.

Maybe someday I'll meet someone who would write a song for me.

I place myself on a lower tier than the beauty I find all around me. Maybe that's how I assure that I'll always humbly work towards beauty and appreciate what's naturally beautiful.

I've created a playlist that will get me through heartbreak. Jeez, I hope it will.

I got really close this one day to deciding that I have the ability to let go of my heart and let it feel what it feels, as deep as it can. I felt as though I was knowingly throwing it off of a cliff. I reined it back in.

http://dearoldlove.tumblr.com

"I used to kiss your shoulder when we’d walk or stand side by side. No one else’s shoulders measure up."

I found this site today and found myself thinking of things (like this example) to submit. Then I remembered I have no one to direct them to. Yet.

I hate that word.

White Lightning

Stupid cats. They're so slinky and curious and stubborn all the time. Darting out of door cracks and into yards, sniffing all the moving bushes and almost-big-enough fence slats-slash-escape routes, increasing my heart palpitations and provoking above my breath cursing. Apparently, cat treats are only enticing within the confines of suburbia. But in the wild? Oh no, my friend. They don't smell better than grass or chipmunk trails or trampolines. Cats don't climb into bags so you can carry them back inside, and they don't hop into your arms when you whistle. Cats do, however, decide that the smell of a strange, smoky man completes their adventure. They waltz back through the screen door and under the table. I then close doors that confine them to three rooms, one of which houses their food, water, and litter box. I leave harried, hairied, and mosquito bitten. Stupid cats.

Drawing a Bulletproof Blank

You may say I’m cliché,
but I hadn’t.
I’d never felt anything like it.
Not nauseous--
squeamish--
no.
Likened to a rampant bull
or gummy bear mutiny,
the feeling was boiling but ~sticky~
--intrinsic and enveloping
as though it would trade my life for its freedom.
The feeling,
a noun in its own right—a feeling without being felt,
swirled inside me,
slippery and suffocated,
^Submerged
in a crooked stream.
And as the stream fell from horizon to sea
>From Sky’s boundary to Earth’s edge<
I relished the sexist* salamander.
*the salawomanders get no credit at all.
The blue diamond on his forehead,
The slime slipping through my toes
like yolk from a wounded eggshell.
"Oh jeez,"
you colloquialize.
"This is going to be interesting."
Like a Floydian opera echoing
echoing
echoing against and among grotto walls,
the feeling had a purpose but no home
a corner laundromat but no clothes.
The feeling stemmed from a void:
“When someone enlists another’s specific skills
to fit their specific need, they __________ them.”
“It may start with c-o-n? or c-o-m?”
“I could do so much more if only I knew a verbose welder.”
-This missing word-
the one I could not grasp,
could not explain well enough to take hostage
(duct tape, anyone?)
consumed any faith I had in a seventeen-year vocabulary,
a three thousand-year language.
But, after all,
Desperation is the English way.

[Literary Magazine final 2009. In a couple days I'll italicize the words and phrases I was asked to use according to the prompt. I earned a 105%. Word.]

Sparkle Sparkle

when birds dreaded ocean trash
as smog plagued fish
when people lived on seas
and drank the earth
when the moon blinded children
hoping to colonize the sun
she climbed back up the slide
and fell into the sky.

the stars we wish upon
stare back
and gently hum,

"Sparkle sparkle, little one
how I wonder how you've done
down below me don't you cry
I've been with you
by and by."

["Write me a poem!" :) This is from last August. I'm so sorry it's belated.]