The New Year

In the silence of
A screaming hundred thousand
As witchlight played through the night
You greeted me with a kiss.

Boy Met Girl

(At the risk of discovery, I'm reposting this)

He has nothing to sing about, nothing
To write—his dreams are all of dust.
He fills his journals with mad denunciations
And colors their faces with jade.

The works he weaves are women worshipped,
Naked, and sadly aware of their glory
The women and he have stale sex and beer
Trying—and failing—to revive their dead hopes.

He sits, the image of bitter youth.

She breezes in the sunlit class, chattering-blathering-yammering
Joy. Her eyes, how they sparkle, blaze with passion
For the world and life she says still believes in.
She gives a blinding metal smile as she giggles,

And her slight plumpness does not mask her light.
Blindingly oblivious of her beauty
She seems, and just as aware of the ways of the world.
She needs a keeper, or so he first thinks.

They sit together, the boy and the girl.

He is captured by the pictures she painted,
Of hope and dreams and great make-believes.
The sour taste in his mouth is getting sweeter,
And in spite of himself, he believes anew.

And she laughs at his jokes, though cruel they may be;
Of his pessimistic view, she’s extremely uneasy. Naïve,
She allows him to touch her,
In fleeting hugs and gestures.

Soon he’ll assume it is love at first sight.

But she’s not as innocent as she seems—
Her glass is half-empty. The veneer of cheer
Hides an angst-ridden heart—
And her eyes sometimes age an eon, or two.

She’s fully aware of his growing ardor,
Annoyed at his cynical jibes.
She’s far from the perfect princess he imagines,
And he’s in no way her knight-errant.

So ends the fairy tale of boy and girl.

Period

It’s burning white vision bursting at the tops of my eyes.

    It’s nausea, shivering and plunging at ten thousand feet. Pulsing, pounding pressure, starting from the low centre of my body and radiating downwards until I can’t move, can’t do anything but lie limply on the bed. Every step taken is an epic battle in itself. Cold sweat becomes rivulets pouring down my spine.
    Considering this happens once a month, it’s shocking how we’re considered “the weaker sex.”

Crossfire

You feel your heart sinking within the first few minutes of the meeting. Though the stone table is round, it’s possible to discern edges—and you’re on the fringe of two boundaries.
    One side spins out rhetoric like bullets, aiming for the more impressionable young. They’ve found their marks on quite a few, and riddled with wounds the few limp off the battlefield.
    The other camp suffers from lack of authority, experience, supplies. It’s apparent they’re embattled, but here and there they gain a few pyrrhic victories. Their salvos when launched land on the others’ troops, but there are too many soldiers for the left cause. Your heart aches for the rebels, as cannons fire from all around you.
   A union, what a laugh. It’s more like a civil war.
   And as you duck that last fiery, spat-out word, you fleetingly wish you joined the other club.

Once More Into The Breach

I've been under a lot of pressure lately--academic, filial, amicable, aesthetic, and yes, even physical expectations.
Strange as it is though, the more work piles up the more story fragments drift into my head.
I'm going to try to write more...at least once a week.
Shouldn't be too hard, since I'm pretending to be anonymous.

Here's to professionality, and the shaping of a new persona.

Here's to the pretensions of a wide-eyed dreamer.