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Sunday, July 15, 2012


sometimes i just need my past
to not feel
like the past

I just want to relive
some of what I was
to leave behind

I want to know it still
and hasn't been forgotten

I want to know
it had some meaning
to someone else but me

I need to know
that you remember
because I don't know if I can


I feel numb
and oblivious

clouded from the thoughts
that roam through my mind

masked from any
as if they were toxic 
to my wellbeing

answers escape me
yet the questions keep flowing

leaving me at a loss
that I didn't know
was possible

Friday, July 13, 2012


The stars twinkle
and you hold me closer
your scent envelops me
freezing time...

Your warmth flows through me
I look back and smile...

The stars sparkle up above
and even when you're not
holding me
I'll always know you're there
because the stars will forever
lead me
to you


It's painful
yet enlightening
to realize
that my love
for you
is stronger
than yours for me
will ever be

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Virtual Reality – Short Story

Ping! My computer chirps as an Instant Message is immediately sent to the brightly colored screen on the other end of the conversation. Ding!: message received. Back and forth for hours; mindless, never-ending conversation causing our brains to turn to mush by the second. Click: my return key hits the shallow end and causes a rippling effect throughout my motherboard: perhaps I hit that key a bit too hard... Frighteningly large letters in a bold, dark green, flowing font bark back at me. I've aggravated her -- and I have no idea what I did wrong.

"We need to talk. Tomorrow at school. I'll meet you in front of the Quad," I ping.


"I need to explain myself. You need to hear me say this," I send, lowering my volume as if her capitalized letters were actually going to yell at me.

"NO! WE CAN DO THIS RIGHT HERE! LET'S HEAR IT!" she bellows, causing her motherboard to shake and her screen to crack.

Mary, a very innocent girl, was never one to yell. She was a shy and timid girl that kept to herself most of the time (especially in times of confrontation) -- except when it came to me, her best friend. I know her better than anyone, but not even I could have expected the happenings that occurred that very next second...


I was in shock. My best friend doesn't possess the kind of courage it requires to say something like that -- let alone go through with it. Apparently, and as unfortunate as it is, Mary chooses to live in a virtual environment compared to a live one. She finds courage in the ability to speak her mind without watching someone's face change (due to his/her reaction) right before her wide, gaping eyes. It's easier for her; it's like a Staples® Easy Button™: it's just that easy. But for many other people, including myself, it often makes situations much more difficult and impossible to live through. It might provide her with courage, but it forces me to question whether or not I truly know my best friend. So while she escapes the face-to-face reactions, the peer pressure, the fear of having people stare straight at her while they wait for her response, and the old nauseating feeling of weakness -- she will also cause people to question her true personality and ask the question: in what world is she truly being herself?

I practically begged her for it -- I really wanted her to wait to talk to me in person; I knew it would be for the best. Personally, online conversations are well-and-dandy, but when an argument is in its midst -- it's better to make sure you're getting your point across, which, apparently, can only be done when having a face-to-face conversation. I needed her to hear my voice. I needed her to hear when I was being serious or when I was making a joke. I needed to see what she was thinking through her sea-blue eyes. I needed to be able to place my hand on her shoulder and make sure she wasn't hiding behind her virtual-reality identity. I needed the physical contact, and I needed her to understand.

It took me awhile to realize this, but Mary's virtual identity wasn't just based off of the fact that she gained more courage. Granted, this did have a very large impact on basically everything and anything she said -- but it wasn't the only reason for the way she behaved. Without the pressure of Rob, Bob, or Snob (names never stuck with me -- and I couldn't care less) staring down her throat waiting for her to make a complete idiot out of herself, she found herself able to come up with just about anything. She could think clearly and be just as much a jerk to them as they were to her. But, as many people tend to say, it's hard to stop once you've started. It's true that when in person, you get tongue-tied when people are waiting for your comeback or response, but these situations just provide you with the knowledge of who you are truly comfortable with. Because in reality, you will be able to say just about anything you want to or need to with the person you feel comfortable with. So who cares if you can come up with the "perfect" insult for that bully or complete stranger? The truth is, no one cares -- unless you do.

On the other hand, the visual peer pressure isn't the only factor that is contributing to her behavior in her virtual world: time in general also plays a part. In person, while Rob, Bob, or Snob is staring down your esophagus, you are generally tripping and stumbling over words to try and form a proper sentence -- thus making you sound like a total moron. But in your own personal, virtual life, you -- in a sense -- have all the time you need to form the perfect phrase. The problem that Mary created with this, is that she took too much time to think of each response -- and in doing so, she was no longer saying what she truly felt; it was all superficial crap. In person, it's right up front -- no time to think. This also tends to get many people into trouble, but there is a fine line between speaking your mind and not processing what you're saying.

However, in this situation, Mary wasn't only not processing, but she wasn't being herself. This fact scared me. I knew Mary more than anyone else in the world, and even I couldn't see how this virtual creature could possibly be her. Virtual reality tends to do this: cause people to be unsure of who they are talking to. When live, it's obvious (unless wearing masks and body suits). There's dangers in both worlds -- but you can generally see the dangers in the real world.

In truth, as much as it pains me to say, this is a common debate worldwide in our. But this debate is typically occurring amongst the older generations (including parents). Kids aren't complaining -- they're enjoying. To parents, virtual life is just another danger being thrust upon their children, as well as another excuse not to do their homework and chores. But to kids, virtual life is reality. It's a whole new world for them. A place to escape to when the real reality doesn't live up to their standards. Virtual life has become virtual reality. It has enhanced in many ways, including its means of communication. For example, if I were to talk to Mary today, I wouldn't have to type my begging and pleadings to her -- and I wouldn't have to wait until the next day to meet her in front of the Quad. I could easily just call her up virtually. Audio chats, video chats, etc. are being invented and put to use by hundreds of thousands of kids out there -- and some adults are beginning to pick up on the new age of technology. But the dangers still exist and will continue to exist in both worlds.

My friendship with Mary has never been the same. And if I were to ever find myself in a similar situation where technology has defied me, I will immediately find myself picking up my cellular phone (or virtually dialing them), because text chat is just as overrated as using paper and a quill pen -- it's just ridiculous.

The Key Of Candyland – Short Story

The moment she realized what she was looking at, she knew she was as good as dead. Clara had always wondered what would happen when she opened that door, and this was the last thing she had expected. It was supposed to be locked – but it wasn’t. All of those years … She couldn’t believe it: it had been there the entire time. Everything from before; everything she never knew existed in the first place. He told her that there were no lies between them, but even that, had been a lie.

The panoramic view of what existed all around her was outstanding. Everything was there. This locked door had held all of the secrets of her life. Thirteen years of lies and deceit, and it had all been there the entire time. How could he have done this to me?, she wondered, how could my own father lie to me like that?

It was apparently thirteen years ago that everything in Clara’s life had changed, and she had never known anything about it. Her own mother and older brother had gone for a ride for his birthday, but Clara was too young to remember where they had headed off to. Three hours later, she and her father had received a phone call from the paramedics. There had been a car accident, and everything in Clara’s life had instantly been flipped upside down – destroyed, and gone forever. Clara had forgotten everything, until today. Today, the most dramatic memories penetrated her forgotten past that had been blocked because of her father.

Her brother had been her best friend. There had been one year separating them, and her last memory with him was at age three: they were playing Candyland, and she was winning. Clara could never beat her brother at any game, but so far, she was winning... and he was happy for her.

She focused back on her surroundings, trying to forget the misfortunes of her past – realizing how difficult that would be as she continued to look at everything that was practically reliving itself right before her eyes. Clara couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Her heart was racing, beating in disbelief. Her father had lied to her, about everything, and she knew that she shouldn’t stay there and dig through the past – her forgotten past – but after thirteen years of secrets, she couldn’t – and didn’t have the willpower – just to turn away.

Footsteps overhead sounded, seeming to get closer. Did I close the door behind me? she asked herself. Her heart continued throbbing as she hoped she would be able to stay in this room longer – this extension of her mother and brother. Everything around her resembled them. Everything around her was they. The footsteps above her passed over the entrance and began to fade off into the distance. Her heart went back to its original fluttering that occurred upon discovering this addition in their house.

After walking around for a minute, running her hands along the old memories, Clara decided to open one of the dust-covered, worn-out boxes. In doing so, she found pictures that were stuck to one another, dusty and faded. Working through the piles of faded memories, a letter lay at the bottom. Opening its crusty creases, it read:

Dear Clara,
If you’re reading this, that means you’ve found the secret addition. I guess you now  understand why I refused to move so many times. Also, if you’re reading this, I’m sure I’m gone by now … knowing me, I am very protective of this room and would in no circumstances let you find it while I was around. I guess I won’t ever be able to explain that to you, but I hope you don’t blame me.
I’m sorry I kept the memories from you. I’m sorry I kept Gineene and  Ralphy from you. I never intended to hurt you, but I couldn’t let you discover the truth, Clara. There was never a car accident – and I’m sorry I could never be a good enough father to you in order to tell you this to your face: Your mother did not hit that truck as the papers and doctors led you to believe. I’m sorry I can’t bring myself to tell you the complete truth even in words, but I can show you.
Inside this envelope that you found this letter, there is a key. I’m sure you’ll figure out what it is for.
I’ve always loved you, Clara, and I’m sorry I couldn’t be the father you needed.
Try to forgive me,
Your father.

Tears trickling down her fair skin, she tried to understand what he had meant in his letter. How could they have not been in a car accident? What else happened to them? Where are they? she wondered. Obviously he had been wrong about his protectiveness of the room, as he was just upstairs and she had in fact found the mysterious hiding place.

Remembering the mentioning of a key, Clara realized that she hadn’t found the letter in an envelope. Looking back in the box, she noticed a small crevice in the corner – the perfect size for a small key. Giving the box a bit of a shake, the key popped out of the crevice. Too small to be for a door, the key resembled the one Clara used to use for her jewelry box as a child. The fact that the key was hidden made sense to her, as Clara’s father had brought her up, training her to look at the unexpected as he had done throughout his life as a reporter.

Pocketing the key in her shirt pocket and the slightly damp letter in her back jeans’ pocket, Clara continued to look through other boxes. Few were titled “Home Videos”, others: “Pictures”. Not having a VCR available, there wasn’t much she could do with the videos, but opening the box, she realized they were all from before she was three-years-old. Closing the boxes and putting them back where she found them, she decided to move onto the photographs.

Pictures of Ralphy – pictures she thought had forever been destroyed, were right in front of her. Photographs of her hugging her older brother, being held by her mother, holding onto her father’s pants leg – never wanting to let go … all of these memories began to overwhelm her. Her father had told her everything had been destroyed and that he couldn’t handle looking at their faces every day after the accident. He told her that he had destroyed all memories of them in order to make the pain less. So why did he lie?

Footsteps overhead sounded again, except this time doors were slamming and someone was running. Clara’s heart was racing and she realized that it was getting late – and she hadn’t checked in with her dad since that morning. She heard every door in their two-floor, three-bedroom condo open with a gust, and slam with heartbreak. After five minutes of the consistent slamming, the footsteps died down and she realized she was safe in the room – for now. Pulling out her lavender Motorola Rival, Clara realized it was 9:42 P.M. – practically three hours late for dinner. Flipping the phone open, Clara found her dad’s number in her contact list and dialed.

Hearing the ring overhead, she knew it wouldn’t be long before she heard his worried gasps through her speaker.
“Hey, Dad!”
“CLARA!! I’ve been worried sick! Where are you? Are you OK?”
“Yeah, Dad, I’m fine. I’m sorry I never called you... I got distracted. I’m at Sasha’s house. Can I stay the night?”
“I don’t know Clara... I haven’t seen you all day. Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yes, Dad! I’m fine. Please? We’re... we’re working on a project for school. It’d help our grade if I could stay longer...”
“I guess...”
“Thanks, Dad! I’ll talk to you tomorrow! Night!”

Hanging up her phone, Clara took a deep breath and was thankful that the lying was over for now. She hated lying to her dad. He had always been there for her; always looking to help her whenever she needed or wanted – but she felt as though the circumstances had changed and it wasn’t such a horrible thing to fib a little bit this time. She was after-all supposed to be at Sasha’s … she just never went.

Pocketing her phone, Clara remembered the key in her button-down shirt pocket. What truth could this thing show me? she pondered. Closing the box of photographs of Ralphy, Clara took a few steps forward, until she saw a gleaming piece of metal in the corner. Lodged between two stacks of dusty boxes, was a briefcase.

Yanking it out of its hiding place, Clara realized it needed a key to be opened. Remembering the one her dad had left for her, she pulled it out of her shirt pocket, and placed it in the shiny keyhole. With a twist, the buckles released and a gap remained between the top and the bottom of the briefcase. Placing the key back into her pocket, Clara slipped her fingers into the gap and pried the briefcase open with a sharp tug.

Newspaper cut outs cluttered the floor. Clara had never seen these before, but they were all about her mother and Ralphy. Picking up one specific, “dog-eared” article, Clara began to read...
KINGSBURY, NEVADA – MARCH 1998: Local Fitzpatrick family faces tragedy. Mother and wife, Gineene Fitzpatrick was driving with her son, Ralph Fitzpatrick, 4, on his birthday towards the local petting zoo when an oncoming moving truck strayed into the lane and hit mother and son in a head-on collision. Mother of two children and wife of six years killed instantly. Son was declared dead upon fatal injuries to his cerebellum. Father claims no comment and remains in his Kingsbury home with his daughter, Clara.

Questioning this article, Clara realized it had been written by her father and submitted to the Kings Journal for publication. But this doesn’t make sense, Clara thought to herself. He wrote in the letter that there had been no accident. If that was true, then why would he have written this article? Fidgeting through the other papers, different headlines filled her sight: “Daughter Raised By Father … Does She Know?”, “Father and Daughter Live In Denial”, “The Truth Exposed!”. Confused by this, Clara picked up the article with the heading: “Truth Is Out! Daughter Knows Nothing!” and began reading...

KINGSBURY, NEVADA – MAY 1998: Local family has recently been exposed. Father, Roger Fitzpatrick, submitted an article to the Kings Journal describing the fatal events in his family. Upon further investigation, against the wishes of the family, it turns out the article had been a fraud – as had the accident. Due to the inability to locate death certificates for supposedly deceased family members Gineene and Ralph, Roger Fitzpatick provided the Kings Journal with proper commentary on the matter.

On Ralph’s birthday (4), Gineene took him out on a car ride for ice cream and a trip to the zoo. Six days later, Gineene returned home, greeted by a worried husband. Upon questioning by Roger, Gineene explained why she returned late – and without her son.

Gineene confessed to taking an extensive detour in order to abandon her son in hopes of “getting rid of the stress in her life.” Roger immediately filed a Missing Person’s Report, which is another part of what led us to realize there was no car accident. No responses were ever returned to the family on Ralph’s behalf.

Upon explaining her circumstances for abandoning her one and only son, Gineene refused to disclose any information of the whereabouts in which she left him (police have reason to believe it was out of state). After further refusal, Roger locked her out, and wrote the false story as to allow his daughter, Clara, to grow up with no hard feelings of her mother.

Clara’s jaw hit the cement floor with a smack. She couldn’t believe her eyes. The real truth was hidden in a briefcase?! Flipping through other articles, she realized they were all the same: Mother abandons child – daughter knows nothing. All read the same way – except for one. At the bottom of the pile of newspaper clippings, was a ragged and taped piece of rustic paper reading “Fake Story Comes True?”. Unfolding it, Clara began to read:

KINGSBURY, NEVADA – JUNE 1998: Three months ago former reporter, Roger Fitzpatrick, published a false account of the occurrences in his family pertaining to his wife and son. On the other hand, yesterday marked the death of Gineene Fitzgerald, who was recently found guilty for abandoning her son on his birthday. Gineene, upon downing nine shots of tequila, proceeded to get into her rustic 1996 Oldsmobile and drive an increasing 97 miles per hour on Interstate 80 and managed to drive through the guardrail, down the mountain, and smash into an evergreen tree. She was declared dead at the scene. Have past events come back to haunt us?

How could he have done this to me? Clara wondered. The words from his letter flashing before her eyes: “I couldn’t let you discover the truth Clara” … “I can show you” … “I’m sorry I couldn’t be the father you needed” …

Tears rolled down her freckled skin. Slipping down to the grimy floor, Clara wrapped her arms around her knees and pulled her legs close to her chest. I miss Ralphy, she thought.

Moments passed as she sat on the unfinished basement floor, leaning against a knobby dirt wall. Tears ran down her face, moisturizing the patches of earth that were scattered between blobs of cement below her. Her father’s hand on her shoulder was the last thing she expected; Clara knew she was as good as dead.

One With Nature

The winds drifts overhead as I turn to face what once remained behind me. Glancing skyward, was a sea of ocean-blue embracing me – begging me to climb. A single ball of fluff remained off towards the boundaries of my peripheral vision – barely visible through the blur. Slanting my heavy head, I became aware of the shape that persisted within the sea up above.
Plopping down, I hit the crumpled mound of earth below me and began picking at its hairs. Handfuls at a time, I rip and yank from the scalp, piling the hair-like fibers in front of me. Picking them up, I watch as they slip through my fingers along with every thought inside my head.
I glance around me, my head continually spinning in ways that is unnatural to the human race, and I recognize what I’ve become. Everything is more than me. Everything is larger – taller – waiting to envelope me in their worldly knowledge. I remain seated, mind blank, hands empty, senses at ease. I’ve melted into my surroundings. I’ve become one with everything around me. I no longer exist – only it does... and it is me. That fluff ball off to the corner had followed in my footsteps, unsure of where to go – thus, it followed me. Without me there to follow, it shall remain... It shall remain, for me, as a remembrance of how to get back to where I first began.

It's Not An Excuse – Short Story

One pill destroys the pain. Just one to pop, and then it’s gone. It’s true what they say: it can all go away with the pop of a pill.

Everyone asked me to describe the torture. They asked me to describe it on a scale of one to ten. They told me they couldn’t help me unless I told them what I was feeling. So I told them I was feeling pain. What would a one mean? A tack in the sole of my foot? What about a ten? An anvil landing on my ribs? Yeah, definitely a ten.

It’s impossible to describe the pain that resonated throughout my silicone organs, so gentle and incapable of fighting the outside world.

How would they know if I was telling the truth anyway? If I told them my rating of my torture, that is. How can someone rate their pain anyway? Is it possible? Is it accurate? My rating could mean something entirely different than theirs. So what does a rating truly matter?

My perception is different than yours. That’s a fact. There are millions of sides of the topic, but no matter which point of view you take, this fact is true.

My experiences are mine and you can only merely observe what I go through – but even observations don’t give you the privilege to judge my adventures. You can’t claim I’m a goody-two-shows, a risk-taker, a neurotic mess, or a mentally deranged person just from a mere observation.

The five year monster that I’ve been fighting for a large portion of my life has come back to haunt me – but a mere pop of a pill seems to destroy the monster from within.

They suggested it awhile ago, but the side-effects were simply too obvious to the masked eye. I couldn’t do that to myself: not with Prom right around the corner. The last thing I wanted was for my face to resemble that of a blow fish; I decided to endure the pain.

Five years isn’t very long when comparing to a lifespan of one-hundred-ten, but a lot can happen within that small chunk of time. It all seems like a dream to me though. I guess it was, being as how I was asleep for the majority of it, but that doesn’t change the fact that it was real. The pain was real. The memories were real. And the monster survived.

My mother remembers it vividly. She wasn’t asleep at the time. She has memories of my structure and my pain; she witnessed everything she could except for the physical characteristics she couldn’t have felt had she wanted to – a want that would clearly classify a person crazy. I would never wish my pain or experiences on any other soul – not even for an understanding. Not even for a moment of time in the spectrum of life. Many people often claim that they wish they knew what I was going through, but not one of them could have truly ever meant such a statement. The truth behind an assertion as strong as this would be far more than they could ever bargain for.

I know there are far worse things in life. I know there’s hunger and animal abuse and oppression and poverty and genocide, but all of these can’t mask the pain I feel within. It can’t mask the tearing and shredding that my intestines are experiencing. Children in third world countries are dying from world hunger and poverty, but I’m dying because my system wants to believe it should.

Bacteria is meant to be rejected by the immune system, right? But food isn’t supposed to be considered a bacteria, so why does my system reject it? Why does it reject the nutrients and refuse my body its right to work properly?

My speech may seem vague and utterly metaphorical for a topic of such drastic measures, but that is due to the experiences I have encountered and the complete fact that none of them are truthfully explainable. I could spend days upon days explaining each horrific and horrendous day that I’ve encountered with my disease, but even after all of my descriptions, you’d still ask the most basic question: “How do you get nutrients?”

They don’t seem to understand. They don’t seem to realize that I don’t get nutrients. I don’t get food. I don’t ingest anything and I can’t digest anything. Depression ensues and all I can manage to do is fade away into oblivion and sleep my days and nights away while having medication after medication shoved down my throat.

Six years ago I had never experienced real pain. I had broken bones, sprained limbs, fallen down stairs, hit my head, dented walls, and kicked metal, but I had never experienced pain before the monster came to the surface within me just five years ago.

I couldn’t walk without stumbling; I couldn’t sit up straight without falling over; I couldn’t watch television without falling asleep; I couldn’t live my life without being a ghost that was hanging on by a thread.

Doctors claim that no one has ever died from this disease, but I don’t believe them. Another month or two and I wouldn’t be here writing this bland story about the knife that cut up my insides and left me to heal in a way no human being can without some form of aid – aid that “they” weren’t able to provide me with. Another month of two of being forced to starve and losing all forms of mass on my bones would have caused me to whither away into nothing more than a barely-breathing corpse ready for her coffin.

I have pictures to prove it, but even those cause doubts amongst the listeners. No one believes that I went through such pain at an age as young as twelve – even when many people experience pain even younger. They told me I was using it as an excuse. They told people that I was making it up. My “friends” disappointed me and walked away from me when I could have used a shoulder for support.

My body was bones. My stomach was a deflated whoopee cushion that had millions of punctured holes in it and would require help to be reflated. My intestines were shredded, and my life was no different than death.

My doctors eventually realized what was wrong, and they began helping me. The single pop of a microscopic pill and I had started to feel better. I was in remission. I was being healed. But this was five years ago.

Five years ago, I survived. Five years ago, I was able to live to tell the tale. Five years ago, I pushed the monster under my bed and gave it a good kicking until it was welded into the filthy carpeting. But that was five years ago.

It’s now 2011 and I’m now seventeen years old and the monster has returned. My intestines are deteriorating, sleep overwhelms me, and I strongly disagree when people tell me that no one has died from this disease.

I have Crohn’s Disease. It is incurable, I will have it for life, and my doctors are limited in what they can do for me. I have Crohn’s Disease: it’s not an excuse or a story for a passing grade. It’s my life and often my death. I have Crohn’s Disease, and that’s why I can’t rank my pain. I have Crohn’s Disease, and no one knows how I feel, because everyone perceives pain differently. I have Crohn’s Disease, and the only thing that can help me is the magical, microscopic pill that inflates my face.

Love On The Rocks – Short Story

"And cut!" shouted the director. "That's a wrap! Good job today, but you can all be better! So go home, practice, and rest! I'll see you all bright and early tomorrow for the first show!"

Packing up her bag, Melinda glanced around the room.

"Where is he?" she whispered to herself. "He told me he'd meet me here after rehearsal."

Stuffing her last ballet slipper into her duffel bag, Melinda swung it over her shoulder and began out of the auditorium.

"I can't believe he did this to me again," she thought to herself as she let the door skip closed on its own.

• ~ •

"Hey! How was your day?" Drew's computer chirped as his message was sent.

Melinda glided her mouse over to the small red box on the top of the chat window that had just appeared.

Waiting a few minutes before resending his message, Drew glanced at his buddy list. Scrolling down to xxgottaluvmexx, he double clicked and started typing – momentarily forgetting about midgetmelinda.

"Hey Courtney! You were amazing in rehearsal today!" he chirped over to xxgottaluvmexx. Then realizing he hadn't received a reply from Melinda, he scrolled back to the top of his buddy list and double clicked on her name.

"Melinda?" he sent.

With a deep sigh, Melinda clicked on the chat window from XlovemedeadX.

"What the hell do you want??" She typed into the small box, but before hitting the return key to send it, she thought better of it and deleted her message.

"Hi." She decided to send instead.


"Oh hey Drew! Thanks! You were great too!" Drew's computer pinged in, as Courtney replied.

"Not nearly as great as you! But thanks anyways!" He argued as he chirped back. Talking to Melinda and Courtney at the same time was challenging but being that he could sense the tension with Melinda, he decided to focus on talking to Courtney instead.

"Haha I'm not really up for arguing with you Drew," Courtney laughed as she typed.

"Good! Then I win by forfeit! =]" Drew gloated.

"haha surreee I guess so. lol so how are you?" She asked, trying to change the subject.

"I'm good thanks!" Drew replied with a glance over at Melinda's chat. "How are you?"

"I'm pretty good. Just tired I guess." Courtney hinted.

"Oh...are you sure? Do you want to talk about it? I'm here for you," stated Drew sincerely, holding his breath while waiting for her answer.

"Oh, no thanks...umm it's a long story. I'm fine. Besides - isn't Melinda on? You should talk to her... I'm getting off anyways. Thanks tho!" Drew's computer pings again, his heart falling as he read her message.

"No problem! I'm always here for you Courtney! But have a good night! I'll see you tomorrow at the show!"

"Right! Okay, thanks. You too. See you then! Night Drew." Courtney's computer chirped as she sent her good-bye.

"Good-night Courtney."

Saving the chat, Drew closed the window and opened up Melinda's again, her "Hi." still waiting for a reply.


"Hey! How was your day?" he enthusiastically typed.

"Just dandy." Melinda chirped.

"That's great! Right?" Drew bubbled.

"Not really-" she sent, starting to type why; Drew decided to reply first - not acknowledging her message.

"My day was great! We had a sub in english and we watched a movie in history. Then we had rehearsal, but after rehearsal Dillon, Charlie, Jeff, Sarah, John, Mary, and I went to get ice cream. It was HILARIOUS!" Melinda read, deleting the message she had planned on sending him.

"Good for you." She sends, hoping to get her point across.

"I know right?! I had a blast! You should have come!" Drew continued to bubble into his chat.

"I wasn't invited." Melinda sent blatantly, closing the window hoping that he'd just shut up for once.

"Well it was great!" popped up Drew's screen name, XlovemedeadX. "Anywayssss," he prolonged. "I'm gunna go. ttyl!" his chat chirped on Melinda's screen. Before she could reply to say "bye," a message popped up in faint grey lettering.

"This user is currently offline," it read.

Fan-freakin-tastic, she thought to herself.

Sunday, July 1, 2012


A touch sends sparks

A smile brightens the

A hug destroys the

And the presence
awakens the possibilities
of happiness

because every moment
spent thinking about
is magical

In The Raw

I go through life ignoring myself, until I witness someone in need of help, much like myself. I can't imagine anyone else surviving what I've been through, but they have – and they do. I'm broken ... imperfect ... asymmetric inside and out. You can't tell by looking at me, yet sometimes I wish you could.
I don't have it that easy. I fight to live, and I often have to remind myself to fight, but I do, because my dream is to make a difference.
But in all honesty, what can a diseased girl be worth in society besides a lot of money to the pharmacies?
I'm worthless, but I'm still alive. And as long as I am, I'm going to make it known.

Help The Helpless

I search and struggle
spending my years living
yearning for the epiphany
that would make it all
that would open my mind
and provide me with the answers
I need
to set my mind to rest
but before that happens
it will endure the secrets of the
it will become a ghost of solitude
and before I can find my
I'll forget my questions
because that's how
the world works


The world is complaining
but you remain silent

the telephone rights
and your heart races

no one knows what you're
no one knows what you're
going through

your mom answers the phone
and you see the teardrop
escape from her eye

and that's when you know
that life isn't fair.


It's overwhelming really
the pressure we feel
but are unaware of

against our
holding us together
in one broken

we try to hold on
as we get knocked down

it holds us together
when we want to drift

it keeps us here
but we have no idea


You look around and see
numerous familiar faces
that are merely

You look around,
looking for yourself
in their eyes.

You look around and see
an unfamiliar face
– ridges and creases
that follow no pattern,
but rather have a mind
of their own.

          The eyes empty,
          the face hollow.

You look around
and recognize
the mirror
with the unfamiliar face.


the trees pass by
the wind whistles past
the sun rises and falls
with the sky
– but all I can think about
is how you left me