Poetry Perhaps?

   In my college poetry class we had to analyze a lot of poems, no duh right, and a lot of them were unbearably stupid, probably no duh again. For the most part it wasn't too horrible, I got to write a lot of papers over stuff I pretended to know. Pretty much I bullshitted my way through the entire semester and ended the class with an A-. Not bad considering I was shit at the actual tests and my papers and short essays for the tests were what got me that grade. One of the poems we read during that class caught my attention, it isn't that amazing to me, but, still I fancy it a bit. It's by Sir Philip Sidney written sometimes in the 1580's, who is considered a great, and the theme may be over done by now but my god does it speak volumes about the selfish nature of love an humans
       Astrophil and Stella by Sir Philip Sidney
   When I was forced from Stella, ever dear,  
   Stella, food of my thoughts, heart of my heart, 
   Stella, whose eyes makes all my tempest clear, 
   By iron laws of duty to depart, 
   Alas, I found that she with me did smart;
 I saw that tears did in her eyes appear;
 I saw that sighs her sweetest lips did part, 
 And her sad words my sadded sense did hear. 
   For me, I wept to see pearls scattered so, 
   I sighed her sighs, and wailèd for her woe, 
 Yet swam in joy, such love in her was seen/
   Thus while th'effect most bitter was to me, 
   And nothing than the cause more sweet could be, 
 I had been vexed, if vexed I had not been. 

Weird, but nice. I'm not going to analyze this. I hate having teachers over analyze anything and I hate doing it at all, so make of it whatever you want. 

 

The Second Story

   In my senior year of high school I had a wonderful teacher who had my Adv. English class write a lot of essays. I loved it, since I'm such a nerd for writing anything especially when I get a grade. The teacher was wonderful and was always very helpful and gave great constructive criticism. I know that sounds cliche, but it's always nice when someone can be helpful and supportive with anything you love be it writing or painting. It's great to have friends always say that what you do is perfect and amazing but that doesn't always help you become better, this teacher could do both. I thought I would share an essay that I did for her class. It's kinda stupid, but only slightly embarrassingly funny, not for me though. 
   Anyway, now to the story, which comes with it's own really bad title(please don't judge too harshly)

      'I'm rubbish at titles, but here's a tale'
   A tent overhead and a blanket as a bed was the most I'd ever had as a bedroom. This never bothered me, I suppose it was how I thought everyone lived. My mother told me when we left I would have a room all to myself, and I could paint it any colour I wanted. I waited three years for that bedroom to come, but i ended up sleeping on the floor of my grandmothers living room with my occupying the couch, this didn't bother me much, either. After five years, with a brief break  when we lived on another floor in California, we moved into our own house. one that we would own.
   This house always smells of sharp peppermint with a faint hint of animals. The floors creak wherever you stand an the air suffocates you when in silence. The house will leave splinters in your feet if you shuffle, but the fur that clings to your clothes claim you belong there. 
   In truth, the house was nothing I expected. There are two bathrooms and three bedrooms, the kitchen is large and dirty smelling of peppermint and dish soap. The floor is breaking, and if someone steps too heavy it may break, bringing their leg into the house itself as if claiming that person for its own. My room is the one closet to the front. I claimed the closest bathroom, but soon discovered that the bath didn't work, so I was left with a leaky toilet. 
   It was just becoming summer, but the air was heavy. I was sitting on my couch looking out the large bay window that the door stands by, watching the birds finding food in the yard. G was talking with my mother, and  had been talking to me and didn't notice I had drifted into my own world. An old air-conditioner was squeaking with the effort of cooling the room, but swear still stained everyone's shirt. C then asked if we could sit outside on the two broken riding lawnmowers that had come with the house, and we stared to leave through the backdoor, but was paint flecks fell into our hair, G said she would go to the bathroom first. C and I sat outside, enjoying the cool breeze and looking at the sheet rock falling from the carport ceiling. G poked her head from the door, "Hey, I need your help, I think I just broke your commode!"
   I knew after that day, the house was not what I wanted, but I could laugh with my friends an that's what made it worth all the work. 

So, I know it's weird to keep using just one letter in place of peoples names, but I don't wanna use fake names or their real names, so just bear with it please. In this story G and C are mentioned a lot, and C was mentioned in the first story as well, but they are two of my oldest and best friends. C is a guy that I've known since the 1st grade, though we didn't see each other again for many years, and G was my first real friend that was a girl. She is still one of my closest friends and we managed to go to college over 1000 miles away from home and I still cherish her so much. The day in this story is one of my favourite days that I can remember, and this is only the very beginning of that day. I really hope you enjoyed it though. 

Song #2

     I spent many nights in A's dorm room, dividing the weeks into nights spent in my room with my roommate and night spent with A so she wouldn't be lonely. In my room I slept on the top bunk, in her room she slept on the bottom bunk, she was afraid she'd roll off the top. (something I've done many times, and my roommate RG threatened to un-bunk the beds if I kept falling off, J tucked my sheets in super tight so I couldn't fall out.) A's roommate, who hardly ever slept there, T wouldn't mind if I slept in her bed, but I took the futon as my second bed and I loved it. Point being, I spent a number of those nights in A's room laying awake on the futon trying not to destroy her phone because she went through a phase of wanted to constantly listen to a certain song on repeat. I want to share that super annoying song. I don't particularly like it though I do appreciate it, and when I hear it I think of one of my best friends. 
Might I also add, I am very much not a fan of the Twilight stuff, but since A is I deal.

   Bella's Lullaby-Composed by Carter Burwell, played by Stan Whitmire

Song #1

'Who Stole The Kishka- Frankie Yankovic'
The Song of the day, from the ever lovely J's recommendation. Tomorrow there will be a song from my other best friend A to look forward to.

Judgement/The First Story

    I just wanted to say, I hate making assumptions about people, putting them into categories. I hate when people assume that I am something I'm not, and I don't want to do that to other people.
  (just fyi I broke the index finger on my left hand so, my typing is not the best if I make mistakes please forgive me.)

     Here's a story!

         Cluttered Places

 There's an old antique store on the highway. It's just a bit closer to town than the football field. C and I would walk there on hot sweaty days, full of dehydration and excited laughter. The building is long and tall, with junk and hidden wonders piled as high as the ceiling. The free standing piles are taller than me, and even taller than C. When we walk through the narrow pathways, we get lost easily and everything seems to be filled with magic and nostalgia. The air is thick and filled with dust, bringing the inhaler out of C's pocket. Everything we touch is brittle with age and non-use. The floor underneath our feet alternates between dirt covered concrete and dirt covered cloth that has fallen and no one bothered to pick up. 

 There's one aisle that is directly in front of an old air-conditioner and is freezing cold. We sit on baskets of yarn and breathe in the musty air an feel it's coldness collide with our sweaty skin. We share whispered laughs even though the owner is miles away from where we sit. Everything is dirty and secret, no one can hear our talk or judge how we miss our childhood as we gaze at ancient kids' meal toys. Everything is perfect in that piled high cluttered building. We stroll around until the high fluorescent lights begin to moan and shut off, and we make our lazy winding way through the makeshift aisles and emerge into the bright outside world, once more thrust from our little dirty heaven.