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You & Margot

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(no subject) [Sep. 27th, 2008|05:29 pm]
You & Margot

i love these days.

what should i do for my birthday?

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so simple & free [Aug. 27th, 2008|09:14 pm]
You & Margot

that's how good i've been feeling every day.
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I like these. [May. 29th, 2008|01:20 pm]
You & Margot
Low
by Arda Collins

It’s not happiness, but something else; waiting; Low; Bakeries; Lakes; Living Rooms; Movies It’s not happiness, but something else; waiting
for the light to change; a bakery.
It’s a lake. It emerges from darkness into the next day surrounded by
pines.
There’s a couple.
It’s a living room. The upholstery is yellow and the furniture is
walnut.
They used to lie down on the carpet
between the sofa and the coffee table, after the guests had left.
The cups and saucers were still.
Their memories of everything that occurred took place
with the other’s face as a backdrop and sometimes
the air was grainy like a movie about evening, and sometimes there
was an ending
in the air that looked like a scene from a different beginning,
in which they are walking.
It took place alongside a scene in which one of them looks up at a
brown rooftop
early in March. The ground hadn’t softened.
One walked in front of the other breathing.
The other saw a small house as they passed and breathed. The
reflections in the windows
made them hear the sounds on the hill: a crow, a dog, and
branches—
and they bent into the hour that started just then, like bending to
walk under branches.

I love the New Yorker.

Not for Chopin
by Arda Collins

Don’t put off your shower anymore;
Chopin, Frédéric;
Music, Musicians;
Preludes;
Listening;
Pianos;
Pianists Don’t put off your shower anymore
listening to Chopin.
Take the Preludes personally;
he’s telling you that he can describe a progression
that you yourself have been unable to see,
shapely, broad light at one-thirty,
evening travelling up a road,
an overcast day as gentle bones.
Don’t remember the music;
remember it as something obvious
that you are compelled, doomed, to obscure
and complicate. You erase it twice.
The first time
as you listened, unable
to have it,
the second time
as you were unable
to remember it.
Angry with Chopin,
what does he know?
The components of your dinner are waiting for you downstairs.
The golden evening takes flat, slow turns outside.
Become gray.
Listen to him describe what you would be like
if you were blind, sitting in a chair, at a wake, the days short, that there might
be nothing
else, night,
content, unable, unwishing, to recall desire, or sight.
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Spring [Apr. 29th, 2008|11:24 am]
You & Margot

I believe in windy days, where everything gets blown away.

feelin' you here again
hot on my skin again
feelin' good
a thing i'd never known before

what does it mean to feel?
millions of dreams come real
a feelin' in my soul
i'd never felt before

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(no subject) [Apr. 13th, 2008|10:23 pm]
You & Margot
I'm Einstein, disguised as robin hood with his memories in a trunk.

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(no subject) [Apr. 6th, 2008|09:33 pm]
You & Margot
I will write you a story. For you to read and for your children to read. I will write you a story, one that is only for you. Though this will be produced and read by thousands, it is only for you. Every eye that passes of every comma and colon will believe it is for them that I write but I claim it is for you-reader. I shout your name and say, here it is at last. This is for comfort and nothing else. For a sigh of reliefs on a day of defeat when you're weak. Now, as all stories come with some sort of dissapointment, I will tell you them now to not spoil your heart later. For I am the writer and I do not want my reader to be in torment with the given flaws. This is a tale that is incomplete, without a middle and without other pieces that proper stories ought to have. This story is one of a glorious vessel. 

Our young heroin, a sort of sea maiden with a heart trapped in love's tempestous quarrels. She started her journey out of her mother's womb smiling. From a young age with pencil in hand crafting words into poetry. Silly things of course. Nothing of true romance or adventure, but simple and pure similes and end rhymes. Entries that were easy enough and produced rotten laughter from classmates. After blows to her heart from events taken she built up her own barricades. And steadied herself strong. She became an actress and took quite easily and freely to the stage. She became what others were not her age and was a shadow of figures she dreamed to be. She was a player in her world but that narrator out side of it. But on an evening fireworks took display, she stood up straight noticing a fool out of the corner of her eye. Quickly she found herself without barricades and in a stolen season, one that would be later filled years past with a thousand apologies. In nights whispers she claimed what she had never known before. "I will have poetry in my life, and adventure, and love. above all this love." With those claims she was decieved. She grabbed at what was new and with warnings gave up love's prize for poetry. Absent friends and bright tears stuck in the plain land of Virginia. A heavy sick fever of love cast in her heart, and a farewell was given to whatever presented itself. In grays and ugly hues she saw the world outside of her vibrant tunnel vision. Everynight to the playhouse she performed but took in old words as fortune's own fool. Severing clouds covered drunken days standing tall. Pitty, screaming, her love was no lie. And her man was but only admirable. A rusty knife to those thought other wise. She left the theatre and put down gold to go to sea. She was tired. She wanted to be divded by a larger river and peak into adventure. Make it grab her by the throat and shake out the memories of the past. To make her sick out of love. After some time at sea there was a wild ship wreck, one that broke the heave and roar of the men on board. That brave vessel was thrown to the clashing rocks and this is where we found or heroin. For she was discovered. And from what you can tell in this description and the words that will not be written for your eyes that she was a strong soul. Surviving. A lady. With a battle within her greater then the atlantic and her soft spirit stronger then any worldly embrace. Her mystery starts at this unkown land, with an eager known boy. She starts on a vast empty shore and braves the wind with tears of conquest. "Farewell" with a dry swollow. 

Now how may I claim this incomplete story ends? Well, I can't say it exactly does. But for now with tears and poetry. And a dream that she will not buy, as she did in the past, but will find herself in. Nights that she will demand never to meet day, and a life sunken in what she always wanted. She writes in the sand by her new found companion,
Make me your queen,
cut my crown apart
rip all my glory
and lay me down like a fool
Play your part beautifully
You can be something green
Wrap me up like vines
grown to cover me.
Or be what you can
fierce & selfish
frustrated & unknown
Clear your throat to say
I've lost love but now with you not alone.

She has a new color in her cheeks. Place perfectly as if painted on by life's happy days. A fluctuating dark green ember burns on in her eyes, at downcast receding to sadness almost disappearing. At those times her mind is in those timeless memories. But with something new her mouth is more full and like budding roses braking through winter. So she laughs. And she dreams. She is not without hope.
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(no subject) [Mar. 31st, 2008|10:50 pm]
You & Margot
If I am alive this time next year
Will I have arrived in time to share?
Mine is about as good this far
I'm still applied to what you are
And I am joining all my thoughts to you
And I'm preparing every part for you

I heard from the trees a great parade
And I heard from the hills a band was made
Will I be invited to the sound?
Will I be a part of what you've made?
And I am throwing all my thoughts away
And I'm destroying every bet I've made
And I am joining all my thoughts to you
And I'm preparing every part for you
 


 I can't seem to possibly focus on school at all. There's not enough hours in the day for me to beable to get my head on straight and do my work. I was made a dreamer.
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The very quiet cricket, will he ever learn? [Mar. 24th, 2008|10:14 pm]
You & Margot

Learning to speak doesn't come easily.

Right Now:
Feeling alive.
Becky and Phil, individually and together.
Watching good movies before I go to sleep.
Fitzgerald
Hemingway
Sleeping with books in bed
Waking up and although wanting to sleep more longing to wake and start the day
Dressing comfortable and feeling wonderful
Writing honestly
Seeing Manon at school and smiling so big, so happy to see her.
Dreaming/Making plans for Summer
My mom.
Loving Becca.
ANDREW-making me laugh and smile and want to care for the human race all the time.
Studying earnestly
Planning on looking like Winona Ryder in the Vogue August 2007 issue for Prom and doing whatever it is possible to achieve that.

When the mixed-up chameleon visited the zoo the experience taught him the very important lesson of what it means to be yourself. I'm glad we both got out of there alive.

"The quality of exaggeration, of thinness, which has made her passionate eyes and down-turning mouth absurd at eleven, was gone now. She was arrestingly beautiful. The color in her cheeks was centred like the color in a picture-it was not a "high" color, but a sort of fluctuating and feverish warmth, so shaded that it seemed at any moment it would recede and disappear. This color and the mobility of her mouth gave a continual impression of flux, of intense life, of passionate vitality-balanced only partially by the sad luxury of her eyes."-Winter Dreams, Fitzgerald


Like a wild flower free.

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dancin' [Mar. 16th, 2008|11:20 pm]
You & Margot
It's burnin' like hell
And I'm left on the floor
My mind out of any relief,
thinkin' whiskey eyes
my naked thighs
covered up in my best knees highs.

Sheriff phonin', "there was a death"
And I'm runnin' fast,
runnin' away
as my poor mother begins to scream.
And my brothers head straight to the scene,
lonely old landlord drunk and mean.
And I can hear months of smilin',
laughin and thinkin, "oh love".
I can see all kinds of people
go from red to blue,
tall to fat to lean.

When I was a child,
I thought, stole, lied, as a child.
As I grew older,
I didn't dance with the devil no more.
Now my recently sore, lay on the floor.
Should be a jealous fool,
But I've got no heart to pump any good blood no more.

That liar sure did steal some things from me.
Like my money and my brain,
beating heart and good name,
kissing my lips hot with blame.
With a mind to unclear to think.
I was pulled under, while my eyes were still rose colored.
Yes, I was pulled under,
And my eyes blossomed soft red covers.
Now I've got no heart to pump any good blood no more.

When I was a child,
I thought, stole, lied, as a child.
As I grew older,
I didn't dance with the devil no more.
Just wrote dumb fool
until my eyes were no longer pink
death got me, fool in love
layin' across my bedroom floor.
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poison oak [Mar. 3rd, 2008|07:20 pm]
You & Margot
Maybe my phone is broken; the people I'd really like to get a hold of and see their faces and hug their necks i'm never able to. In exchange, I'm stuck with these words, sentences, and phrases of all sorts of convicted folk tales. After a night of frustration, of course I dream. My eyes close like bruised petals, when my heart and stomach then hold hands and jump rope. Fabricated crimson cycles of sleep produce the romances in which I always bitterly wake upon. My body is immobilized and alienated, only coupled with the sadness of reality which is the brick-a-brack that consumes my room. The strong concrete delusion; writing with cursive words that then droop lazily out of my cursive mouth around his calm curious ears.

These days everything is confirming and catourting in tight places, crowded all inside me. Everything is watching and waiting to release and resound, spiraling in the open endless sky. I ache to be withdrawn, softly unknown, and unlike. I ache with all of the old treasures and human failures. I want to not dream so sadly every night, with an old sweater in my arms, and the blinds withdrawn for me to see the possible shared night sky. But rather this way; playing with a new paired set of hands, exchanging foolish stares that go into stories of the day, drumming joy long into the evening, then waking with new eyes filled with tears of a future I'm so happy I can't see.

These days I count pumpkin troubles on my hands. For the reasons mentioned above and for cursed work lull that I and my friends currently have found ourselves in. The disability of not wanting to challenge ourselves until the end is more clearly scene. All my friends sit at lunch ready to get past the hooks and jabs of senior year. We sit all together crying and yelling for the injustice we experience from day to day but laugh and smile for the friendships we have stubbled upon within our cells behind the cold concrete bars.

I try my best to remember that I am apart and currenly in my hardest year of schooling. Competeing with students across the nation on stupid standarized tests, within my school for class rank spots or club positions, and in my classes for the better if not the best grades. I try my best to console my friends in frivilous hot situation days and not get too attached to their smiles and stories. For if I did completely bind myself, the year without them I'd be alone lost at sea, with birds nesting in my hair acid choroding my teeth and salt stuck on my tongue. I hope to establish friendships that I might return to and more strongly establish my last year in high school. Companionships that might match what I have found these past months. Possible people that relate to me, who understand who my family is with maturity, and press themselves to comfort me in days of oddity. People I may take rest in and do good for them fully, without having have much to ask in return.

Some days it really hurts. Some days I'm really bitter and full of a sad kind of anger. But now I know I am a brighter star soon getting matched for a better sky. There was a youth that burned away too quickly for me to hold on to. There was a fear crippling love and a boy who only told me stories.
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