procrastination is the deadliest of sins.

Envy;
It touches the best of us,
If we’re lucky, it all but passes us by,
Merely brushing the outer layer,
But, more oft than not,
It is able to soak through our all-too-vulnerable skin,
Soaked in with the torrential rain of resentment,
Nestling into our hearts, poisoning the blood
With discontentment and greed;
And we covet and hate, seethe and simmer,
Until that weak flame of goodness
Dims to barely a glimmer;
As the witching hour draws near,
It is clear that the cunning, acid-green
Seed of spite has taken firm root deep within,
And it grows, alarmingly rapid, choking, dominating,
Until there is little room for anything else.

"You built cathedrals in my heart, And lit my pinnacled desire." - oh sass old boy, you're really a talented chap. marry me?

that awkward stage.

so, i haven't posted in a loooong time, but holidays are nigh, so i shall expect that i will be more active in my blogging once the time-suck that we call school is over for another term.
and as snow falls flake by flake from an unfeeling grey sky, and the metaphorical dam freezes over for its period of hibernation, let us sit back and absorb the wonderfully poetic words of Siegfried Sassoon...


Butterflies

Frail Travellers, deftly flickering over the flowers;
O living flowers against the heedless blue
Of summer days, what sends them dancing through
This fiery-blossom’d revel of the hours?

Theirs are the musing silences between
The enraptured crying of shrill birds that make
Heaven in the wood while summer dawns awake;
And theirs the faintest winds that hush the green.

And they are as my soul that wings its way
Out of the starlit dimness into morn:
And they are as my tremulous being—born
To know but this, the phantom glare of day.

*sigh* is it not breathtaking?
ciao for now.

i like my eggs hard-boiled, oh oh oh oh my gosh.

Having to wait ten minutes for something to cook while you’re hungry and craving another thing entirely seems like an eternity. “Eternity”, it’s such a romantic, poetic sounding word. Like a passionate exhale in a frosty winter night, our breaths little puffs of smoke in the icy air, or fogging up windows in confined spaces, overly warmed from body heat. Sweltering passionate exchange. If ten minutes can seem like an eternity, what does that make four hours seem like? Close my eyes, flashback to the previous night, inhale the musky smell of machine-generated smoke that, rather than serving its purpose in creating atmosphere (however one is supposed to ‘create’ something like atmosphere, which is supposed to be natural, is beyond me), instead obscures our vision in a slightly disconcertingly irritating way, a spark of annoyance tingeing the fun. We dance on, decidedly ignoring the agonizing ache of feet forced into instruments of torture, because they’re pretty. We compromise our values, allowing complete strangers to grab and grope, jostle and brush, because they’re pretty too. we compromise the decision to be frugal, because consumption of the swirling coloured liquids, regardless of the absurdity of the price attached, makes everything appear all the more prettier. And dark corners and repetitive beats and matrix-like green lights dance around and around like a music box on speed in my tired and tested brain, and I fight off the urge to sleep because it’s conversation I really crave. Ten minutes.

and yes, i am aware this is a bloody great chunk of writing. suck it up.

this moment.

life: new, innocent, their dreams still untainted by reality. we would do well to learn from them.

interruptions come at the most frustating times

Rusty flute,

Desolate plains,

Dusty ute,

Overused clichés

A smile on his face,

Tear tracks down her cheeks,

Fingerprints on the mirror,

Footprints in the sleet

Snowflakes on my shoulders,

It’s getting colder now

So open the door dear,

Please don’t shut me out.

An old brassy key

To an unknown door

Is all I can find

Amongst crushed leaves and folklore.

Goosebumps on my skin,

Impatient clock on the wall,

Ticking away the minutes I waste,

Until there’s none left anymore.

come fly with me.

wish i could just sprout wings and fly away...it's nice to have dreams.

he is my idol.

inspiration, seriously good writing, with a little more than a touch of comedy, but he pulls it off

musings about bowler hats and things.

"The world's got a funny way of turning 'round on you when a friend tries to stab you right in the face"

a whirlwind of emotions, compressed into a knot of unease in the pit of my stomach, pushed to the back of my overworked brain, a closet overflowing, doors forced shut, on the verge of explosion.
tears suppressed, mask of calm and collection collected and arranged, facade set carefully in place. and all for their sake.

cue the fake enthusiasm, all smiles and the laughter so easily forced, it sounds natural now. the nonchalance is reflex, and over time i have developed quite a talent for spinning poetic bullshit. all for their sake.

a dam builds. the walls strain, lips tremble, and then a feather lands ever-so-lightly on the apex of the build-up and it all comes crashing down. the doors burst open, floodgates let loose, stifled emotion released. and then its quite, the storm subsides for a few moments, only to be replaced by crashing waves of remorse and guilt, partially undeserved. all for your sake.

then you turn it around and throw it cruelly back in my face, blithely unaware of the pains to which i've gone for your sake. do what ye will, "label me little, lest one day i dare to grow"

i've had. enough.

morning after.

good things have a habit of disappearing quickly.
money goes before you realise what it's been spent on.
trust is shattered like a pretty vase falling to the floor, faster than you can save it.
dignity slips away quietly, unnoticed, like a happy dream.
faith slides through your fingers like fine, white sand on a beach.
people - friends, family - a few bitter words spoken in anger, or words not spoken at the right moment, and then it's too late, they're just...

gone.

then the remorse comes, like crashing waves, drowning, choking.
choking sobs. tears, salty like the sea, but there's no blissful, assuring beach anymore. only merciless, unforgiving guilt, and a riptide pulling you deeper into that dark place that's so hard to escape without the help of those friends and family you so foolishly pushed away.

'i'm sorry'
the words are tossed around so easily, but they are heartfelt. i just hope they reach the right people, and are believed.

blank.

tired eyes.

Overplayed notes linger in the air,
The song long since finished,
The music fades, only sound remains.
The dusky, musky smell of fake smoke
Whispers through the darkened room,
They never open the heavy drapes,
That obscure windows caked with grime,
And dust, and dead moths, built up over time.
A loner passes by in the lonely alleyway,
A mournful tune escaping from a rusted harmonica,
Nothing more than a thin silhouette, a faded cliché.
Their shoes are worn through with miles walked,
Pockets threadbare from many a coin forked out
To a fellow troubadour, just another solitary soul,
Who wanders, peaceful and silent but for their instrument,
No wish but to share their music with the world.

don't roll your eyes at me.

Played-out notes plucked from guitar strings
A masquerade mask made from sequins and things
A tacky pink hat, a feather boa to match,
A rusted old garden gate refuses to unlatch
Unnecessary chores, nights we struggle to recall,
So we go through the motions blindly, throbbing head,
Closed off heart, disused brain,
Now I’m running to catch the 9am train.
If I wanted to be clichéd, I might throw in some rain,
But instead I spilled a diet soda, I hope it doesn’t stain.
A dry cleaning shop I used to frequent, now it’s empty,
The owner ran away because he couldn’t pay the rent.
Such a dreary world we live in, all past its use-by-date,
And now I can’t be bothered to rhyme, so instead i'll leave
and waste some time.

glee (not the tv show)

here is the sea,
the wavy sea,
here is a boat,
and here. is. me.

and little fishes,
way down below,
wiggle their tails
and away.
they.
go.

i never wanted anything the way that i want you.

"i'm scared we'll fall apart tonight, under the moonlight, i'm scared we'll never make it right, take my hand and hold it tight."

fingers itching, hesitate,
should i take another chance?
i've already sacrificed myself
on the alter of dignity,
i've tried and tested, been intercepted,
is it too late now?
it's fading all to quickly,
but i'm urged to hold on tight.
the only thing that keeps me going,
is the memory of those beautiful stars that night.

yes, i'm a hopeless romantic and somewhat cheesy. deal with it.

she sings beautifully.

sekai wa ustukushi soshite, istuka watashi wa sono subete o miru darou.

an unexpected turn of events.

i found this, and it was beautiful.

We Are Going, by Oodgeroo Noonuccal

They came in to the little town
A semi-naked band subdued and silent
All that remained of their tribe.
They came here to the place of their old bora ground
Where now the many white men hurry about like ants.
Notice of the estate agent reads: 'Rubbish May Be Tipped Here'.
Now it half covers the traces of the old bora ring.
'We are as strangers here now, but the white tribe are the strangers.
We belong here, we are of the old ways.
We are the corroboree and the bora ground,
We are the old ceremonies, the laws of the elders.
We are the wonder tales of Dream Time, the tribal legends told.
We are the past, the hunts and the laughing games, the wandering camp fires.
We are the lightening bolt over Gaphembah Hill
Quick and terrible,
And the Thunderer after him, that loud fellow.
We are the quiet daybreak paling the dark lagoon.
We are the shadow-ghosts creeping back as the camp fires burn low.
We are nature and the past, all the old ways
Gone now and scattered.
The scrubs are gone, the hunting and the laughter.
The eagle is gone, the emu and the kangaroo are gone from this place.
The bora ring is gone.
The corroboree is gone.
And we are going.'

these are the best days.

a collection of memories, each only a mere snapshot of the amazing year it has been thus far...

Utterly and completely.

"there at least there is clean seawater. let them drift in it."

my fingers frozen as i type,
ahead, i anticipate a nervous hype,
their faces will judge, their eyes will scheme,
i know i'm paranoid, but that's how it will seem,
and when it's all over, it will fade, like last night's dream.

they're running late today. anxiety builds, and frustration too.
i don't understand how they find it so hard...it's really not.

why do people resent the fog?
sure, it can make seeing what lies ahead,
something of a difficult task,
but isn't it nice sometimes, to live in the moment,
and to not have to know everything before it's here?
i like the fog. it has a certain element of comfort to it.

i unintentionally stole a library book yesterday. does that make me a bibliokleptomaniac?

"and, after a time, they will sink. deeper and deeper."

at times like this

it's a bleak morning,
only a thin layer of frost
to conceal the inevitable disappointments
that are sure to ensue.
but it will suffice for now.
in an ideal world, i'd turn away from it all,
and go to the seaside.
that peaceful haven of calm
that's always there, never failing.
to stand on the damp sand, and just watch,
watch the grey-green surf crashing,
the clockwork tide rocking back and forth,
back and forth, like a soothing lullaby.
consistent, reassurring. in a world that is ruled by change,
it represents the promise of summer, and better days.

"i fell in love on the seaside..."

sheer beauty.

i'm rather attracted to the idea of frost...

Unfair.

she screams herself hoarse,
and then some.
raw emotion boils to the surface,
the calm facade torn to shreds
in one violent, impulse of rage.
she sees red.
the worst part is, she knows she's not wrong,
and yet her actions drive her deeper
and deeper into a pit of consequence,
further and further past the point
of no return.
in this place, between these walls,
she is powerless, she has no voice.
there is no jury, only a biased judge,
and at times, it seems as though
all forces are conspiring to work against her.
one day, someday, she'll break away.
she'll leave behind all that oppressed her,
all that sent her to bed with seething, fuming
thoughts that kept her up at night,
and nightmares she should have had
were evident in the dark that shadowed her face
by the cold light of day.
yes, she'll walk away from it all,
and she will never. look. back.

varying shades of purple.

if i were to distance myself from everything,
stop caring, stop feeling,
retreat inside myself and become a total recluse,
would you care?
would you notice if i was no longer there?
if i were to disappear from the earth tomorrow,
fly away in a hot air balloon,
to some place where it's always dark,
where there is not even a sliver of silvery moon,
would you realise my absensce?
would you fly away after me, and bring me back again?
i sailed away in a little newspaper boat,
i made it from The Age so i thought it would float,
and it did for a while, until the reign came down,
popularity overrode my vessle and it drowned.
i become a floater and floated to an island
where i found that i did not in fact fit in,
so i think i'll fade into the background until i find my niche.