Took the SAT today. I know I didn't do well. I wish I could take it alone in a room. And not for three straight hours. Too much pressure.

I hurt every time I think of you, and it won't leave until I do.

So, here's goodbye to a happy end, and
hello to a new me as I again begin.

A reinvention of a completed self.

Starting over as I wipe the shelves clear of the dust that once was you.
As it floats away, I do, too.

I'm still around and act in life—
intermingle, but speak in strife.

They talk to someone who isn't there—
if they only knew when and where.

A second entity acts as me while I sit back and long to be
all the things you hope to find;
I can be those in my mind.

The shell I use is less than able,
an inadequate front that isn't stable.

Yet, it protects me from other forms.

Though theirs are dry, they are the norm.

A normal one I long to be, because they have eyes that let them see,
and that enables rank to follow:
accepted, sacrificed, and hollow.

I can't decide which route to go.

The outcome of each I think I know.

To stay in this I still have hope,
to part from this I tie my rope.

I was looking through a bunch of papers and I found this poem that I wrote a while back. Nothing special at all, but it tells of my feelings during a certain time.

The girl is a paragon of protocol,
resplendent in her social practice.
Yet, tempered to calm she wraps the truth
and stares beyond foggy interest and lazy glances.
Through yellow-banded glass and green needles
is budding hope of anything other than this.

Her mauve dress mottled with minute green acne
grows pastel arms finished with hard, merry red leaves
that tap tap tap the cages of her off-white pegs
when in doubt.

Writing poems that rhyme is a chore and taxes the imagination. I used to think that poems weren't really poems unless they rhymed, but I'm abandoning that. Just writing lines of sincere expression provides a much better delivery and release.

I've also noticed a difference in what I write. Sometimes I write with no regard to decorative speech, but I break open the dictionary for others. Rural versus urban, I call it. It's a nonbattle.

That's what's great about poetry. Anyone can write it, and it serves anyone who writes (or reads) it. Professional Poets—those who have strict standards and denounce anything that isn't up to par, empirically or otherwise—as I call them, alienate everyone from writing, but they're only hurting themselves. I'm saying this because of something I read on a poetry bulletin board recently. Someone had written a poem about their dead cat, and was basically lampooned. I think everyone should write—about anything they want, in any way they wish. Any sort of practice like poetry does wonders for you, and it shares important feelings and experiences with others. Anytime you feel like drawing, writing, singing, do it, for Pete's sake! It's good for you us.

I'm so young and already I miss the "old days" of my past. I don't know why sometimes. I've never had a girlfriend. I've been depressed a lot lately because of things related to that whole concept. Andrew has been a big help. He's the only person I talk to about it. I've been sleeping a lot lately. I hope I get out of this soon.

Maybe I miss the past so much sometimes because it was easier. I didn't have responsibilities like I do now. It's not so much the responsibilities, but the things tied to them. Blah. I hate it when I can't express myself well. I was never depressed about a girl when I was 9. You know? If something was wrong I could just go to my parents to fix it, or watch my favorite cartoon and forget anything. Now I've awakened with age.

Everything you see leaves a mark on your soul. Everything you hear leaves a mark on your soul. Everything you touch leaves a mark on your soul. Everything you make leaves a mark on your soul. Everyone you see leaves a mark on your soul. Everyone you touch leaves a mark on your soul. Everyone you love leaves a mark on your soul.

I followed Jennifer to her house one day after school a while back. No, she knew I was behind her.

She gave me a gray kitten. The piece of fluff slid around in a cardboard box beside me as I drove home. I don't have a name for her. I'm terrible at naming things. It seems so final and permanent.

Sam has company, now.