Sorry I'm not here... Doctors, you know.

I'm going to start a discussion with this post... hopefully. I won't be there for the criticism, but, sadly, I think this excerpt from a song holds some truth.

Not only am I quoting the scenest of scene bands right now, I'm agreeing with them AND probably insulting half of the class... Sorry, prove me wrong.

From the song "I've Got A Dark Alley And A Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth" on Fall Out Boy's From Under The Cork Tree album, Pete Wentz wrote:

"And I want to be known for my hits, not just my misses
I took a shot and didn't even come close
At trust and love and hope
And the poets are just kids who didn't make it
And never had it at all."

Almost unwillingly, I totally agree with him. Not on the first 4 lines, but I was giving reference. He wants to be someone, and if he wasn't, his lyrics would be considered poetry, no? Or at least songs that never got put to music, and are lyrics separate? Technically it's rhyming meter in stanzas... But hey, I wouldn't know the details.

Poets are just kids who didn't make it and never had it at all.

When I think of writers, I don't think of poets, I think of novelists who wrote the great literature that defines my high school schedule. Granted, I like poetry and creative use of imagery and flow, but I can't see why anyone would want to just be a poet. With all of the **** that's already out there for reading, I think the last thing someone would want to go into is poetry.

I'm not saying poets have no talent for writing as he is, but I'm just wondering why if you have some sort of knack for prose, why not try and write one of the greats, something timeless (not saying poetry isn't timeless, though).

I don't know what I'm really trying to say, I've already waited too long to start my English paper... but I just thought that it'd spark a heated debate, and I'm kinda sad I'll miss it.

If it doesn't, well ****... I don't know what to do.

P.S. - If I continue writing, I'm going to be a poet by nature of lyrics, so I guess I'm a kid who never had it at all... But I just think that it's true: unless you're going for something different with your writing, poetry isn't much of a hit to base your writing around.

Best animal ever.

The giraftopuss. Cross breed that me and my friend George are making. That is all.

I'm no saint, but I'll take you to your knees.

Slowly.. carefully.. he lifted his chin, eyes scanning her eyes and lips for an answer that he didn't have to hear.

The tearing started almost immediately, he knew... She knew he was too young to need this, but she couldn't bring herself to lie to him.

His chest felt like it was going to explode, he collapsed onto the floor in a fit of emotional distress, but most of all, he was confused.

What could she say? She sat there and tried to hold him in her arms, torn between just holding and trying to comfort with words. Every once in a while he'd let out a screech and twist himself out of her stronghold. It was more of a restraint than a safety.

So he's the man of the house now... That's what dad said anyway...

"Protect them, more than I could."

Why is it...

That self-image only works when you don't want it to...

Like, I try to come off as an amazing rockstar, but fail completely, and I'm just "Rene, he's cool and funny," but not what I want to be... Hey, I'll take that though.

But seriously, right now there's a person in my life that thinks of herself as the biggest piece of ____ in the world, and since she's thought that, I've absolutely hated her. To me, and probably everyone else around her now, she is a piece of ____.

But if she was to think, "God I'm the prettiest girl ever," she'd be stuck up and a b-i-itch.

What the HECK!

Wow.

You ever look back on any of your old stuff (that you've written, in my case lyrics), poems or whatever you do, stories, etc. and just think, "Wow, what was I going through that I think of something so horrible..."

I just found some suicidal like hardcore metal lyrics from a while back and I kinda got scared to think that at some point those thoughts went through my head.

I'd share, but only on request... So if you wanna see em, lemme know.

Done.

Done. 6 tracks. $6.

Best experience ever.

There's the line... well, not really, but just imagine...

Behind the wheel and everything is igniting. Behind you a blaze of memories, ties and blissful indiscretion. The sun shines through the rearview mirror like an lens peering into your very controls, almost putting the words in your head.

The shadow line.

As the car passes, the trees are lit with orange glow, like candles in the darkness... Like matches spreading fire.

Crossed the line again...

Into the valley of death, barren trees and bleak pavement on the road to nowhere in particular.

The sun's set now... No line, no warmth.

Headlights beam down a tunnel of nothingness. Branches nestled tightly against one another, creating a ceiling of leave-less firewall to the stars...

Hours pass and the candles are lit again.

Hello, morning...

Hello, home.

Take a step back...

Take a step back through the back of your mind.
Watch yourself in reverie of days gone by.
This is what you've been molded into.

And so the choir sings.

New beginnings? More like transient relationships brought upon by the shattering of a glass that is life. So a glass holds liquid, and the human body is a vehicle of souls, powered by liquid. Slowly, liquid evaporates and leaves nothing but a glass, and slowly, the vehicles break down and the world is left with nothing but matter.

Imagine, a glass that is still full of liquid potential, knocked over.

One life is scattered across such a vast area that it has no choice but to form groups and fend for itself, in all it's pieces.

But, if the glass put the liquid into a new world...

What else could it have been?

There's no 'I' in blog...

So she knew. All along, and he'd been afraid to say anything other than the usual "Hey, what's up? What's new? How's things?"

But he should've known, she's smarter than that.

There were signs... He's not as smooth as he thinks he is.

But wait... she never really scolded him, or shown him any emotion other than sympathy and understanding, obviously forgiveness, but in all honesty, she'd acted like it was alright...

That's where she lost him.

That's where he realized that he can't force himself to prolong this. He'd made a mistake, he'd learn from it, but he wouldn't go on unpunished.

Things change, nothing stops them. He watched her try and couldn't help but cry.

She lost him in the crowd; she never caught up with him.

Maybe he is as smooth as he thought...

Weekends, eh?

Here's a little tool I'm gonna use from now on. If my posts have a bunch of stuff you don't wanna read or I'm ranting/emo/boring, scroll down, it might have a tl;dr, which stands for too long; didn't read. It's basically a recap.

I hate how weekends are becoming nothing but 2 days to do work OUTSIDE of school. Seriously though, it's not even like we have 2 days off anymore. I barely have any time over the weekend to actually relax anymore. Since I've had my band, which I love and will never complain about working for, I've had to dedicate every sunday from 12 - 8 to practice and writing new material, then we all go home and THEN I start homework for school.

Saturdays are always filled with something else to do, find a job, work towards college, something for my mom, some kind of family thing. It's kinda depressing. Even my friends are the same way. A lot of them work a lot now that we're seniors, and it kinda sucks because it's just ruining our "thank god for the weekend" mentality, or at least for me.

Plus, I got this stupid flu from my sister... Being sick is the worst.

P.S. - Don't miss me too much, guys. I pass my stupid-comment-making ability in class to Dylan today, who realized how emo he really is over the weekend.

tl;dr - I'm sick, weekends suck, and Dylan's emo.

When Everybody Knows This Is Getting Out Of Hand

It's amazing to know that people care about something you're doing. Probably the most important thing that's happened to me so far in my life is knowing that people want to buy my band's demo. It may sound really trivial and stupid, but it's so touching to know that, even if it's just a way to support and they don't wanna listen, they want to help me live out my dreams. This CD is not just something I'm doing for something to do, me and my lead guitarist have written every song together, and it's so much a piece of us that it's more than you can imagine.
Actually, you probably can. Knowing the people in my creative writing class, I can tell that some of you are going to turn out to be better writersr than I could ever imagine to be (Laura, Mogget, and Chelsea, maybe Dylan, but he's just an emo kid ;]). It's like knowing that people would be interested in reading a book you wrote, or other people, it's like people wanting to hear your story.

Well, yea. I guess it's like the Rev. Dr. Hillman has been saying the whole time. We have stories. You write them, I try to, but my stories are in my music, and, God... Let me tell you... It's amazing to feel positive reinforcement on something so sensitive as music. I've had people who like rap and hip hop tell me they'll buy my band's demo and actually listen.

I don't know if I can believe it, but it hits me the same way either way.

I love it.

For Chelsea

Arlen tried to regain composure as he stared at the 5 drawers of the heavy, metal desk...
For such a colorful place as a coffee shoppe, Arlen couldn't help but wonder why the office,
or so he assumed it should be, was so void of life and cold.
His attempts, however, were in vain as he started to sweat from all the excitement.
Thoughts of his family ran through his head, the few memories he had were being replayed over and over as he made the first move toward the center, stationary drawer.

As he suspected, it was filled with pencils and staples, the usual paperwork materials. Nothing out of the ordinary.

But even ordinary would be enough for him right now. Any sign of how he ended up in Paravice alone, without any recollections of his life before 13 would be more than what he'd asked for.

Top left drawer, empty except for an old planner, dated 2012. He skimmed the pages for his name. Roulet... Roulet...

"Damn I wish I knew my parents' names," Arlen thought as he saw nothing but names and numbers with no Roulet to be found.

Bottom left. Folders of sales and profits, bills and charts...

Not even a picture. Arlen couldn't point out his parents if they were sitting right next to him, he had to adjust to his new life in Paravice as if his life before that had never existed. Because, for all he knew, it didn't.

Right side, top drawer. Stuck. He couldn't pry the drawer out of its jam, so he moved on.

Last one: applications for hire, past employee records. His eyes lit up as he remembered what pointed him hear in the first place. "Roulet? You related to that old coffee shoppe girl? What was her name, Leia?"

Flipping through pages he stared down pages with such a fervent determination that anyone watching could have swore he'd burn a hole through the paper. Names upon names of strangers who could help him find his family, and answer the questions he'd wondered for so long, the airship crew only knew as much as he did.

After about 4 applications, Arlen heard a noise from inside the dining room, so he grabbed all of the applications and began to make his way out. Once back in the dining room, he saw that it was empty except for him, and he strolled across the room toward the door.

Another creak.

Arlen darted around to see that a cat had found a way inside, probably escaping the cold of autumn in Fircenz. He felt relieved, but realized that he'd spent more time than he needed to inside, and that it was time to go. He thanked the cat and let himself out.

A chill gust snapped Arlen back to reality. Miles from anywhere he'd called home, it was time to find a place to stay.

A Big Ol' WTF?

I just saw the weirdest thing ever.

This isn't my piece of writing for the night, just a little observation from my day.

I just saw a kid, couldn't have been more than 11, with a Haro BMX bike, a RAZR cellphone, a Vote For Pedro shirt and seemingly brand new skate shoes. (I was at a red light)

Does that disturb anyone else? That's like ultimate "model for biggest tool ever" material.

Frailty

How appropriate that you blow down my card house
As soon as I'm closing in on the deck.
Winds through supports of cardboard and ink
About as breakable as my neck.
So you'll huff and you'll puff
With all of your breath,
Inhale, exhale, empty threat me to death.
And I'll light a cigarette
Against my best interest
To second-hand smoke your attempt.
My defenses in shambles
And all I have left
Is this cross I bear
For what reason, I forget.
Not idol nor practice,
But more like a test
Of how inevitable it is to regret.
So take a deep breath
And blow me to pieces
To scatter and die with the wind;
And one last gasp of truth
Before I weather the seasons
Hits my lungs like cancerous sin.

Microphone check: One, two, one, two.

Soundwaves pierce my shell
My protection from the world...
Hit me where it counts
Resonating in the chambers of my very soul.
Crawl down my spine to the tips of my toes
Where the wire meets my heel
To power me, control.
Scream to me, straight into my ear drums,
Collapse means nothing.
Keep the energy alive.
Keep the focus, keep the attention.
I'm here to make you heard.
I'm here to share your story,
Loud and clear through the speakers,
I'm living through you.
Vicarious.

Hands Tied

I hate when people can not make decisions for themselves.
You have a brain, you have a personality, but you let everyone else decide for you.
Seriously, if you're not going to be an individual, you might as well sell yourself to slavery, because you're only living to do what other people are telling you to do.
And I'm not talking about people who can not conjure up the mental capacity to make an educated decision, I'm talking about people like you and me.
"What do you want to do?" "I don't care, you pick."
I asked you for a reason. At least tell me. What the hell is wrong with these people.
Individuality is a gift, not an option.

I'm not saying I'm entirely self-sufficient or completely separate from everyone, but at least I can share my opinion. It's ridiculous. I'm gonna work on Arlen's story.

Continued from last post:

"Barely even inside, Arlen could feel the normalities of his life slip away into a fusion of past and present. This was a key to the past, where so much was going to be cleared up.
This small store was knowledge built into every brick, it was truth in every corner and shelf.
Closing the door behind him, Arlen glided through the entrance hall and into the main room of the store, which seemed to have been a streetside café of years past.
Coffee tables and bookshelves dusted over with a layer of neglect were just blurs as Arlen paced through the room to the back door.
Inside the office, he took a seat behind the desk in hopes to find a trace of his name."

P.S. - I'm not going to bull____ anything for a grade. I'm going to write and express myself when something hits me hard enough to initiate thought worthy of a post. I'm not going to write a post a night and let this become a LiveJournal, because I want it to be more than that.

Shows are the best.

So my band played our first show Friday night, and let me tell you, it was effing amazing.

The best part was people liked us. It was funny though cuz they were afriad we were gonna suck cuz we did a shitty home recording of a song a while back, and then when we played, we got the biggest response, it was cool.

K, time for some reflecting and writing, I've been thinking of this concept for a while.

"So there it stood, a dwarf in the presence of giants.
A seed to the past in a city far ahead of its years.
From the outside it looked like it was ready to blow in the wind,
crumpled up and frayed at the edges like a picture from the cameras back when the building stood anew.
So from across the street, Arlen Roulet stared through the window at the empty shop,
Nervous but excited to break in.
It was too late at night to get caught, but the fear still hung in the back of his head
Like the doubts of his motive in the first place.

This was it.

This was where he'd find his answers."

I'll continue it later... what a cliffhanger.