The Chaotic Products of My Mind

MySpace
pitas
yahoo

The Mushroom: On being asked, whence is the fungi?
Monday, April 4, 2005

Last year in American Literature, we had to write apostrophe's modeled after one we read in class. I feel mine came out decent, and I just discovered it again> I thought it would be fun to put it up, so have fun with my mushroom.

‘Twas autumn, during an unwonted rain,
For the sky was clear just past the lane.
Then I saw, in a cool, shadowy form,
One lone mushroom who withstood the storm.
The air was warm and wet, and thus,
He had sprung forth to consume some rotting flesh.
He merely sat, and not once made a fuss
And remained silent, in the autumn air so fresh.
O Mushroom! In all of greatness thou stands,
Above all other molds, growths, and strands!
Now if one should ask why thou groweth so grotesque,
Answer not, but know thou’rt quite picturesque!
Sweet fungus, when you disappear where is it thou goes?
Tell me, is it to heaven, the air or the earth?
But perhaps ‘tis no business of mine to suppose.
Yet despite thou art death, I witness birth—
The creation of a fresh, spectacular being; new life out of death.

Creative Slump
Monday, April 4, 2005

I wrote this poem maybe 2 years ago, and forgot about it. It was up on my other poetry page back in the day which has since ceased to exist. But since then I have added and modified the poem a bit from its original version. Anyway, I hope you like it, and that it makes sense.

I’m wasted on words
And high on phrases,
Completely meaningless.
I’m drunk on these verses
That spin in my head
And make me lose all sense.
Incapable and incoherent
Sensibility no more than subjectivity;
The page is blank,
Beautifully blank,
As it stares up at me waiting—
Waiting for the words that aren’t.
I’m in a creative slump,
Wish I could dump
Out my brain
And sort through the grey matter
So I can find my head again…

A Song In Honor of A Playground Reject
Saturday, January 15, 2005

Any person telling you
Being a kid is fun—
Has uttered a horrible fib.
This is to the kids—
The new kids
The bruised kids
The weird kids
Who sit alone in the sandbox;
This is for the kids
With snow
Shoved down their pants;
The kid always—
Always picked last
In baseball, then
Hobbles back into the classroom
With bruised knuckles
And a tear lingering
In the corners of her eyes.
Any kid
Who got picked on
At recess,
Who cried in the arms
Of patient mothers
With the soft cries of
“The other kids at school
wouldn’t let me play with them
again today."
The weird kid
with the normal face
And the funny laugh
And funny clothes,
The shy kid
Who couldn’t play kickball
Or soccer
Or anything.
The kids who dare
Stand up for themselves
And get punched in the stomach.
The kids who stood out
And sang in their heads
And talked to themselves
Because no one else would.
The kids who refused to cry
When a class mate
Looked them in the eye
And told them they were ugly
Though Mommy says,
“You’re beautiful.”
This is for the kids
Who overcame,
And those who didn’t;
This is my verse
And my song
I’ve written just for you,
And maybe a little bit
For me as well—
To let you know
Hope is a beautiful thing,
And of great use.
I knew this,
I know this
Because I hurt just like you.

The Professional Claustrophobic
Wednesday, January 12, 2005

Cubular oak monstrosity
Scattered papers
Flickering light bulbs
About to die.
A creaky office chair
Foreshadowing.
Disaster.
Feeding on my reason.

Red pens of evil,
Satanic staplers,
Demonic scotch tape,
Ominous envelopes,
Paperclips
Of such sinister nature.
Ticking clocks
Crawling time
Glaring photographs.
Terrible! That screaming telephone!

Frazzled brains,
Sweaty palms,
Desiccated eyeballs,
Tired fingers;
Morning coffee
Poison in my mouth.
The stapler is grinning at me…

The mountains
Of papers, of forms
They laugh at me
And tumble—
They smother me.
The phone is screaming
I fear for my ears
The stapler bites
My little finger.

The second hand ceases;
Time himself
Mocks my failing sense—
Nine to five is now forever.

The gray walls
The cubicle
The prison
Closes in—

Effort! Futile!
My job is going to kill me…

Adolescent Anthem

Friday, November 19, 2004

I wrote the following poem about two years ago when I wasn't having a good day. I recently went back and edited it a little, changed a few things around. It's certainly not my best work, but it's a fun read I suppose. Enjoy.

I’m weird and I know it
I’m twisted but I don’t show it.
I’m a freak on the inside
But I don’t try to hide.
I’m aware that I’m strange
But I don’t wanna change.
Despite what you see
Don’t make fun of me.
So my emotions are wild
And I can act like a child!
I’m too much for a cage,
But it’s only a stage.
So leave me alone,
Don’t cry, and don’t moan.
Wish I could show you now,
(But there’s no way how)
That I’ll be OK,
You’ll see that someday.

I kick, scream, cuss, spit;
And every time I throw a fit
It sends YOU into a rage,
And you yell at me to act my age.
You’ll slap my face if I once again cuss,
I’ll wear what I want, don’t make a fuss.
Don’t crab about my tone of voice,
Your constant nagging leaves me no choice.
The things you do make me want to rebel
But you seem so blind, and time only tells
When I will break free
And reach maturity
That’s when you’ll be able to see
That I’ll be OK.
You’ll realize that someday.

Another assignment
Tuesday, August 31, 2004

This is a poem is something i had to write for Brit Lit. The format is really slightly differnt but I'm not good enough with HTML to figure out how to get it to show up properly. Anyway, I hope you like it, and please leave me some criticism on my tagboard!

I am from sticky, gooey spiking glue
In a yellow Got2B bottle;
I am from red hair dye, spikey jewelry, and big black boots.
I am from Cleveland Ohio, full of snowstorms in October, warm sunny days in January,
And everything in between.
I am from the pussy willows, pines, oaks, and maples; from those days when morphing<
Into monkeys was normal. And easy.
I am from “Make like a sponge,” and “Can I tell you something?”
and “Eat your veggies. It’ll put hair in your chest. Like Mommy.”
I am from a stage, an orchestra pit, and peaches in a can;
Loud screaming guitars, and mosh pits.
I am from a God in question; from a dark, cold, frightening Universe
That spirals wildly out of control.
I am from heartbreak, heartache, and other ghastly emotions;
From the perpetual darkness that is my world.
I am from hate, hunger, and such awesome love;
Such awesome love that can be shared.
I am from asking to be loved. Loved, in all its splendor and insanity,
In its tenderness, and in its pain.
I am from asking to be loved…

NEW PAGE!!!
Wednesday, August 4, 2004

Hello one and all to my new poetry page!!! The reason I have had to switch is because I completely screwed up the HTML codes for my other one and I have no idea how to fix it so I have decided to start fresh. Besides, I think this page looks much cooler than the old one anyway. So I hope you like it, and have fun reading the chaotic products of my brain. Oh yes, leave me some CONSTRUCTIVE criticizm on my tag-board. Thanks!

Killer Aqueous Parabola
Wednesday, August 4, 2004

This poem was written at about 1:15 this morning. (Yes, THIS MORNING!) Which means that the wierd, the strange, the downright bizarre managed to leak out of my head onto a piece of paper in a faster-paced, easier-flowing stream. So beware. And do not be fooled by the serious tone of the poem. Think about what is being said, then see if you can guess what evil, sinister, everyday object this poem speaks of.

The deceptive trickle of thy liquid cool
Leadeth me to believe in thy generosity.
Methinks thou’rt gentle
And kind refreshment I shall receive
I requested of thee only to wet my lips;
Give me only enough to sooth my tongue.
But thou hast much more than misted my face
And shot up mine eyes,
And scared me half to death.
My faith in thee thus gouged forever
To thou I shalt not return.
Ye lethal curve of thy killer aqueous parabola
Has turn about in me fear, resentment, and loathing
And hath caused me to shun thee permanently.

The Road 2 an A
Wednesday, August 4, 2004

That poem was written for an assignment in American Literature, and had two pages worth of requirements, which to me totally defeats the purpose of wrting a poem, but whatever. So yeah, that is why it's not as morbid or depressing as I usually prefer to write, and in my opinion, is just waaaaaaaayyyyyyyyy too positive! Don't worry, hopefully soon there will be more morbid, grotqsque type of Sami poems that there usually are... If this creative slump ever decides to leave me that is...

The Road
Wednesday, August 4, 2004

There were demons who danced
inside my cold, rotten head
There were devils who delighted
when light would not shine
Ebony Chaos had encased my tender spirit
so I never knew Music; I could not hear it.
I knew only Noise (that no one else noticed)
There were shrieks, cries and howls
that played and skipped in my head
like a thousand awful discs
of vinyl with needles gone foul.
Oh if Poe could only hear his dear Raven now!
How his squawking blasts incessantly in my ears!
How his feathers form upon me a cloak
so heavy, so Black.

A Pitch Pandemonium had rendered me helpless
and I’d wept and I’d prayed
for a certain Night to come.
Where beneath an ivory moon
my cheek, caressed by a kiss
will at last understand Warmth.
I look for the light,
white radiance to bathe me,
with a thirst for deliverance, again I pray:
wilt thou, dear Anthony,
assist me in my search? For
I seek to know that which is called Happiness.

In years have I grown, with guidance
By God,
now Wisdom has embraced me.
So with Cold and Content, and
occasional run-ins with Tragedy and Terror
I set myself free, and travel down
The Road, grasping Life by the scuff of his neck.

altavista
google
open directory