This I Believe - A Poem

Boop.
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This I Believe

I believe in logic and reason and fairytales.

I believe that princesses are capable of rescuing themselves,

thank you very much,

and the best princes are the ones who look

like they were raised in a library, not a castle.

I believe that knowledge is the air I breathe but that I would still

be a Gryffindor if my Hogwarts letter ever arrives.

I believe that Thomas Edison was an idiot and a conman, and that

the utter lack of Nikola Tesla in the books we use

to teach our kids about the past is obscene.

I believe in strength comes in different flavors -

Queen Elizabeth I of England was just as fantastic

and daring dangerous as Ching Shih.

Julie d’Aubigny would have been one of Shakespeare’s muses.

I believe in taking lessons from the past but not pretending

that the past is over,

because I believe the past has already happened,

is still happening,

and will happen all our lives -

that time is happening all at once and if we just had a force strong enough,

we could break through and see what really happened

and what’s in store.

But mostly, I believe that history is an unforgiving mistress.

I believe that the quantum theory is correct

and nothing tangible exists until it is observed,

and so the same must be true of the intangible -

of love and trust and human resilience.

I believe that music is the one language that everyone speaks

and that it will never die out.

I believe in a god who doesn’t exist anymore

and a god who only exists when I want her to

and that there will be no pearly gates at the end.

The afterlife is what we decide it to be

and some people don’t want to live again -

they just want to go to sleep

for a long, long time.

I believe that H.P. Lovecraft told it like it is,

that W.B. Yeats was a master wordsmith,

that J.K. Rowling is the cornerstone of my childhood,

and so it must be true that people who go by two initials

have a better sense of the world than most everyone else.

And of course, J.R.R. Tolkien had the good sense to go by three

instead of two, and that’s why he spent time talking to the trees -

because he knew they knew what we did not.

And I believe that this world is a senseless and random

repeating pattern of elaborate nonsense that only makes sense

when looks at in pieces and not as a whole.

And those pieces will never fit together.

I believe in rainy days and rubber boots

and lazy summer afternoons spent sleeping under the bookshelf.

I believe in folk songs mixed with alternative rock, punctuated

every now and again by Bach or jazz or the Beatles,

in ancient mythologies moving alongside detective thrillers.

I believe that if I don’t drink coffee I’ll never grow up,

and in drinking hot tea all year long.

I believe in the possible and impossible,

the probable and the improbable.

I never believed in Santa but always in Peter Pan.

I believe in good TV and bad TV and that

Steven Moffat really needs to leave Doctor Who already.

I believe that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

would hate every single one of us and I hope whoever built his coffin

had enough sense to add in space for the all turning

he’d be doing.

I believe the sunsets really were brighter and the trees taller when I was little.

I believe the sunsets are fiercer and the trees wiser now that I’ve grown some.

I believe that the only thing that smells better than old books

is the interior of a car that’s been sitting out in the sun for hours.

At the end, though, I believe I only believe a lot of things when I have to think about it

and that in general

I just believe in semicolons

and ampersands.

My Starry Nights - A Poem

Um. Written for class based on the prompt, "You don't know it yet, _______, but..."

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My Starry Nights

You don’t know it yet, Vincent van Gogh,

but I will not be you.

The girl from a year ago could be seen

as the female shadow cast by the ghost

of a young you - overly emotional and insecure

about literally everything - but I

am no longer that girl.

A year is a year is a lifetime is an infinity,

and infinity has a way about it that changes

those who it touches.

I am still a suffering artist - and how strange!

How strange it is indeed

for one so young to label herself as such, but alas,

Vincent,

that is a link between us

I am willing to admit survives.

For while I am mad, I will not go mad, per se,

in the manner in which you

so fantastically did.  I’m mad

at the world, Vincent, and did you know?

I’m mad at how beautiful it is -

so fully, infallibly beautiful -

because tell me,

my dear,

what should be allowed

to shine so brightly despite all

those trying to dirty it with lies

and crimes and murder?

And it is that anger, that unjust

and righteous anger,

that fuels my fervent and fanatical love

of art and all that it encompasses.

I wonder -

did you not once feel the same?

I made art my religion, Vincent,

a long, long time ago.

I will not succumb to the world and allow it

to swallow my passion as you did.

I knew when I first heard of you that

in you, I could see myself, and

that would be alright, but I also

saw myself as you, in the end,

alone with your sunflowers.

The girl from a year ago could still see that,

see herself alone in a cornfield,

letting the winds of time weather

her to nothing, “for the good of all.”

But as I told you, Vincent,

she is no longer the one calling the shots.

I will not be you, not wholly.

I carry a part of you but not enough

for me to choose to walk to you in the end.

I will not be a post-impressionist, for I

will leave an impression, and leave it loudly

and boldly for everyone to know.

I will make art, Vincent van Gogh, and I’ll be dead

before anyone tells me my art wasn’t alive.

I will be your antithesis, your counterbalance,

or, at least, I will do my best to be.

And someday I hope to stroll past

the Café Terrace at Night and see

the beauty that you once saw.

And it’s the years that separate us that

have given me a truly unfair advantage

in my quest not to be you, for

I am able to look farther into the sky

than you were ever allowed.

I can see with my own eyes

the sprawling expanses of billions of years

of untold history captured in the swirls

and intricate wrinkles of the starry nights

that you were only able to imagine with paint.

And let me tell you -

it is beautiful.

YOU ARE NOW REVOLTING WITH ENJOLRAS AND MARIUS

Okay so this isn't a story/poem/any sort of writing but!!!  Over the past few weeks Les Miserables has pretty much taken over my entire life

And this video is amazing and perfect and I just had to share it bye

How to Properly Appreciate and Utilize Sweaters - A Poem

Hi my name is Thalia and I post too many poems and like sweaters too much :')

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How to Properly Appreciate and Utilize Sweaters

Come to the realization that hoodies

And sweatshirts

Are all well and good but are not

As great

As sweaters

Carefully

So as not to arouse suspicion

Begin amassing a variety

Of this fantastic article of clothing -

Cardigans

Sweater vests

Sweater dresses

And just plain sweaters

All count

Riffle through your closet and see

If you already own any

That could be brought back from the dead

With a run through the laundry

There are no

Limits on fabric

But wool knit ones

Are generally

The warmest

Begin integrating

Your sweaters

Into your everyday wardrobe

And on the weekends

When you have

Nothing better to do

Gather your sweaters

And dump them

In a pile

On your bed

Careful to avoid the cat

And then flop

Into the sweater nest

And take a nap

Eleven Little Poems

Yeah.  Nothing is capitalized because that's just how I write when I'm throwing ideas down, which is what these are.  Some are vents and some are just really dumb.  Sorry if you're getting sick of my poetry by now.

I don't feel good and I'm unbelievably ready for spring break.

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I

they wanted

a miscreant

someone

who was enough of

a grenade

to explode

and paint them

in a false but

saintlike light and

whose escapades

would cause enough

noise to hide what

happened behind the

curtains so i became

their renegade

II

someday i'll

turn my back

on this dark age

ensconce

myself

and wait

for the renaissance

III

when it rains

all i want is to

curl up in a pillow

fort like the ones we

used to make

as kids

with a cup of

my favorite tea

and my laptop so i

can watch old black

and white movies

without leaving my

nest of nostalgia

and listen to the rain

fall down

IV

we are

a silent film

a single washed out

picture

with shaky edges

flickering in

and out

for hours on end

and

fading to black

before the producers

figured out how

to capture sound

so no one hears

the noise we had to make

V

it tastes delicious

but

who the hell

looked at a pomegranate

and thought

“let's make tea out of this”

VI

if it's not already

a citrus tea

then please

don't put lemon

in my mug

because it curdles the milk

VII

i still don't know

how to get

to the grocery store

and somehow that

feels

significant

VIII

i saw a flower bud

yesterday but today

it snowed again

and the bud is dead

dammit jack frost

IX

time to muddle through march's things

with all it's violent mood swings

and tantrums and feuds

and two-day-late missed cues

time to wait for the april's tears

to once again be shed here

to wash us clean

so that we may be seen

running wild through the rain

so that we can start again

X

it's almost

midnight

i need to be up

in six hours

why am i still

awake

i'm really hungry

XI

even though we can

agree that the world

isn't a very good place

right now and

even though we don't

know everything about

each other yet we

see each other

clear

enough

when we hug

On Bedtime Stories and Fairy Tales - A Poem

Another copy change, based on On Turning Ten by Billy Collins.

Written nearly four months ago.  I don't have much else to say about this.

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On Bedtime Stories and Fairy Tales

The whole idea of it makes me feel
Like maybe nothing I know is real.
All of it is void, useless dust
And I’m a flicker-flame, and I must, I must
I must...
Must what?

You tell me these stories, then say they aren’t true
But do I really believe in you?
The dragons burned up the knights; they are long gone -
Just like my ocean and my ancient, dead gods.
If you’d sing me lies to sleep, then how can I trust
That everything else isn’t corrupted by pride, envy, and lust?
Once upon a time, I’d gladly give over power
And wait for Happily Ever After, locked up in my tower.

But now I am wiser; I’ve seen through owl’s eyes,
And I’ve seen past the magic and castle disguise.
Another prince.
Another knight.
Another evil.
Another fight.
More towers, more monsters.
More love at first sight.

This is the beginning of an uproarious cheer.
Give me your hands, this is something they have to hear!
There is no time to wait for some kid on a stallion -
He won’t be joining in on this rebellion.
You say it’s the witches who deserve to be burned,
But I swear to you, this isn’t what I’ve learned.

It seems like only yesterday I thought it was all true.
But I see now, all that I thought I knew...
It’s all been washed clean, painted fresh with rain.
The storybook of roses, someday I’ll set it aflame.

Love Poem to the Sandman

Yooooooooooo what up

I was going to post the first Power of the Pen story last week.  Like, alternate poems and stories every two weeks?  But then I got sick and then I got busy and I still haven't typed the story up, so here's another poem!  My LA teacher read some poems by Catherine Pierce and liked her idea of writing love poems to things you normally wouldn't write love poems to, so he had us do that.  I haven't read any of her poems myself, so it's not really a copy change, it's just sort of inspired by her.  Anyway.  I like to sleep and was really tired as I wrote this, but I didn't want to write to just sleep, so I wrote to the Sandman because heck, the guy does a lot, with bringing dreams to people and all.  I also saw the movie Rise of the Guardians recently, and as much as I love the rest of those dorks, Sandy was my absolute favorite <3

Golly I write too much up here.

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Love Poem to the Sandman

A thousand words paint a picture
But a thousand words isn’t enough
To accurately describe to others what I see
Every night that you come knocking on my window
And, sir, to be frank with you
I don’t even think
That ten thousand words would suffice
But who knows
It might

You don’t come every night
Because where would the fun be in that?  No,
You are not uncaring, just busy
And I can understand the feeling
Of not being able to always be there
For the people you love

But that doesn’t stop the nights alone
From slowly humdruming their way on by
Disconsolate and wearisome
With the sighing harmonies of classical violins playing
Volume turned down low, just background noises
As I try in vain to chase down and catch and consume
The magnificent adventures you always bring

But when you are able to slip away
From the rest of the world and visit me
You always have an embrace reserved for me
Sometimes you hold on too tight, and
Sometimes there’s something that infuriates you
Or scares you
And you show it too me too
Even if I don’t want to see, don’t want to know
Just so you can have someone
Who is just as scared and angry as you

But most times, we’re okay
And your arms are kind and your words are sweet
You pick apart my mind
But lovingly, but carefully
Knowing me better than I think anyone should
Except, perhaps
No, probably
No, definitely
Definitely except you
And you treat each piece of me as though it has more worth
Than all the king’s horses and all the king’s men
And you’re always able to put me back together again

We steal out through the window
Like Peter Pan and Wendy
Off to places far more wondrous
Than Neverland ever could be
And hours later we’ll stumble back
Laughing

A secret kiss goodnight
And you’re never there in the morning
You’re busy, can’t spend all your time with me
I know
I understand
I’ve got places to be too
But I know that soon enough
You’ll tap on my window again

A thousand words paint a picture, sir
But I think it would take more words
Than there are grains of sand
To paint a dream