Today, as some of you may know, is the world day of Poetry. It's also the day for the Forest and for Racial Discrimination, but those I'm going to overlook. So, here you go... A poem... By Me.

 

 

Chronicles of my Forlorn Fate

 

I am me, myself, and I,

And that I’ll be until I die.

A child of bewildered nature

Now taking part in the rupture

Of our fragile little word,

Yet just a fragile little girl.

 

I am me, myself, and I,

And that I’ll be until I die.

Of bewildered nature born,

Brought to this world condemned to mourn

The wounds I know will never heal;

All I trust’s the pain I feel.

 

I am me, myself and I,

And that I’ll be until I die.

Left alone, locked in this cell,

And suddenly I’m trapped in hell;

And despite I know it will not end…

I just wish this pain would mend.

Closing my eyes I know what’s real:

Although these wounds will never heal,

Although I’m locked up in this cell,

And find myself alone in hell,

I am me, myself, and I,

And that I’ll be… until I die.

 

Alright. Please leave a comment and let me know if I've messed you up and should never write again, or if you, by chance, liked it...

So hello, complete strangers! Here I am, once again, that girl, you know, the one you've never heard of before, pouring out her soul again. *sigh* One can say I've been having problems. Yes, problems that would fit a corny diary entry. Here goes. The names have been changed, just in case someone I know actually runs into this entry...

 

Dear Diary:

Zach is messing with my head. Zach and I are very close friends, but recently he has changed. I might as well start from the beginning, since I'm starting and nothing can stop me.

I met Zach two years ago. He came from a different school, and was thrown into a class in which he didn't know anyone. Fortunately, my class is quite homey, and treated him right, and soon he and I were best friends. At school, I'm willing to spend my break watching him play football (soccer), as he is able to stop what he's doing to come with me to the bar. He's sweet.

This year we started playing a game. It's called Mess Up The Teachers' Heads. Zach and I pretended to be going out. It was hilarious. He'd run across the room everytime classes started to pull out my chair, and hold my hand during Maths, and put his hand over my mouth to them kiss the back of his own hand... It really messed up their heads, as we had imagined. Of course, throughout the whole game we'd tell each other pretty weird corny stuff (like this entry) such as 'You are my reason to live', or say 'I love you' in several languages. Twas fun!

Recently though... Things have been different...

Zach sometimes stops and looks up at me, and says something like 'If only you knew what I really feel.' And I don't know if he's kidding. I don't know what he expects me to reply. If he means that, and he likes me as more than a friend now, what am I supposed to do? If he does, I want to tell him that I like him as a best friend, whom I keep in my heart, and nothing else. But what if he's kidding and I find myself telling him that?! Will it ruin everything??

I really don't know what to do. The game is beginning to mess with my head as well as the teachers'. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to goof around with something like love.

 

Because Zach really does mean a lot to me. Once, my wallet with all my documents, my mobile phone and, most importantly, a notebook in which I kept sketches, authographs from authors, and small short stories I had written, were stolen. I was very, very sad, and everybody was doing their best to comfort me, but they couldn't, because the notebook meant a LOT to me. So, after most people had wandered off, Zach grabbed my shoulders, and asked, without any intention to make fun of me: 'Do you want to cry, Alde?'

And I nodded, and he just held me close as I did. He's amazing. I don't want to lose his friendship. I wouldn't trade it for the best romance in the world. But how do I tell him this? How do I know how he feels?...

 

Heck, that was corny.

Wait for the one who will describe you as pretty instead of hot.

Wait for the one who will call you back after you've hung up on him.

Wait for the one who will point at you and say: 'She's the one.'

Wait for the one who isn't afraid to make a point and say he's beyond all labels and wear the clothes he wants to wear.

Wait for the one who makes you smile in the darkest hour, and for the one who isn't afraid to cry in his.

Wait for the one who will stay up just to watch you sleep.

Wait for the one who will kiss your forehead.

Wait for the one who will hold your hand in front of the whole world!

Wait for the one who will constantely remind you of how much you mean to him and how lucky he is to have you.

Wait for the one who won't be embarrassed to lay down on the wet grass with you to watch the stars.

 

That one will be the one to make you happy. Don't expect him to be clever, or witty, or handsome. Those things you don't choose to be. Pick the one who isn't scare of loving you and wants everybody to know.

 

I sure will wait for that one.

Won't somebody tell me what they expect from me?

I'm different. I know I am. I'm not like any other girl at my school. Unlike them, I don't dress in skirts that look more like belts, have a hairstyle that the Inquisition would consider heresy or talk in a high flirty voice. I wear the clothes I find more confortable, my hairstyle has more hair than style and my voice is just, well, normal, and always quoting uninteresting facts instead of pointing out how incredibly manly someone's voice is.

No, I'm not that much of a popular person. I don't have loads of friends/followers. I have friends. I have four friends, one of them having recently moved away, so I am rather glum about making new friends. I focuse a lot on my studies and read a lot. I spend a rather considerable amount of time with my nose in a book or writing about some weird world in some other universe. A Universe where things are all right.

My mother always seems to be expecting something else. My mother stares at me strangely when I walk in the house with my friend Danny, she is constantly asking me if I'm going to this 'funky party she heard about at the disco'. I stare blankly and say I don't like the disco, because it's loud and crowded. She always seems like something smells, and walks away. She expects me to be someone else. She asked me once 'Dear, how many friends have you?' 'I don't count often mother' I dodged the subject. 'Count now.' 'Four. Four, mum.' 'Why don't you make new friends?' 'I'm perfectly happy with the ones I have now.' 'But you're so pretty. A pretty girl like you could be so popular.' I pretended I wasn't listening any more, and kept reading.

What does she expect from me? Are all parents like this? Expecting children to be something they're not? I'd easily understand it if she wanted me to be something better, but I don't understand it when she wants me to be someone different. Heck! I'm doing my best here! You've been a teenager, you know what I'm going through. Why does she press me?

 

If you're a parent reading this, defend the honour of all parents and explain this yearning to turn the child into someone different. Thanks.

 

Cheers mates.

Well, let's have the getting to know me thing, shall we?

 

 

1. What time did you get up this morning? 8.30AM
2. Diamonds or pearls? pearls
3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Syriana