Woosh

I was looking through my old multiply blog, and look what I found:

The moon is a fascinating object.
The romantic, the mysterious, the unreachable.
But why does everybody adore it so much,
when it's just a 'chipped rock living on borrowed light'?(Gonzales, Sunset Hair)
Why do poets and fools gaze in wonder at the light of dead stars
and still make their wishes,
when they know well enough that there's nothing to grant it?

Maybe that's why we love the unreachable--we set our hopes impossibly high,
so that when they don't come true we can always say "I knew it was impossible." 

No harm done.

But inside we know, for that tiniest moment in between the skepticism...

we closed our eyes and wished
the way a kid does--
right before he blows out
his birthday candle.

Wooosh.

Sentimental shit from my 18 year-old self. I have to admit, though--that it's still accurate for me. Three years, and maybe things haven't changed so much. (Maybe they should.)

Questionable Intentions

I never meant to write today, but there’s always something about you that compels me—to write, and do various other things I’d never thought I even wanted to.

I never meant to read, but there’s something about a sappy movie at five in the morning that compelled me to.

I never meant to know, but I now that I do, well I guess I don’t mean to know how I feel about it.

Because really, I never meant to feel anything about it. (It’s the movie, I suppose. I unfortunately am a hopeless romantic.)

And if there’s one intention that I at least got to keep, it’s that

I never meant to tell, and I never did.

Stage Fright

I'd rather hide behind the curtains

I don't want to be seen.

I'd rather watch, dim the lights,

or man the ticket machine.

But I would sing in the shower

when there's no one to hear.

Oh I could be a rockstar

if not for this fear.

You see, I dream to entertain

with swooning fans at my feet.

To get up on that platform

and lose myself to the beat.

But I shake and I cringe,

I run away from the spotlight.

It's just this terrible, weakening

incurable stage fright.

Quite an impromptu poem for a humanities class tomorrow, because I realized all my poetry are either mushy, crappy, or brooding. I'm not sure if this is a welcome change though, it still seems a bit morose or something. Anyway, even if it's quite hurried, it actually is something I've been wanting to discuss for a while. But more on that later, I'm too scatter-brained to blog. Man, school is tiring.