http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ige8G7qpEF8

     Shaking in my closet, I try to type and balance the laptop on my knee. It's been a while, and I apologize, because it feels unjust that I can just ditch as I please. That seems though to be my main desire these days. After a violent battle with my parents, physically, emotionally and verbally, no thought is more pertinent in my mind than this: I need to get out. However you interpret it, an exit is all I long for.

    After a call to someone, I realized how numb everyone is to my unsettledness, but I know writing always extends a hand in my time of destitution. So here goes: Today I woke up, my consciousness focused on a strange dream in which my sister was giving birth to a Muslim and would have to give it up because she wasn't 21... a little nonsensical but bear with me. I gathered myself and stumbled down the stairs, exhaustion present in my step. I spoke to my mom, explaining my dream to her with brevity. She sighed and voiced her displease as I mentioned the fact that the baby was Muslim. I stood up for the imaginary baby, a more figurative stand for Muslims everywhere, that just because they come from a culture with terrorists means little. Are all Americans overweight and stupid? No. She used her shield of religion, "I just want everyone to know Jesus!" Because, similarly, all American babies are born Christian, right? I was set with unease realizing her prejudice, her obvious and ignorant racism. I let it be, finished my breakfast then went to the house possessed by the dog I'm petsitting and returned home after running into some friends on the walk back. From the first step on my lawn to this exact moment, the unease has succeeded in occupying my whole body. Long story short, the tussle abridged to just a exchange of mean words, I am an ungrateful brat (repeat mentally about 5 octaves higher and that's more like it). Basically, I am a worthless child that is undeserving of anything but being pushed, shoved and/or hit. And for the past 41 minutes, I've sulked in this truth. I've been told by who I thought was my 2AM that they're just tired of hearing it. And, to be frank, I feel as if I am fighting for my life. This anger, this brokenness harbored behind my door is cancer, eating the good cells and converting them into   malevolent ones. And the outside of me, slightly battered, is not a valid reflection of the inside, torn and in tatters. As my parents yelled over my weak and poorly broad-casted defense, all I remember thinking was this: "For it is impossible to be feared and loved." My fear was suffocating, bursting into small droplets and falling from the corners of my eyes. It was exploding into red roses under my skin, doing an excellent job of turning my face nearly maroon. The fear was feasting on the traces of love I knew to have for these people who I shared the most genetic similarity with in this world. This fear was opening a chasm of which hurt would overflow. And fissures continue to appear, all over my body, a weak representation of the internal bruising. Because every inch of me is bruised.

-

I conceive the idea that honesty is understanding the meaning of a word. The word never has one definition, instead varying from person to person. And while truth is definite and solid, it is relative. It is relative to the person who speaks it. I feel that the world would be so horrid, so torn if only truth was broadcasted. But I have this perception that we would all be better, we would all be brokenly whole in some twisted way. We would cease to see these hues of gray that were materialized by the liars. We would see it, this life, as a shattering, paining beauty. We would be one hue of black, because we couldn't all be friends, and hold hands on the playground, but we'd know where we stood, and we'd occupy our square of territory. But all at once, we'd be a crisp white, dashing out of where we were stationed because we would conceal nothing. Life would be an hour of recess on the playground and everywhere you stopped and stood you'd leave as soon as you came. We'd push through the lines drawn with chalk and we'd smear them. We'd be so sure of ourselves we'd become lost. We'd be fearlessly exhausted. We'd run then freeze, like greenlight-redlight. And before we knew it, the whistle would blow and we'd end in a totally new formation than we'd began in, a shuffled deck of cards, anticipating being dealt again.

-

Dressed in white,
I'm letting you win this fight.
Zero - one,
record the score, you won.
Now you have it all,
everything but me,
my hands may be calloused but they're empty.
But I'm better without it all,
with nothing left,
there's no way to fall.

A cut beneath the skin,
we walk around pretending we're not stretched thin.
Lay your weapon down,
it isn't a race of who can fire sooner,
who can make the first sound.

I see it when you look at me,
like an actor's cue,
it's my time to leave.
As I go,
the strings within me pulled tightly so,
I feel a pang,
a broken love for someone I'm afraid I don't know.

I bReAkdowN.

Clap my heels,
I have an ache to return home,
but I don't know how home feels.
The sky closes,
the amethyst clouds burst.
That bright sun be cursed,
because this rainbow isn't worth a cent,
because of all those words, not one was meant.

Put your eyes on me,
are bruises and wounds all you see?
There is pain beneath the surface.
Mind you, I come at a cost, though I'm no purchase.
Release me, I'm no slave,
I am not of your service.
Watch me limp,
oh, watch me stagger.
Just know that what I was, what I am,
deserved more than these punctures,
the conversation of my heart and your dagger.

"I lived to Wr!+E and I wrote to LiVE."

Packing up my bag, scurrying into the hall and dashing away from my friend rudely, I raced to my Latin classroom. Last Thursday I taught a lesson on the famous poet, author, whatever you want to call him: Horace. There are ten people in my Latin class, including me. The majority are juniors, and there are three other underclassmen. Of the ten, there are three kids who never make above an 85 though, even on the classwork where using the text book is fair game. They are paralyzed by exhaustion, though I can never see how they are so weary if they don't appear to do anything, their grades a testament. They resemble sloths, the three of them distributed amongst a handful of average students, with their heads as their only defense and their face hidden. Basically, they catch some zzzzzzs in chairs about as comfortable as hugging a cactus, with their heads down, their face neighboring a filthy surface by which we know as a desk. Then, as they receive their 71, 59, 64 or whatever hardly/non-passing grade, they complain. Do you want some cheese with that whine? My presentation was no exception. Two with heads down, another perusing the room, I taught. One bothered to participate, only to tell me the way in which I employed a word was incorrect. Just because you don't know the definition of the word well enough to know this is, in fact, also correct usage doesn't mean you're ever allowed to correct a teacher. Or anyone, actually, mind you. As I finished the slideshow, the teacher handed out the translation sheets. I told them they only were required to translation through line six, but *hint hint, nudge nudge,* attempting the whole thing wouldn't do a bit of harm. It was mandatory that I give a quiz on my topic, which is why I *hint hint nudge nudge*d.
Neither surprised me, but as I retrieved the quizzes from my teacher and took out my green pen, two things happened. First, I so much as glanced and already was embarrassed by the answers I saw circled on fellow classmates quizzes. Second, I heard a voice of one of the sloths from my class, projecting his voice loudly and confidently as ever, though honestly, he shouldn't. FYI, I am about to take mean to a whole new level, but after today, I need to retaliate, even silently. He is not talented, attractive, nice nor funny. He lacks basically any genetic gift you could receive, whether it be extreme musical ability, acumen or even just being easy on the eyes. His personality is also about a 3 out of 10 for having any flavor, or anything that would draw you to him, and that is being generous. I told my dad later that I hope the most promising thing in his future is a job at Dairy Queen, and that he is perpetually dissatisfied with his life. Mean? Yes. On my part? Yes. What he said? Yes.
He strutted into the room, showcasing a body that I wouldn't be proud of in a million years, even if I had been born with only one X chromosome and a Y chromosome. Breathing deeply, he gathered enough air to smoothly verbalize one thing, which turned into a series of tear-downs.
"Herr Wachter (our teacher), I think Jenny's quiz should be dropped."
I casually asked why, to which I was not sure what to expect as a response, but certainly did not expect what I heard. Maybe one breath was taken through the entire time of telling me: It was all dates, therefore quite a dumb quiz, hardly anyone passed so it should not count, my presentation was messy, unprepared, one of the worst he'd seen, he DID pay attention (hmm...you sure about that? That'd be a first, cause we all know your quiz grades say differently), he refused to take notes only because it was "so bad", asked me if I knew what a Word Wall was, because I had certainly implemented that, and OH HEAVENS, god forbid that we even dare take a quiz on material that was in the format of a Word Wall. After he blew all that steam, and stepped out of the room, I mumbled, "that'd explain why you failed."
Now, as Miss Kern, I don't ask for much. A sheet of paper and pencil if you choose, and a closed mouth. But even if I receive neither, it's your grade not mine. Overall, I saw one thing, as I totaled points on one of the last quizzes, the only one to receive a 100: Yell at me, oh please do, and place blame on me for your failure, because I certainly deserve it. But really, your attempts to prove yourself to be worthy hinder your performance ability. And, please notice, just as I don't take a test and you obtain the grade I earned, your actions are yours. Broken home, deceased parent, foster family, your reaction is your own. What happens around you may be enclosing, the flames coming a little closer every second, but how you fight the fire is all yours.

Cold Weather

Cause I see it, in you and in me, and I long to tell you how easy it could never be, but still I know I'd fight and die before victory escapes me. 

Because I saw sense in locks, chains, and fences, but you told me to leave the keys, and not to bring a thing, 'cause we're escaping those nonsenses. 

Because truth is a four letter word plus one, that left my home the day you ran. 

Because I lived in a world of dark, and you lived in a world of light. You taught me how to wish on stars, but at the end of the night, we were too many worlds apart. 

Slide the paper into my hand like you do your fingers,
Let me know why you cry at night.
I long to know who you cry for,
Because I cry at knowing who you long for.
If you send it to me like a paper airplane,
It's Nine-Eleven.
My heart is the twin towers.
Come with me, though, you'll go to heaven.
Because there we'll be able to forget the pain,
You'll kiss me on the cheek
And I'll return to you a dandelion.

An invisible trip http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wfI11wbAxiI

My bare feet hit the pavement,
oh god, it hurts with such delight.
I hear the thunder,
the only thing I feel comfort in tonight.
It's a melody I know by heart.
The claps bring me back to the start,
reminding me of a time I would never depart.
It's a melody I know too well,
like your relentless hand even after I fell,
it's a piece of my searing pain,
it's my addiction, my cocaine.