Tag: alive

Confident

BeFunky Collage.jpg

This was written for Writing 101

I’m not a coffee person, but hot cocoa and a bowl of popcorn? Yes, please!

Anyway, I think today’s prompt is horribly accurate, because I need desperately to update all of my readers, considering how long it’s been since I last posted.

So, time for a hot cocoa date, one-on-one with your presently present (haha) blogger.

First of all, let me officially apologize for not posting in so damn long. I haven’t really been up to writing as much as usual since State One Act; I think losing upset me more than I expected it to. (Notice that in the above pictures, I wear my One Act shirt. I am that person. Sorry not sorry.) Of course, I can’t really make excuses, but I’m a teenager so I’m gonna do whatever the hell I want to.

Second, some updates…

1.) I’ve started drawing more than I have recently, perhaps because I haven’t been overly interested in writing.

BeFunky Collage2

2.) I started a Little Mermaid fanfiction (more or less), but just like everything else I’ve done, I doubt I’ll finish it. I really like it, though. It’s a modern AU (Alternate Universe, for you not-geeks).

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I designed the cover myself. It’s not GREAT, but as of yet it’s the best I’ve done with stuff like that.

(If you can’t already tell, I’m in an Ariel mood. I’m not sure why…)

3.) School has been rough lately. I’m drowning in AP US History, and for once in my life, Lit is harsh. Mostly because I neglected (*coughcough* all of) my work during One Act season.

4.) The musical my school is putting on is going to be the Addams Family; I really wanted it to be Les Mis and I’m a teensy bit really disappointed.

5.) Show Choir has already started running through Christmas carols and my friend and I may possibly be doing a duet (Little Drummer Boy), but the harmonies we want to use are extremely difficult and I just wanna blech. Also, we’re performing at SixFlags (over GA) on December 6, so if you happen to be at SixFlags on Sunday, December 6, go over to the stage by Dare Devil Dive at 6 & 7 pm. We’re going to kick ass.

6.) Harry Potter coloring book. I need it in my life. I just need a whole bunch of adult coloring books, honestly.

7.) I lost my bright yellow colored pencil today. *cries*

Well, that’s pretty much all I’ve been doing since my last post. That and practicing my eyeliner.

Eyeliner=the bane of my existence.

(P.S:

9.) I may have been drawing on my white(ish) Converse. The picture is outdated, but I don’t have shots of the current doodles yet.

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Sorry not sorry.)

Light Me Up

This was written for Writing 101

I’m not very good at expressing my emotions. For one, I’m just not capable of comprehending them. I am every stereotype of an overly emotional teenage girl. On top of that, I’m not big on the whole “sharing” thing. If I tell someone something, I’m going to OVERshare, and this is one of my least favorite things about myself.

Hence my chosen word for today’s writing prompt: regret.

I’ve had about a million problems with my relationships with other people, be they friends or family or romantic entanglements. As a girl who relies heavily on having people I can trust with every little thing, this sucks a big one.

It’s actually ironic, really. I put on this show of being untouchable, being this hard creature with no emotional needs, when in actuality I need so much. I think this surprises people, because when we get close I just dump a whole shitload on them and they get overwhelmed.

So I’ve just stopped getting close to people.

Which also sucks a big one.

Seriously, I can’t express how much it hurts to need someone to just be with, then push everybody away because I don’t think they want that with me. It’s messed up my relationship with my boyfriend a few times, which is frustrating. I always regret pushing him away (it’s one of those things that keeps me up at night), but I can’t help myself. It’s almost as though I care so damned much, I have to stop myself caring or I’m going to shatter.

Maybe that doesn’t make sense. Maybe it doesn’t follow the prompt. Oh well. I needed to say it.

Chandelier

This was written for Writing 101

I’m going to expand upon the prompt and write two lists, simply because I enjoy talking about myself. If you have a problem with that… well. Sucks for you, friend.

Things I Like:

  • boiled peanuts
  • vanilla perfume
  • tight hugs
  • empty notebooks
  • white bedsheets
  • British accents
  • bowties
  • autumn
  • fuzzy blankets
  • leather-bound books
  • British television

Things I Dislike:

  • hot-as-hell summers
  • tomatoes
  • being sick
  • idiots
  • scary movies
  • people who don’t like Harry Potter
  • people who don’t like reading
  • people who don’t like sushi
  • people

Like I’m Gonna Lose You

This was written for Writing 101

Why do I write?

God, there couldn’t have been a more complex question to ask on such a frazzled day. I write because… well, I’m a writer. It’s who I am, and it’s what I do. Since the days when I made up stories to go with the pictures in my Pooh Bear books to today, when I (attempt to) write my own books, I’ve always been in love with words. I write because it’s that only thing I know how to do. The only thing I’m good at, most days. I can’t communicate with people through speech, but I can tell them everything I need to say through my blog, my journal, and every single creative writing piece I’ve written since I learned the alphabet.

I write because I need to.

This is one of those ridiculously broad questions that are so mentally demanding that I just flounder around and make “ifhaerhfsdkjvfe”ing noises as well as elaborate hand gestures to avoid actually answering what was asked. Why do teachers not set up couples in every group of students they have? Why do babies drink breast milk instead of chocolate syrup? Why do I not already have a trillion and one dollars?

These are all important questions, but they’re not being answered. So why should I explain my freaky obsession with *elaborate hand gesture* this?

Love Harder

Three letters.

Three notes

So full of honesty

That I nearly choked on the strength of them

While I was pouring them

Onto those clean sheets of paper.

I love the number three;

I think I may have mentioned that,

At some point or another,

Though I can’t remember for sure.

Things have been like that a lot recently.

I keep finding that the little memories

Are slowly slipping away from me.

You’d think I would mind:

You’d think I’d object to losing

A second with you,

Even if the seconds I’m losing

Are ones already spent in your company.

I don’t, though.

I’ve found that I don’t care

If I forget some tiny details,

Because I remember the emotions.

I remember how it feels

To be curled up against your side,

Even if I can’t remember our conversation.

On top of that, I’m fine with replacing

The old memories with new ones-

Each sweeter than the last.

I’ve never been one of those people

Who puts everything into a relationship.

I’m always too afraid

To fall as hard as I’m ought to

Into arms that might not care

As much as they pretend to.

With you, though, with you

I can’t help but give up everything,

Can’t help but give you my entire being

And every mistake and heartbreak

That I’ve accumulated over the years-

As well as a lifetime of pent-up love

That now I bestow on you.

Hush, Be Still

He wraps his warm arms

Around my shaking shoulders,

Sharing his heat with me

As we hide together

Under a quilt sewn

By someone long dead.

I can just make out

The bright glittering

Of his dark blue eyes,

Can barely see the curve of his lips

Just before they descend

Upon my creased brow.

“Hush,” he mutters,

“Hush, be still.

Horrors felt shall soon disperse

Amongst those who deserve

Our terror more than us.”

Unable to calm myself,

I curl closer to his chest

And let the steady rhythm

Of his thumping heart

Lull me into a fitful sleep

Made sweeter by his presence.

Settle Down

My parents, younger siblings and I went apple picking today, something we haven’t done in a while. Certainly not in three years; we haven’t gone and picked apples since we moved.

I’m typically a fairly predictable person: I don’t want to go outside, I don’t want to associate with anybody, I just want to stay in my bedroom and read/write/be generally antisocial. I enjoy my life as a hermit, thank you very much.

Apple picking, though, brings out a different Carissa. There are quite a few things that make me react as drastically as the pristine perfection of a nice, gritty apple plucked from a bowing tree, but few have the same nostalgic affect (effect? I don’t know…); I have more than a handful of bubbly, happy memories of reaching ever higher for that absolutely gorgeous red apple, biting into the crisp white flesh of an unwashed fruit, surrounded by towering trees that dwarf my small frame……

I must admit, though, that this time was a slight disappointment to those memories.

That’s not to say that the apples weren’t delicious, that I didn’t thoroughly enjoy myself. I did. However, the apple farm (is that what they’re called?) has become industrialized, marketed, whatever you want to call it, since the last time we visited. They rely on dumb tourists now, who want to watch pig races and milk cows and taste-test cider and ride ziplines and maybe pick a couple apples for the hell of it.

We went to pick apples because it’s fun to feel self-sufficient, to wash and polish those imperfect perfections rather than buying some waxed mess from the supermarket. I mean, it’s not as though we aren’t going to actually USE the apples; my mom plans on making apple cider, apple crisps, apple fritters, apple pies, apple juice… But this particular apple place (B.J. Reece Orchards, in Elijay) had only one tiny little portion of their orchard open, and the apples there were either too small to bother with, too high to pick, or splattered on the ground. Luckily, we managed to get a peck of half-decent apples, but the rest we just bought pre-packaged in their apple house.

Downsides to this trip: we drove a few hours to pick apples for about thirty minutes, they did not even have Granny Smith apples (at ALL!), and it was warm for October. And my siblings were extremely obnoxious in the car, which caused a headache and a bruise on my ribs.

Upsides to this trip: there were multiple, but most importantly: APPLE DONUTS. On top of that, we bought delicious apples, cold apple cider, raw peanuts (we make our own boiled peanuts now- yum!), an enormous cabbage, a trip into memory lane, and the realization that not every good experience ought to remain untainted by reality, because sometimes disappointment is liberating.

If the good is not quite as wonderful as we remember, is not everything better than it feels?

Four In the Morning

Four in the morning

Can’t sleep for the thoughts

And regrets and emotions

And possibilities that swim

Through the deepest corners

Of my drowsy mind

Four in the morning

Haven’t closed my eyes

Haven’t turning off the light

For darkness breeds

The blackest things

Monsters with fangs

Made of broken dreams

Four in the morning

Tried humming but the lyrics

Fall short of combating silence

That blankets my lungs

In cloth made of quiet

Four in the morning

Counting the minutes

Drawing nearer to when

My alarm will ring

Waking those who find

Sleep comes like an old lover

I’m always the last awake

Sleepily roaming halls

Four in the morning

Oppressive worries keep me up

Way past delirium

And almost until

Five in the morning

Release

This was written for Writing 201: Poetry

Release, the sweet letting go

Of all thy fears that lurk below.

A fair maid her hair did unravel;

Her gentle lover taketh her ankle

And did brush his soft lips

From toe to the curve of her hips.

Her nails she dug into his hair,

Entranced by the tingly feeling there.

Release, the sweet letting go

Of thy inhibitions that destroy thee so.

O! pain, thou turnest to pleasure,

Thou makest her scream as she fucketh her sir.

Back to My Roots

This was written for Writing 201: Poetry

Cracked sidewalk,

Running beside overgrown bushes

That moan under the weight

Of immense unknown blossoms.

It leads me to my own home,

Where he waits alone

Under the stone archway.

His hipbone protrudes;

I can see it through his shirt,

Which I’m sure he’s sprayed

With his sweet cologne.

I can almost hear his deep groan,

Muttered into my ear as I attone

For having flown away from our safe zone.