Fuel

I'm going to be honest.
I know nothing about poetry.
I know lyrics; I write them like Taylor Swift finds new boyfriends to publicly humiliate,
but I know nothing about poetry.

I do, however, know a little about bubbles.
You probably see them as a shield,
their pristine armor protecting,
keeping the outside air out
until they glimmer away into the wind.

But bubbles don't protect the inside.
They're just a wall, preventing each side from finding reality.

The inside babies the prideful.
It praises the selfish, the judgmental, the pretenders,
and most of all
the liars.
The outside lets loose the dirty, the sinners, the rationalizers, the work-a-holics,
and the reckless.
At least they're honest about it.

So you can see things as a shield from either side
keeping the real you in or the potential you out.
But there's pins everywhere, their points ready to go.
Pick one up when you are too.

Concrete.

I always learned that lines should rhyme
and just like life, hold a perfect time,
but nobody told me that all they really had to do...
was be real.

So I'm sorry I'm no poet.
I'm sorry I'm not some high strung chamber singer going to a "world class high school."
And I'm sorry that I ever let you think that because I'm quiet, I'm just some mindless robot
Look up. Breathe. Look down. Command not recognized. Smile. Breathe. Think.

Robots don't think.
So maybe you think that I don't think
because there isn't always a stink to think
unless you never thunk in the first place, then the stink is overwhelming, probably because you thought no one could smell it.
But robots don't think.

And I think I'm getting off topic, so I can't be a robot.
I'm just a human who can't write poetry.
A human who expresses herself differently than you do,
But a human who expresses herself nonetheless.

Maybe at the end of the day when I'm sitting in the studio
I'll think to myself,
"Rilee. . . lyrics and poetry are the same thing.
They just express themselves differently."

Yours, mine, theirs.

 I remember you. 

Do you remember me? 

Not the me I am now, but the me I used to be. Do you see how I've grown?

I'm the girl who loved all the shows you loved.

The one you used to have stopwatch wars with in chemistry class.

And you're the boy who never listened in school, but always listened when I needed it. 

Remember now?

I remember you.

And I know you remember me. 

I remember when you taught me how to speak pidgin. 

And when I missed your birthday party because I went to Lake Powell.

I'm sorry for that. 

I don't remember when we became best friends, but I know that we are. 

Please remember me. 

I remember you.

I hope you remember me.

And I hope you hold close the times that we shared. 

Because I'm your first love, though you aren't mine. 

And when you look in the mirror, I hope you miss my silhouette there next to you.

I hope I forget.

When you're halfway across the country will you remember me?

When you've moved on and found new friends, please remember me.

When you realize she wasn't the one, don't come to me.

I have others I need to remember.

Remember me.
Or don't. 

I will never be here again

Dialogue

You’re over thinking things again,” Niko said as he sat down next to me, lying against the cold steel wall.

 “I can’t help it.” I choked out. “We don’t even have the worst of it! Colton’s over there chained to a freaking wall!”

“Jealous of my rubber body suit?” Colton chimed in, having overheard the conversation.

 Before I could reply, the large steel door to our cell opened and shut with a loud clang. Everyone was silent, the only sound being the fast paced breathing of the two figures, a boy and a girl, that had just entered the room.

“Sup.” Colton said nonchalantly.

“Who are you?” Growled the girl figure.

“I could ask you the same thing. You just burst into our lovely holding cell and demand to know my name? Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”

 “The name’s Presley.” She replied stubbornly.

 “And dimples over there?” Colton said, referring to the boy.

“That’s Bug. Now it’s your turn to answer the questions.”

“Well I’m the lovely and single Colton Harper, that hunk over there is Niko, and—

 “I’m Simone,” I added plainly. “What are you doing here?”

 “What are you doing here?” Presley retorted.

Almost there.

I guess you could say that's why I've been studying for the past six and a half hours.
My mom would probably ask if failing this test would take away my eternal salvation
to which I would promptly reply, "yes, mother," and quickly add a little something about
how failing would eventually lead me to becoming a sociopath.
It's unfortunate, really, that so much in life depends on tests. If I could
prove myself through music or art, I guarantee I wouldn't be who I am today. I
guarantee you'd know me as more than a wallflower.

Possibilities

Rednecks? Where?

Billy Bob's son, Bart

Fall

We've all heard the alarms sayin' it's time to let go
We stood tall through the fire, we caught each other mid fall.
We've run our courses and we'll surrender to life.

This is all I've got to offer though it ain't much
A little too scared a little too wounded to care
We're leaving for good but it don't feel good at all
They never prepare you in high school for the fall.

Soon

The sounds of summer surround the atmosphere. The warm air feels good against my skin as I stand outside my small house in Burns Lake, British Columbia, Canada. I stare at the Acorn colored, chipped wood of our house. The nails are slowly peeling their way out of the walls, which I will have to repair soon. The floors creak, dust is collecting everywhere, and some of the furniture is older than my grandparents, but this is still our ideal home.

            I make my way up the small, cold stairs and turn the handle on the door. I drop my backpack, avoiding the large hole in the tile. The house feels empty, then again, it usually does. I walk out back to see my mother in a small, plastic lounge chair reading her romance books again.

            Over in the corner there is a rusty old swing set left from the previous owners that is just glazed with rain. The chains are breaking, the seats cracking, and bee’s nest adorn the underside of the slide. We won’t be able to use it for much longer, but a shiny new one just won’t fit in here.

            My mother looks up at me and smiles her pearly white smile, the only nice looking thing in our lives. I walk forward and give her a hug.

            “How was school Sean?” My mother asks calmly.

            “Its fine, I've gotten all my work done, so same as usual.”

            “Oh Sean, I’m so proud of you! You don’t know how much it means to me that you provide this example for your sister.

I smile and slither to the swing set. The rusty chains feel rough against my hands, but I hold on, as I sit there motionless on the swing. A breeze wisps around and whispers my name. My mother walks inside, her curly, strawberry blonde hair bouncing, and I follow, knowing we will be going to the lake soon. I can't wait for soon to come. 

Bad Luck Bo

Croy entered the ballroom, enthusiastic as ever. Usually he’d be moping around, complaining about how boring everything was, but today was a special day. The building was filled with people all dreamily staring at the new governor as he gave his gratitude speech.

“I can’t express enough thanks to you, citizens of region sixteen! Though some would have us believe that we are the lowest ranked region, I believe we can build ourselves up and become the best! As your new governor I will-

“World peace!” Croy mocked quietly in the back of the room. A security guard glared in his direction.

He’s got one heck of a security force in here. Croy thought. My only chance will be when he leaves the ballroom.

Though not much of a fighter, Croy considered himself great at his job. His ideal way of life included hopping from town to town, capturing people and turning them in to whoever offered a reward. The amount for Governor Slade was so high he’d never have to do another job in his life.

Croy brushed off his dark suit and grabbed a drink, mapping out every possible way he could complete his job. He scanned the room, finding the people, guards and every escape route. He noticed one of the windows at the top of the room had been broken, though it didn’t matter much since it was too high up for anyone to get to.

Meanwhile, everything was silent on the other side of town.

“This shouldn’t take long.”  Bo said, pulling on his gray and yellow hoodie. 

The streets were rather quiet that night, though Bo knew the silence wouldn’t last for long. The closer he got to the capitol building, the louder the crowds got. The fact that nearly everyone in region sixteen was attending the celebration party upset him a little. Not because it would make it harder to kill Slade, no, he didn’t care about that. He only cared about the huge uproar that it would cause. 

As soon as Bo reached the capitol, he saw the broken window on the side of the building. Thankfully they hadn’t had the time to fix it after some kid hit a baseball through it the night before. The building itself was old and poorly made, as were all of the buildings in the region, allowing him to easily climb his way to a ledge just below the window.

The governor had just finished his speech and took a seat on the stage. He sat there, comically watching everyone dance. Bo probably would have been entertained by their clumsy moves too, were it not the perfect moment to get Slade.

He gripped his gun, pulling it from his belt. Carved into the side was the number thirteen. Without hesitating, he pointed it straight at his target.

Croy couldn’t stand himself. Why couldn’t he figure out an escape plan? He’d covered all the other details, but getting out was going to be extremely tricky. He brought his hand up and made an L shape with his forefinger and thumb, pointing it at the governor like a gun.

If only life was simple. He thought, pretending to pull the trigger with a slight bend of his thumb. A gun shot went off. The musicians stopped playing, their violins creating a squeaky tremor of sound. Everyone looked around, trying to understand what was happening and suddenly, the governor fell. 

Partners in Crime

You're gonna leave someday,
but I hope I stay
Inside your heart,
even though we're miles away.
Cause what scares me
is the thought that you'll grow up
and you'll forget that I'm waiting,
the same I ever was.
The same I ever was. 

Blowing Bubbles

It was the eleventh day of the month twice after January, twenty-three minutes, scratch that, twenty-two minutes to the hour after five in the afternoon with some uncertain amount of seconds having passed when I first realized: bubbles are evil.

Manipulative, selfish, little creatures, bubbles are. And I'm not even talking about the searing pain, twice the heat of a thousand white hot suns, when the little devils pop in your eye.

No, I've always thought of them as a protection from the outside world, a shield. But if you go on thinking like that, they'll return the favor by locking you in instead.

That's why you and I will never be important. 

The inside babies the prideful. It praises the selfish, the rationalizers, the pretenders, the judgemental, and most of all, the liars.
And the outside lets loose the dirty, the sinners, the the rationalizers, the work-a-holics, and the reckless. At least they're honest about it.

So it doesn't matter who's life you save, or the amount of money you make, or the quality of your latest blog post. You will never make it to the hall of fame.

It's all because you're inside. You're the pride being babied, and so am I. 

But who said you couldn't pop the bubble? The splash might sting a little, but no one ever got anywhere without a little opposition.

If you're still breathing you're the lucky one.

Death is the permanent cessation of all biological functions that sustain a living organism.

"[But] suppose that people live forever. . .

With infinite life comes an infinite list of relatives.

Sons never escape from the shadows

of their fathers. Nor do daughters of their mothers.

[With life] no new enterprise is new. All things have

been attempted by some antecedent in the family tree.

[With life] no person is whole. No person is free.

Over time, some have determined

that the only way to live is to die. In death, a man or

a woman is free of the weight of the past. These few

souls, with their dear relatives looking on, dive into

Lake Constance or hurl themselves from Monte Lema,-

ending their infinite lives. In this way, the finite has

conquered the infinite, millions of autumns have

yielded to no autumns, millions of snowfalls have

yielded to no snowfalls, millions of admonitions have

yielded to none."

Death is the permanent cessation of all biological functions that sustain a living organism.

Life is the general or universal condition of human existence.

Infinite life is chaos.

A chaos that never ends.

So through the eyes of one living an infinite life, through the eyes of one who knows all, who has seen all, heard all, tried all, been all, there is nothing quite more relinquishing

than death.

Funny, seeing death as relinquishing when through the eyes of one who lives a normal life, death is adorned with pain. Every soul breathes its last breath, heaving through corrupted lungs before it joins the choir invisible, and perishes. 

The Stink of Think

Please believe me when I say it's not on purpose . . .
It's not like I saw the 'filthy stupid hobbitses' and thought of you. No, you're a tad bit too tall, and a little less than rough around the edges.
And that chapstick on the counter, well, you look nothing like it
yet I see you in everything.

And somehow everybody knows when I'm thinking of you.
It doesn't matter what I try-- rolling in mud, splashing through creeks, even keeping air-freshener sticks in my pockets-- the stink of think just wont. Go. Away.

And perhaps at one point that stink was more of a pleasant breeze.
A fragrant perfume, or the sweet-smelling flowers that grow in your yard.
But even fragrant perfume can be worn too much and sweet smelling flowers, though they fight,
         
                   striving
                                                                     reaching
                                                                                                             
                              begging and grasping for life, 

will succumb to the winter air.

So I suppose I do think of you. And I suppose at one point I might have called it love.
Yes, like the fairy-tales, I remember.
But those memories have turned sour.

Cinderella has gone barefoot
                      and Rapunzel now sports an afro.
                                           
Don't flatter yourself.
Because though I think of you

it's in a confused-newborn sort of way.

Stranger

Hello. I don't believe we've met before.
So I wave you in, and a sudden vision wriggles through my mind.
It leaves in a flash, and you step through the door.
Shuffling, from foot to foot, I take you through the hallway,
Images adorn the brown plastered walls.
You stop for a moment, pointing to that picture taken on a fall day.
It's of no particular importance to me, yet that sudden vision strikes again,
and leaves just as quickly.

We finally reach the dining room, a white tea set completes a long table
you smile, and take a seat two to the the right on the East side.
I was going to sit there, but I know you are old and sit where you are able.
Your grey hair is chopped, not cut, as if in a ricocheting battle with itself over which length it should be.
Your eyes are lined with wrinkles, and your hands worn from the instruments you play.
Though I'm not quite sure how I know you played an instrument, but perhaps you've played two, or three.
Perhaps I remind you of you.
We do seem alike.

But that means nothing, because that vision strikes again.
And this time it stays.

These visions are no visions, but our vision switching places.
For I am you, and you are me, and you are no stranger, which I suppose makes me no stranger.
This I can see clearly out of your eyes, my old, wise eyes.
This ballroom is no ballroom, it's a pile of dirt in the middle of the field.
And the last thing I know
is that . . .
I am reliving the moments I wish I could change, but cannot.
And that, that is why I am stuck here digging my own grave.
And we are the shovel.

Wee woo

I don't even hear them anymore. They come around everyday and everybody yells, "Wee woo wee woo WEE WOO," and runs to the window to see where it's going. But honestly, I don't pay much attention to them anymore, and I do not hear wee woo. Maybe wreeoo, or waaeeo, but not wee woo. When I tell my parents that I don't care they give me this look of disgust.
                                   "Somebody could be dead."
                                                                                         "Someone could've lost a family member."
And then my little brother chimes in.
                       "Somebody could have gotten their head chopped off! It's like that video game I was playing. Oh man, the guys on my team were crazy."
And they quickly hush him with a piece of cake and his favorite action figure. But what do I get? I get a lecture about how "empathy is so important in life," and how "without it we'll never amount to much." It's not that I don't care about the people. It's just that we live in Utah. And it's the winter.

Did I mention I'm sick today? I'm sitting here in school trying not to crash, but then this thought comes to mind. Maybe if I hit my head against the keyboard enough times I'll die. But then I'll end up in one of those wee woo machines and that'd be just as bad. This sickness is making me delirious.

Wee woo. Wee. Woo. Weeee woo.
On second thought, maybe I'll take that ambulance.

When Life Gives You Lemons

"She is the most amazing thing to happen to us..."
                                       "You sure are lucky to have such a sweet child..."
                                                                          "She is the most gorgeous baby I've ever seen..."
She came with a head of dark hair. She came with hazel eyes that hardly cried. She came pure and perfect.

Then she grew. 

"She is the most amazing thing to happen to us..."

                                      "You won't have her for much longer."

                                                                           "This type of cancer is extremely rare."

She smiled through the pain. The bruises covered her, but they didn't define her. No, her smile, her light defined her. That happy little girl fought and she fought hard, though she didn't even know she was fighting. To her it was just life. 

Then she was cured.

She was shy. She hardly made friends.
                         Yet she was truly, incredibly happy for a long while.
She wasn't one to look at clothing, beauty, or popularity as an indication of success or the ability to love.
                                                                              She wasn't society's robot.
Video games with her brothers intrigued her. Frisbee, long-boarding, singing. She was diverse in her talents...                          
                                    but no one knew that.
No one knows she can sing. No one knows she is incredibly funny, or that she will fight to keep you.
                             She'll fight for you like she fought for herself.
                                                                                                   She knows the value of life.

But no one knows that because she's shy. 

She's lived a lifetime of pain and still fights through it. 

She was cured of Leukemia. 

But what if she hadn't been.

What introduction?

I hate introductions. Starting off is the most nerve-wracking part. Its where first impressions happen. Its where the awkward one person fist bumps and the other high fives situation happens. You've probably already made your assumptions about me based upon the first sentence i wrote. Well, crap. If that's the case, I sound like a real downer. I promise I'm not. [Insert big smile here] I just live in my own little world.