Dreams ...and a rant

Yet again, I have a spastic dream. I'm sooo tired, ugh. Dead on my feet, literally. You'd be exhausted too, if you flew around the entire night.

Aanyways, general gist of my dream: I'm a dragon, four limbed (sort of like a wyvern, only with feet) and I'm flying around this semi-suburban area at night in the rain. A sort of requested meeting thing to prove that we're not 'animals' but actually intelligent. So to prove my intelligence I'm asked(told) to get an umbrella so that she wouldn't get wet.

I gave her a look that said 'you have GOT to be kidding me' before I flew off....and brought back a beach umbrella. The easiest umbrella to carry. She of course complained so I meandered around the carpark, delicately avoiding the cars to indicate a neglected blue and white umbrella. She seemed a little surprised at this.

Dream jump.

A group of other people arrive, pro-dragon since there are regulations out that any dragon that eats the livestock has to be hunted down and destroyed. They were of the opinion that dragons SHOULD be allowed to eat the livestock, rather a cow than a person, was their cry. They wore yellow triangle bandanna's, around the upper arm, as a skirt, on their heads etc. They argue with her, the her in white, and give her a LARGE yellow sheet, folded in half into a triangle.

I sit down, or something, and they tie her to my back, using the bandanna to keep her warm, and secure. I straighten, with this human on my back, and go to a clear spot, the rain is pelting down, she is instantly drenched, the knot under my belly tightens as I spread my wings, water dripping down my scales to tickle my underside, and then I am in flight.

I fly up and around the buildings, my wingtips just missing the glass on either side of the street, I go out of the city, flying over the rainsoaked, night illuminated pastures. She is screaming in fear, and then exhilaration. I find a herd, of sheep or goats, I think goats, and take one, eating it even as that human gasps on my back. I take off again, the corpse and remanents of my meal in my hind claws and start back towards the city. I curve, midflight, and hover, eating the rest, to display how well I can fly, and that where a meal is found, does NOT mean that was where it was taken from. I drop the entrails and most of the skeleton by a small thatch of trees, for the smaller predators, before continuing to the city.

I circle a scout hall, or something of the like, banking, and then rolling over so that I am flying upside down, scaring her as the bandanna starts to slip from my body, I roll back over, now I can breath easier. I return to the carpark and carefully land on the tarmack, folding my wings and placing my foreclaws on the ground. The group walk up, and release the knot, they had all known dragon-flight, and knew how to deal with the jittering, gibbering, exhilarated, fearful and awed human that I had taken for a flight. She comes to her senses enough to take the bandanna that bound her torso and lower back to my spine, and wears it as a skirt, the point on one side of her legs, the bound knot on the opposite hip over her white, mostly see-through slacks, annother supporter for the draconic cause.

Once all is well with her, I fly off, skimming low over the car rooftops, sending the humans scurrying for cover. Fools, did they not know that I would not harm them? I am not so foolish with my wings, I know where they end, even though -they- obviously do not. Three strong beats of my wings and I am in the air, soaring up into the storm clouds with a crackle of lightning illuminating my scales and then I am gone.

The buzzer of my alarm sounds and I wake, roll over, turn it off and then thump back onto my bed with a groan, time to start a new day on zippo sleep. Joy.



Soooooooo. No, I haven't been reading anything to do with dragons, nor drawing them, they have NOT been ANY influence in my waking life for about....two months, at least.


Another point, don't you just LOVE it when people take out their stress and anger on YOU?! For example, mother dearest was worried about going to work last night, so all yesterday afternoon we (me, her bf and her bf's daugher, Pheonix ) couldn't do ANYTHIGN right. And copped it.

I don't MIND being a sounding board, when it's not PERSONAL. If you're having issues with some moron at work, at school, in your social life, whatever. I don't care, you can yell and scream at me to release the tension. All I'll do is pat your shoulder and say 'yes dear', which won't help very much, but you'll feel better. Or you wont and then get angry at ME, in which case they won't be aggravating you and that, my dear readers, is an acheivement and a bonus, to my way of thinking.

Yes, my rant. That and I am SICK and TIRED of my blasted mother blaming EVERY flipping thing that goes wrong in the house, from HER foul moods, on MY BLOODY LAPTOP! Fair enough I spend alot of time on there, but really! For the past three months she's been harping on at me. "we just dont like how you treat us, stop being so selfish okay? that's all we don't like, how you turn into a complete bitch when you get on the computer. Start thinking about other things than that bloody computer, stop thinking like a child all me me me me me me" I swear it is enough to drive you mad, hearing that every fucking day, several times each day simply because she is in a snit and needs a sounding board/scapegoat!

Oh look, it's been two weeks since me and my daughter have fought, I know! I'll start on about her LAPTOP and how she's FAT and UGLY and SELFISH, maybe then I'll get a rise from her so that she can hate me some more and I can accuse her of hating me and wonder WHY.

Sometimes, most times actually, I just wish I could move somewhere else...either that, or kill her and get away with it. My mother and I, we do NOT get along. And even when she thinks we are, I am merely tolerating her and trying not to set her off, yet agian, so that she has the least notion that the last thing on my mind when I think of her is how much I love her. or don't, as the case may be.

The Rains

Hills and rivers, lakes and streams,

Brown dead land is what it seems.

When the seasons first rains come

And children jump in puddles for fun,

Then a slow, creeping blush fills the land

Making everything a bright green band.

The brown and yellow go to vibrant health,

This bright green blush takes over with stealth.

Creeping, creeping, carefully sneaking

Into the brown, green is leaking.

Not noticing at first,

The ground slaking it’s thirst.

Dark grey skies block out all light,

Heavy with rain, that is the sight.

Great suspense fills the atmosphere

Impatient for them to fill the weir.

With a bucket up ending the skies break open

Rain does fall, not straight, but slopin’.

The wind howls and bears it’s teeth

Attacking all, above or beneath,

It does fight with the rain

Until walking outside is pain.

After ripping up trees and overturning cars

The wind sits back and laughs and laughs.

When everything is just brown mush

The land is still green and lush.

The sun comes out and brightens the day,

And of course, the children go out to play.

But the family stays in the house,

To play with the dog, or shoo the mouse.

When the rains have left,

All is brown in the cleft.

They play and work and more,

For they remember this from before.

They watch and wait, without fear

Because the rains will be back, next year.


Yeah, twas raining all day today, and this captures the feel of spring, or rather, the first rains and winter, in Australia rather beautifully. I can't say anywheres else, since I've never been outside aus so...meh.

o.o I'm freaked

Again with the italian! But that's beside the point, it's rather amusing actually, looking through things...oooh, what does 'anteprima' mean/do?

Aaanyways, I was logging in here, preparing to post something of momentus importance and...buzz buzz buzz, my pocket vibrated. So me, thinking I'm loved, take out my phone and look at the message.

o.o It's from the bloodbank asking me to donate my awesome plasma. I'm like... how did you get my number? o.o I don't remember putting it down anywheres.... So yes, I'm a bit freaked.

Dear ANGELA HI from the Blood Service.We are in need of Plasma donors in the next 2 weeks.Please donate if you can & call for appt.Thankyou.n

Verbatum! The capital letters for my name freaked me out a little (alot).


Oh! AWESOME book to read, note to all you readers out there! Wicked by Gregory Maguire. You remember the Wizard of Oz? Dorothy and her annoying dog Toto? Well, this book is telling the wicked witch of the wests side of the story, her childhood and the like. And how she's not as evil as everyone thinks she is. It. is. the. best!

Another thing, I canNOT draw shells from real life, it just...doesn't work for me. Argh. They end up munted and looking like a five year old attempted to draw something remotely resembling a shell from memory of what one SHOULD look like, but doesn't. I fail!

Yet another thing I fail, friendships T_T Xin (take a looksee at my test -->) asked me to take a test of his, to see how well I knew him, and I failed it! I got 40% T_T I suck. And there he goes, getting 80% on mine. Figures. Congrats by the way! And Poojawa...well, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt since he knows me rl and you don't. Don't take it too harshly ^_^

Hint for the challenge *nudge nudge, take it!* I do NOT have a green thumb. I'm more likely to kill a plant, than grow it. Now, if you remember two teeny, tiny details in this blog, you'll get about 20% on the test, yay. Putting people on a semi-equal footing, rl and net wise alike. Until then, I bid thee adieu.

Random

I actually had a fairly relevant blog planned out, giving you a nice something to read but then...logging on using a school computer gave me my blog in italian. Yay.

I don't speak italian, I am not fluent in italian, yet my blog is IN italian, or italiano as they say.

Lets see, the tags at the top say 'posting' then down under that is 'crea', 'modifica post' 'modera commenti'. Next tab 'impostazioni' and then 'modello', yay we can 'visualizza blog'.

i can 'salva come bozza' or 'pubblica' I'm guessing that once i've finished typing up this random post, I'll want to 'pubblica' it.

Lets see if I can remember what I was going to post...



.....



Um.....oh! STOCKINGS! I HATE STOCKINGS!?!!!!! They're one of, if not THE most annoying thing ever created by mysogynistic morons. Like heels. Heels are bad, but they make the female leg look good so we wear them all the time. I'm not an extreme feminist, the whole 'burn the bra' thing, considering that bra's do a decent job of holding up things that need to be held. I don't know about the rest of the ladies out there, but I do NOT want to have my own set of knee knockers, BEFORE I'm 75 thankyou very much.

Heels + stockings = very easily annoyed girl.

Guess what my school uniform contains? Yes, that's right. I have to wear black stockings and black lace up heels. *sighs* Along with a blazer, a tie, a green checkered skirt and a white button up shirt.

I've been told by a friend that they would -so- rape me in that. I'm not quite sure if that makes my school uniform better, or worse.

To set your minds at ease, they were male. But rather largely male biased so....gay would be better? maybe? I dunno, is it a good thing or a bad thing that what you're currently wearing will encourage your male friends to rape you? o.o

Back in the school bustle and buzz and annoyances....gah. I've been in here for all of ....four hours or so now, and I'm already sick of it. Again. *sighs* And I'm COLD! It's 18 degrees celcius (about 70 odd farenheit) and I'm freezing! Cold fingers, not good. Yes, I'm Aussie, live with it. I LIKE the hot climate, 10 degrees C is cold for me so stfu if it's a hot day for you!

Stupid people from frozen wastelands...*mutter*

And on that note, I'll leave you with this random, whimsical, freezing blog of mine. Enjoy!

Emotions: the bane of my existance.

I HATE emotions, loathe them with a passion. Yes yes, I know it's rather...contradictory but it's true! Emotions are the worst of anything I have to bloody well put up with. My own and other peoples.

Okay, here's the run down as to why I loathe emotions and tend to go out of my way to not feel them, or at the very least, display them. When I was little, I was a very violent kid, a right terror to those that annoyed me. So I started doing Karate, budokan I believe the style was that I started with (I now do Shotokan, a slightly different style) and I worked out my angst that way. Over the course of my life, and the meditation that came with the lifestyle, I managed to control my angst, my irritation and general emotions, containing them. So from a very young age (around 5) I have controlled my emotions, and had very little to do with them.

It gets very...shall we say exasperating when I lose control of my emotions, and I feel them, especially when my emotions tend to cause anothers to flare up in the negative range. I do not like arguing, so I refuse to. After all, it takes two people to argue, and if I argue with another, I'm the one that ends up feeling horrid, not that they care, since I was in the 'wrong'. People yell at me for saying 'sorry', for apologising. It is, quite simply, far, FAR easier for me to apologise, since it's the easiest, and best way to avoid an argument, especially with mother dearest, than to wait for her to say so.

On the other hand, I've a friend that gets annoyed at me if I DO say sorry. Go figure. And then I can't apologise for pissing him off because it only makes the situation WORSE. He got an insight into my mind when I was rather more...emo than usual. I think he believes me now when I say I've got issues, even though, according to him, I created them upon myself. So, maybe being physically tortured isn't one of the things I can say has happened to me, does that make psychological trauma any less real? I know I've had a fairly easy life, physically. I haven't had to rob any one, whore myself out, no one has hurt me to get at my family, it could be worse. Instead, I've been told that I'm not good enough, I'll never be good enough, I'm fat, lazy, ugly, and until I proved that I was smarter than her, stupid. Now, instead of stupid I'm arrogant.

I'll admit to the arrogant, fat and lazy. I know I'm no oil painting, and I'm a far cry from being a beauty, or even a head turner, I may be passably pretty, maybe. But until recently, I believed, and still harbour some doubts, that I -am- ugly, fugly. I've got glasses for crying out loud. Lasses with glasses are classed as nerds, squids, bookworms, freaks. Not exactly girlfriend material, you understand? So, since I AM a bookworm, and proud of it too, I developed this ability to cut people off at the knees with my eyes. It's rather fun, actually, to be able to look up from whatever I was doing, glance at the group sneering about me, and render them silent without even getting up. Try it, sometime. But you have to be very expressive with your eyes.

Mirror, Mirror

I open my eyes and what do I see;
in the mirror, staring back at me?
a creature of repeated history,
something I never wanted to be.

It has my eyes; it has my nose,
it's a duplicate of me, down to my toes,
but this creature is not me,
it is not how I am meant to be.

There is my smile, my white teeth,
my manner and method of speech.
Whatever it is, this creature's a lie;
it may look like me, but it is not I.

There's my hair, my oily skin
my face, neither too fat nor thin.
It looks like me, but it is a lie;
this creature, it is not I.

I open my eyes and in the mirror I see,
an Image, a duplicate, a being of me.
Yet it's a lie, a fake, a falacy;
it's the truth I refuse to see.


Not sure how to spell falasy....false basically is the meaning. Anyways, enjoy.

ps. edited. Falacy and 'and' and 'wanted'

Icy Children

*yawns* too early in the blasted morning to be up. 5 flipping am. Ugh. Anyways, have a poem written during winter (it's autumn now by the by, so yes, I wrote it ages ago) but I like it.

On a chilly Winters Day,
when the trees bend and sway;
people will stay indoors
and pad about on cold stone floors.

They think it's cold at noon,
so eat warmth with a spoon.
Nary a thought for the dawn
when they slept, safe and warm.

Bundled warmly in a quilt,
tucked in nice with down and felt;
being cared for like a babe
every day is the same.

If you saw the silver gems
that hide their children,
At dawn on Winters Day
that helps them hide and say;

'Sleep mortal, rest your lazy head;
Warm, in your very own bed'
They giggle with their childish glee,
there isn't much that makes them unhappy.

So they toy and play in fun
but hide their faces from the sun.
For the golden rays would reveal
magic, and make it real.

There they are, fast asleep.
Safe and secure in a blooming leaf,
snoozing a brisk day away;
Ready for a night, with which to play.


There we go, enjoy. Not that good by my standards today, but considering I wrote it when I was like...tweleve or eleven, it's not too bad I guess.

Minds; the manipulation of and exploration within.

Don't you just love it, adore it even, when people don't believe you? You tell them something, something that you are capable of, something that you do, and they don't believe you but then freak out a couple months down the road when you demonstrate such an ability?

Take for example me. I adore getting into peoples minds, finding out what makes them tick. I don't do it deliberately, but give me a couple weeks and I'll know you fairly well, two months and I'll know you as well as you know yourself, I'll be quite comfortable within the halls of your mind, half a year and I'll know you better than you know yourself. I don't do this consiously you understand, I'm just observant, and see things others miss.

It's like, learning how to do something only from watching it half-heartedly. What it often enough, in enough variations, and before you know it, you'll be able to -do- it. It's like that for me, when i'm talking to someone, I'm slowly integrating myself into their mind, knowing how they think. But that knowledge isn't there until I actively think about it, if that makes sense.

Or when you're little, and pick up your first crayon. You didn't know you could draw a line, or colour in a patch of paper, draw a stick figure mum and dad, until you did it. Until you reached for the ability, grasped it in your chubby little hand, and force that god blasted crayon to do as you told it! And then, the next time you picked up a crayon, you -knew- that you could do it, knew that you could draw your picture to show off to your mum and dad, and because of that knowledge, you wield that crayon with greater finesse. It might not show in the second picture, nor the third. The fifth might have the same identification issues that did the first, but to your eyes, their worlds apart in ability.

It's the same with me. The first few people I knew, and started to really -know-, it was just scratching the surface. A stick figure of the real person, where as now I have the fleshed out, pencil shaded version, detailed enough to show the shine of their eyes, their expression and that strand of hair that just -wont- lay down and behave itself! The laugh lines at the corners of their eyes, the way their mouth quirks when they smile, their life pulse beating in their throat, the tension in their shoulders when they dislike something. The warm affection in the way their hands move, the deft manipulation of the fingers, the indents in the skin from the knuckles, the slightly ragged edges of their nails. Body posture, attitude, personality, I now have the ability to 'draw' that, to know it. But, it is only in pencil, and shading in where the light doesnt fall i can't quite do, not well...and there is still no colour.

Do you see what I mean? I am far from being the best drawer, and even a coloured shading is a far cry from an oil painting, or even a statue, three-dimensional and with details. But I can still do alot more than most people, most would get up to a good, recognisable stick figure drawing. But of course, when I warn people of this ability of mine, early on in our aquaintence, they do not believe me. Understandable I suppose, I mean, it's a pretty out there claim. But when I -prove- my claim, that I -do- end up knowing them better than they know themselves... They freak.

And how do I prove it, you ask? Quite simply. They give me a scenario, something they've already lived through, or the like, and I tell them how they would react. Simple yes? No. See, we all think differently, we all have our own ways of looking at things, understanding and reacting to a concept. And when I ...for lack of a better word, 'immerse' myself in their consiousness I have to change my thinking into -their- way of thinking. You probably have no idea what I'm talking about, but it's not easy to ....predict, I have to take on their personality, at least for a while, and that shift in my thinking, a few degrees of alteration, or a 90 degree curve, gives me the worst headache if I have to hold that way of thinking for longer than five minutes.

It's like....how to explain it, it's like pushing your body into a contorsion that isn't exactly comfortable, but not -un-comfortable either and holding it there...and holding it...and holding it as your muscles lock up and want to spazm, need to move but you can't, not just yet...so you hold still....and then, when you relax and all the blood flows how it's supposed to and the muscles relax, it hurts MORE than if you were still holding it.

So, you see...If you get to know me, I -will- know you better than you know yourself, but only if I think about it.

What do you want?

I was asked that the other day in a conversation where my friend was getting slightly irritated at me. "What do you want!?" he asked, almost demanded of me "You play games but they're for anothers benefit, not your own so I never know what you want."

I simply replied with the faintest of smiles "I want only that which you would give me."


But that sparks the question, for those of us that rather give to others, what do we want? What do -you- want? Once you have it, will you be happy with it? Will you get what you want, will you want what you get? Will you be happy with the result?

I'm of the opinion that if you ask for something, you dont value it, yet if it's given to you as a gift, a surprise, then you'll hold it in high regard. The same as if you had to work for it. Nothing good ever came easy, you devalue it if you got it with little trouble.

Which is why I value a gift more highly, no matter how hard you work, nor how much effort you put in, the lengths you strive for, a gift is something worth more than all the riches in the world.

Gone...

The cold kiss of a blade,
The sharpened edge descending
His life, my love, is ending
It’s too late for love my dear.

Sorrows stream down my face,
Endlessly descending, dripping
To land in my lap, silent weeping
For one too good to die.

Desperation rears its dark head,
Unhappy hate is its shadow
Bearing the evergreen meadow,
He cuts away his life.

Pure goodness wells from the wound,
Dripping, slowly seeping, a stain
Is spreading, there is none to heal the pain
And weeping, silently weeping…

Four minutes pass, silence ever after,
He is gone, his heart has beat its last
All words, after this, it is in the past.
My life, my love, my heart.

Gone, beyond Deaths door
Life is dull, grey, bland hereafter
And I reach, rope, for the rafter:
He is gone, we are apart,
Yet not for long…


Actually happened, I was talking to a very, very dear friend of mine. After three hours of my rapid talking, trying to keep him alive...well, I failed. He got a samurai sword and stuck it through his chest. He said 'in four minutes, I will be dead' ...

That was the last I heard from him.




...








*sighs* I suppose I should give you the rest of the story aye?

Well, two hours later, I got a reply from him...the ambulance was on it's way. How, I ask you, do you survive having a three foot blade stabbed through your body, aimed for your HEART and manage to miss!?

Well he did. He also missed his stomach, liver, lungs, major arteries and veins....everything in that general area. He missed. If it wasn't for the fact that I am so very very grateful that he's alive, I'd scold him for being a shit shot.

Dreams

Now, we've all had some weird arse dreams right? Dreams that are so...wacked that you just have to go what the -hell-?! and wonder where they came from?

I bet you, that no matter how spastic or random your dreams are, mine are worse. Take for example, the dream I had after I went to bed after my previous post. There's me, laying in this bright orange desert, gazing at a seam in the sky, a jagged scar in the very fabric of the cosmos and wondering why I can't focus when it was imperitive, VITAL that I focus on the ground...

About a half hour of dreamtime, when my vision is swimming, drifting in and out of focus on this tear in reality before I manage to register anything else, and I realise that I'm arguing with a female voice that is me and not-me at the same time.

"Some great power you have, you can't even focus."

"Why do I need to focus?"

"Concentrate! You'll need this."

"Need what?"

"To focus! You can't even drag your gaze from the tear to the ground, where the -real- danger is."

"Hush your mouth."


Then a dark skinned being enters my preferial vision, I turn my head slowly, lazily, woozily, to try and focus on this...blurred thing. It gets closer, I can hear it rattling, from the shells, bones and whatnot on necklaces and things strewn over its body. It picks me up, carrying me back to somewhere while I drift in and out of consiousness. I wake up, focus enough to realise that my carrier is seated, holding me in their lap while they search through a bag. I reach for the bag too, automatic but my hand it swatted aside.

They pull out something, it is cold, and feels slightly...slimey on my skin when they press it against my forehead. I blink, my eyes watering as I suddenly notice an immense carved city rising out of the sand, miles high towards the orange sky. Carvedof ivory...or some other substance that looks like highly polished ivory.

The something is replaced in the bag and they open a...hatch in the wall, sort of like the parcel slot for mail, and slip in, beckoning for me to follow. It's large, so I do so easily enough, but on reaching the other side I lose consiousness, the world tilting as I fall to the ground, an odd lack of sound....even my head hitting the floor produces only a muffled thud.

I wake, hours, or maybe day's later, in a bed....of sorts. More of a hammock, only it's not made out of any substance I can recognise, coarse, yet smooth...rippling like water beneath my touch. I blink, my eyesight fuzzy as I strive to focus but all I can see are moving blurred shapes in any distance further away than my toes. Conversely, I can see the weave of the bed/hammock clearly, sharply, like it was magnified before my gaze. One of the dark shapes moves towards me and I tense, uneasy, worried....but fall unconsious again.

I wake again, with a splitting headache, but my vision is clear and I can focus. The blurred shapes resolve into dark skinned people, a glossy black, like...tar, or ink. Black, well polished wood springs to mind as an apt representation. But whatever you like, they were....breathtaking, yet earthy, beings of the land.

Regardless, it turns out that the one who found me was a witchdoctor of sorts, rather high up in the social hierachy. And since I didn't freak out or become nasty or something along those lines, I've gained a fair amount of respect from these ...people. Once my head had healed, and I was no longer woozy, having dizzy spells, I could wander around freely. A rather simple society, by today's standards, yet unbelievably sophisticated in others. They have very little modesty for instance, they shower out in the open, all together...albeit it's each gender to their own section.

Speaking of genders, there was about....four, I think. Something like that, since a wedding was a very...complex affair. I had to attend three, and each took about...six hours to complete. That's the saying of the vowels in their chattery, bubbly, birdsong-like language. It was rather nice to listen to, the language that is, and I somehow managed to understand enough to get by, but I was by no means fluent in it.

Regardless, minor details aside, the politics of the place meant that there were those that didn't like the fact that I was friends with the witchdoctor, and those around him, the rulers of that odd city. And arranged for me to have a fall....down around three stories. No idea how I survived it, but I nigh on broke my back when I landed, and I was there, sprawled on this wall, dangling down either side of it, semi-consious and furious, until the witchdoctor finds me. He gets angry, when I tell my tale, and they get thrown out while my back heals....well, them permenantly, but I wasn't really mobile.

And as I drifted in and out in a pain filled haze, I woke up. Like, properly woke up. My back was still hurting though. And all through the day, i've been getting twinges, well, more than twinges...more like, sharp stabbing pain, in my lower back, where I dream almost broke it.

Note to self, don't dream-hurt yourself. It hurts in real life too.

Sleeep...

Okay, this most likely will not make a whole lot of sense, and if it -does- make sense then it's simply because I've been rambling long enough to put a coherent sentence together.

It's 2am on a fri-...no, saturday morning, i'm being sneaky since mother dearest and her boyfriend are workign the night shift and I didn't want them watching over my shoulder. It's a bit hard to rant about someone, when that someone is reading your words, you know? And that's what she does, by the by, she doesn't trust me so she thinks it's a mothers perrogrative to watch her 17 year old daughter type up her personal thoughts and whatnot, for OTHER people to read, strangers that couldn't give two hoots about her.

Yeah, when I'm tired all my mental issues make themselves known. To make things plain to people just wafting through, i do NOT get along with my mother. Think of how well America and the Al Queda (however you spell it) get along, then amplify it by about five....and that's how well mother and I get along. Nuclear warfar springs to mind as an apt representation.

Oh, you'll note that I mentioned that I'm semi-emo? I say that I'm emo simply because I'm sort of suicidal. Been depressed since I was about 8 so that's what....9 years now? and it's all thanks to my lovely mother yay! that and the moronic boys at school. Idiots, the entire male gender.

Now don't get me wrong! I may not hold the male mentality in very high regard, but I -do- like the male body. Girls are just....ick. Dont do anything for me, and from how my mother has treated me, if I didn't have the bits I would loathe the entire gender.

I really think I should stop now, before I say something incriminating.

Take My hand...

You, whoever you are, I extend My hand to you. Will you be brave enough to take it, and walk with Me, walk with Me where I tread? Come, take My hand, take My hand and walk with Me, walk with Me in the Shadows. For if you do, you'll not be harmed, not by the shadows I walk, but only by your own doubts and fancies that you see in the darkness.

Will you take My hand and step off the well light, well trodden path, into the unknown? Or are you afraid that 'unknown' is not so very foreign, and that you like it here? Will you take a chance, or will you walk forever on the road that so many have trodden before you?

When the Clock struck

When the clock struck half-past midnight,
The faintest glow of blood-red grew
Out from under the street light.
It throbbed and pulsed with a sinister life
And oozed up to seep under the front porch light.

Sliding through the keyhole in the doorknob,
The glow hissed and faded into the shadows
Of the blissfully sleeping mind with the heart throb--
And changed the dreams of joy to screaming,
Screams of the blood-red, nightmare blob.

With a silver breeze the nightmares develop,
Deep within the restless mind of the uneasy sleeper.
Angry thoughts flit about while the restless mind tries to cope.
A slender tendril, a crimson stream, extends to touch the dreamer
A tiny gasp as the final sigh drifts away, gone from life.

A ghostly chuckle echoes through the house,
While the sleepers soundlessly scream--
Their happy lives are stolen by a sinister louse.
As the clock strikes one, their lives do end
And the glow leaves not a thing alive, not even a mouse.

Slipping silently out the door, the glow does flee
Back to the nether world from which it spawned.
Filled with sinister and evil glee,
Sated and content with the lives it has stolen
Brand new slaves, for all eternity.



And a poem, not one of my better works, but it'll do.

The Consequences

If you would, in manner true,
dance upon the glade.
With laughter ringing out so pure,
defying the silver blade.

But soon the joy shall turn to fear
and the laughter shall still,
as Men rich with beer
come for red blood to spill.

The glade is green no more,
but crimson from the flow.
will you lock and bar the door
and bid the knockers go?

Shall you fling it open wide
and take out all your arms,
to shoot a drunken hide
beneath the broken palms?

Will the dead be mourned
or shall they lie there bare,
food for the scavengers
beast and bird, black of hair?

What are you, strong or weak,
or are you neither and merely meek?
shall you guard what is yours
or let it be taken by thieving paws?

No matter what, we have to live
with the decision, the choice,
of what gifts to give;
to be silent or raise our voice.

So protest for the crimson glade
the laughter that is still,
stop the slaughter with the blade,
before it could find a life to kill.

By Yours Truely. Makes you think, doesn't it?

Sing a song of Sixpence...

Sing a song of sixpence;
a pocket full of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds
baked in a Pie.

When the pie was opened;
the birds began to sing.
Now isn't that a dainty dish
to set before a King?

A common nursery rhyme no? Common enough indeed that almost every child knows it, or will learn it over the course of their early schooling life, if not at the home. Yet why is it, that on hearing that nursery rhyme, or reading it, or even thinking it, I get a shiver down my spine? A shiver that has very little to do with the actual words?
Why can I see a sinister intent in the rhyme, the melody, something I've known since I was knee high to a grasshopper, but no one else can?

It's like ring a ring a rosy....
Ring-a ring-a rosy
a pocket full of posy
a tissue a tissue
we all fall down.

Describing the Black death, crimson rings are the first symptom, all over the body. A common myth was that by having a pocket full of posies, or flowers, fended off the ill-humours that caused the illness, or cured it once you had it. Then came the cold, the sneezing 'a tissue' for the sound you make...and well, the last line is obvious. 'we all fall down', we all die.

But ...why am I seeing such a sinister connotation to Sing a song of Sixpence? There is nothing, as far as I can tell, to support me in that! Sure, sticking twenny four birds in a pie and cooking them isn't exactly pleasant, even if they survive, supposedly, but its nothing to do with this...ill feeling I get. Perhaps tis just a passing fancy but still...

Irrational fears and pet peeves

Had a lovely night at work last night, we were slow, so I had fun, oddly enough. Yet, of course, twere too good to be true. My mother, whome I dislike intensely (don't go yelling at me for this, after you've lived with my mother and know how neurotic and psychotic she is, -then- you can yell at me, perhaps.) decided that it has been long enough without a fight between the two of us.

I have a nice evening at work, but to end my night she starts going off at me. Fair enough I can understand some of her annoyances, like me not doing a whole lot around the house for instance, but when you have the fact that you're more of a loner than a social butterfly thrown in your face it's a bit...annoying. Simply, I'm a loner, I've always been a loner and no doubt I will always -be- a loner. I prefer my own company to a crowd with it's inane noise and the smell....ugh.

But of course, as I don't have many whome I would call a 'friend' there are quite a few whome would call -me- a friend. You can see the difference? Bah, regardless....all water under the bridge, since I had no desire to partake in the screaming match she was itching to deliver.

Now, onto irrational fears.

You know the common fears, arachnaphobia, claustrophobia, xenophobia? What about those that are less common, melissaphobia, hydrophobia and so on?
By the by, melissaphobia isn't a fear of Melissas :P (I know quite a few ditzy ones myself) it's a fear of bees. Hydrophobia is a fear of water.

Do you know anyone that has a really...out there phobia?

I've got a friend that's absolutely petrified, paranoid that ninja's are out to get him and that they're only waiting for him to relax his guard before attacking. It's amusing to watch him stamp on plastic bags and the like, looking for hidden ninjas. Another friend of mine is terrified of moths. Now, if this friend was female, it could be understandable yes? Well....he's not.

Of course, I teased him, after soothing him that no, the moth all of (---) that big wasn't going to eat him. And then suggested idly that I should tell him about vampire moths...

No, don't look at me like that, they're real! Honest! Big moths, about six inches across, all grey and fuzzy like. Massive things they are. You have to be careful, they'll go for any piece of bare skin they can find to suck your blood. Tis why they're called 'vampire' moths.
Is the truth! My uncle got attacked by one when I was little, he was lucky to survive!

First Blog yay!

My very firstest post....What to say?

Well, as you've possibly gathered from the title, I'm a bit emo. But not....majorly. Sure there's beauty in the world, it's a wonderful place, it's just humanity that sucks. And I mean humanity in general. If you get all insulted at being lumped into that bandwagon, aren't you just proving my point hmm? Something to think about.

Another thing, this blog, mainly, when/if I remember to keep up to date with it...will be for posting poetry. If you dun like it, buzz off :P It's my blog and I'll do what I likes with it so there nyah. So in keeping with that...have a poem!

Monster of the Loch.

Beside Loch Fergus Eleanor

(A scottish lass) was strolling,

when close to that unearthly shore

a big wave started rolling.

The water churned, it foamed and swelled

Then with an icy blast

A mighty monster reared and yelled,

‘It’s dinner time at last!’

It fixed it’s eyes on Eleanor

It’s smile was wide and vicious-

‘I’ve never eaten girls before,

I bet you taste delicious!

Perhaps I’ll eat you medium rare

Or very lightly fried

With dobs of dripping here and there?

I really can’t decide.’

Said Eleanor, ‘I’ve news for you!

You’re wrong in your assumption,

Although I look a dish, it’s true,

I’m not for your consumption.

I’m just a clever bit of bait

To lure you from Loch Fergus,

I own a fast food restaurant, mate,

And you’re my brand new burgers.’

Then Eleanor produced a set

Of bagpipes from her kilt

She knew the beast could not resist

The bagpipes doleful lilt,

She filled the Scottish countryside,

With notes so low and rank

The dreaded monster, hypnotised,

Moved slowly to the bank.

Entranced, it followed Eleanor

Towards a big deep-freeze

And sadly it was seen no more,

Except on buns with cheese.

And if you ever wonder

What of Eleanor became

Just remember that McDonald

Is a very Scottish name.

Doug MacLeod.

Yeah, I know, I didn't write it...But it's a nice, fun, lively poem to start the day off with ^_^