Royalty (Color Poem 7)

Royalty

     Purple

When the others whisper about the past,

they remind me I am nothing but a weed.

From where we’ve spread,

I can almost see the old garden

filled with flowers

and the most ethereal are

     the purple tulips

     toad lilies

     meadow rue

     lilac and

     violets.

                     I am younger than the other weeds

                     and I do not understand

                     why we are chopped down

                         stepped on

                     not treated with the care the flowers receive.

                     We are the same color,

                     why can’t we be treated with the same care?

                               They say we are pushed out because we wanted to spread,

                               that we thought if there were more of us,

                               one day we might also be treated with love.

                               But our roots spread too far,

                               and now none of us reach even the edges of the garden.

                               Every year, the roots are all that remain,

                               chopped down to return again the next year.

     We prepare for the day

     that the roaring

          and chopping

          and cutting

          and chattering

     of the weed eater

     tears us apart again.

                                                                                        But this time, the roaring doesn’t come.

                                                                                        All we see is a shadow,

                                                                                        a tall, human shadow,

                                                                                        and then a pale hand and a kind face.

“You’re pretty,”

she says.

Her voice is light,

tinkling like a small bell,

and in her bright smile we know

that finally someone sees us

as more than a mass of

weeds.

Falling Together (Color Poem 6)

Falling Together

     Green

There is a tickle in my vein

and a pulling in my stem.

I cling

     to my tree,

          my home,

the strong, moss-covered branch

where I have grown.

Below, I see a girl

   her legs bouncing,

   wringing her hands,

   staring at a white rectangle

   beside her.

Again, I feel the pulling,

the gentle but assertive caress

of the wind, like the fingers of a small child,

plucking me from the tree as they would

a berry from beside me.

I hold on still

and I watch

and she pulls out something silver

   shining

from her pocket.

     Opening it,

     closing it,

     glancing down

     as if to open it again,

     shoving it back into the pocket.

The wind pulls once more

and I can’t hold on.

So I

     fall

            down,

         drifting,

    further,

and land on top of the white rectangle,

covered in black scribbles.

The girl’s small hands

lift me and she stares, before

looking up with wide eyes

at the sound of footsteps.

Her legs are no longer bouncing and

I see someone else

in her line of sight

and the last thing I see is her smile

like a light from a star in the darkness

closing in before

I am gone.

Pink (Color Poem 5)

Pink

     Pink

he is supposed to be here
     i think
the random words
     what am i even talking about
words pouring out of my mouth
to my friends don't register
because my stomach is spinning
like the wheels of a truck stuck in mud
because

he is supposed to be here
     i know
i am wearing a new dress because today
is his birthday and i know
he is supposed to be here
     but he isn't
and my arms wrap around my middle

as my friends’ conversation

     like the murmurs of talking while asleep

rolls along with the rolling of my stomach

     but my stomach stops rolling
     the tires halt
     and reverse
     slowly rolling in the opposite direction
     back down a hill
     then faster
     picking up speed
     because

he is here now
     i see
and my friends move on to talk to other friends
and i move on to talk to other friends
as the room jumbles like schools of fish swimming through each other
and i try to ignore the yanking urge i feel
to look around the room
     just for a second
and see what he is doing
     and i don't ignore it
     and i look
and

he is looking at me
     i feel
the area under each of my pores
     from my hairline
     to my earlobes
     to my collarbone
     to my shoulders
warms like a marshmallow over an open flame
as his deep
     chocolatey
eyes meet mine.

And I stop.

Taking in a deep breath of air,

I look away,

back to the friends in front of me.

Then, with a sigh,

I start a new conversation,

refusing to look around again,

because

I don’t want him to know

     why I’m pink.

Lemons (Color Poem 4)

Lemons
     Yellow

My hands shake as

I nervously flip the notepad.

“Lemonade,”

the blonde murmurs.

“Just a glass of lemonade.”

She doesn’t meet my eyes,

only stares

at the glinting glass table in front of her.

I wonder if it is normal

to order lemonade so early.

Do we even sell lemonade

this early?

I carefully bring out her drink,

the first order I’ve taken,

noticing the shining sunrise

beaming through the window

causing the white daffodils to appear tinted yellow

- similar to the yellow of the lemon

wedged on the glass in my hands.

“Anything else?”

I ask.

I place the lemonade in front of her.

She shakes her head and still stares as

the sun continues to rise

and the object of her attention

that I hadn’t noticed before

reflects enough light to draw my eye:

a small, diamond-clad band,

lying alone on the table.

Music and Morality (Color Poem 3)

Music and Morality

     Black and White

My fingers slip along the keys

in front of me.

Smooth, and yet

my hands

trail salty, sticky sweat

on each key I trace.

People are looking at me –

people I know

and people I don’t.

          Anxiety;

I imagine the black pupils

and whites of their eyes

like the keys of the piano,

ebony and ivory.

     No.

          Focus;

I have to focus.

The keys under my skin are separate

like angels dressed in white robes

lying parallel to devils

smothered in black feathers.

I see them bicker as I hear

the tinkling chords hammered down,

painting the world

          in black and white,

          up and down,

          right and wrong.

Every breath I take in

is like a shudder from my core.

I feel my body reverberate

with the same vibration

emanating from each of the strings.

           Wrong.

               Not disconnected.

     Yes,

the music is made with the blend

of obsidian and cream.

Everything around me blurs,

from the stage to the rafters overhead,

and I am finally pulled

into the melody my fingers are conducting.

Even the lines between the keys

blur and I can no longer feel

the eyes trained on me

or the white, stage light on my back.

Black and white becomes grey –

          grey like the sky after it rains,

          grey like the old, silent movies in the 20’s

          before technology could handle the world in full color.

And the greyer the keys become,

the more clearly my music resonates

     within me.

Worth (Color Poem 2)

Worth

     Gold

My eyes scan the room

as I step onto the scale

that will decide

my worth and my home.

The flashing numbers on the scale

blur together as the man,

the auctioneer,

beside me

stares at them increasing.

And they stop.

One-hundred-ten

the numbers displayed.

A pound of gold is two-thousand dollars,

so one-hundred-ten two-thousands

is two-hundred-twenty-thousand.

It isn’t much.

The golden numbers are projected

on a screen behind me

for the men and women watching

to see my worth.

I take a deep breath.

This is completely necessary,

     mother had told me.

We need the money to keep living,

     father had explained.

One-hundred-ten.

With barely anything to feed

me, my weight is low.

Most of the others on scales

were at least two-hundred.

But it fits.

My family only sees me as a means

to an end.

The faces come into focus,

some with shining, golden teeth

in their smiles,

   their smirks,

      their sneers,

and they seem satisfied with the low price.

And I know that,

to them and my family,

I am worth my weight in gold.

Alone (Color Poem 1)

Alone

     Red

The edges of the grass prickle

my skin through the crimson, plaid

blanket. I pry open the small basket

mother gave me to pull out a

     single

plump strawberry.

I am too young to understand

the pitied expressions dancing

across the faces of the family

sitting to my left

and the plump couple

crouched in front of me.

I smile and shoo them away,

happy with my treat,

and I take my first bite.

The juice splashes and squirts,

a drop dripping free,

staining my white skirt

     red,

the spot like a tear of blood

   by itself

in a field of snow.

Color Poem Series

Over the next week, I will be posting the first seven poems, out of eight, in the portfolio I made for my poetry class. Each poem is based on a color, and whatever I decided to associate with the color at that point in time. The original draft of one, "Black and White" (now "Music and Morality") is already on here. Each day, I will post the next one. These poems can stand on their own, but there is a - very out-there, slightly dystopian - story-line that you can follow through the poems if you try.

I will not be posting the eighth, and final, poem "Prism." It is extremely personal. And directly pulled from my life. And if certain people were to find this blog, my only secret would then be exposed to the few people that don't already know it. And I will not have that. Plus, even if the people already know, it is embarrassing. I only wrote it because it was on my mind and I couldn't distract myself from... the situation at hand.

So I wrote a poem about it.

And I will never share it. Legit.

Thank you for your time!

C. E. Taylor

Bad Poetry

So I was about to post my second poem for my creative writing class this semester, and then I realized that people I know read this, and it's embarrassing. Like, most of my poems are embarrassing because they are bad, but this one is bad AND really personal. And recent. And a glimpse inside my soul that people who know about the situation just can't see yet. Or I may hyperventilate and die. So maybe, one day, I'll be able to post it. One day.

I'll tell you the title. It is called "Pink." Yeah. Life.

Have a nice day.

Black and White

Black and White


    My fingers slip along the keys
of the piano in front of me. Smooth;
they are smooth, and yet
the perspiration on my hands
creates a trail of sticky, sweet sweat
on each and every key my fingers trace.
People are looking at me -
people I know and people I don’t.
         Anxiety;
the black pupils
and whites of their eyes
distract me with their contrast -
the same as that of the keys in front of me.
    No.
         Focus;
I have to focus.
As my fingers slide
from black to white,
I can feel the strings under the ebony surface
get plucked, one by one.
I have to ignore the eyes,
their colors like a white angel
against a black one on my shoulders,
painting the entire world around me
         in black and white,
         right and wrong,
         up and down.
Every breath I take
is like a shudder from my core, and
I feel my body reverberate
with the same ‘pluck’
that causes each string of the piano to create music.
But a single pluck alone isn’t enough
to make the song. No,
the song comes from the mix
of black and white.
The gleaming eyes around me blur
as I am finally pulled
into the melody my fingers are conducting,
and the keys do the same -
I can no longer feel
the heat of the bright, yellow light on my back.
Black and white becomes grey -
         grey like the sky after it rains,
         grey like my mother’s kind eyes,
         grey like those old movies
before technology could handle the world in full color.
And the more grey the keys become,
the more clearly my music resonates
    within me.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Look! I posted something! Somehow, I actually like this poem. Probably because I wrote it as a paragraph and then split it up. So, while I was writing it, it was technically prose. But really. It is kind of cool. What is this? Me liking poetry I wrote? Nonsense. The world must be coming to an end. But anyway, I've been very enveloped in Yu Yu Hakusho fan fiction. You should go to my fan fiction profile and read it. I update it every Saturday.

Shameless advertisement is shameless

Fan Fiction

I do not know what has possessed me to do so, but I have updated, and am currently writing more of, my Kingdom Hearts fan fiction. I realize it has something to do with all of the Spirited Away fan fiction I have been reading, but normally that just makes me want to write stories for whatever fandom I am absorbed in. Somehow I got the inspiration to write for Kingdom Hearts.

And, dear lord, I am having fun.

I have thrown all caution to the wind and nixed most of my planning, generally because I don't remember what it was from so long ago. I'm just writing. I know my general plot, though I don't know exactly where it ends up, but I don't really care. I'm just writing. And it's so freeing. Like flying. 

I'm hoping I can keep up with it once I go back to Tech. I mean, I would always have free time where I would be bored, so now I can convince myself that I should be writing my fan fiction so as to not leave my readers (if I even have any) hanging. It's exciting to write fan fiction again, even though I really should be working on my original fiction, since I could make money off of that one day. But no matter, my brain picks what it wants to write, and I cannot convince it otherwise.

I just wanted to share this with the world (or whoever reads my blog) because it makes me happy. So yeah. Have a nice day.

Hair

My, I have been particularly chatty today. Intriguing. Probably because I have so many strange things happening all at once. Something compelled me to clean out the boxes on my dresser. It was an interesting experience, to say the least. I got those when I was still with my longest boyfriend, who I am still calling Bob for the sake of my privacy (and, hell, even his privacy), so they have quite a few nick-knacks in them that are, in a sense, artifacts of that relationship. Some spikes he had on some of his clothes. Two guitar picks he gave me the first time I ever went to his house. A decorative bit of jewelry he gave me from the Edgar Allan Poe museum. And my hair.

As you know if you have stalked my previous posts, Bob had a huge influence on my life and the person I am. For the entire time I was with him, my hair was very long. Dark, straight, very long hair. Not so different, really, from how it has been lately. Well, before I felt compelled to have my wonderful mother cut it a bit. Anyway, I somehow felt like my hair length was keeping me bound to him, in a way. Granted I was playing Final Fantasy IX at the time, and anyone who has played that game knows that Dagger uses (ha. ha.) a dagger to cut off her hair to a short length in an effort to move past the person she was when she had longer hair, if only temporarily. I decided to give that a try after I had rebounded from Bob with two different relationships.

I cleared the idea with my mom, and I went into the bathroom, put my hair up into a high ponytail, and chopped almost all of it off (in a similar fashion to Dagger in Final Fantasy IX, like a bob (oh the irony of my fake name choice) not a pixie cut). It took a good five minutes because my hair is so thick. That was one of the ways I let that relationship go, and an effort to move past it. I tied up the hair I had cut off, and I kept it for sentimental purposes. I felt like I was starting an entirely new section of my life, but I think I know differently now.

In keeping the hair I chopped off, I was holding on. I don't think I did it on purpose. And I don't think I did it because I still wanted him back. At the time, I knew I was done, that he had changed into something else, something that I couldn't see myself loving anymore. But I think I was scared to let go, and I think I've always been scared of ever opening myself up to someone as much as I did to him. He ripped my heart out, tore it to shreds, dropped those on the floor, and smashed them with one of his steel-toed boots. Then he put it back in, mended it, for about an hour. Then he ripped it out again, and gave it the same nasty treatment as before. And then, for some stupid reason, he made it worse by coming to live with me for who knows how long.

By keeping my hair, and the guitar picks, and the spikes, and some of the other things he gave me, I haven't let go. I wanted it to be sentimental, but it has somehow served as a reminder that I placed my heart into another human being's hands, giving him complete power over its fate, and he destroyed it. I'm damaged. My heart mended itself, but now its careful. It put up a huge, brick wall around itself and it won't let anyone in. And that isn't what I want anymore. I don't remember what it feels like to be able to put the trust in them that I put into Bob, and I'm done trying to protect myself from the possibility that it will happen again.

I'm going to try and let go. I think I am going to take all of these things either outside, or to Virginia Tech, or something, and get rid of them. I'm going to wait for a windy day, and I'm going to let go of my hair. I mean, seriously. I took my hair out of that box, and I got the curious idea to sniff it. I wanted to see what it smelled like. And the only thing I could smell was Bob. And it bothers me that I've been too afraid to get rid of it. To just let it go, and fly away in the wind. I mean, if I am going to take a lesson from Dagger, I need to do it right. She didn't keep her hair. She let it go. And that is exactly what I plan on doing.

Final Fantasy IX

I'm sorry I haven't posted anything particularly productive lately. I have been distracted by Aidan Turner and, without a class prompting me to do so, I don't get many ideas for random works. I am sure the next five months will be filled with all sorts of poetry I think is awful due to my Poetry class I am required to take. Why force me to do poetry? It isn't fair. I'm so bad at it. I can't take it seriously.

And I have been watching too much British television. 

I even think with a British accent now. It's sort of strange. Yeah.

Anyway, to the point of this post. Final Fantasy IX. I really love that game. After much soul searching over the years, I can solidly say that it is my favorite Final Fantasy game, and it makes me sad that some people have never even heard of it. Final Fantasy VII does, however, come in a close second. And as overrated as people think that game is, I do love it regardless of how many people think positively or negatively about it. But that is a tale for another time. This post is about my favorite, Final Fantasy IX.

It is a funny game. It does still have plenty of seriousness to the plot, but I so feel like it has the most comedic talent out of any of the Final Fantasy games I have played, which is most of them. And every single character is so well-made. Zidane will forever be my favorite leading male, though I am pretty excited for Nocits in Versus XIII, but that is beside the point. His character is so well-made and developed throughout the plot, and my sister and I both fell in love with him. Her probably less than me, since I am the one with the "falling in love with fictional characters" issue. I can say the same for Dagger, Vivi, Steiner, Eiko, and every single one of the characters in that game. 

Next part of why I love it is Kuja. I understand that the majority of Final Fantasy fans will say that Sephiroth is the best villain ever. I can see that point of view. I am addicted to Sephiroth's story, and I fell in love with him as much as I fell in love with Zidane. More hard-core Final Fantasy fans who have been playing all of the games obsessively will try to tell me that Kefka is the best villain. I am currently in the process of playing Final Fantasy VI with my sister, so I can't jusdge the situation quite yet, but he does seem like a good villain. Naive fans who only started playing with the PlayStation 2 might try to tell me Seymour is the best villain. Those people... I don't even want to explain how wrong I find that. But I disagree. I believe that Kuja is the best villain.

I do have reasons. Kuja is not the most powerful. No, he would probably lose in a fight against Sephiroth. Again, not sure about Kefka. I should play Dissidia and find out. He is not the most mentally screwed up. He is not, by any account, the most evil. So if that is how you measure the best villain, then I do suppose he is not the winner. However, his character is astounding. He was created for a single purpose, and he was defective. So his creator made a newer version, a better version, that effectively was his brother. He was cast aside, and his creator knew he would be useless and planned to replace him with the newer model. I can understand why he got upset and tried to get rid of Zidane. Then he finds out that he is going to die. In a childlike fit of jealousy, he wants to destroy the world so that everything else will go down with him.

Kuja is not evil. He was mistreated, and that led him to make some stupid decisions. He never got to grow up, and he retained a childlike sense about him that led him to want to destroy everything. He wasn't proud of what he was, hence the hiding of his tail, and he was most certainly jealous of Zidane. But after all of the character development he went through, in the end he does something right. He saved Zidane's party and assisted them in escaping in the end of the game. Zidane saw that change in him, and he stayed behind to protect him. I like to believe that Kuja didn't die, but that is left up in the air. And that is why I feel like he is the best villain. His character is astoundingly well-done, and his motivations are original and well-founded by the writers.

My next point is the theme. As many people know, IX and X were developed at the same time. As such, IX did not receive much advertisement, but that isn't my point. The theme of Final Fantasy X is about dreams and hope. I love its message. It is one of the best games I have ever played. I haven't been involved with Final Fantasy VII for as long, but I know its theme could very well have something to do with the idea that we are destroying the planet. Also very important, and very close to my heart. Each game has something like that, but the one that hits me the most is Final Fantasy IX's. It is about life.

Every single one of the characters in IX is faced with their mortality. There are numerous monologues about life and how you need to live it, no matter what you are or what you've done. From Zidane, to Kuja, to especially Vivi, that theme is illustrated in every single character's story. Though it isn't explicitly  mentioned, most people assume the farewell monologue in the end is Vivi before he died. I also see that as being true, though it took me a while to figure that out. I feel like IX has the strongest message that can really be applied to any person, in any stage of life. We have to live with the time that we have, and not simply exist. That game genuinely changed my life.

The characters and plot, while having all of their ties to the bits of Final Fantasy that are in each game, are so unique. My sister and I always play Final Fantasy games together, and in the old ones we say the lines since they aren't dubbed. Honestly, it is probably where my acting skills came from. And Final Fantasy IX is the first game we did that for. It has become a habit. Another part of my attraction to IX is the music. For some reason, people seem to really like the music of VIII. I don't particularly like that music, and I don't particularly like that game. There are things about it that deter me from being interested, like the double plot. IX has my favorite music, and every time I hear it all I want to do is play it again. It never gets old to me, and I really just wish that more people would give it a chance and be able to learn form it, as well as laugh and enjoy it, in the same way my sister and I did.

The Triangle

The Triangle

In all of my years of reading, both original works and fan fiction, there has been no single plot device that irritates me more than the dreaded love triangle. For most of my life so far, I thought it was stupid because it doesn't happen like that in real life. I have been proven wrong on that count, though it was more of a one-sided line than a triangle, what with someone liking me, but me not liking him at all in favor of someone else, who in turn didn't like me like that. So I understand that it can happen. But why on earth do so many authors feel the need to use it as a plot device?

I used to not have a problem with love triangles. If a book or fan fiction looked good, I would read it regardless of how many people were involved in the romance portion. I, however, eventually reached a point where it frustrated me. With the amount such a situation is seen in books, one would think it is a common occurrence in human life. While I can now admit that it isn't a real life impossibility, I also know that it is not nearly as common as an alien would think if he was learning our culture simply through reading fictional stories. I feel like we should be depicting human life as true as we can, unless, of course, the life we are writing about is not human.

Another problem I have with the triangle is the creativity aspect. Love triangles are a cliche. There are those who would disagree with me, and I do not particularly care. I have gotten to the point, when reading, where I see other potential prospects for the heroine and I assume there will be a damn triangle, even if it is just fabricated. Everyone is doing it. Should we just jump onto the bandwagon? I don't think so. There are so many ways to make a romance interesting without throwing in some other guy. Is this lack of originality a testament to the ever-shrinking creativity in writer's? I certainly hope not.

The next problem is characterization. I read these stories about some girl who is so very in love with this one guy. She would give anything for him. Then something unfortunate happens and she is forced into a situation, in some way or another, with another guy who is smitten with her. First of all, why are all fictional females ridiculously pretty and irresistible?  I understand that reader's don't want to read about an ugly person, as shallow as it may be, but it is really unnecessary to have everyone fall in love with your character. In reverse, it is not natural for the female to always be so fickle. Yes, there are people like that, but why is that the only side of human females represented in  literature these days?

I understand why the triangle is effective. It splits the reader, if done correctly. Either the reader has a favorite in mind and wants to see them win, or they love both and wait for the author to decide. This does keep the reader turning the pages, but at what cost? Yes, there have been times when a love triangle has kept me reading a book I would otherwise hate. But is that really the purpose of the book? I hope not. If so, it should just be sold under pointless romance with no plot. Yes, that was harsh, but as much as I feel that characters make a story what it is, plot is also necessary.

This rant really came about while I was reading a story where a woman was so in love and so happy, and the author decided to throw in a love triangle. It made me angry. So now I am letting it out. Because the plot is so good that I am willing to look past this stupid triangle because I need to know what happens in the story. And my stomach is growling. And the slightly formal tone of this post has now all-but-dissipated.

Old, Alone, Done For

The title is a quote from the Peter Pan that has that adorable little boy in it. The one with the thimble. I love that movie. And I am feeling particularly like dear old Captain Hook today.

Not that I want to kill any adorable children, just that I feel lonely. Mainly, I miss Virginia Tech. I miss my room, my roommate, my friends, my classes, the campus, the food, everything. I just want to go back now. 

I also need some inspiration. Not even inspiration, really. I know exactly what I want to write. I just don't seem to have the motivation to open up a Word document and actually write it. Maybe I need to get really sick again so I can be on drugs all the time. Apparently that worked before, because I was on a roll. I can't say the same for the state of my writing right now.

I am, however, quite in love with Aidan Turner.

I mean, he is an amazing actor. And just look at him. Really, I can't even begin to resist. He is almost equal to Johnny Depp on my list of favorite actors. And I don't even like that many actors, so me knowing his name is a big enough deal already. So I have been watching Being Human and, I must say, Mitchell and Kili are very different characters.

Also, Aidan Turner is clearly all for the supernatural people. First he is a vampire, then he gets reincarnated into a dwarf, then reincarnated again into a werewolf. Perhaps he will be a fairy next. That would be exciting.

But anyway, I am enjoying Being Human. Unfortunately, my internet is extremely slow, and iTunes is taking much too long to download it, so I am currently stuck on the third episode of the second season, waiting for the next to finish downloading. And then I will probably stay up all night watching it until I get to one that hasn't finished downloading. And then I will think to myself.

"Christina," I will say, "why did you not take the slight inspiration that entered your being and spend this time writing instead of fawning over Kili the dwarf's past life?"

"Intelligent part of me, dearest," I will reply, "as much as I love writing, the slight obsession I have for this actor is currently all-consuming, therefore I must watch everything I can with him in it in order to alleviate  this from my system... or at least minimize its ability to distract me."

Whether or not the more logical side of me takes that for a good enough answer is beyond my predictions. Because I really should be writing. I know the scene I want to write right now and everything. The second arc of my story is so much fun.

I felt compelled to share. I like that picture. It is one of the backgrounds on my cell phone.

Yes, I am aware that my infatuations with fictional characters are disturbing and unhealthy. But there is nothing I can do about it. Plus, I am not harming anyone, and it gives me inspiration to write, unlike when I am infatuated with normal, real people. THOSE infatuations make me LOSE all inspiration. I would know. I just had one.

It sucked.

But man, the guy is attractive. Oh well. Nothing is going to happen. And if it does, knowing my luck, I will be madly in love with someone I haven't even met yet and be like "well, damn, maybe you should have done something back when I was, I don't know, super duper interested in you." 

Exactly.

Alright. This codfish is going to go watch more Being Human. Enjoy your day. (Except no one reads this blog. So it is really just myself I am telling this to. And maybe some very curious fans if I one day am a bestselling author. That would be funny. If that happened: Hello out there! This is me when I was nineteen and did not have a driver's license! Nice to meet you! What am I like now? I am very curious to know.)

I feel like I just looked into the future. Cool. I like time travel. Even if it is only in my mind.

<3