Dear psyche of myself,
I regret to inform all of my lovely co-workers that I am leaving this division of the company. Anger, depression and teenage drama, you have all been such diligent workers in not only my psyche but also my life so I thank you. Nevertheless, change is necessary, I have been in the MSDBTA (Manufacturing and Storage Division of 100% Biodegradeable Teenage Angst) division for almost 5 years, and ever since I moved from the middle school management of puberty division, I have been happy here.
But the necessary change has come, and now I am moving up in life into the famed early adulthood division of early-career drafting of the collegic level, in which I will have no boundaries. Therefore, teenage emotions please exit the premises quickly,
P.S. teenage drama and relationship issues…Responsibility is taking your place, leave your office as disgusting as it is, do not worry, Responsibility will find a mature way to take care of it.
Sincerely,
CEO of my life: Mitchell Figueras
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Chasing echoes and house keys
Chasing Echoes
Who chases echoes?
Your neighbor,
that step-brother you never talked to,
the woman behind the register,
and even the bearded man at the subway
that can afford a meatball sub every day
but not a hair cut.
Everyone you have ever known
has chased an echo,
longing to find what once made glorious sounds
in the dark catacombs of their lives.
Hoping that they will find that sanctuary,
a time when life had no bounds.
When there weren’t any walls to echo off of.
So, tell your neighbors, cashiers, relative strangers and even the bearded man,
to live your life loud,
making an impact like the beat of a drum
against the ears of those around you
and maybe these sounds will echo loud enough to make you forget,
forget what longing and regret sounds like,
to make you stop chasing echoes.
Ode to House Keys
You know me
you sing when I walk,
your jingles are music to my ears.
You know the way home,
the way inside
and no matter how I decorate you with knick-knacks
I can never repay you for how whenever I lose you
You take me back, always opening the door for me.
All of this makes this tougher to say
I am holding you back,
the possibilities for you are endless
you could have opened any door in the world
but I chose you, and now instead of opening
government briefcases, shopping malls or amusement parks
you open my door.
Despite all of this,
you faithfully open my door, always on the second try.
you still shine from the moonlight reflecting off of the porch
oh personality is ok, and pretty eyes are fine
But when the girl I am with finds the
eight-ball chain you are wearing today cute,
this is the defining factor that makes a girl truly a 'keeper'.
Oh house keys, you have no substitute,
just don’t look under the mat.
Okeydokey.
Who chases echoes?
Your neighbor,
that step-brother you never talked to,
the woman behind the register,
and even the bearded man at the subway
that can afford a meatball sub every day
but not a hair cut.
Everyone you have ever known
has chased an echo,
longing to find what once made glorious sounds
in the dark catacombs of their lives.
Hoping that they will find that sanctuary,
a time when life had no bounds.
When there weren’t any walls to echo off of.
So, tell your neighbors, cashiers, relative strangers and even the bearded man,
to live your life loud,
making an impact like the beat of a drum
against the ears of those around you
and maybe these sounds will echo loud enough to make you forget,
forget what longing and regret sounds like,
to make you stop chasing echoes.
Ode to House Keys
You know me
you sing when I walk,
your jingles are music to my ears.
You know the way home,
the way inside
and no matter how I decorate you with knick-knacks
I can never repay you for how whenever I lose you
You take me back, always opening the door for me.
All of this makes this tougher to say
I am holding you back,
the possibilities for you are endless
you could have opened any door in the world
but I chose you, and now instead of opening
government briefcases, shopping malls or amusement parks
you open my door.
Despite all of this,
you faithfully open my door, always on the second try.
you still shine from the moonlight reflecting off of the porch
oh personality is ok, and pretty eyes are fine
But when the girl I am with finds the
eight-ball chain you are wearing today cute,
this is the defining factor that makes a girl truly a 'keeper'.
Oh house keys, you have no substitute,
just don’t look under the mat.
Okeydokey.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Cold dinners and depressed writers blocks.
Here is some stuff I just started typing out of pure boredom. My mind is in disarray, and I have a bit of a headache. Honestly I doubt anyone will read this so whatever.
well, here goes nothing.
well, here goes nothing.
Cold Turkey
The turkey was almost as cold as their stares, well, Mom’s anyways. Dad was reading the paper at the table. Sports section, business, it never matter what letters or numbers were in the corner of the page, he read the Raleigh Chronicle at the table every night. The more conservative type of paper, but the Chronicle was his style, matching him perfectly and appropriately, just like the paper’s dull stories and tragically unappealing comics. He was not strong as other dads, leaving mom to be the punishing type; but even she was silent after what I did. The table basked in this silence; I knew they found out. I was caught for sure this time. Only little Molly spoke, if you can call her aimless babbling speaking at all.
“I love spinkles. (Sprinkles),” Molly said.
I wish I could sit in her high chair, an eagle’s nest above the silent hatred of the table. The blue-trayed Kid Cuisine sitting on top of the cheap plastic plateau was usually the center of attention at dinner. If only her babbling could somehow setback the anticipation, how will my mother deal with this.
My father closed the page of the paper, to pathetic to speak; he softly laid the paper down at the table. He occasionally switched glances from the bold red letters of cheap car dealership ads on the back of the paper, to his half-eaten cold turkey and peas. This sequence was broken by my mother who said,
“Son, we got a call from the school today”
“Aww! Eric’s in troubou (trouble).” Molly interrupted.
Father stood up, and took little Molly with a strangely loving grasp. I could still hear his footsteps slowly making their way up the staircase as I pondered how sensitive he was in situations like this. He was not even man enough to look at me.
“Drugs? Son….really?” My mom said.
“Mom, look, I am sorry. Okay!” I said.
“No, no your not sorry. You’ll never know what sorry feels like!” She said.
Her hands hit the table, sending silverware onto the floor. She bent over and picked up the spoon. Staring into her own reflection, she gasped, and her eyes welled up with tears.
“ I remember, son, so well what sorry looks like. Sorry looked so similar to this. I still remember melting heroin in a spoon like this.
Son, I know you were just caught with marijuana this time, but it leads to other things, intense…uncontrollable things. Son, I-I would know, I have done stronger things before, melting and injecting like clockwork. The images of the fire and not being able to stop, not being able to put it out, those images NEVER LEFT. The SCARS on my veins… never left.” She said.
She sat in her chair defenseless, her hands crossed, covering where her upper and lower arm met. Rising from my seat I shot towards my mother, holding her tight in my arms. She wept into my shoulder, stammering apologies, now grasping hard onto my back. Her tears hurt, and, in-between sobs, she managed to lift her head and meet my eyes.
“Son, I did things, just to loosen my stress, for my needs. After it happened… everyone left. My friends, my family. All gone, the only thing left were my scars.”
“Mom, after what happened?” I said.
“I needed a hit so bad, and…I was willing to do anything. Your father was the only friend who took me in after I got pregnant with you. We moved here together, leaving family, our home and that dealer…never looking back.” She said.
I tried to stand, but my body gave up. My knees shook, and soon after hit the floor, now my mom was holding me. Holding onto her embrace, my hands on her back were ready top throw cold turkey and Kid Cuisine onto the bleak kitchen wallpaper.
Father came down the stairs, held my mom and I. Now I knew why every Christmas we never had family over, why I never knew how my parents met. I realized that my Dad was the strongest man I had ever met.
The turkey was almost as cold as their stares, well, Mom’s anyways. Dad was reading the paper at the table. Sports section, business, it never matter what letters or numbers were in the corner of the page, he read the Raleigh Chronicle at the table every night. The more conservative type of paper, but the Chronicle was his style, matching him perfectly and appropriately, just like the paper’s dull stories and tragically unappealing comics. He was not strong as other dads, leaving mom to be the punishing type; but even she was silent after what I did. The table basked in this silence; I knew they found out. I was caught for sure this time. Only little Molly spoke, if you can call her aimless babbling speaking at all.
“I love spinkles. (Sprinkles),” Molly said.
I wish I could sit in her high chair, an eagle’s nest above the silent hatred of the table. The blue-trayed Kid Cuisine sitting on top of the cheap plastic plateau was usually the center of attention at dinner. If only her babbling could somehow setback the anticipation, how will my mother deal with this.
My father closed the page of the paper, to pathetic to speak; he softly laid the paper down at the table. He occasionally switched glances from the bold red letters of cheap car dealership ads on the back of the paper, to his half-eaten cold turkey and peas. This sequence was broken by my mother who said,
“Son, we got a call from the school today”
“Aww! Eric’s in troubou (trouble).” Molly interrupted.
Father stood up, and took little Molly with a strangely loving grasp. I could still hear his footsteps slowly making their way up the staircase as I pondered how sensitive he was in situations like this. He was not even man enough to look at me.
“Drugs? Son….really?” My mom said.
“Mom, look, I am sorry. Okay!” I said.
“No, no your not sorry. You’ll never know what sorry feels like!” She said.
Her hands hit the table, sending silverware onto the floor. She bent over and picked up the spoon. Staring into her own reflection, she gasped, and her eyes welled up with tears.
“ I remember, son, so well what sorry looks like. Sorry looked so similar to this. I still remember melting heroin in a spoon like this.
Son, I know you were just caught with marijuana this time, but it leads to other things, intense…uncontrollable things. Son, I-I would know, I have done stronger things before, melting and injecting like clockwork. The images of the fire and not being able to stop, not being able to put it out, those images NEVER LEFT. The SCARS on my veins… never left.” She said.
She sat in her chair defenseless, her hands crossed, covering where her upper and lower arm met. Rising from my seat I shot towards my mother, holding her tight in my arms. She wept into my shoulder, stammering apologies, now grasping hard onto my back. Her tears hurt, and, in-between sobs, she managed to lift her head and meet my eyes.
“Son, I did things, just to loosen my stress, for my needs. After it happened… everyone left. My friends, my family. All gone, the only thing left were my scars.”
“Mom, after what happened?” I said.
“I needed a hit so bad, and…I was willing to do anything. Your father was the only friend who took me in after I got pregnant with you. We moved here together, leaving family, our home and that dealer…never looking back.” She said.
I tried to stand, but my body gave up. My knees shook, and soon after hit the floor, now my mom was holding me. Holding onto her embrace, my hands on her back were ready top throw cold turkey and Kid Cuisine onto the bleak kitchen wallpaper.
Father came down the stairs, held my mom and I. Now I knew why every Christmas we never had family over, why I never knew how my parents met. I realized that my Dad was the strongest man I had ever met.
Ok, a little sad. Well, I like this one, but I did not take enough time on it, I could try to make the dialogue better. Hmmm, what do you guys think? I dunno why, I am just in a sad mood. Ugh, I just spent a lot of my tiem writing it and still, nothing. No solve to my headache, writer's block and problems. Great.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Seeing seconds (Synesthesia)
syn·es·the·sia
1. A condition in which one type of stimulation evokes the sensation of another, as when the hearing of a sound produces the visualization of a color.
I was kind of inspired to write about this, it sounds really cool. So I decided to try to describe a second (Or any 'Second' 's in general) using sight. I don't usually use alliteration...but I'll try with some S's. sssssssssssssssssss. ok. I'll try not to over-do it.
Ok, 'ere goes nothin.
Seeing Seconds
Seeing the seconds split, like atoms.
Changing into split-second thoughts and split-second desicions.
Seeing what is on your plate,
Never satisfied with life
Asking for seconds
Seeing every sweet victory
Still so distant
Constantly coming in Second.
Seeing life sparkle before your eyes
Glistening, sand filled summer sunsets
Seconds of innocence
Slipping away
Seeing a star shimmer
Only for a split-second
Skillfully, making you question
Will that star ever shine again?
Or will you forever be
remembering those seconds.
this is the cooliest
because this stanza
breaks the second pattern
yayyyyyyyy
Krysteah did the last stanza, I couldn't think of a better one. This one is awesome!!!!
1. A condition in which one type of stimulation evokes the sensation of another, as when the hearing of a sound produces the visualization of a color.
I was kind of inspired to write about this, it sounds really cool. So I decided to try to describe a second (Or any 'Second' 's in general) using sight. I don't usually use alliteration...but I'll try with some S's. sssssssssssssssssss. ok. I'll try not to over-do it.
Ok, 'ere goes nothin.
Seeing Seconds
Seeing the seconds split, like atoms.
Changing into split-second thoughts and split-second desicions.
Seeing what is on your plate,
Never satisfied with life
Asking for seconds
Seeing every sweet victory
Still so distant
Constantly coming in Second.
Seeing life sparkle before your eyes
Glistening, sand filled summer sunsets
Seconds of innocence
Slipping away
Seeing a star shimmer
Only for a split-second
Skillfully, making you question
Will that star ever shine again?
Or will you forever be
remembering those seconds.
this is the cooliest
because this stanza
breaks the second pattern
yayyyyyyyy
Krysteah did the last stanza, I couldn't think of a better one. This one is awesome!!!!
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