Library.

My brain is a cluster of nonsense right now, too full of mindless thoughts to invoke any meaningful emotions about this room. Yet what does anyone accomplish by focusing on what we think cannot complete?

A library is obviously a room full of memories and stories by hundreds of people no one really knows. There stories leap from a white and black page and embed themselves into our lives and control your emotions. Underneath me, a hard wood chair supports my weight and allows me to relax, if only for a second. A tight cocoon of books caresses my body and corner me on all for sides, you would imagine it to be uncomfortable, yet to my surprise, its actually more like a smooth down blanket of endless knowledge, there to comfort and soothe in times of fright. Voices of people I know, and people I don't know fill the air with a jumble of sounds that do not resemble any words that I know. A harsh aggravated"shhhhhh!" comes from behind a tacky off white counter, as a ill faced librarian looks at us with disgust from under her smudged glasses, and the jumble of sounds quites to a mellow whisper, if even that, and only for a moment of time. A room that could be so many things, is dedicated sully to the purpose of supplying kids a never ending plethora of books. And in return, a crinkled nose and a sea of whines are the only response when expected to read one of them. And yet, to me, this room plastered with bird poop white walls, uncomfortable hard wood chairs, and angry students and librarians, is a comfortable haven of endless knowledge and entertainment.

No choice

i can’t do
what I want to do
so I do what I have to do

that’s what its like to be young
it’s not what I want to do
but it’s the best I can do

if I’m not aloud to get what I want
then I am supposed to want what I can get
it’s not what I want to do
but at least I have the future
to look forward to

since I can’t always go
where I want to go
i’ll go where I am aloud
to go
always understanding
it’s only temporary

i’ve learned to not always express
the way I feel
so I try to feel the ways
i can express
but this is why youth
alone learns to laugh
at the reason we cry

Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

I used to read tons and tons of Shel Silversteins poems when I was younger. So now when I think of my favorite poems, his are always first to come to mind. As much as I really love deep, emotionally moving poems, its always good to never take things too seriously and just let your self be mindlessly entertained. But on the other hand, if you are too really read between the lines of his poems, there is a lot more too them, and often they are really disturbing. So depending on either your mood or how serious you feel like being, you can always get something different out of it. 

some lyrics to make you feel good.

I still don't know what I was waiting for
And my time was running wild
A million dead-end streets
Every time I thought I'd got it made
It seemed the taste was not so sweet
So I turned myself to face me
But I've never caught a glimpse
Of how the others must see the faker
I'm much too fast to take that test

Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the strain)
Ch-ch-Changes
Don't want to be a richer man
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the strain)
Ch-ch-Changes
Just gonna have to be a different man
Time may change me
But I can't trace time

I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence and
So the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same
And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They're quite aware of what they're going through

Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the strain)
Ch-ch-Changes
Don't tell t hem to grow up and out of it
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the strain)
Ch-ch-Changes
Where's your shame
You've left us up to our necks in it
Time may change me
But you can't trace time

Strange fascination, fascinating me
Changes are taking the pace I'm going through

Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the strain)
Ch-ch-Changes
Oh, look out you rock 'n rollers
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the strain)
Ch-ch-Changes
Pretty soon you're gonna get a little older
Time may change me
But I can't trace time
I said that time may change me
But I can't trace time

Lost

I’m lost.
You're so gigantic,
And I am so small.
I've been wondering,
And wandering.
Yet everything looks the same.

Your forest of green
Seems never ending.
Don't you understand?
I'm tired of this,
And I want out.

From up above you seem so simple,
Green and tamable.
But now that I’m here,
I know you lied to me.

You’re vast and terrifying.
Made up of so many different lives.
Your not only grass blades swaying in the wind,
Your dirt and rocks moving about under my feet.
Your green ropes climbing up to the sky.
You are the roots of the trees that tower above everything.
And you are the twigs that break under pressure.

Many more bugs will crawl throgh you.
Lost.

I am lost.
And I am frustrated with you.

New Poem

He moves in a straight line,

With so many just like him.

Creating something unlike anything ever heard.

 

All he is, is simple shapes,

Yet without his presence,

The world seems a little less beautiful.

 

He is so much.

So many styles,

So many beats,

In so many keys.

All coming together in perfect harmony,

Confusing yet brilliant.

 

In only moments he will make you feel so many things.

Joy, laughter, sadness and hope.

 

And as soon as you think you really understand him,

He changes,

and then is gone,

Leaving you with only his words stuck in your head.

Always wishing for more. 

My Unnecessarily Long Poem

The instructor said, Mariah
Go home and write
A page tonight
And let that page come out of you
Then, It will be true.

Its somehow so simple
To write about someone so complicated.
I’ve been on this earth for seventeen years,
Yet have seen enough to fill 50.
I am one of many in a class who all look just like me.
We are white, some with blonde hair some with brown.
All proceeding in an orderly fashion in the same direction –
But Where?
We all walk the same speed at the same time through the same halls.
First I hall, then down through D, passed C and onto B.
Into another class room once more.
As the final bell sings its song of freedom,
we all go our separate ways to do our separate things,
but inevitably end up here;
Sitting at home, trying to fill a blank page with life and emotion.
This is what fills it for me.

At only the age of seventeen,
It is hard to tell what is true or what will happen.
But what I know is true right now –
In this place at this time.
What I feel is true.
I feel the earth and the earth feels me and you.
It is honest and cruel,
Always changing yet always the same.
So full of so many people,
One giant mass trying to pull in many different directions.
What makes us who we are?
One in a billion ,
All living the same.

Well I enjoy good times and despise the bad.
I like to laugh, learn, work and play.
I would like nothing more then the satisfaction of a fruitful life,
Yet understand the misfortunes that will happen.


I guess being the same does not make us all alike.
I breathe and eat, the same as you.
But what I feel and what I experience is something you,
nor anybody else will ever know.
I am full of mystery and hope.
If my poem is true, will it to be mysterious and hopeful?
And by reading it,
Will these qualities posses you?
This poem is part of me – Mariah
But it will also be a part of you,
And part of all my teachers I have had before you.
It is only with the love of the people in my life I am able to write this,
So this poem is part of them as well as you and me.
And now these blank pages share so much of so many people,
All different, yet still the same somehow.
But who we are,
And what we do,
Is what makes the lives were living,
Honest and true.