A Place I Knew-poem

There is a place I knew
Of Barbie dolls
And pink satin dresses.
Of Mac and cheese,
And simple songs.
Of hugs and kisses
And grandma’s cookies.
This place I knew…
Was of fun and laughter
Of smiles and sliced knees
Of tears of hurt
And giggles from sleepovers.

There is a place I know
Of stress and anger.
With violence and hurt
Of broken hearts…
And sliced wrists
Of blood and pain.
A simple dying plan.
This place I know…
A hell, with the sun
Shining only briefly.
Too much depression
Exists inside.

There’s a place I’ve heard of
With clouds of silk
Pillows of love
And feathery wings.
Of harps and forgiveness.
Where pain doesn’t exist
Where my savior lives.
This place I’ve heard of…
With a reason for everything
A sun shining always
And stars for each kiss I missed,
In the place I know.


editorial note: I can't explain the meaning behind this poem very well. I wrote this in a difficult time in my life...and seeing it brings back memories and shows me what I have been through. I think, more than any other poem i have written, this one is the most honest and true to me.

An Open Page-poem

editorial note: this is one of my favorite poems, for no reason at all, except that i always gain inspiration from it...

Sitting here, an open page,
pencil scratching meaningless lines,
trying to speak,
give voice to feelings inside,
I fail to speak my heart
it is not what lays here.
It is only pencil marks,
they can not show my feelings.

I do not have the words to make you see,
to make you feel like me.
I can only try to write,
attempting words for thoughts.
So, I sit, at an open page,
thinking, writing, looking,
For words to make you see, to make you feel,
The way I feel inside this open page.

A Long Day

Today was very trying for me. I wanted to scream so many times, but didn't. I should have though. Truly, I should have. there is only so much one person can take.
Anyway, i shouldn't be complaining. God has given us a last couple days of beautiful weather to enjoy...even though I hate being hot.
All is well and all will turn out in the end...
What to post?
We shall have to see...

-allie-

Enough for Now

I think that is enough posting for one night. I don't want to post everything i have ever written at once or i will be pressured to write more! And frankly, right now, i don't have the time for writing. And that makes me sad. I have written ever since I was in the fourth grade. My teacher gave us an assignment to write a poem and we would later submit it to an anthology of poetry for kids. Mine made it in! And i was so excited and i still have that book...somewhere.

Ever since then, writing has been like a disease to me. I don't really know if I am good or not, seeing as most people who read my work are friends and family, and they always say its good. Know what I mean? But thats okay, encouragement never hurt anyone. :)

I just hope my writing gets better and I improve. Broaden my horizons and my genre of writing. I like to write fantasy and sci-fi, but I'm weak at it. I think, in my opinion, that my normal, fiction writing is better developed. But that's up to the reader I suppose.

I think I should have done this a long time ago, started a place for people to view my writing and comment on it. Now i have the means to. I attempted a webpage last year, but being halfway computer illiterate, it didn't work the way i wanted it to, so i abandoned it.

Wow, what a lot of babbling for not saying much of anything. Oh well, get used to it. :) Off to the studies that so consume my life. emmm, not really.

A Suicide Note-Short Story

editorial note: this is a work of fiction. this is not based on a real experience of my own, or anyone close to me.

In the moments like these that I can see, what everyone was trying to tell me. That by hurting myself, I would eventually hurt them, and cause even more pain.
I should have listened.
And now I am stuck here, watching as the blood drips from my arms, the cuts glistening with more red water ready to emerge. I wipe it away, using a washcloth already stained with my blood and wince at the pain as the coarse terry cloth runs my wounds.
I should have listened,
But then, if I didn’t cut, how would I deal with the pain that threatens to overwhelm in moments like this? I don’t know. Writing does me no good anymore, and I have no one to listen to me. They all shied away, my pain too big for them, and too big for me to handle anymore. I know why they went away, why they gave up on me, it’s because I was too focused on myself and I couldn’t handle their criticism anymore.
I should have listened.
But I didn’t. By pushing them away, I thought I’d be able to handle it better and then I wouldn’t have people breathing down my back, worried to leave me alone. And that maybe my mom would stop hiding razors from me and just think I was normal. I was never normal, never in my life. I have always been different, different than those around me, and different from what people saw me as. They always said I was beautiful, that I mattered and that I had no reason to be sad so much.
I should have listened.
They were right; I can see that in the moments like this. I don’t really have reason to be so depressed. I have a good life, a good family, good friends, but still I am depressed and this blood running and swirling into the sink is what I am left with. They all left me, but how can I continue to lay blame on them? I can’t, because I brought this loneliness onto myself. He told me that, on the day I said I had enough, that I was tired of being lonely. He told me that day.
I should have listened.
Who cares now. They left me when I needed them most. I will leave them a note, telling them what they have done and it is their fault that I died tonight. I will write and tell them the wrongs they committed the day they all deserted me, and left me to my own sorrow. I will tell them how they have hurt me deeper than can be imagined, how it is their fault that I will die. I will tell them. But all I can think, is how so very wrong it is to blame this on them.
I should have listened.
I take pen to paper, careful to keep my bleeding cuts away from its white surface. And I write, careful to say what I am thinking. I am done, and take the knife I had so carefully sharpened and bring it to my wrists and slice. And I am done, I have died tonight. The note lies still on the desk where I have left it and the one line seems lonely, so very much like I was.

I should have listened.

End of the Road-poem

A worn down road,
full of dust and holes.
The feet of many,
have passed this way.
Moving forward,
falling and getting back up.
The torn clothes lay strewn,
hanging and fluttering from the trees.
The blood of millions
stains the ground,
from where those before
had been hurt.
The smell of disappointment
lingers in the air.
And the path twists and turns,
around many bends.
Never knowing where it goes,
the forks come from nowhere,
Ssme are more worn than others,
and some never tread upon.
All lead to a final destination,
but you never know where,
till you reach it.

It’s the end of the road,
and the millions who went before
are waiting to embrace you.
At the end of the road,
the blood and smell of failure ends.
And the love spreads,
at the end of the road.

Starting Anew

This is a new beginning for me. i plan to use this for posting some of my writing, hopefully getting some feedback on it in the process.
I'm sure, that occasionally i will post something about my life, important or not, but as a rule, this will be for my poetry, short stories and snippets of the novels I am working on.
I'm 19, and a student at MSU. I'm not really sure what I'm going to do yet. I have an application in to the College of Education, but I don't find out the results until March. Which sucks. I guess I have to wait and see until then. But I already know that if I don't go in, I'm headed back home to Oakland University to finish my teaching certificate. Hopefully, all goes well...but I'm not sure which way is well. I'm 50/50 for wanting to go home. Not sure if thats a good thing or not.
Anyway, off to class, but I am sure I will post again tonight, perhaps some poetry or a story.