And Now For Something Completely Different!! Poetry Interlude #1

And We're Back: with
100 Things We Might Have Said,

As i've previously lamented, I am a hard-core Dreamer. This means that my concentration level is about zero, as is my committment level. Patience? Nil. Same goes for Organization.
I'd probably be a hard-person to live with, but then i'd trip over the coffeetable, (must be a Monday) and spill the last of the Diet Coke (Delicious Chemical Elixir!!) all over the shag carpet and ruin my lovely Lipstick Red suede boots, and remind everyone what I'm actually good for:
A LAUGH.
Both at my accidental physical comedy, and my more purposeful (however less sucessful) attempts at being witty (but for a introvert, this is mainly confined to forrays into the written word, and with the small circle of people that have made it through my strict clearance.(I've been burnt before, ya know!)
-Oooh! Sparkly!
-MUST RESTRAIN SELF!!!
Okay...
So, I've always fancied myself a writter. This goes back to when I Was three and dictated lame, but now strangely endearing stories about princesses, Trolls, School, and Happy Meals, to my Dad, who would transrible them, and then let me decorate with my magical crayons.
(I miss the freedom of Crayons, a big box of waxy Crayolas with names that sounded like candies or lipgloss and that were so simple and satisiying to draw with. Thick Vivid lines of Magestic Red, Peacock Blue and Dandelion Yellow. Those were the daze!)
I still owe a great dept to my grade three teacher, who encouraged me to use writting as my voice, an outlet where both overactive imagination, and girl could become larger than life characters, and live out adventures, quests and dreams. Since Then I have always had a work in progress.
As I grew up, My writting became short stories. The two most famous round my house were one written in grade three and four, one called "London Lake" (titled thanks to my childhood, Brit-mania, and a second feature on Saturday Night at the Movies, where a bunch of old people go to a lake, which had a lot of loons and golden sunset), and the other called, "The Bear On Roller Skates", a story where toys come to life, (Cough Toy Story rip-off) narrorated by a barbie Doll. They won third and second place, respectively in school writting contests.
Now, i read them and think there're cute, but that's really about all their true merit.
In the Last Few years, I've turned to screenplays. There are two main reasons for this:
1. I do love movies, and would really want to see the ones i attempt to write
2. My ideas come so vividly that i see, specifics such as music and backrounds, and costumes that are needed to make things make sense.
But I don't finish them. It's Not Writer's Block. I've never actually had Writer's Block (well, only on school stuff, but that's more for boredom). No, It's because the ideas come so fast that I need to leave one alone for awhile, and start a new one before i forget. I've been know to write straight through the night, night being the absolute best time to write, as you are alone, and it feels as if the entire world may have disappeared except you, and you, Well-I feel on top of the world. My Favourite Script of mine is one called Caffeine, a bohemian roadtrip of a movie, Wherein four kids who were never friends, implusively set out on a roadtrip following their high school grad.They have all these adventures, and its all awesomely weird with random sights such as the world's largest balll of twine! But what i love is that it would be shot in segments, as if there is a fifth person in the car, taking and intersplicing moments, of everything, arguments, playfullnes, sleeping, boredom, etc. I actually wish someone would make this movie so i could see it. You have no idea how much!
But anyway, getting back on track, this post is about my trysts with (pathetic) poetry. Since grade ten, in between doodling and passing notes, I have been wasting my so-called "precicous" class time (HI! i could work so much better if we learned at school!), filling my notebook margins with scribbled free verse lines (rhyme is confining and ridgid, poetry is supposed to be freedom). It is my lonliess, my love, my depression, my euthoria, my every high and low, but it's always all me. Now I actually, have a book of 300, or so equally pathetic poems, that i call 100 Things We Might Have Said. I've been toying with the idea of sending it to a few publishers, to see what they think. As, i won't actually let my friends and family read it. EVER!
I once read about a writer who saved all his rejection letters and wallpapered his apartment with them, and then had something to laugh at when he won a Pulitzer. This would be seriously cool, and at seventeen it's as good a time as any to start my rejection collection. (Although Universities haven't been exactely helping me with this, Running count as of now: 2 acceptances, waiting on : 4, Rejections:0, but we'll see).

Here's a Poem, that i found scribbled on a rubic from my Philosophy class, I'm not completely sure what I wrote it about:
So you can judge for yourself:

Electric
The sky's electric, the sins overpowered
It charges, Surging with shooting current
Rushing through punctured veins
Lifting ghostly veils to internal worlds
Bringing life to the spiritually dead
The walking corpses like me
Jaded and exposed to life,
Yet never having really lived
The cloudless blue abyss
Glimmers taunting mortals with its
Secretive night, and hazy childhood daisy days
It's stuck the dreamer in the frying pan
and begun a slow simmer
If it tries to take away my wanderings
My stolen dreams, I will hold out
Battle to the end with my satin gloved fists
But that's life in the world of the living
Killing individuals for fresh new thinking
Biting, Scathing, whoring, Theiving
That's how we stand on this side of the abyss
How we live on this bright new day
How we've stolen the crown jewels
and jumped on waiting horses
stuffed our pockets with greed and ran far away
But when I rest my tired sugar-rushing head
My addled love addicted brain
So weak with the meek curse of human being
I fall comatose losing my mind,
Underneath the forbidden apple tree
The shattered sky, falls to earth laughing manically at me
It's a daylight massacre
Crushed by the breaking chains of my friendly fires
Gut wrenching, dying fraught with locust pain
But the sky doesn't forgive the dead for trying to live
To bring them down to earth
bitting into them like the devil's acid tongue
Breaking candied apple skin, crisp untouched flesh, bitten
Corrupted for evil's own earthly ends
And the electric current pulses and we dance through acid rain
The corroding sky, the power surge
The expectant pulse twins to my heart beat
We're in the desert alone
With the charging sky

Okay, so that was a small piece of my soul laid bare, so Please be kind. Or don't and i'll give you a special place on my wall.

Loadsalove,
-Catcher