Riding Freedom
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Chapter two:
Dear Journal ````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
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My mind was stuck on autopilot throughout the day. I was like a zombie, going from class to class; my legs taking me through those dreaded hallways. How I despise my school and the horrid creatures within it. I was frightened that I would become like them one day; fearful of the fact that they themselves are zombies. Swallowing the worldly guidance of teen periodicals and MTV they filled their vacant heads with. "Buy me and I'll solve all your problems and raise your social status." ---- Well, I was sick of it. Weary of egocentric advertising industries crying out for their stake in the modern population's investments. But overall, it saddened me. I could go on, but I won't. There are too many problems with the material world for me to delve into.
All I can do is vomit my outlook onto the page. The written word is my outlet. Whether it be two in the morning at my desk, or during a lecture, I'm always writing. People seem to stare at me when I do it. What's so abnormal about it? Am I really that interesting? Maybe I do tend to live in my own little world, but I'd rather do so than adapt to whoever's standards are most popular. I vowed never to allow myself to be swept into the unquenchable thirst to be the most beautiful, adored, sweetheart to everyone's delight. I pitied those trapped in such an empty hunger. Although, there were a few I had to believe in. I caught glimpses of who they really were. Especially one. One man who was really a boy underneath the thin vial of his name brand apparel. He was in choir. He had the voice of a bird that sang an alluring, bereaved song that made the heart sink and rejoice at the same time. Heh, listen to me, I sound like a lovesick puppy wants to follow you home. Alright, I'll give in. I had a crush.
I wrote a poem that... might be about him. That's the funny thing about language: words just come out, and you don't know what they mean, or even whom they refer to.
Autumn
I'm swaying in the wind,
A fallen leaf landing into autumn.
I'm a never-ending September,
Stuck between summer and winter,
An indecisive void between you and yourself.
I would conger up a fantasy to follow you home,
But I'm too tired to dream.
Dazing away in the embers of your eyes,
I'd drift further than the breeze would take me.
Strange though. This poem seems just to stop abruptly. It doesn't draw a conclusion. I suppose that's the way it is with poems that come the heart.
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Chapter two:
Dear Journal ````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
```
My mind was stuck on autopilot throughout the day. I was like a zombie, going from class to class; my legs taking me through those dreaded hallways. How I despise my school and the horrid creatures within it. I was frightened that I would become like them one day; fearful of the fact that they themselves are zombies. Swallowing the worldly guidance of teen periodicals and MTV they filled their vacant heads with. "Buy me and I'll solve all your problems and raise your social status." ---- Well, I was sick of it. Weary of egocentric advertising industries crying out for their stake in the modern population's investments. But overall, it saddened me. I could go on, but I won't. There are too many problems with the material world for me to delve into.
All I can do is vomit my outlook onto the page. The written word is my outlet. Whether it be two in the morning at my desk, or during a lecture, I'm always writing. People seem to stare at me when I do it. What's so abnormal about it? Am I really that interesting? Maybe I do tend to live in my own little world, but I'd rather do so than adapt to whoever's standards are most popular. I vowed never to allow myself to be swept into the unquenchable thirst to be the most beautiful, adored, sweetheart to everyone's delight. I pitied those trapped in such an empty hunger. Although, there were a few I had to believe in. I caught glimpses of who they really were. Especially one. One man who was really a boy underneath the thin vial of his name brand apparel. He was in choir. He had the voice of a bird that sang an alluring, bereaved song that made the heart sink and rejoice at the same time. Heh, listen to me, I sound like a lovesick puppy wants to follow you home. Alright, I'll give in. I had a crush.
I wrote a poem that... might be about him. That's the funny thing about language: words just come out, and you don't know what they mean, or even whom they refer to.
Autumn
I'm swaying in the wind,
A fallen leaf landing into autumn.
I'm a never-ending September,
Stuck between summer and winter,
An indecisive void between you and yourself.
I would conger up a fantasy to follow you home,
But I'm too tired to dream.
Dazing away in the embers of your eyes,
I'd drift further than the breeze would take me.
Strange though. This poem seems just to stop abruptly. It doesn't draw a conclusion. I suppose that's the way it is with poems that come the heart.