silence speaks louder than words

it was...different. Than I expected. Very different. Comfortable. Relaxing yet still completey nerve-wrecking. And it was Starbucks filled. I did not see one person after the masterclass that didn't have Starbucks or that wasn't going to Starbucks or that hadn't gone to Starbucks. I went to Starbucks and took comfort in the warm caramel macchiato that I downed in about 5 seconds.

It was delish! lol. And, I keep saying this, but I met Lukas With A K and he was cute and nice and played guitar and wrote and went to a special arts school with 2 other people that were there and was German (he didn't have an accent, but he was still German) and wasn't obnoxious or anything like that. He seemed to be a great person. And I keep talking about him. God, I have problems.

And Walker is a guy. A guy with a very very very strong southern accent. I mean, a really strong southern accent.

In the interview it was really quick. I hope that's a good thing. The didn't give any indication either way. Looking back, there wasn't much silence. That's good, right? I think so. But we did get off subject of things relating to anything with our discussion of Sam's Corner and the mean guy that's probably dead that used to work there with the really bad teeth...that doesn't seem good. And my reason for wanting to go sounds stupid now that I think about it...the masterclass wasn't that unknown though. It doesn't affect me getting in as much... and I liked my sonnet. It was good, I think. But overall, I think it went well...or, at least, I hope it did.

And I went ice-skating and fell four times. It was great. Except for this really annoying kid in a blue shirt that ran into me a lot and when he wasn't running into me he was almost running into me or throwing around the walker things that little kids and bad skaters use or running into other people that weren't me.

I don't want to go back to school tomorrow and ruin this weekend's momentum. I want the letter telling me if I got in or not to come now. In my mailbox. I have a mailbox!! I've never had a mailbox. It's really weird. And I feel like checking the mail again even though I did two hours ago and, of course, there wouldn't be anything in it...whatever.

It's really quiet in here. I can here the faint sound of the super bowl and people laughing. but it's definitely more silent that loud. that's very unusual for my house. Unless no one's here...

Still awaiting news. It was only yesterday so, obviously, there wouldn't be any...

lovingly, apparently emo-ly, and excitedly yours,
♥Heather

I like ice cream in the morning and drink my coffee late at night.

A million things are going on around me and not a single even brushes against me. I've balled up into a tortuga(turtle) shell and have decided to let nothing in or out.

I haven't written in at LEAST a week. It makes me feel very crappy about the whole thing next saturday. It makes me even more nervous that I won't get in. I won't make my last chance to do something with my summer and my life. There's no other year to do it. This is the year. My last and only oppurtunity. And I feel I'm wasting it. I feel that by not writing I'm completely blowing it. I have written a litte poetry (very weird in my case):

gentle green flutters

she speaks of the wind
its tender blowing far
from the Stillness
--she jumps in
going down

down(floating
upup) joining her subject,
working as partners in

one whole flap of
red, the opening violet, blue
expanding
she looks down at gentle
gree flutters(she
floats up...

up)

You know what the result of this poem was?? Nothing. Nothing except losing my favorite writing pen in the mess of my room-in-progress. I'll never find it again. Ever.

There is a bookshelf in the making, a desk and dresser in the moving, and a pile of towels that have all been abandoned in order to come to the computer and do what? Nothing. All I've done today that was productive was add about 50 songs to my mp3 player and make some CDs. That's an accomplishment there.

I'm actually living through music now. I have nothing to read except the daunting, intimidating pile of papers that is the Amber Spyglass. I read about 4 pages and gave up. Ugh.

Amy's at a band thing, as well as Chloe and Hope and Kenny and I'm sure a ton of other people. My parents are at AC Moore(????). Natasha's at a ritsy beach house/country club combo in Georgia. I'm here. Doing nothing.

Despite the terrifying grumble in my stomach that accompanies any thought of it, I'm excited for next weekend. I'll actually go somewhere and do something and see my aunt and go ice skating and drink amazing German hot chocolate and have cats and dogs following my every move and go to my audition. The last is nerve wracking but the rest hold comfort.

I miss my aunt. I haven't seen here since October or so. I can't wait.

I also can't wait for 3 more weeks!!!!!!! AHH!!! it's coming so very near and I'm dying of anticipation! I might actaully die off before it ever comes around...

hopefully not.

As always, none of this is meaningful. None of this shows evidence to my life and friends. All of what I've said in this post is complete crap and holds no importance at all. It's nothing.

I never have anything to say.

it ends tonight

*Whew*

finally

It's over.

My governer's school application is complete. Ok, so not all of it, but the green part and the recommendations and most of the portfolio. That word just sounds so...so...formal!

But yea, glad that's over. All that I can do is done. All except for printing out my chapter, stapling it, labeling it, writing a 'clear statement' of how it relates to the projected novel, and putting it all in an envelope. All except for that seemingly long list that really isn't that much to do. It's all kind of one thing, just multiple things at the same time--wow, that makes a lot of sense...

I'm looking forward to other things being over. Things such as, the first in-person conversation with my long lost cousin(I'll probably want it to go on forever once it actually begins), my aunt's visit even though I miss seeing her, this week of school, Friday(I'll be thinking about how I'm missing out on Ashley's party), the Legend's In Concert thing that I'm going to tonight, Christmas shopping, the wait for City of Bones, the wait for Breaking Dawn(even thought that's still got almost 9 months left), the wait for the August Rush soundtrack and DVD, the wait for Christmas...all these things need to be over just like me doing my gov. school app.

That really is a long list. Maybe I should enjoy the moments that are here now instead of waiting for others to come and/or be over.

maybe I should stop analyzing stuff and setting up my career as a psychologist or psychiatrist...

Yea, I agree with the latter.

♥Heather

Savior--part two

ok, part two of the second chapter that is now titled as above. titled 'Savior'.
It hasn't been edited at all. just the regular spell check on Word.(I decided I was too lazy to edit it yet)
Please read and comment.
there will only be one post after this of my story unless I steal the separate blog idea which I don't think I will....

₪ ₪ ₪

My body is shaking. I’m rocking back and forth. No, someone else is shaking me, rocking me back and forth. I’ve been sleeping. My consciousness is just spurring into action.

I remember. I fell asleep on the bench. On my bench, and missed fourth block. But I’m not on the bench. I don’t feel the cold, black metal bars on my back. I’m not even sitting up. I’m in my bed, covers wrapped tightly around me. I had to have come home and gone to sleep. Yea, that’s it.

Anna’s hands are the ones shaking me.

“Wake up,” she says.

I groan and open my eyes. My eyes focus only enough to read the bright, gleaming red numbers of my alarm clock. 5:32. I can’t see anything other than that. 5:32. I shake off the covers and walk blindly into my bathroom. I grip the sink and look into the mirror. My vision finally clears and I see the red splotches on my face. They are a great contrast to the rest of my skin.

I unclench my fingers from the sink and turn on the faucet. I splash the icy water on my face. My senses become more alert. My hand stretches out, elbow stiff, to grab the last towel on the shelf and I dry off my face.

I make my way back to my bed and slump down on the warm covers. Tap. Tap. Tap. Anna taps her foot on the hardwood floor. Tap. Tap. Tap. Won’t she just stop? Tap. Tap! TAP!

“What?” I ask, jerking my head towards her and almost shouting.

She shrinks back form the unexpected response, then regains her composure.

“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering why you weren’t getting ready for the party…” She says in her perfect taunting, sing-song voice.

“I’ve got an hour and a half!” Besides, why get ready for a party I don’t want to go to?”

“You obviously have no idea how much work it takes to prepare for a party.”

“Ugh.” She disgusts me. “Leave.”

“Fine. Whatever.” she says, walking out the door into the hallway.

I jump up from my bed and slam the door shut. I hear the muffled sound of her saying “cranky…” from the other side of the closed door. I stand there, fuming and trying to calm down. Once I’ve done so, I grab a towel from the laundry I haven’t folded yet, and go back into the bathroom. I hang the towel on the hook, take down my ponytail, and begin brushing my stubborn blonde hair. As I look in the mirror, I realize he’ll never remember me. I’m to plain and ordinary for him.

Once I’m out of the shower and dressed, I blow-dry my hair. It doesn’t take long for it to dry, but it does take a long time to make it not look bad(I’m unsuccessful and give up after almost thirty minutes).

I still have nearly forty-five minutes left until the party so I go over to my bookcase and pull out a battered and torn copy of Pride and Prejudice that I’ve read about a thousand times. I open to the first page and start reading as I walk slowly back to my bed where I plop down and wait.

By the time Anna is done staring at herself in the mirror, doing her makeup and perfecting her already perfect hair, I’ve finished half of the book. She walks in and starts yelling at me.

“What are you doing reading? We should be leaving in a few minutes. And…oh my god…you’re wearing that?” She rolls her eyes and runs over to my closet. She tears through the clothes, looking for something ‘suitable’.

I look down at my clothes. Dark jeans and a gray camisole and sweater. What’s wrong with what I’m wearing? I look up at Anna, still digging through my closet, throwing out clothes she thinks are hideous—she throws out most of them. She’s wearing a pink and white striped blouse and a mini skirt. Oh, now I know what’s wrong with mine. It’s not preppy and girly.


I refuse all the options Anna gives me, so she reluctantly leaves the room to get her car keys. It’s been fifteen minutes and so we leave way later than she wanted us to. The ride to the party is unbearable. Full of awkward silences, unspoken irritation, and evil glares. At least sixteen times—in the fourteen minutes it takes to get there—Anna looks down at my clothes with her face crumpled in disgust. I give a disgusted look right back at her every single time.

After the fourteen minutes—I was counting—of pure agony, we arrive at the party. The front lawn is crowded with people talking to each other and making their way to the front door. Some of them are drinking. Most of the kids live in this neighborhood and walked, so it’s easy to find a spot to park not too far away.

Anna cuts off the engine of her shiny blue corvette, and, with the sudden silence, the music becomes distinguishable and I can hear every word. It’s some hip-hop song I hate with a dance movie I can’t do. Anna starts nodding her head to the beast and mouthing the words. She grabs her purse and opens the door. I just sit here, staring. I don’t want to go in. Ever.

She places the soles of her pink Jimmy Choos on the pavement and starts o get up, but looks back at me, still sitting and staring.

“Are you coming?” she asks.

I sit and stare some more.

“Hello? Piper? Are you with us?”

Still sitting and staring.

“Are—you—coming?” she says, spacing out the words as if I’m dumb.

I finally move and grunt, then reach for the door handle and step out. When my converse hits the pavement, the sound is far from that of Anna’s heels.

My body moves like a robot. One small movement at a time. Not thinking about what I’m doing is the best option. I’m not walking towards my death. Just to a party where I’m not going to know anyone—or at lest, no one who know me.

The sound of Anna’s steps join mine, maybe a foot back. We get closer and closer. Someone shouts her name. She runs off to greet whoever it was, leaving me alone, walking towards my version of hell.

₪ ₪ ₪

there it is. part two of chapter two.

comment please...especially you, caroline because you were the one who told me to post this.

and emilea too.
luvya
♥Heather

Golden Brown(possible chapter title)

The 2nd chapter of my novel is possibly titled as above. It's rough and raw. Not edited at all, so beware of adverbs, nonsensical babbling and mistakes. It's not that long at all so without further ado, I present to you Chapter II Part I:


You know that feeling you get when you're absolutely dreading something, but you can't wait for it to happen? Where the time varies speeds, one day going by fast, the next slow? And the whole time, you have this queasy feeling and everything feels so surreal?

It sucks, doesn't it? I would know. The last three days of school have been filled with that feeling. I walk through the halls in a daze, not seeing, not hearing, not noticing. The only one I've payed attention to is Felicia. There is no way to ignore her. There's no way to ignore her incessant comments on my parents decision about the party.

"Your mother is seriously mental."
"How about I come with you, then you come to my house whenever we leave."
"At least you don't have to stay and can leave whenever you want."
"Why should you be more like Anna?"
"Ugh. I would hate to have your mom."

None of the penetrate my ears. I hear the words but I don't realize what she's saying. Sometimes, I wish she'd just shut-up. She always talks excessively. My own little chatter-box.

Sitting at the table in the cafeteria that we share with other outcasts, I stare at my lunch. A baked potato and salad. The salad if full of hard, white lettuce and other mysterious vegetables, and the potato is the size of my palm. Some lunch this is. I attempt to eat some of my baked potato, then push it away, disgusted.

All the while, Felicia is busy chatting away about something-or-another. I should be listening. I'm not. I have no interest in what she's saying. Some best friend I am. Instead of listening to the one person conversation, I glance around at the tables. Here and there people that I know dot the sea of ones I don't.

There's Anna, surrounded by the usual twenty or so friends, all yammering away about something useless. My eyes continue past them, following the line of people awaiting a disgusting lunch. I pity them. moving on, my eyes take in the bulletin boards tacked with notices for sports and clubs--ones I wish to be a part of--and fliers on ways to show your school spirit. Haha. School Spirit? For this school. Yea right. That's the best joke I've heard all day.

My eyes stop trailing around the cafeteria. They're stuck on someone. Someone new. Someone I've never seen before.

He's followed in the door by two others--a girl and a boy--that look related to him. They're all gorgeous. He's especially gorgeous. Even from all the way across the room, i can see his golden brown eyes. They cut into my soul. I can feel his gaze penetrate mine. He sees me staring at him, but I can't tear my eyes from his. I can't severe this magnificent connection. It's the best I've felt in a long time.

I hear a word break off halfway through somewhere near me. It's Felicia. She's stopped talking. She knows I'm staring at something. God, please, don't let her see.

She does, of course. I know because she shrieks with pleasure. I force myself to pull out of his eyes and back to reality. I look over at Felicia. Her metal covered teeth are showing in a wide grin. She looks at me.

"OMG! Piper, did you see that guy? Hot. Incredibly. The best. God. Catch your breath, Felicia. Did you? Did you see him?" she asks, yet again.

The words are caught in my throat. A bemused expression is locked in place on my face. I can't move. She doesn't care if I answer. She goes on anyway.

"Wow. It must have hurt falling from heaven like that. Wow. They must be his brother and sister. Those other two. Wow. Is that all I can say. Wow."

Finally, my voice finds it's way out of my mouth. "Yea. I saw him," I say. "And yea, wow."

That's all I can muster. The rest of her words are lost to me. My mind is still back there, in his eyes. For a moment, there was nothing but us. Nothing but our eyes, intertwined in one of those suspended-in-time, heart-pounding, palm-sweating moments. In other words, the greatest moment of my life.

I look around again. Past the doors, past the bulletin boards, past the lines, searching for him. Of course, my vision fails me. He's not anywhere.

My heart sinks. I push back my chair, pick up my books, and walk out of the cafeteria, ignoring Felicia's shouts. I go to my favorite spot in the whole school, the bench right outside. The day is sunny. I take a seat on the bench, setting down my books, and pull my knees up to my chest. I press my forehead to my knees and close my eyes.

* * *

Comments? Please?

Thank you!

luvya

♥Heather

*Charades*

Ok, so here's the story: I started with an idea. An idea for a story--sorry, wrong word...novel? yea, I'll go with that--for a novel with a pretty great plot line. The details were missing, but the plot line was there and solid. But you can't write anything without some details, can you? And the details weren't there because it was set in the Victorian Era and, well, I don't live in the Victorian Era and never have.

I started to research that time period, but, because the magic of the internet has decided to cease to exist, I couldn't anything good. My first few chapters sound like pieces of...crap(with a few momentarily spots of brilliance{yea, I sound full of myself}).

So, a new novel was born. One with a similar plot line but more vague, unfinished. But the details are all there(well, most of them). That's the important part. And so I began and here it is in all it's wordy glory, The First Chapter:


It’s too late. She’s made up her mind. I’m going to have to go to that stupid party. There is no way around it. I knew it would come to this, but I give one last feeble attempt to convince her otherwise. My voice comes out a strained sound, just above a whisper, “But Mom, why in the world are you forcing me to go to a party? Shouldn’t you be doing the opposite, trying to keep me from having any fun? Even though that’s basically what you’re doing by forcing me to go.”

I mumble the last sentence under my breath. She hears it—I can always tell—but goes on as if I’ve said nothing.

“Piper, that’s enough. You’re being ridiculous,” she replies. “Your sister is going. You can go as well.”

“But she has nothing else to do. That’s what her life is. Her thought process basically goes like this: partying, me, friends, me, pretty, me, money, me. Besides, I don’t want to go with her. Going is bad enough, but with her?”

I’m lying. I’ve found I do that a lot lately. The truth is, I am completely, and totally, one hundred percent jealous of Anna. She’s the most popular girl in school—and a year older than me. I have maybe two good friends—at the most. She gets invited to everything. I get invited to nothing. She’s absolutely beautiful and looks just like mom. I look nothing like either of them. There is no resemblance at all between my mother and I. the difference is almost abnormal, a total anomaly. My mother and sister are fully gorgeous, like angels. I wouldn’t be surprised if they sprouted wings and flew off to heaven.

They have perfect, tanned complexions. Their noses are small and straight, and their faces are heart-shaped. Their full lips are perfectly shaped and just the right shade of almost-scarlet, fitting in perfectly with the roses in their cheeks. Long, wavy, chocolate-brown hair falls in cascades over their shoulders, twisting and turning at just the right spots, always perfectly messy. Perfectly in place. Never a strand hanging in the wrong spot. How can curly hair look that perfect?

My hair could never look like that. It’s a ridiculous mess of blonde, inflexibly straight and utterly screwed up. I can never get it to do what I want it to do; I can’t pin it, put it up in a bun, braid it, pigtail it, or even keep it down without it looking pitiful. The lank strands fall where they may, and I cant do anything about it.

None of our other features are remotely alike either. My nose is nowhere near small and my lips form a thin, rose-colored line, breaking up my face, dividing chin from upper lip. My face is long and ovular and my cheeks are never rosy. My entire face is pale as can be. A ghost. That’s what I’ve been frequently called since I move to this sunny, little hell-hole people like to call South Carolina. I could attempt to tan, but no sun would ever bring color to my face. I will always be pale. Always. I can’t even get through a day of school without someone telling me I look sick or telling me that I’m pale—as if I didn’t already know. My eyes are the same way. Not a day passes that I don’t get a comment on them. They are a bright, luminescent green—almost like an emerald, hard and solid—nothing like the delicate, cerulean eyes of my mother and sister.

The only other person I’ve seen with eyes like mine is Miss Abby, my tutor. Her real name is Abigail ­­____—she actually wants me to call her Miss Abby. Weird, right? She used to be my nanny, but when I got older, and didn’t need a nanny anymore, she took her place as my tutor. My family has always had that kind of money. My dad is a lawyer and my mom is a real-estate agent. The perfect example of a Pawley’s mom—it’s too bad we’re about fifteen miles north of Pawley’s Island.

I’ve always secretly wished to look and be like my mom. I put on this façade that I can’t stand her or the rest of my family—the rebellious teen act—but just like it is with my sister, I really do aspire to be like her. I don't hate her at all. But nothing about us is the same. Nothing. We aren’t even the same size or body-type. She’s a size two. Skinny as can be, but yet still not small. She’s not because she’s tall. About five foot seven. Not small at all, but she just looks so tiny compared to me. I’m already up to five-nine and still growing. I wouldn’t call myself a monster, but I am tall. I wouldn’t call myself fat either; I’m just…not a size two. My hips are larger, and my legs are longer. My body is disproportionate. I’ve learned to live with it…to an extent.

The differences don’t stop there. They go deeper. If you compare our personalities, it’s even worse. We are farther from each other in that aspect than we are in any other. Her happy demeanor follows her everywhere. She’s one of those people you can’t help but love. I’m nothing like that. Sometimes, I try to be, but my miserable attempt at appearing cheerful doesn’t work. It doesn’t fool anybody. Everyone can see right through my charade. They know I’m not the happiest person.

I’m not depressed. I just have a lot of trouble calling this place home. It never feels right, the word ‘home’. When I say it in my mind, it’s like that one puzzle piece that never fits, no matter how hard you cram it. When I say it out loud, I have even more trouble. I try to refrain from using that word in reference to my…current living situation. Living is South Carolina is not the jolly experience it’s cracked up to be. It’s hot, humid, and has mosquitoes that eat you alive.

The day we moved here, when I was in second grade, was the worst eighteen hours of my life. We spent forever loading up the moving van and then we drove all the way from New York. That’s a lot of time to be cramped in a tiny Honda with a bunchy of bags and suitcases. The worst experience of my eight-year-old life.

New York. That’s the place I call home. That’s where my family is. My real family. That’s where we left them behind. This family here is different. Not the same. Fake.

People ask me how I remember what it was like…I was just eight, but I remember everything. Like how we used to sit in the living room after dinner and tell stories. Stories of school. Stories of work. Made-up stories. Ghost stories. Just stories. We would laugh, scream, and cry together. Whatever we did, it was always together, as a family. As a whole. It was always real. Here, nothing’s real. We never sit after dinner and tell stories. We never talk like we used to. We never do anything together. We aren’t a family. I know it sounds lame coming from a seventeen-year-old, but it’s true. I miss the ridiculous stories. I miss talking to them. I miss my family.

I look up into my mother’s sky blue eyes. They are searching mine, trying to fathom my thoughts. She’s caring. That’s important. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, but I know she’s caring about me. That’s all that matters right now.

“There will always be another Saturday to go to Felicia’s house or hole-up in your room—whatever you’re planning,” she says. “This weekend your are going to go to this party.”

What is wrong with her?

“Fine,” I say, groaning. I shouldn’t cop an attitude with her. It will just make everything worse, but the frustration and resentment is building up inside of me. My blood's boiling. My skin prickles and my lips purse. I can’t just do nothing. I can’t be forced to go against my own will.

“But—”

“But nothing!” she says, raising her voice and cutting me off. “This is final. Conversation over!”

I hate it when she does this. I can’t handle the pressure. A person yelling never helps calm me down. It does the exact opposite. Shouting just makes me upset. And once I cry, I can’t just cut it out. As soon as the first tear drops, a hundred more will follow. My eyes sting with the burn of oncoming tears. They threaten to flood over the ledge, to run down my face in a pouring river, falling fast. I have to close my eyes to hold them back; my eyelids act as a dam, keeping the tears inside.

Thomas Sutton, my father, walks around the corner. I know it’s him even with my eyes closed. The way he steps, placing one foot after the other in a steady pattern. The way his presence feels. I can just feel him standing there. He has a commanding quality about him. Walking in, he stops the tears from bubbling up. I am free to open my eyes and take in the sight of him. He is tall and broad shouldered—a football players build. His hair is the perfect shade of sandy brown, matching his tanned, olive skin. Despite his rough looks, he has laugh lines etched into his face. The laugh lines that come from many years of his joyous character. He is very well known for his lively personality in and out of the courtroom. His kind nature is what I prize most about having him for a father.

“Now, what’s going on here?” he asks jokingly, as if he hasn’t heard every word from the other room. He’s trying to break the tension. It works. He doesn’t have to put much effort into it. He easily cuts through the strain in the air.

He has this effect on my mother. Before the words are even out of his mouth, she puts on this would-be charming smile and swoons over him. It’s like he’s her drug-dealer and she’s in some serious need of crack. Maybe that’s not the best way to describe it, but going to a school like Waccamaw—where there are a bunch of druggies—drug references are the first to come to mind.

But, anyway, you get the picture. It’s disgusting. Public displays of affection are not on the top of my ‘favorite things list’. When my mom is done falling all over my father, he looks at me with sympathetic eyes.

“You know, honey,” he says to my mom. “Maybe you shouldn’t force Piper to go to this party. She obviously doesn’t want to go…”

“No. I want her to be more social,” she says. “I want her to be more like Anna, and go out with her friends.”

Typical.

“But none of those people are even my friends!” I say, practically shouting. “And why can’t I, just for once, be like myself instead of Anna?”

“You don’t want to be more like yourself if yourself is a hermit. You’ll end up alone with tons of cats.”

“No. I do want to be myself. And I am not a hermit! Just because I don’t decide to act fake like all of you, doesn’t mean I’m an unsociable hermit!”

I see it. The look on her face. A look like I’ve just slapped her. I knew that it would hurt her. It just…came out. I didn’t mean it. Okay, so I did, but I didn’t mean to say it.

“Piper, please. Stop shouting,” my father says, consolingly. Then he turns to my mother. “Sweetie, maybe Piper can go and if she feels like leaving, she can. It doesn’t matter if she stays.”

I roll my eyes. My father sees it.

“I don’t care if you go for an hour, or a second. Just go. It will make your mother happy and it will stop all this god-damn arguing.”

There he goes again. Making peace. Why does he have to be so good at it?

“All right, but I am going to leave. I know I will,” I say.

“That’s fine with me,” he says.

Here, my mother joins the conversation again, “Fine. I just wish she’d be more sociable.”

There’s my cue to roll my eyes again, so I do. He sees it, again. He grins, and, of course, starts to laugh. He’s done it again and so proud of himself. He can’t help but laugh. And when he does, I’m reminded of just how much I love that sound.


That's it. How is it?

P.S. Emilea: You will be happy to know, I only edited this 1 1/2 times(it may need just a little bit more though) I did the whole thing once just for typos(errors in spelling, accidental letters--and numbers--etc.) Then, I did it again actually editing the content.(I count this collectively as once)
Then, I did the 3rd and 4th paragraphs once more because they were stubbornly adverb-filled(and still kind of are)

P.P.S. Caroline: Definitely not as good as yours but still hoping it's good. Is it? I'm dying to know. Was I mistaken in posting it for all the world to see? Was I right in doing it?

Questions? Comments? Concerns?
Comments especially. please.
luvya
♥Heather

Poem Needs Opinions!!

ok...so...I'm sitting here at my computer on a Monday morning at 10:27 a.m.

Obviously I have nothing to do on my day off from school....

so...I'm going to put one of my poems on here...tell me if it sounds stupid with the rhyming thing because every time I read it my opinion varies
OK, here it is:

A tortured Mind, Body, and Soul,

But that isn't the worst part,

The last one is painful,

A tortured Heart.

A Heart breaking,

Pain that has no end,

The pain you caused,

To a heart unable to mend.

When you walked right by,

Without a smile towards me,

But a smile to her,

That's what killed me.

She received your love,

Warm hand and warm heart,

I received you civility,

Cold shoulder and cold heart.

If only I could switch,

Her for me,

Warm for cold,

And receive more than just courtesy.

To be held by you,

To come first in your eyes,

To be loved by you,

Would be the greatest prize.

It would stop the tears,

It would kill the pain,

It would mend my heart,

I would be happy again.

~Heather~

♥

OK, see, that time it sounded good to me...hmm...idk

opinions please!!!!!!!!! this is important!!!!!

OK I'm out for now

luvya