Category: poetry

New Year, New Teen Vogue

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Photo Credit: thefashionspot.com

In an interview done by Fox News, Teen Vogue writer Lauren Duca’s authorial legitimacy was questioned. She was asked to be interviewed after writing a piece on Donald Trump back in December 2016. So, as one would assume, she thought they would ask her about the article. Instead, they went on for ten minutes about how, as a fashion writer, she was unable to accurately write about politics.

This kind of blatant sexism is found in many places in journalism and is becoming commonplace with female journalists. The fact that a respected news organization like Fox News could let an interview like that air is beyond me. This incident didn’t just spark unrest for Miss Duca, but for journalists like her. Why is it that because a woman writes about fashion, makeup, or hair, she is incapable of writing about more serious things like politics or other current events?

This false predisposition is just what Teen Vogue sought to disprove in the newest edition of their magazine. Wrapped in a tall collectible format, hundreds of ideas were displayed to their many, avid readers. From the profound significance of the Academy-Award winning movie, Moonlight, to one man’s relationship with makeup, this magazine tackles a wide variety of ideas.

After reading this volume on my flight back to Los Angeles, I was blown away by the passion some of these authors wrote with in their articles and the stereotypes of a “teen magazine” that were totally disregarded. I read interviews of celebrities, such as Troye Sivan and Lena Dunham, done by people close to them. They were laced with a feeling of comfort, something you couldn’t find with a typical interview. I learned of the uplifting story of a Syrian girl finding a new life and love after fleeing her war-stricken country. I read stories of all different kinds of love: sisterly love, pet-owner love, love of fashion, and self-love. This volume talked about consent, masturbation, sexuality, and other essential lessons not always found in the sex-ed taught in high schools. The photoshoots showed candid smiles, unique fashion, and people of all races and sexualities.

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Photo Credit: thefashionspot.com

In the future, it is my hope that more magazines will follow suit. Continuing to write about fashion and makeup, but also about things that matter outside of that realm, will further enrich the knowledge of many. It is important to hear voices from many walks of life, as representation is the first step to feeling empowered.

fire and ice

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fire and ice

she was burning with fiery, passionate love

she had eyes of burnt ember and they sparked every so often

she wanted to envelop everyone in a comforting warmth

she became her kids’ campfire so she could give them a place to sing and laugh

she burned with such fierce power that she could eradicate an entire forest or anyone who dared to hurt those close to her

Photo Credit: http://www.icompositions.com

she who smiles with the brightness of the sun

she needed someone to hold her close and add sparks to her weakening flame

she needed to burn an image of herself in everyone’s minds, so she wouldn’t die out

she needed a moment that was so bright that even he remembered her warmth

he with those icy, blue eyes that could stare into you and make your heart stop

he who gave his family the cold shoulder and now has no one

he who sleeps in an empty bed in an empty studio apartment, listening to the city life pass by him

he who makes strangers shiver when they so much as glance his way

he always froze up when near her, his face getting paler with every step she took toward him

he who could never get himself out of his dark, barren mind long enough to let himself thaw out

he was so cold that even she couldn’t melt away his icy exterior

so they were stuck in an eternal loop, the same moments, waiting and longing for a connection to bring them out of their burning, but cold misery

My Thoughts on Music…

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Music is the most powerful of weapons. It is a loaded gun to your mind and you pull the trigger when you press play. The beat is the rounds going BANG, BANG, BANG. The feeling you get, the euphoric experience you get whilst listening to that song is the bullet piercing the depths of your mind, the target.

Music is a drug. Once you listen to a really good song, you’re hooked. You need it. You can’t focus without it. When a song is stuck in your head, it’s like the peak of addiction. It is the moment you can’t go back because the song has ensnared you so deeply in its rhythm, that your mind can’t think of anything else. The only remedy is listening to it again and again and again.

Music is like a flower. Some songs are like deep maroon roses. They’re beautiful to look at, but they’re infested with thorns. The words will sink into your brain like a prick to the finger. Some songs are like smiley daisies. The message sent is that of the bright yellow center and the delicate, white petals.

The thing that is so desirable about music is the other-worldly experience you get. Even if it’s for a split second, one envisions another world while listening to a song or lyric. Each song delivers a message. Peppy songs can lift your attitude. Love songs give you a warm feeling. Sad songs can give you reassurance in a blue stage of your life. The list goes on.

Music is universal. Try listening to a song in a language you don’t know at all. Even if you don’t know what it’s about, you know how the artist feels in a particular moment. You get the feeling. Music is one rare thing that almost everyone can enjoy. Whether it be a beat, a lyric, a voice, or the inter-workings of a piece of music.

Music is like a good book (or a good movie).

Image result for music
Photo Credit: http://www.jjay.cuny.edu/department-art-music

A song can go down in history for you. Sometimes I’ll hear a song that is practically a decade old and feel the same I did when I first heard it. A song can’t change, just like a book or movie. There’s something so comforting about the stability of music. If you are totally in love with one song, nothing can stop you from reliving the same experience again and again.

The thing is, I’m not the average “music person.” The person whose earbud is almost surgically attached to their ear. I don’t even own a speaker. I don’t even really listen to music all that much. But when I find a good song, album, or artist, it almost overtakes me. So try listening to a new song, nothing like you’ve ever heard before. You may just surprise yourself.

Read this article to find out how exactly our bodies react to music:  http://www.livescience.com/1139-music-chills.html

The Ups and Downs

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Life is like a roller coaster. Filled with ups and downs, twists and turns, and abrupt starts and stops.

Image result for rollercoaster pov
Photo Credit: http://www.getlinkyoutube.com

Your future is like the tedious clicking of your cart on the incline. Each time you move a little forward, the safety kicks in to make sure you don’t fly back.  Those have been put there so you can only move forward. Time is what moves you along, what makes you get on with your life.

Once you reach the top, another goal is met. You are on the brink of a new adventure, a new path in life. You are relieved you made it, but are anticipating something new; whether it be a drop, jolt, or loop. Anxiety fills you as you are thrown into the unexpected.

Well, it turns out it was a drop. Not just any drop, either. Full 80 degree, head-first sensation that is heading straight for the ground. Hardships don’t slowly make their way into your life. They burst in and blind you. They take you by surprise and totally change your perspective.

Your cart continues the course of the ride and then it’s over. You can get off the ride and move on to the next thing. Some people say rollercoasters are just one thing, so they only stimulate one thing, one life. However, rollercoasters are almost the opposite. They’re one moment. When you go to a theme park, you don’t just go on one ride. You wait in line after line, just waiting for something new.

The one thing all the quotes relating life to rollercoasters forget to mention is others. You aren’t in that cart alone. You are sitting next to your best friend, your sibling, or a stranger, but you are never completely alone. These people are experiencing the same moment; they drop when you do and they soar just the same.

Life is a series of moments, a series of rides. Life isn’t just one big moment, but a mixture of many. However, the people around you and the way you deal with the big drops and loops can surely affect your ride.

11:11

happyrose15Leave a comment

 

It’s 11:11

A minute left until 11:12

It’s 11:11.

What do you wish for?

A new car?

Your crush to notice you?

To have everything you’ve ever wanted?

There’s 30 seconds until 11:12.

What is it going to be?

To be a billionaire?

To finally ace a math test?

Do you wish for more wishes?

There’s 15 seconds until 11:12

You’re running out of time

You stayed up this late to make this wish and now you can’t decide?

There’s 10 seconds until 11:12.

What are you going to do with these 10 seconds?

How do you possibly not know what to wish for?

There’s 5 seconds until 11:12.

You’re tired and Glee is playing in the back while you frantically try and find a wish

You close your eyes tight and wish for free gas for a year

3

2

1

It’s 11:12

Well damn you probably should have wished for the cure to cancer

Oh well just wait 12 hours and your chance will come again

The Hunter

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the hounds have a strong scent.

 

my father sent me on this hunt.

it is not my first

it is not my last

i can’t let him down.

i must prevail.

the family name is at stake

and all though i don’t share it i dream of it.

 

i am his only son.

i am looked upon with shame.

but i do what he does and i do it well.

i take pride in my hunting,

it fills me with joy.

 

i am a stain,

not alone.

 

i want it,

i want it more than any snow.

i want to be among the butchers and hunters who carried his name

i want to be his real son.

 

the dogs,

faster than man, caught my prey.

they tear him apart.

the man begs for mercy

begs for death

but it isn’t up to me.

 

i take him to father,

to the house.

 

i take him to my lord,

to the dreadfort.

 

i hope father is pleased.

i serve him better than his advisors!

i serve him better than his soldiers!

i am his son.

 

the prisoner will be flayed!

he will be tortured!

he will be broken and skinned!

this is our houses way.

 

i hope when i arrive father will let me do the honors.

i hope he lets me torture this scoundrel.

i hope he lets me serve him.

i have never failed him and never will.

 

i arrive at the gates trophy in hand

but nothing has changed i am still ramsay snow.

i remain among the many snows,

one of millions unwanted and unclaimed children of the north.

i pray not for long.

 

someday,

i hope to be beside my father and wear his name.

someday carry our banner, not his.

someday i wish to share the name,

Bolton.

growing up

happyrose151 Comment

I used to fear the monster under my bed, now I fear the monster that lives within.

I used to think that a scratched knee would be the worst pain I ever felt, now I know that the pain that doesn’t bear a scar is far worse.

I believed that I would never grow up, but someday in between the AYSO soccer games and the playground, I did.

Life doesn’t wait for you.

It is constantly pushing to let change in and day-by-day, the world that our parents want us to believe in is gone.

We are taught to keep our innocence, don’t let the evil in the world ruin your pure soul, but day-by-day it does.

We see the boy in the news who is never going to come home.

We hear the whispers that adults exchange as the secrets get passed along to us.

As teenagers we are expected to act like grown up, and then they tell us that we are growing up to fast.

Maybe we are just trying to fill these impossible shoes that you have left us.

 

 

IT

whynotstayinLeave a comment

It’s like a beast clawing and gnawing the constant pool of snakes in your gut. The cold ice shard between your shoulder-blades.

Arms and stomach numb, eyes shifting beneath downcast lashes, shaky sighs, jerky movements. Jumpy, jaw clenched. Eyes everywhere and unreadable thoughts drift in a palatable cloud. It’s enough to make ones skin crawl, eyebrows furrow, and mouth go dry.

Even with headphones in there’s whispers and there’s always the eyes. Left to wonder, is it ghost whispers or is it real; are they ghost eyes or are they real? Is it lack of sleep or am I perfectly awake?

Photo Credit: http://www.polyvore.com

Wondering what it’s like to be able to live in a bubble, unaffected. But would that have adverse effects as well? Hands and ribs and chest go numb. Lips sealed. What could I say, or more importantly what should I say. What will the eyes and whispers do if you say something wrong? Do you even want to know? No, so lips stay sealed and the whispers say silent, the eyes noncommittal.
Why does it feel like the eyes are focused on you the, whispers the voice in your head, as if you’d be important enough to hold their time and attention. You’re not are you? No definitely not, and yet why do you feel the need to claw your skin off to ease the feeling of insects and numbness.
You’re left, grey and fraying at the edges. Wondering: Is it me? Is it me? Is it me?

Photo Credit: https://www.nga.gov/>
Painting By Mark Rothko

She Said No

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She said no.

He wasn’t deaf.

He didn’t have headphones in.

His ears weren’t turned off.

He could hear,

But he wasn’t listening.

She said no.

He isn’t three.

He has a brain.

He understands when something has gone too far.

He has compassion,

But he doesn’t have guilt.

She said no.

He doesn’t speak alien.

He comes from the Earth.

He had feelings for her,

But he didn’t love her.

She said no.

She said it quietly.

She struggled and pushed.

She shook her head.

She pushed him away.

She said no.

She wanted to break free from his grasp.

She wanted to terminate the unwanted kisses.

She wanted to stop his reign of terror,

Credit to: favim.com

She wanted to have her right to walk away.

She said no.

She yelled and cried.

She kicked and screamed.

He saw this,

But decided to say yes for the both of them.

She said no.

No means no.

He knew that,

But he didn’t know that

He had left a girl.

A poor girl with a life-long nightmare.

All because he didn’t let her go,

He didn’t let her say no.

Writers

whynotstayinLeave a comment

See here’s the thing, there are people everywhere in the world fighting for a change, for a difference, fighting to save humanity. And that’s all well and good, but then there are writers.

A specialized breed of ruin, a deadly addictive drug.

Sure one could ask what the cuss they do for the world. I can tell you this, they kill trees. They bury students in dry immobile states of constant stress and depression.

But know what else they can do? They can keep me up all night. Make it so my mind never stops whispering to me. Make it so it feels like I’m drowning in ink and can never shut out that click click clicking of the keyboard.

Writers. Arguably the most talented, frustrating, simultaneously strangle-worthy yet kiss-worthy people on the planet.

Every time I finish a book good or bad I wonder how?

How on earth does anyone figure this out? How does anyone think of this? How does this happen? How are they real? How do they do this? How? How? How?

Then I think why.

Why can’t I do this? Why am I not doing this? Why am I not good enough? Why isn’t this happening? Why? Why? Why?

It’s a constant cycle: how, why, how, why, how, why? Like a broken record playing over and over and over.

I’ve read most of my life away and yet I still can’t see those plot holes coming, I can’t predict it, yes that’s a good thing. But then I can’t even seem to think of ones coming at me on my own how am I supposed to write anything that even measures up in the slightest.

Sure good artists steal but that only gets you so far. So what if some people tell you you’re good, their obligated to tell you that, cause the worlds about making people feel good about themselves, especially when you’re a young volatile developing teen yeah?

But then I see other people’s writing, it doesn’t even need to be published or personal-universe shattering. And it starts it all over again.

Photo Credit: http://www.darkgovernment.com/

How? Why? How? Why? How? Why? Until it feels like I’m going to go mad.

I’m thinking yeah I’m good enough but then I read a bone shaking book. And the little disembodied voice whispers, are you good enough? Am I good enough? It echoes, like a museum display no one came to see.

Then I’ll read something written by someone like me unofficial, young, and just writing for the sake of writing. And that disembodied voice gets louder, No you’re not good enough are you? Just one lousy kid playing pretend.

I recently finished a book that for some reason shook me to my foundation. I hate analyzing literature but this one hit points that are incredible and leave me knee deep in cement thinking, this proves it, it officially proves it, writers are amazing and will probably be the fryers of my emotions. Yes the book had some stand out flaws but still. How?

I’m one sad little mind grasping at something I’m not even sure is mine to grab. One out of hundreds thousands millions. Every time I’m done with a book or story I’m left raw and wrathful and insecure yet I continue to do it to myself because I don’t think I could bare to be without it.