...it's been a while...

So, it's been a while.  And it's been pointed out by one of my many followers [many equaling two].

Anyway.  I don't know what I want to talk about.  I'm really nervously energetic right now, and I don't really like it.  Nor do I know why I'm so shaky.  Oh my, this song is not helping me either.  Daylight by Matt and Kim just came on my Pandora.  I'm tempted to just blast it in the study lounge, though I don't think the others studying would appreciate it, especially if I start dancing.  Woohoo.

So...I have a lot going through my head right now.  I really think I need to collect my thoughts, but I don't really want to right now due to the fact that I'm actually kind of scared of what might come of it.  But, if you're interested, here's a bit of a preview:

Sexuality, Life [yeah, I know, that's a big one], Grad school interviews, God, Friends, Love, Love life, Poetry, Sex, Ambition, True self, Lies, Passion, Feeling, Hatred, Immaturity, Fickleness, Me...

I'm sure the list could go on, but those are some of the bigger ones.  Many, I believe, will probably end up linked together, but we'll see.

But, speaking of poetry, I'm in a poetry class [I think I've mentioned this before] and I've written some poems, so I guess I could hit you all up with those.  Some are good and some are just plain awful, but oh well, haha.

Memories, rarely do they stay.
But this one, it's not gonna leave.
My earrings:
The gold color,
The wear and tear.
They are speaking of songs:
Golden chilis whispering back and forth,
Singing into my ears folk songs of home.
My necklace:
The dull luster,
The flowing strands.
Moving with the music:
See them dancing and twirling and swaying.
Stepping to the traditional dances.
Memories, this one I will wear.
It is my memory of home.
[[Written in class with the inspiration of two earrings and a necklace of belonging to someone else]]


--Poem?--
Each stroke bleeds black
onto paper, scratched
with precision,
by an artisan's hand.
Well versed
in the movement
across the page,
not long
and not unbearably short.
Each pressured touch
digging down deep
enough to make the
point:
Wounds heal.
Words form.
Another masterpiece crafted.


--Getting older--
Aching back,
cold days,
everything forgotten.
Grey hair,
inflamed joints,
kids left,
most nights often passing quietly.
Rushing slowly toward unusable vision.
Waitingrooms.
X-rays.
Youth zapped.