Look at this girls writing its amazing

http://girlmeetsnyc.blogspot.com/

Sky

(Sorry about the lack of punctuation everything is in it's rough stages)

*not sure where this is going as well its just a blurb but i'd love to know what you all think*

she was inside of a room, it was black or a severe dark gray but its black and she inside.

it felt heavy, weighted by the gravity that pushed down the room as if it was at the bottom of the ocean next to fish the glow, the ones with the large teeth and menacing faces not much different from high school,

the place where you go to learn math but where you really learn to live,

 not the way you want to but the way they want to, and if you survive and make it through without drowning yourself in a in enough stress pills and joints to make you numb than maybe your above average,

but not to them just to me.

but another quality of being above average is your gpa not your grade point average but your general pathetic accumulation, which is a mix of just how well you stockpile and mass collect information like if henry the 8th was 400 pounds and if Ann Boylen was really a whore who slept with all the men in england.

 its a tragedy really, we come to know the classroom as place of worship for our biased teachers, there own mini epicenters for their waves of destruction. they don't even know how much impact the have, they rumble the ground we stand on and sometimes even rumble all the more violently to make us fall and there gpa is a phd fancy that. that is alot of stockpiles in the minds eye, no wonder they can see past their foreheads.

thats only some though, other are mindful,watchful to keep the windshield of their forehead clear much like driving a car, you don't read while you drive do you? and you don't put your bumper stickers there either even if they are what make you who you are.

which brings up something else something else that i haven't decided on yet, where everything is everything else. did you get that? how did we get here , did we do what i think we just-

give me a second to collect my thoughts again

let me rephrase my philosophical rambling, the song of the spirt is playing the background formulated worlds of images and spiraling curling lines up my spine

it makes me want to live, jump and run as fast and as hard and as fast as i can

to push myself out into the words that make sounds inside my mouth

don't let this writing fool you for a pre teen drama, far from the middle school years nearly erupting in the ears from years of listening to the ipod on the bus to a place i can remember but i choose to forget. did you follow what i said about the ipod. musick moves me, forget my spelling it doesn't quite matter ,it matters but not to me but maybe to you , if it bothers you so much fix it , read actively and make a comment besides the word and spell it right. because what you consider right and what i consider right aren't the same type of right which leaves you and me both asking then whos wrong or better yet whos right?did i lose you ?

besides the question did you understand where i'm in the story i'm a on bus to a place a remember but i choose to forget listening to an ipod thats pink because i wanted to be someone i wasn't but someone i was regardless. so was my soul or my mind right? we have an argument again its about how kool aid is cool and not the cool that starts with a c but the one that starts with a k but you spell with c. its the whole packets that cool and as you down it it stings with some kind of acid, a drug inside you throat that is bitter and numbing all at the same time.

its better to mention how i came to be who am this second then to mention who i am in the future, i don't who i will be a second from know so i'll tell you when i get there, or when you decide that i get there.

Rough Edition

What is on the other side of the painting,

 the artist's heart their soul trapped beneath and oily soil. Their eyes open to the world yelling out their philosophies through their paintings. I wondered what was behind my painting, the one in the window. The layer of glass and then the outside world. Someplace I could go when the reflection that starred into the glass felt threatened. Maybe it was my soul, maybe a distant twin in a parallel universe. I wanted to know what she thought of me. Inside I wanted to ask her questions. Who she was? How'd she get there? and most of all why was she there and not next to me all the time.

not sure where this is going

Can I imagine a ocean made of stones?

Where the feet of a lonesome little girl prance atop the rocks,

the granite stepping stones that align themselves for her,

she is wise, she is young, she is alive and she is dead

dead not in the way we condemn it but in the way nature does

like winter, a joy inside a spring bloom spent a summer growing

only to sleep in autumn, to sleep in life, to sleep in death.

Can't she wake for me?

screaming in a roar of lights,

speeding inside her arms

tightly wrapped embrace of soul

a sweet child who sings

who's voice is her own, whose voice is the worlds

but her words are hidden

the sounds that are drawn from her gut is movement

movement enough

waves that see through sky filled cups

inside her leaking wrists

inside her twisting heart

sky

the red yard which stretches between love and hate is thin

so thin it can break easy and fix easy all at once, and sometimes the feeling of sadness and happiness drowns both love and hate in a strange spiraling collapse,

not  like a taped vase collapsing into itself, but a bird greeting the ground in its last moments of flight it is sad yet beautiful all at once. and it mentions to the sky how much it will miss it and how much it will miss it back. How fast the wind felt and how close they were. What the bird wants to say is that it will miss the sky with its wind and clouds and small imperfections. It will miss the vastness and the warmth of its arms holding him up in the flight. The bird will miss it and he wants to say this most but all that comes out are gasps of a yellowed beak from the wrong bite of a fruit he wasn't supposed to eat. But the sky doesn't know, it wont know till it looks for the bird, when the sky needs the bird it will be find that he is gone. And the sky will search, desperately making the wind harsher, tumbling over leaves and snow in the search and it will find nothing, nothing but an empty sky. So the sky will be empty ,empty of the bird that filled its vastness, that added the warmth and movement of the world in it's eyes. what will the sky do now?

Roughing It once again

she paints his eyebrows with the murky  tan water

the color of the stems of poppies, the ones with the petals that extend into her hands, that cradle her river of braids and rose water cheeks, a murky pink along her mouth hidden behind a coffee soaked smile, just from that morning

a morning that the night fell asleep in her arms, inside her bed with the sheets of soften cream that warm the earth of her body and his body, a movement that stirs just beneath the surface, skimming the underside of the mind with the perfect skipping rock, that makes the 6 stone jump from feeling to action.

nearly there inside the walls of fluid motion not a second thought in sight

just simple raw real feeling, wild thoughts that please to express themselves with each-other.

the words of life that move together a community of thick poetic seduction.

his brush of pencils dulled with the written word, that he arranges along her spine to let her know the real him.

so he draws inside her skin the inspiration he grows from scratch

as he scribbles down expressions

her vertebrates make periods and her freckles form his commas, the birth mark on her lower back corrects his spelling.

a human instrument with strings and chords and life  wrapped in hand craved wood by a natures mother.

she is a running spirt within his wrist to his finger tips

creating inside his forearms and inside his shoulders

releasing the tension from his neck and spine

no worries, take in the inspiration let it rain inside you

your heart will flood with love and your soul will float inside

Blurb

the movement is endless, like swimming ,she said, her voice inside a thick manilla envelope.
an address stamped to nova scotia, someplace far and close, and close and far all at the same time. Imagine, she said, someplace where nightime cradles daytime with a knitted blanket made of wool and the northern lights. and the spaces between the knots are stars. beautiful.. Don't you think?
he imagined, taking in the smell of the movement and the feeling of tall Cedars, he could imagine.
imagine it so well it nearly took his lungs away, the space inside his gut empty where his organs used to be. They were already there, waiting for him.

Knowing Your Soul

I carry a card.
It's  for identification only,
With an address which places my soul-
Such an explosive and passionate thing-
Inside of a twenty square foot tunny
With one door to the "outside"
And the other to the "inside."
The weight of living on the inside is measured in
Tin capsules, papers of stained glass,
Which authority on the inside dictates I swallow.
I must, for if I don't,
The weight will not build,
And I will be weightless,
Untied from the groundings' of not the parent, but the people-
The iron links of bonds I forged with specters
Who purge the world of freewill.
The ones which force the weight to build,
To fling a torrential rain of steel pellets which plummet inside our bones,
Jabbing at the materials underneath our skin with an immunization for living.
A sickness:
They slump the dead believers onto the sleeping to make them dwindle from the weight,
To teach them how to sink into faceless disconnection.
We tumble,we faint, we pass out, we sink and we die in a trickle which
Runs from the seam of their stockings.
And the weight clutches the throats of every single one:
The soul forced to drown inside of a pill made of molten uranium.
It is disposable, usable, and expendable.
After all, the soul, to some, is only matchstick light.
Its roots are fresh and easy to pull from the frame of your pelvis.
They prod it with blazing fingers, thick with greed, fat from blindness
To wrench the soul from the very veins inside your muscles.
And they will shred it if they must, the will make lacerations inside your tendons
In the hopes it will cripple your mind.
Your soul will be deadened by the weight,
A precise amount equal to 63,045,911 lead-filled caskets.
All the people that held a string inside your body
Are connected,sewn into the fabric of your liver, heart, and lungs.
But the connection is weightless:
Energy formulated from spirits,thoughts,
And weekly trips to the loneliest place in the world-
Where everyone meets for the same reason,
Where no one speaks.
The sounds that come from our mouths are not the meaningful things.
They weigh 5 British pounds inside of a leather coin purse.
The consciousness weighs 640 pounds at the time of the choice,
But its weight lifts as the consciousness seeps into your soul
And wipes out the weight of a nation.

Partum Poeta

She was spotted.

Her joints creased with flesh.

Her frame mildly translucent

layered with stiff skin, shaved of all disguises

she made a wreath of lavenders, the smell soaking into her thin braids,

 flowing up her scalp  melting into her arched spine

vulnerability sighed inside of her

directly underneath her ribs

She underlined the clay in the dirt

caking onto her raw calloused feet

her hands danced with brilliance

separated the stems of thought into roots of speech

brittle sentences that could be torn apart

to make a body of sounds

the chanting of the earth moved mountains inside her mind

fog oozing over their peaks

heavy with sunshine and observation

the sky opened up

Bright Star

Jane Campion's new slow-burn period romance "Bright Star" tells the story of a love triangle -- a man, a woman and that famously verbose seductress Poetry.

The film exists in decidedly rarefied air -- it's probably the only recent romantic script that never made it into the in-box of Sandra Bullock or Jennifer Aniston -- and, with its unapologetic embrace of the most exalted of human literary expression, it only shows that most romances these days may reach for poetry, but only settle for hackneyed sentimentality.
In telling the doomed story of love between the famous British poet John Keats and his seamstress muse Fanny Brawne, Campion "The Piano" avoids even a whisper of swelling strings and dewy-eyed speechifying. In that respect, "Bright Star" is decidedly old-fashioned -- and I do mean "old." It's a movie that the contemporaries of Keats might have enjoyed.
Already the subject of considerable Oscar buzz is the film's female lead, the Australian actress Abbie Cornish, who plays Fanny as an impetuous go-getter weighed down by the dowdy conventions of proper English society circa 1818. For purists, such spunk might be considered anachronistic, but that's the same kind of implied spirit filmmakers have been injecting into Jane Austen heroines for years. In this context, it serves as a kind of gender role reversal -- Fanny is the aggressor, while Keats sits back and waits to be wooed.
The film takes place almost entirely in the gorgeous country homes and gardens of Hampstead Village, where Fanny lives with her widowed mother and her two younger siblings. Though she's unmarried, Fanny has earned a sterling reputation in the village thanks to her talents as a seamstress, which have given her family some measure of financial independence.
Moving in next door is the talented but penniless Keats and his friend and protector Charles Brown Paul Schneider. Brown -- a blunt-spoken, burly Scotsman -- and Fanny form an almost instant antagonism that is only inflamed when Fanny gets to know the dreamy-eyed Keats Ben Whishaw.
The relationship is a scandal only insofar as Keats has nothing to offer Fanny in terms of wealth. But Brown's serving as a obstacle to her access Keats only intensifies her ardor. And soon enough, the two comely young people are engaged in a full-blown romance, albeit in the stilted, formalized manner of the time and place. Since Keats is famous for having died young, we kinda know where the film is headed.
It will thrill the literarily inclined to know that Fanny falls for Keats first through his rapturous poetry -- the film's title is taken from a Keats poem dedicated to Fanny. Campion gives the poetry of Keats room to breathe by putting it in the mouths of her young actors with little to no cinematic adornment.
It all adds up to a love story without the artificial sweeteners, a film treat of exquisite taste for audiences who still thrill at the smell of musty old volumes of Romantic-era poetry.

-Trailer-

 Qoutes from the Movie

"I had such a dream last night. I was floating above the trees with my lips connected to those of a beautiful figure."

 "whose lips? were they my lips?"

"I get anxious when I  don't see you"

" When I don't hear from him It's as if I've died.

Its as if the air has been sucked from my lungs"

                                              " I almost wish we were butterflies  and live but 3 summer days,  three such days with you I could fill with such more delight then 50 common years could ever contain"

While Walking

the water fills the glass coating the edges with spills

in the brief moment a calloused hand grips the rimmed bottle and twists it's torso in half

he flings it into the flowing street,

stones like pot holes never fixed

and cars like driftwood flooding into sidewalks

over and through sandbanks and mud piles made of skin

his legs  shift

a force of running water pulling him forward

dragging him by with hooks impaled into his feet

inside each limb disease reeks

it lies an incurable cause

a nausea of swelling bones and bruises

the worth assigned to human life is cheap

he took his pressed out fingers

knuckles white spread out across knotted bones

he walked on butter knives implanted into the asphalt

blunt steel pulling underneath his feet

spreading open gashes in the arches

he wondered if the arches God built into the floating mountains were pulled apart

Did the earth shove their hands out into the sky pressing into blue paint and split their fingers to form white clouds?

Rough Draft

My ideas sat on a central park bench in my stomach
Amidst the lights, noise and lactic abuse
Pigeons made nests along my lungs
on the road thats lined my esophagus  a car drove past
and the man inside told the cab driver, he was going to see her,
and that she needed to hear him sing this song, a song she just needed to hear.
Where are you going?
To the heart of the village the man answered.
The pigeons wildly flew fearful of the coming change in a mess of featherlight objections.
At which point my ideas turned around to see man exiting a cab.
They heard him ask in a voice that implied he was nervous and unsure.
"Is this the heart of the village?"

He Said

He said it was life changing.
He said it all the time.
Every time something happened it was life-changing
And when she asked      —why it is life-changing, he answered,
Because everything is life-changing,
You are not the same person you were after something happens in your life.
Therefore all things and all experiences are life-changing.
It felt – redundant to her,
Yet,
The word—LIFE— repeated so many times made sense.
It was another way to say that there were many people,
       —many lives on earth and that all of them continued to change in every moment—swirls of energy, flowing and molding into and out of each other—taking bits of everything they saw and soaking them up.
He said he was a writer.
Writers, he said
       —soak up from the world around them
Like a sponge, he said
And for a while they don’t write much of anything.
This is their “soaking period”
And then without warning!
        —the sponge begins to leak water that it could no longer hold onto.
Inspiration’s Hand squeezes the sponge and flushes out the water of creativity in a powerful burst of experiences flooding the writer’s senses, the writer says
And then
        —you have to stop
Because you are so overcome with this wash of creativity that you have to use up before the sponge is dry.
Because it rains on your like a freak storm in the summer months.
You never know how long it can last,
And it can happen anytime,
Even in the blue sky,
Even in the car.
No umbrella is needed for this storm because its rains inside your mind.
A microclimate full of sparkling trees,
This rain rushes to the tips of your fingers and sometimes,
They move without a second thought,
Lifting them selves out of the dry barren paper
And staining the blanks with words that flow out of your body.
           —It is such an emotional dance with cannot be stopped
           —And it cannot be wasted.
She said, beautiful, wondrous, and life changing.


P.s. Anybody got any good title ideas?