My little brother

I am best friends with my little brother. He is the funniest kid you will ever meet and always has new, "Did you know's?" to tell me. He loves to paint and draw with me, and without speaking a word the whole time. He is the most mature fourteen year old you will ever meet one second, then the next he is making bird calls and telling me the new dance he made up called the knocky swimmer (all in a Scottish accent). He loves to talk to me and paints my toe nails whenever i ask. He entertains my more outlandish requests and is always ready for an adventure. He will dance with me in the kitchen to my favorite band and gives me hugs without question whenever i need them. i woke up feeling sick this morning and when i laid down on the couch he pat the top of my head and said, be better.
He will listen to whatever concern i have and sit with me while i make decisions i don't want to. He not only listens, he gives back in the conversation and presents almost as much passion into the subject as i do. He is eager to make me happy and is the most forgiving person when i accidentally hurt him in my many clumsy endeavors. He never ceases to make me smile even as the tears are racing down my cheeks. I love my little brother.

books

I read all the time. I devour the words with a crazed need. After each bite i lick my fingers savoring the last page and looking forward with eager anticipation for the next. There is magic deep within the ink of every letter, every word. A simply powerful secret. My feet have walked so many places, and my toes remember spreading through the thick, dewy grass of a foreign country. Walking long paths through haunted forests. Running with screaming lungs from pursuing evil. I have seen so many things on white pages. I have loved so many people i will never meet. And i will continue to love them and love more people because they live in my heart. I have no shortage of friends. They walk the paths of life with me and help me fight my battles like angels.  

parts of me

We are meant to reveal ourselves, but i'm not ready. i'm not ready for this, because i haven't glued my heart into my journal yet. It just doesn't seem quite right. It looks wrong. Like something is missing. I haven't typed my heart on my blog either. i've glued parts, pieces of something so large and complicated i marvel in it's shadow. 

It's shadow canst's forms of me when i was little. At age seven i looked into the clouds and thought i saw my grandmother who died before i was born. So i began to talk to her, telling her how much i miss her, even though i never knew her. That is how i feel about my heart. 

There was this pine tree in the front yard of my tiny yellow house. It was so tall, they had to cut off the top to make room for the telephone lines. I used to climb to the very top and sit there. One day, a man walked beneath me when i was singing, he stopped below me and looked around but never up. So instead of fading out in embarrassment, i sang louder. But sometimes people do look up, and fading out in embarrassment seems appropriate. That is how i feel about the pen names. 

I used to play with my shadow. We walked the same paths and always knew when the other wanted to dance. I loved how my shadow looked when we would swing together. I could think longer and deeper than when i was with people. I could try to understand what people tried to shield me from, and understand myself. I still swing with my shadow.  

I have been called angel by friend and foe. I no longer understand what angel means.

My twelfth birthday was the best birthday i can remember. We had breakfast for dinner. It was on a Sunday, all those i loved most were there, and everything was perfect.

Once my friend and i found a spider in my basement. We didn't know what to do so we just trapped it in a cup and taped it to the wall.

It is a dream of mine to wear really tall, red high heels. 

I feel more at home in nature than in a city because nature listens to me. 

These things are all parts of me, not all of me. But i guess that's because i'm still trying to figure out who i really am.

By: Sophia Coverston  

    

music

Music shows no sympathy,

It gives and takes without apology.

Music makes me feel the things inside my heart, 

and pulls us back together when we're apart. 

Music comes from a place deep inside, 

especially where I like to hide. 

Music draws my limbs into submission, 

a welcome cure for my condition. 

Music, oh music, pull my elastic desires back to you and hold me, please hold me! 

Carry me on your melody, lift me to that symphony!  

My heart

 

An eager yet terrified feeling overcomes my being, clammy fingers press against the cold glass of my only window. I see person after person pass by the picket fence guarding my heart. Perhaps I need a new paint job, or maybe some more windows so they can see how nice it is inside. But even as the thought forms I decide against it, I don't want to change in order to catch the eye, I want to be searched for. But the people wandering the streets don't look for the house with the picket fence and little red door. I used to have a welcome mat, but it has recently been moved behind the rose bushes because no one bothers to scrape the dirt off their feet on it when they come in. There was this one boy who purposefully coated his shoes with mud just so he could leave marks and stains everywhere. But he did more than that, he sat too heavily on chairs, asked for more and more dessert even though he knew I had no more to give, he even tried to repaint some of the rooms inside. That was the day I hid my welcome mat. The rooms in my heart are now newly refurbished, by me, and look as if he had never stepped foot in them. My furniture is sturdier, the walls are painted in bright colors with darker accents, and are filled with dreams and truth. 

While I contemplated these things, a boy studied me from my window. He went on the tips of his toes, seeking for a better look. He gets closer without noticing where his feet are taking him until he finds himself at the front door. Curiosity pumping in his veins, he knocks three times in even gentle succession. 

I jolt upright at the sound tickling my ears. All coherent thought jumps from my mind, I run down the stairs clad in fuzzy socks with my hair in disarray. I had not expected company today, or any day for that matter. When my feet hit the landing, I slowed my steps and stared unblinkingly at the door. I didn't get a chance to see his shoes when he walked up, what if they are filthy? I want so dearly to let someone in, but determination to keep my house safe solidified my conviction. He will not enter if he cannot follow my rules. 

My fingers wrap around the handle with slow movements, as one might use with a frightened animal, and I cracked the door open just enough to peek through. What I saw before me was not what I had expected. Instead of sharp teeth, I saw a kind and tentative smile. Instead of narrowed and calculating eyes, I felt a gentle and curious gaze. Instead of filthy muddy boots, I noticed a dirty cloth beside his clean dress shoes. 

Hello.     

   

paris where are you?

i can respect older, famous writers without a hint of jealousy. But the moment i hear writers in high school or below i feel the rise and fall of defeated breath burning my lungs. How could a sniveling child with hands too chubby to grip the pen and eyes wide enough to swallow the earth, write the multitude of innocent feelings coursing through inexperienced veins? but this child is happy, because contrary to the world who is so worried about the almost, the too late, the days to come, and the days they wish had never happened. My eyes see fall leaves and  unforgettable things, and clouds that change with my heart, consistently. my eyes see hope and wait for the son because i know it will come out. Why is that a bad thing? must i be depressed in order to be creative? i feel joy! i have a wonderful family! i have magic in my fingers i don't yet understand! why does that make me any less deep, or honest, or inspiring? I don't want to share this post because i know that it is raw and confusing and so many things that i don't want you to know. i want to say that i have found my paris, but i haven't. but that doesn't mean i will never find it. This post is not for you. It is for me, and if you happen to find some obscure piece of it to relate to and treasure, all the better, because i just want to let myself be raw, and unedited, and honest.

Paddle

When I was littler, and my legs were shorter, and my cheeks were chubby with youth, I learned how to swim. I tested the water with the tips of my toes and when the water got to my waist an excited and terrified feeling caught in my chest and stuck to my heart.
I ventured further without supervision.
But my heart didn't know how to swim, it only knew how to fly. So my hands and arms stretched out, fingers spread and ready for take off, I leaped out of the water with arms trying so hard to be wings, but when i hit the water, i ended up doggy paddling  instead.

How to be a cat lady...

First, you must buy a kitten, buying them at a young age increases the probability of obsession.
Second, you must put a lot of thought into the name given them, perhaps name them after ex's or long dead ancestors.
Third, ponder on the style of clothes your cat may wear, also considering what color would most compliment their fur and eye hues.
Fourth, toys are encouraged.
Fifth, your cat will claim a spot in every room of your house so you must provide a bed or other things for them to have in that spot.
Sixth, be aware that cats often shed. You must collect this fur and put it in a safe place, in a plastic bag for example.
Seventh, the reason for step six is so that you may put it in your "kitty scrap book" this will be a bonding tool for when your kitten reaches it's teens.
Eighth, come up with multiple nick-names for your cat such as, my precious, goddess divine, my pearl, fluffy face, baby, sweet girl, big boy, little boy cat, etc.
Ninth, make all of the rooms in your house cat themed and buy whatever cheep cat decorative things that can be found on amazon.
Tenth, talk only of cats.
Eleventh, give your cats a face book page and post every day.
Twelfth, get a job as a cat sitter.
Thirteenth, buy your cats a stroller so that you can take walks in the park.
Fourteenth, remember to buy one more cat after completing each of the previous steps.
And finally, Paws for dramatic effect, in your will you must leave all your worldly possessions to your cats.  

i am afraid.

i really hate to admit it, but i'm afraid.


i am afraid of never reaching my full potential.
I am afraid of disappointing my Father.
i am afraid of hard things.
i am afraid of easy things.
i am afraid of my own weaknesses.
i am so terrified that i will get kidnapped. (hence the reason why i insist on locking all the doors myself before bed.)
i am afraid of not being good enough.
i am afraid of learning that i cannot learn.
i am afraid of losing anyone i care about.
i am afraid of hurting those i love.
i am afraid of being selfish.
i am afraid of getting cancer.
i am afraid of never becoming an author.
i am afraid of endings.
i am afraid of caring too much.
i am afraid of caring too little.
i am afraid of pain.
i am afraid

i am afraid of fear.

i am afraid of fear,
it is debilitating, it controls me with long fingers whose grip is frozen to my puppet strings.
It laughs in quiet delight as i dance across the stage of hardwood floors that blister my feet.
My lungs heave, yearning for uninfluenced air.
My stomach clenches in an uncomfortable cage that chick flicks and warm blankets and hugs can't stop my heart from remembering.
It's shriveled form crouches in corners and stares unblinkingly into wide eyes and behind shut eyelids.
fear does not find you, you find it.
For fear is a combination of paranoid thoughts, thoughts that may or may not be well founded, and slowly rise in strength as you so choose to build it.

life

so long as life doesn't live me, i will always love life. 

Bricks

Once upon a time a little girl built a house, because she wanted a home for all the things that no one wants within themselves. She skipped about making sure that everything was just right. She made a beautiful bed for sorrow to sleep in, a rocking chair for hurt to sit in, a table for stress to eat at, pillows for anger to scream in, a window for broken heart to look through, a mirror for pride to hold, stuffed animals for fear to hug, and a crown for insecurity to wear. She felt sure that this would make everything better.

Like ducklings behind their mother, they followed her to the house. But when they got there she realized something she had previously overlooked, there was no door.

........................

i am ntyping this with my nossssee

Puffy Tears.

I cried red, splotchy, puffy tears.
I cried until it sounded like I was hyperventilating.
I cried because of everything, everything that turned into an angry, vengeful something.
I couldn't stop crying and the more tears that escaped my stubborn heart,
the more I wanted to let them go.


Go! Leave! Heal the cracks and burns and bruises with salty release!
Quit burning my throat and boiling in my stomach!
Set. Me. Free.


It hurts, but now it hurts less.
The sniffles slow, and my tears dry.
I take my head from your shoulder and just, breathe.

I refuse.

I am not a robot because I refuse to be.

I will not live my life as a machine.

I need to be human.

I love, loving and crying and screaming and feeling and seeing and knowing and moving and

dreaming and being and improving.

I am a complicated puzzle of wonderful,

and terrible things.

I am human.

                                             

Why?

Why is it that when we do something beautiful, our spirits soar until someone else does another equally but differently beautiful thing, and we plummet back to earth? Why is it that in order to shine we must shine alone? Where in history did humanity adopt this poisonous view of accomplishment? I am appalled! How dare the individual think themselves less than the wondrous child of The Almighty they have always been? How dare they say "I can't" over and over huddled in the company of societies commonplace insecurities? 

Worst of all, I find myself continually folded over, weighed down by insecurities made by my own hands. My knees buckle under the pressure I don't know how to defeat. But the ever present fire burns brighter within me and through the mist of too little, too hard, and not enough I shake off what was and scream I AM beautiful, I AM strong, and I AM MORE THAN ENOUGH! Heaving breaths of relief in the silence, truth glows behind my echoing words.  

Inspiration

Inspiration comes in strange and silent ways.
It comes when your mind is thick and sticky, mixing with the hush of a moment.
A moment that, if given the chance, could change all others forever. 

Mr. Box of Crayons

Head, arms, hands, legs, and feet are flimsy and firm. 

His outside is ordinary, a clone of his kind. 

But that means nothing. 

Look inside, what do you see?

 Worlds, 

Emotions, 

Imagination, 

All clutched between two tiny fingers.

The more his inside is shared, 

the more treasured he becomes.

And treasured he should be, for he holds the key to thousands of beginnings. 

I am obsessed.

I am obsessed with beginnings, and journeys and individuality. 

I am obsessed with baby otters and hot cocoa and sappy soppy romance novels. 

I am obsessed with long walks in my bare feet. 

I am obsessed with black and white movies and sunflowers. 

I am obsessed with emotions and truth and smiles that mean something. 

I am obsessed with education and the power of hard work. 

I am obsessed with art in all it's forms. 

I am obsessed with doing what is right and not caring what other people think or excuse. 

I am obsessed with sunrises and sunsets and dragonflies. 

I am obsessed with swings and mountains and flipflops from Brazil. 

I am obsessed with white roses and adventures and mint chocolate chip ice cream. 

I am obsessed. 

Exploring the Intricacies of the Hat.

Hats come in all different shapes and sizes, just like people do. Hats are witness to memories and lives. They are gently worn, covered with tares and faded to practically nothing. They are handled with tender and sentimental fingers. They offer as reminders of what was and what could be. Each hat holds a different time inside. One that it holds and will never let go of. Hats cradle our thoughts and don't make comments or give looks. They hold onto the things we are not willing to say and the imaginings we are not brave enough to make reality. 

Perfection Exists

 Feet pounding, I run; run because I am alive and faster than defeat. Above me a lone bird cuts through the air and dances in the brilliant rays of sunrise. Letting time drag it's feet a moment I witness the light shooting through each delicate feather. My smile creates sincere dimples in my cheeks.

Fast forward to another time, I am encircled in the arms of a person dear to me, squeezing so hard it steals the breath that would have been laughter. Gradually, a feeling that tastes of joy melts all other thought and makes the complicated simple.

Suddenly I am alone, no other eyes, no other ears, only my own. After a quick look to the left then to the right for good measure, the energy building in my chest explodes and I dance. Faster, then slower, then faster, then slower, I spin and reach. I give myself over to feeling. My soul speaks of secrets, hurts, joys, and sorrows, but I never stop dancing.

What about another moment? The kind when understanding ignites after long standing confusion and every other truth pales in comparison. The deep hunger for knowledge that pulls and tugs at my mind and heart, refusing to be ignored, is suddenly satisfied.

 With a sigh, I rest my forehead on the cool class. Outside my window I can hear the rumbling and grumbling of the sky as a thunderstorm strikes. The melodic pitter-patter of rain drips a soothing tune, finding even the deepest corners of my heart.

Cool, familiar, delicious. I sit with a bowl of my favorite ice cream in hand. I let a large spoonful melt on my tongue and watch a movie with my sisters. None of us say a word, but we all know what the other is thinking.

Another time that warrants consideration is born of frustration. When frustration is so intense the tears it brings turn into laughter both delusional and refreshing.

Why am I telling you all of this? Well...I have found a problem in the universal view of perfection and I seek to expose it. People see perfection as something so extreme, so sought after, yet completely unattainable. I believe it is more complex and therefore made simpler. There are types of perfection and the more I experience, the more I write, I am forced  to acknowledge that a form of perfection truly exists. It exists in the little things.