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.