Symbolism in writing yields powerful effects, albeit sometimes hidden in the text. It is left up to the viewer to decode the author's intentions. The novel I chose to do this prompt on is J.K. Rowling's "Harry Potter" series, and the symbol I will explore in the essay is none other than the famous scar that Harry himself possesses.
Harry receives his scar when he was just a little child, despite knowing very little of it in the beginning of the series. He acknowledges the scar as a curse, that the scar is a reminder of her mother's death and Voldemort's triumph in taking his mother's life. However, the scar is more than just a reminder of death, but it stands for everything that Harry stands for. The scar is something like a badge of honor, proof that he has overcome a great struggle in his life. It also connects harry to both good and evil, as the scar, we learn later in the book, becomes the very tie between him and Voldemort. Through the scar, he is able to catch glimpses of Voldemort's intentions. It enables Harry to speak parseltongue, a power that is unique only to Voldemort. Thus, he begins to think that he his evil. As shown in the fifth book, The Order of the Phoenix, Harry has dreams of being a snake and attacking Ron's father. He questions himself and asks if he is the hero or the villain, but the true intention of the dream-like premonition was to reveal where Mr. Weasley's location was.
The scar could also be interpreted as a physical manifestation of all the hardships and damage that life deals. The scar is a constant reminder of how both his mother's love saved him and how Voldemort took her life away. It symbolizes Lily Potter's undying and limitless love for Harry.
Harry's scar is the main focus of the plots for the Harry Potter series. Through the scar, Harry is able to learn about both his past and his future, and in the end it serves as the key to defeating Voldemort. Because Lily had sacrificed her life to save Harry, he came to possess the scar while Voldemort lost his body. During the final act of the story comes the battle between good and evil, and Harry's scar is what ultimately defeats Voldemort. Because of Lily's selfless act of sacrifice, Harry experienced something that Voldemort had never possessed, which is love.
To Harry, the scar was at first nothing but a curse. It caused him pain and unwanted attention. But in reality, the scar is what makes Harry unique. It marks him as a "chosen" figure in the book. It defines who he is, just as Christ's scars made him an undying legend and Odysseus's scars help identify him as a tragic hero. But most importantly, the scar shows what Voldemort does not have. Love. Which is why he proved to be victorious in the end.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Friday, January 8, 2010
PERIOD 4
The "AND STILL WE RISE" assignments are in my blog. Sorry for all the poems, I've been putting them up for a while. Look on the sidebar for the assignments. Thanks.!! :]
~Jhay
oh yeah comment the poems if you want ;]
~Jhay
oh yeah comment the poems if you want ;]
Existence Theory
Hail allah! He causes the sands to blister even in the dead of winter,
causes our children to feign health to hide the pulsating blister.
Pulsing with blood? Covered in puss, dying of bacterial chronology
as one dies after the other like a doomed chain reaction
when this city never dies and so will the madness.
It never sleeps. The lighs make the world spin and Shiva
isn't a goddess of mercy, but rather, of an ethereal force
that threatens to excavate every unborn baby and birth it
as a fucked up being incapable of feeling like any other.
It doesn't even know its own mother; memory depleted
by the need to discover blood and devastation with sickle-sharp nails
and fangs like the hungriest of the wolves.
Hail God! Christianity spreading like an infectious rage,
turning on innocence and becoming the epitome of corruption.
Judgemental vice and a foundation based on lies, they grow.
Taking on the form of righteousness in the name of the holy,
they rid the world of anomalies, spilling blood, telling lies
it's all part of the marvelous game we call manipulation.
Cherubs! With your burning swords and bloodless souls,
it's the death sentence that our dice rolls and if you want a war,
we'll start a crusade. Instead of being a savior, I'll let memories fade.
To those abandoned in the depth of darkness, struggling to get out,
looking for the light that should've been ignited by a higher being,
feel the sting of disappointment and wither away in disbelief.
To those who waited for a savior and instead had a heart filled with failure,
blame it on the one who should've descended from the heavens
He too, is a myth. He too, burns in a pit of fire and ashes.
To those who never saw the light, it's been within you all along.
Capture the darkness and learn to control it.
No one rules the world but us.
We have a fist that is fit for ruling.
Bury his name, never speak of it again.
causes our children to feign health to hide the pulsating blister.
Pulsing with blood? Covered in puss, dying of bacterial chronology
as one dies after the other like a doomed chain reaction
when this city never dies and so will the madness.
It never sleeps. The lighs make the world spin and Shiva
isn't a goddess of mercy, but rather, of an ethereal force
that threatens to excavate every unborn baby and birth it
as a fucked up being incapable of feeling like any other.
It doesn't even know its own mother; memory depleted
by the need to discover blood and devastation with sickle-sharp nails
and fangs like the hungriest of the wolves.
Hail God! Christianity spreading like an infectious rage,
turning on innocence and becoming the epitome of corruption.
Judgemental vice and a foundation based on lies, they grow.
Taking on the form of righteousness in the name of the holy,
they rid the world of anomalies, spilling blood, telling lies
it's all part of the marvelous game we call manipulation.
Cherubs! With your burning swords and bloodless souls,
it's the death sentence that our dice rolls and if you want a war,
we'll start a crusade. Instead of being a savior, I'll let memories fade.
To those abandoned in the depth of darkness, struggling to get out,
looking for the light that should've been ignited by a higher being,
feel the sting of disappointment and wither away in disbelief.
To those who waited for a savior and instead had a heart filled with failure,
blame it on the one who should've descended from the heavens
He too, is a myth. He too, burns in a pit of fire and ashes.
To those who never saw the light, it's been within you all along.
Capture the darkness and learn to control it.
No one rules the world but us.
We have a fist that is fit for ruling.
Bury his name, never speak of it again.
Battlefield
Let me breath in cyanide, I'd rather die brutally
than die in your arms, heart crushed into million pieces
like an exploding shrapnel bomb.
Tie me down on this barren earth and lead me to a land mine,
let me blow myself up as you watch
because I'm sick of love, sick of you, sick of us.
Let the heavens rain down with a million gunshots.
I wear no armor. Let it pierce me deeply
as I bleed for you, defenseless. Alone. Undamaged.
You've already dealt the killing blow a million decades ago.
But me, I'm a warrrior that walks alone.
Death isn't in my world, and I'll fight this war endlessly.
I'm a man that knows no limit.
My reign extends as far as the lands infinite.
My army of pain is uncountable in its entirety.
Watch them march in unison as they fight in favor of depravity.
Depravity, because I need to let go of your pulse-pounding memory.
It's stealing my breath away, and I've yet a thousand years to fight.
Your bloody hands on my heart, strangling it, gripping it so tight.
Whoever said that love was a battlefield?
But then again, who ever said that love is fair?
If love is a battle I must fight, then I'll fight until the sun shuts down.
I'll fight until I take my final breath and my heart gives away to its final beat.
I'll fight until love proves itself to be a reality,
until it proves that it's worth fighting for.
Because as of now, I see it as an illusion.
And the fight for the truth has always been the hardest for me.
than die in your arms, heart crushed into million pieces
like an exploding shrapnel bomb.
Tie me down on this barren earth and lead me to a land mine,
let me blow myself up as you watch
because I'm sick of love, sick of you, sick of us.
Let the heavens rain down with a million gunshots.
I wear no armor. Let it pierce me deeply
as I bleed for you, defenseless. Alone. Undamaged.
You've already dealt the killing blow a million decades ago.
But me, I'm a warrrior that walks alone.
Death isn't in my world, and I'll fight this war endlessly.
I'm a man that knows no limit.
My reign extends as far as the lands infinite.
My army of pain is uncountable in its entirety.
Watch them march in unison as they fight in favor of depravity.
Depravity, because I need to let go of your pulse-pounding memory.
It's stealing my breath away, and I've yet a thousand years to fight.
Your bloody hands on my heart, strangling it, gripping it so tight.
Whoever said that love was a battlefield?
But then again, who ever said that love is fair?
If love is a battle I must fight, then I'll fight until the sun shuts down.
I'll fight until I take my final breath and my heart gives away to its final beat.
I'll fight until love proves itself to be a reality,
until it proves that it's worth fighting for.
Because as of now, I see it as an illusion.
And the fight for the truth has always been the hardest for me.
A Flower Blooming In The Slums
In the slums, where darkness drenches every corner
and walls are corroding away,where the moon refuses to shine,
stealing every bit of glimmer, there is no light.
Children nearly unclothed, shivering as their skin is
harassed by the frigidness of the midnight breeze.
Their tears, frozen in time, yet continue to emerge from within.
In the slums, where music seems nonexistent.
The only sounds are constant clanging of trash,
being scattered all over the streets. The sounds of footsteps
as the children rummage through the dirty piles,
covered in shit and dirt they, like savages, they explore for little scraps
to calm their veracious appetite.
In the slums, so dirty and so poor, the adults
dispose of their watchful eyes, unable to handle
the miserable stress weighing down on their shoulders
and waste their time wishing for a different life.
Wishing and wasting, corroding, irrevocable time,
irreplaceable, while the young fend for themselves
in this new world of melancholic tragedy.
In the slums, there is a church. The floors splintered
with split wood and ceilings torn open by decay,
darkness dances with despair, because God was never there
to even catch a glance at the slowly deteriorating place.
Never was there to send some guidance
to the walking souls who lost their way a thousand days before.
But in the corner of the church lies a patch of flowers,
white as the light in the sky, with lime-green vines
that seem to embrace the earth,
they grow in abundance and give a new meaning
to the abandoned church. And when one sees them as they walk past,
they wonder how such a contradicting beauty can occur.
And when the children stop by, their eyes shine for just a moment
before they turn away and find more trash to dig through.
But for a moment, they find their salvation
through the flowers that bloom in the slums.
and walls are corroding away,where the moon refuses to shine,
stealing every bit of glimmer, there is no light.
Children nearly unclothed, shivering as their skin is
harassed by the frigidness of the midnight breeze.
Their tears, frozen in time, yet continue to emerge from within.
In the slums, where music seems nonexistent.
The only sounds are constant clanging of trash,
being scattered all over the streets. The sounds of footsteps
as the children rummage through the dirty piles,
covered in shit and dirt they, like savages, they explore for little scraps
to calm their veracious appetite.
In the slums, so dirty and so poor, the adults
dispose of their watchful eyes, unable to handle
the miserable stress weighing down on their shoulders
and waste their time wishing for a different life.
Wishing and wasting, corroding, irrevocable time,
irreplaceable, while the young fend for themselves
in this new world of melancholic tragedy.
In the slums, there is a church. The floors splintered
with split wood and ceilings torn open by decay,
darkness dances with despair, because God was never there
to even catch a glance at the slowly deteriorating place.
Never was there to send some guidance
to the walking souls who lost their way a thousand days before.
But in the corner of the church lies a patch of flowers,
white as the light in the sky, with lime-green vines
that seem to embrace the earth,
they grow in abundance and give a new meaning
to the abandoned church. And when one sees them as they walk past,
they wonder how such a contradicting beauty can occur.
And when the children stop by, their eyes shine for just a moment
before they turn away and find more trash to dig through.
But for a moment, they find their salvation
through the flowers that bloom in the slums.
One Winged Angel
Restrictions to light, barring the heaven in plain sight.
How could you force yourself to stare at a broken reflection
through your own eyes in a murky, deceptive puddle?
Are you unable to see the truth that lies not very distant,
not even unreachable, but right in front of your eyes?
Your feathers, so white, it emits a thousand reflected rays
and shoots them like misguided arrows
straight to hell and back, but wherein do you belong
when both heaven and hell rejects you?
Standing in the in between of two warring worlds,
how everyone envies you as you run through stunning meadows
of endless beauty, where flower petals dance among the winds
and the wind whispers in a serene manner,
and you, how you run, yet stagger at the same time,
limping as red taints the blades of grass
and flowers are drenched in your painful regurgitation.
Why must the one winged angel suffer more?
Your white feathers are now crimson red.
As you fade away, I can only watch as you flee your image
and become just another flower amongst this field.
How does it feel knowing that you're not wanted?
How could you force yourself to stare at a broken reflection
through your own eyes in a murky, deceptive puddle?
Are you unable to see the truth that lies not very distant,
not even unreachable, but right in front of your eyes?
Your feathers, so white, it emits a thousand reflected rays
and shoots them like misguided arrows
straight to hell and back, but wherein do you belong
when both heaven and hell rejects you?
Standing in the in between of two warring worlds,
how everyone envies you as you run through stunning meadows
of endless beauty, where flower petals dance among the winds
and the wind whispers in a serene manner,
and you, how you run, yet stagger at the same time,
limping as red taints the blades of grass
and flowers are drenched in your painful regurgitation.
Why must the one winged angel suffer more?
Your white feathers are now crimson red.
As you fade away, I can only watch as you flee your image
and become just another flower amongst this field.
How does it feel knowing that you're not wanted?
And Still We Rise [#2]
Reading the book review, I knew that I was going to be affected by the lives of these students I read about. The reviewer states his opinions so convincingly that I knew I was going to be very interested by the book. However, this is going against my own beliefs in books. I do not normally listen to the opinions of reviewers and critics when it comes to books. After all, people enjoy different things. So why should we conform to the opinions of people who are paid to review books or films? We shouldn't judge a book by a cover. But more importantly, we shouldn't judge a film or book based on the judgement of others. The latter is more wrong. Though it helps me decide at times which films to watch, I normally do not care about the critic's opinions, especially when it comes to books.
And Still We Rise [#1]
Brutality. That word takes on an extreme form in the schools of Crenshaw. Escalating from mere verbal fights into relentless gunning down of innocent lives, it becomes clear to us that their school is far more in the dangerous end than Mililani High. Imagine having to include a metal detector check in your daily routine. It's a normal part of a student's daily life in Crenshaw High. We take safety for granted. Extreme violence is a rare occurrence in Mililani High School. But in Crenshaw, it seems that every single day that the students live to see means another day of fearing for their lives... if they could live to see yet again another sunrise. It's a hell on earth for these students. There's no purgatory, and the only glimpse of heaven they see is in their sleep. Sanctuary, when found, is not to be taken for granted.
"I've written a lot about gangbangers, the kind of boys that were in the van that night..." (p. 2) uttered the TV reporter, and by this statement you can already perceive that Crenshaw High School has way more sinister students than those typically in Mililani High School. Apparently, visions of sheer brutality are an everyday experience and fights are the least they worry about. The students at Crenshaw fear for their lives everyday, an obstacle that us Mililani Students will never face. They also deal with a handful of troubles that are so depressing and upsetting for me to read. For example, Olivia gets beaten numerous times by her mother. Her own flesh and blood, yet she is still punished without justice. Like many of her peers, she is challenged by a surreal amount of violence in the community, yet they are still able to retain their need for education and know that the fate they gain in their schools is the one thing that gives them a chance to escape the nightmare that seems that there's no waking from.
Mililani High School students are priveleged. Whether they acknowledge it or not, our students are luckier than the students at Crenshaw. We take safety for granted, and in reality we really have nothing to fear when we attend school. There is no threat demanding enough for us to fear for our lives. We get the occasional fights, but has there really been an incident in MHS during the recent years in which we, as students, felt that our lives were at stake? The answer is no. However, at Crenshaw, their lives, though very valuable, will always be put to the test every single day. Gambled, as if they were players in a win or lose card game. We will never experience the horrors that Crenshaw students face, and that's something that we should value and be grateful for.
In conclusion, the difference between Crenshaw High and Mililani High is immense. While Crenshaw proves to be a dangerous school, Mililani High seems almost like a sanctuary in comparison.
"I've written a lot about gangbangers, the kind of boys that were in the van that night..." (p. 2) uttered the TV reporter, and by this statement you can already perceive that Crenshaw High School has way more sinister students than those typically in Mililani High School. Apparently, visions of sheer brutality are an everyday experience and fights are the least they worry about. The students at Crenshaw fear for their lives everyday, an obstacle that us Mililani Students will never face. They also deal with a handful of troubles that are so depressing and upsetting for me to read. For example, Olivia gets beaten numerous times by her mother. Her own flesh and blood, yet she is still punished without justice. Like many of her peers, she is challenged by a surreal amount of violence in the community, yet they are still able to retain their need for education and know that the fate they gain in their schools is the one thing that gives them a chance to escape the nightmare that seems that there's no waking from.
Mililani High School students are priveleged. Whether they acknowledge it or not, our students are luckier than the students at Crenshaw. We take safety for granted, and in reality we really have nothing to fear when we attend school. There is no threat demanding enough for us to fear for our lives. We get the occasional fights, but has there really been an incident in MHS during the recent years in which we, as students, felt that our lives were at stake? The answer is no. However, at Crenshaw, their lives, though very valuable, will always be put to the test every single day. Gambled, as if they were players in a win or lose card game. We will never experience the horrors that Crenshaw students face, and that's something that we should value and be grateful for.
In conclusion, the difference between Crenshaw High and Mililani High is immense. While Crenshaw proves to be a dangerous school, Mililani High seems almost like a sanctuary in comparison.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
The Open Door
I walk and see a mistress in black, threads made of
shimmering blood and glimmering frozen tears dyed red
as she made her way up the stairs of ebony glass
that seemed to shatter with every step,
its cracks spewing out liquidated souls and red wine.
She had the lips of a magazine, cut and pasted
with a thousand different shades and texture of deceased
and when she kissed me with that frigid touch
I felt my entire happiness drain, like she was the reaper.
Drain, as if she was a soul stealer, and I felt like a gaping hole
of nothingness. Worthless, I could only stare
as she shattered every star in the sky with a malevolent touch.
Worthless, as she brought down the moon and caused a violent eclipse
that drowned this miserable world in a day of absolute darkness.
Did I mention the door that rested atop the stairwell?
It seemed to be structured of ruptured bones and blood,
slightly open, wisps of black attempting to plan their escapade
but the mistress in black dispatched them with an unholy grenade
and like they appeared so swiftly, swiftly they disappeared
as she cackled with a resonating evil that seemed to disturb the cosmos.
This open door, what lies beneath this open door?
She would not reveal it so, she relies on sweet sacrifice
to breathe life onto her pale, white skin, this snow white queen,
this mistress in black with the heart of coal,
the heart I've desperately sought after, the only one.
Perhaps I'm losing control in all that I'm living for,
but I pray I have a chance at gazing within that lonely, open door,
where she guards with her mesmerizing, blatantly piercing stare,
waiting until we can be together again, singing a duet
in that last song I'll waste on such a tyrannous queen.
Break down that door, we'll be together forever more.
Let the darkness consume our entity,
merging our tales of honest infidelity.
shimmering blood and glimmering frozen tears dyed red
as she made her way up the stairs of ebony glass
that seemed to shatter with every step,
its cracks spewing out liquidated souls and red wine.
She had the lips of a magazine, cut and pasted
with a thousand different shades and texture of deceased
and when she kissed me with that frigid touch
I felt my entire happiness drain, like she was the reaper.
Drain, as if she was a soul stealer, and I felt like a gaping hole
of nothingness. Worthless, I could only stare
as she shattered every star in the sky with a malevolent touch.
Worthless, as she brought down the moon and caused a violent eclipse
that drowned this miserable world in a day of absolute darkness.
Did I mention the door that rested atop the stairwell?
It seemed to be structured of ruptured bones and blood,
slightly open, wisps of black attempting to plan their escapade
but the mistress in black dispatched them with an unholy grenade
and like they appeared so swiftly, swiftly they disappeared
as she cackled with a resonating evil that seemed to disturb the cosmos.
This open door, what lies beneath this open door?
She would not reveal it so, she relies on sweet sacrifice
to breathe life onto her pale, white skin, this snow white queen,
this mistress in black with the heart of coal,
the heart I've desperately sought after, the only one.
Perhaps I'm losing control in all that I'm living for,
but I pray I have a chance at gazing within that lonely, open door,
where she guards with her mesmerizing, blatantly piercing stare,
waiting until we can be together again, singing a duet
in that last song I'll waste on such a tyrannous queen.
Break down that door, we'll be together forever more.
Let the darkness consume our entity,
merging our tales of honest infidelity.
Sonnet 004
The waves transcend time as they crash against
Broken bodies of the cliffs and shoreline.
And in this frigid night, I calmly sensed
A presence, ghostly hands brush against mine.
Tears of mine equivalent to the sea,
In the way they glimmer in the moonlight.
They seem to sigh in bitter misery,
As if experiencing all but delight.
O love, I miss your arms around my waist
Like the air tightly grasps my body now.
If death could steal all but my happiness,
Then I'd give him my everlasting vow.
How could a deity steal my love away?
His heart of darkness shall never decay.
Broken bodies of the cliffs and shoreline.
And in this frigid night, I calmly sensed
A presence, ghostly hands brush against mine.
Tears of mine equivalent to the sea,
In the way they glimmer in the moonlight.
They seem to sigh in bitter misery,
As if experiencing all but delight.
O love, I miss your arms around my waist
Like the air tightly grasps my body now.
If death could steal all but my happiness,
Then I'd give him my everlasting vow.
How could a deity steal my love away?
His heart of darkness shall never decay.
Tempest Howling
Death has already claimed their connection,
wreaking havoc on the built bridge
and summoning tidal waves to crush the cement
and blood and bones that held them together.
Faith ceased its belief in forever,
stranding, hand in hand, in a sea of tempest
where hands conjured from hell desperately try
to grasp their final chance and destroy it.
Loneliness was never this present in their life,
but now it consumed their very will to live.
Every passing second, misery lingered.
Love once existing, now slowly being disfigured.
A single tear in the vast oceans of her eyes,
but his eyes painted no such pictures of beauty.
It was a wasteland of deceit and ill-fortune.
A last resort.
She whispered, tell me a single lie.
A destructive reply he whispered back, I love you.
wreaking havoc on the built bridge
and summoning tidal waves to crush the cement
and blood and bones that held them together.
Faith ceased its belief in forever,
stranding, hand in hand, in a sea of tempest
where hands conjured from hell desperately try
to grasp their final chance and destroy it.
Loneliness was never this present in their life,
but now it consumed their very will to live.
Every passing second, misery lingered.
Love once existing, now slowly being disfigured.
A single tear in the vast oceans of her eyes,
but his eyes painted no such pictures of beauty.
It was a wasteland of deceit and ill-fortune.
A last resort.
She whispered, tell me a single lie.
A destructive reply he whispered back, I love you.
Undertow
Looking back at the sea submerges all my pain,
I watch it swallow sand and spit it back out
and the sound is like a cure to this sick, sick disease.
What do I feel? It's nothing like I've ever felt
and the moonlight glows and I feel so alone.
I am the raging undertow, the force of the ocean.
I want you back, then I get rid of you again.
I never want to let you go,
but I'm never sure of what I want
and I don't want you to become another wasted Atlantis,
another memory consumed by the angry undertow.
Once you're caught, you'll be gone until you're back
and once you're back, you'll only get thrown out again.
I'm sick of this back and forth bullshit,
I don't wanna watch the sea any longer.
These waters aren't an elixir to misery, it's an accompany
and I'm just soaking up all this sadness contained
in its foamy waves, draining all the memories left behind
so I'll let the undertow take it away,
at least for a while. I'll have no pain for a while
until it hits me again, and over and over and over again.
I'll look back at the sea,
I'll become the sand, become the victim time and time again.
I watch it swallow sand and spit it back out
and the sound is like a cure to this sick, sick disease.
What do I feel? It's nothing like I've ever felt
and the moonlight glows and I feel so alone.
I am the raging undertow, the force of the ocean.
I want you back, then I get rid of you again.
I never want to let you go,
but I'm never sure of what I want
and I don't want you to become another wasted Atlantis,
another memory consumed by the angry undertow.
Once you're caught, you'll be gone until you're back
and once you're back, you'll only get thrown out again.
I'm sick of this back and forth bullshit,
I don't wanna watch the sea any longer.
These waters aren't an elixir to misery, it's an accompany
and I'm just soaking up all this sadness contained
in its foamy waves, draining all the memories left behind
so I'll let the undertow take it away,
at least for a while. I'll have no pain for a while
until it hits me again, and over and over and over again.
I'll look back at the sea,
I'll become the sand, become the victim time and time again.
Let It Rain
i've had
gallons of acid
d
r
i
p
p
i
n
g
on me before, so this rain ain't
shit. hopefully it don't combine
and turn into
acid rain,
like tears from your eyes
as your smile fades
to withering gray skies
and i'm forced to look at something
so devastatingly beautiful.
let me be the everlasting sunshine
so you won't have to c r y
ever again,
but you tell me
overoverover again,
let it rain. let it rain.
to be happy we must first get used to pain.
did i mention how my heart
s
k
i
p
s
whenever i hear your voice?
and how it shatters when i hear you cry?
don't be another ruined wonder,
don't be the ei8ht to
the se7en that went under.
you're far more valuable
than this world with a set end.
if i ever lose you, then i'll be forced to pretend
that we never did reach the point of p r e c i p i t a t i ng doom,
i'll wipe those tears away, get you back to the comforts of your room,
but you say let it rain. let it rain.
overoverover again.
to find happiness, we must first get used to pain.
if so, then let this rain be eternal.
because loving you will always cause me pain.
still, though these torrential razors cause me this hurt,
i have so damn much to gain.
as you say, i'll quote you this once.
let it
r
a
i
n.
let it rain.
gallons of acid
d
r
i
p
p
i
n
g
on me before, so this rain ain't
shit. hopefully it don't combine
and turn into
acid rain,
like tears from your eyes
as your smile fades
to withering gray skies
and i'm forced to look at something
so devastatingly beautiful.
let me be the everlasting sunshine
so you won't have to c r y
ever again,
but you tell me
overoverover again,
let it rain. let it rain.
to be happy we must first get used to pain.
did i mention how my heart
s
k
i
p
s
whenever i hear your voice?
and how it shatters when i hear you cry?
don't be another ruined wonder,
don't be the ei8ht to
the se7en that went under.
you're far more valuable
than this world with a set end.
if i ever lose you, then i'll be forced to pretend
that we never did reach the point of p r e c i p i t a t i ng doom,
i'll wipe those tears away, get you back to the comforts of your room,
but you say let it rain. let it rain.
overoverover again.
to find happiness, we must first get used to pain.
if so, then let this rain be eternal.
because loving you will always cause me pain.
still, though these torrential razors cause me this hurt,
i have so damn much to gain.
as you say, i'll quote you this once.
let it
r
a
i
n.
let it rain.
The Perfect Ending
I hate how we live on lies and run-on sentences
and constant ands and whys, and how you smile
when really, you're a metaphoric catastrophe
as atom bombs seem to consume you internally.
How could we turn into such a depressing picture?
In my mind, I still remember
when every moment we shared, you wore a genuine smile
but now, i'd walk ten billion miles to see you happy again.i
This wasn't the way I wanted us to end,
but who am I to say? I'm a writer in denial,
I write in first person and I'm a hypocrite.
It's funny, I never thought I'd fall for someone like you,
but here I am falling and being devoured
by venus fly traps and black holes.
You're my one prefect mistake,
the one I'd never fear to make again.
But still yet, we seem to be heading for an untimely end.
I wish I could rewrite us into a fairytale,
but you hold the pen.
I wonder when the time comes,
will we turn into a devastating horror where
we'd never be able to survive this post-apocalyptic nightmare?
The world will crash and burn the moment we separate,
I promise you that.
So baby, write. Write the perfect ending.
Turn us into a romance that will go down in history as cliche yet true,
it'd be the perfect ending as long as I'm with you.
But here we are, miles apart even when I see you right there.
Love is a battle that will never end up fair.
Your sentences are filled with grammatical error,
and you call me your worst mistake.
I'd rewrite the story of us, but baby you hold the pen.
So write us out.
Let the ink bleed, let it be the noose that ties our hearts
and strangle it until it asphyxiates itself into a bitter demise,
let us be the lone moon on a frigid evening that never seems to wake.
Olvídate de mí ahora, pronto me olvide.
Tu memoria no va a desaparecer de mi mente.
Escribir el momento final, escribir el poema final.
Que la oscuridad nos separan.
and constant ands and whys, and how you smile
when really, you're a metaphoric catastrophe
as atom bombs seem to consume you internally.
How could we turn into such a depressing picture?
In my mind, I still remember
when every moment we shared, you wore a genuine smile
but now, i'd walk ten billion miles to see you happy again.i
This wasn't the way I wanted us to end,
but who am I to say? I'm a writer in denial,
I write in first person and I'm a hypocrite.
It's funny, I never thought I'd fall for someone like you,
but here I am falling and being devoured
by venus fly traps and black holes.
You're my one prefect mistake,
the one I'd never fear to make again.
But still yet, we seem to be heading for an untimely end.
I wish I could rewrite us into a fairytale,
but you hold the pen.
I wonder when the time comes,
will we turn into a devastating horror where
we'd never be able to survive this post-apocalyptic nightmare?
The world will crash and burn the moment we separate,
I promise you that.
So baby, write. Write the perfect ending.
Turn us into a romance that will go down in history as cliche yet true,
it'd be the perfect ending as long as I'm with you.
But here we are, miles apart even when I see you right there.
Love is a battle that will never end up fair.
Your sentences are filled with grammatical error,
and you call me your worst mistake.
I'd rewrite the story of us, but baby you hold the pen.
So write us out.
Let the ink bleed, let it be the noose that ties our hearts
and strangle it until it asphyxiates itself into a bitter demise,
let us be the lone moon on a frigid evening that never seems to wake.
Olvídate de mí ahora, pronto me olvide.
Tu memoria no va a desaparecer de mi mente.
Escribir el momento final, escribir el poema final.
Que la oscuridad nos separan.
Loving An Assassin
I never thought I'd fall for some dangerous enemy,
a foe to be reckoned with and filled with infamy.
Your silence is harsh, I don't feel a single sound
as you creep into my bed and finish me off.
Your lips are insanely venomous, one kiss and I am
falling to the ground, tripping in wonder and falling deeply
in those eyes that seem to blind me when I stare into them,
I dream about when we'd see each other again
and just the thought of you gone is enough
to send me into an endless comatose.
Your angelic voice renders my ears useless,
I hear nothing else but you.
Your love is a drug, stronger than morphine.
More addicting than crystal methamphetamine.
It seems that
I fell for someone so wicked, so surreal.
So dangerously massive in the terms to kill.
Baby, you're an assassin.
You've got the touch of death when you stroke my skin,
and the passion to set me on fire, you're my single deadliest sin.
Gasoline tears and homicidal embrace,
the evidence of my death is something you can't erase.
Kill me now, if killing me means that I fall deeper in love with you.
Loving an assassin in metaphoric ways,
I'd keep your twisted love until the end of our days.
a foe to be reckoned with and filled with infamy.
Your silence is harsh, I don't feel a single sound
as you creep into my bed and finish me off.
Your lips are insanely venomous, one kiss and I am
falling to the ground, tripping in wonder and falling deeply
in those eyes that seem to blind me when I stare into them,
I dream about when we'd see each other again
and just the thought of you gone is enough
to send me into an endless comatose.
Your angelic voice renders my ears useless,
I hear nothing else but you.
Your love is a drug, stronger than morphine.
More addicting than crystal methamphetamine.
It seems that
I fell for someone so wicked, so surreal.
So dangerously massive in the terms to kill.
Baby, you're an assassin.
You've got the touch of death when you stroke my skin,
and the passion to set me on fire, you're my single deadliest sin.
Gasoline tears and homicidal embrace,
the evidence of my death is something you can't erase.
Kill me now, if killing me means that I fall deeper in love with you.
Loving an assassin in metaphoric ways,
I'd keep your twisted love until the end of our days.
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