The Author Is Irate (And Has A Headache).

         So. No views, no comments, no shares. Everything in me wants to not care, but unfortunately emotions can't be turned off. 

        Headaches suck, am I right? Especially the tiny ones where you don't feel sick enough to stay in bed but any kind of human interaction makes you woozy? Yep, that's what I've got. I get mad at people easily, you might've noticed. I'm what they call 'volatile.' But nothing irks me more than people dismissing other people's headaches and stomachaches and nausea like it's no big deal, simply because they seem to be fine. I am very good at looking normal when I feel awful, and have weathered many a work shift or school day because everyone thought I was faking it. I, for one, feel horrible when my friends at school come up to me complaining of a headache or cramps. My backpack houses a school survival kit, which includes ibuprofen, snacks, feminine products, Tums, and a baby heating pad. Find me in the apocalypse. 

        That wasn't what I intended to rant about today, but there you go. Merry Christmas. Now close your computer and go outside. Everyone feels better outside. Now go. Shoo. Scat. 

An Insatiable Thirst For Validation

 So people suck. I mean, I know that's kind of been established, but still. I can't help getting mad that I put my entire soul out on display and no one cares. Isn't this why I wanted to do this in the first place? Because I wanted to prove to myself that I don't care what people think? I don't know. I'm just going to let it be and see what happens. Adios, compadres. 

The Blog Title Explained

 So I realized by now that a decent amount of you don't speak Latin. You probably weren't forced into nine years of it like I was. Count your blessings, public schoolers. Anyway. I like Latin, in a strange way. The ancientness of it. The oldness. The way no one else knows it but me. Ha. 

    Captat Orbem Stylo Suo. She captures the world with her pen. That's what it means. I could have done it in English, but what fun would that be, with everyone being able to understand it? There's something delicious about being able to say something and no one understand you. Like a secret. Or a superpower. Yup, that's me. Latin-girl. Able to parse improper nouns in a single bound! Woman of Steel grammar! Vocabulary menace! Oh my gosh I'm such a dork. Let's stop typing now, before you embarrass yourself further. 

Poem Number Twenty-- Just Kidding, It's Not a Poem.

 It's me again! So what did you think? Do you like my soul, universe? I poured it out on paper just for you. Tell me, when you saw my small existence brought into the world by such a mighty Creator, did you think that I would not proclaim? Did you think I would not scream the truth for all to hear. My voice is a trumpet and a triumph, universe. So, quite frankly, suck it. 

Poem Number Nineteen

 Wow, that's a lot. I think I write too much. Is obsessive-compulsive poetry writing a thing? 

"Deeper Magic."

There is a deeper magic

That flows beneath the ancient runes

And spells.

There is a deeper magic that evil has never known

And never will. 

That magic runs through every drop of Narnian blood

And some foreign as well. 

It flows through the great trunks of the trees,

And the rushing rivers that boil and quibble,

And the heart-stopping roar of a certain lion,

A certain King. 

There is a deeper magic

That can never be stopped.

It is called Love.

Poem Number Eighteen

"Writer's Block." The bane of every author's existence. 

I find myself

Living in the moment

Looking to the future

Leaving the past behind,

But it’s never been so hard

To write what’s in my head

My inkwell is dry

All I can think of is things I shouldn’t

All I can see is green grass

And blue sky

And blank pages.

My thoughts are dried-up streams,

Wizened and empty

Instead of the usual overflow of ideas

Spilling from a river and onto the page. 

Or the waterfalls

When the words come so quickly 

I can’t type them fast enough. 

But there’s no water

No words

To describe my thoughts

I can’t paint the images inside my head

I can’t write what I see

I can only wait for the river to run again. 

 

Poem Number Seventeen

 "Pretty Little Blue-Eyes." 

Blue eyes

Sometimes i think they were a mistake

That they should have been given to a

Pretty little princess with

No opinions

Not to wild-eyed 

Me. 

Blue eyes

On anyone else they are

Soft and approachable

On me they are

Stormy, piercing,

Cold. 

Blue eyes

Are more deceiving than they appear

On me 

Hard and determined

To be the opposite of what is 

Assumed. 

Blue 

Blue 

Eyes,

That’s me,

Blue eyes.

Poem Number Sixteen

 "Love."

Love is a fickle thing

It writes letters 

To forever

Full of paper and hearts and rings

Love can be a liar

When the bracelets are chains

And the candles 

Are rain and fire

Love is always unwelcome

Always rejected

Never expected

To come

Love is something I cannot write. 

Poem Number Fifteen

 "Naida-Lee."

Where tangled trees guard treasure troves

And sun-born phoenix rise

Where wand’ring bands roam through the lands

Where stretch the endless, sizeless blue of sky.

A land that maps can never chart

For no man’s ever seen

The sandy shores and hellebores

Or gazed in awe at ocean’s sapphire sheen.

There are no men on Naida-Lee, 

The sandy isle untamed

For men would snip and clip and strip

The beauty of the islet like others did the same.

No one ever returns from Naida-Lee

For no one wants to leave

The welcome relief from pain and grief

Will keep any from ever sailing home across the sea.

The sea itself is a serpent blue

Lashing and crashing with glee

It happily tears and wrecks and wears

On ships born from my beautiful, bittersweet Naida-Lee

The sky on Naida-Lee at night

Is like a thousand paint-drops blending

Onto a purple and green and indigo palette

Smeared lovingly onto a canvas never-ending.

I’ve never regretted my voyage

Though I’ve been through one or two gales

I’m not a great captain nor a fine man of action

I’m an old sailor telling a tale.

She appreciates my kind, Naida-Lee does,

And I’ll never find anywhere else

That sees me as me and not who I could be

Nor an old relic meant for a shelf.

It’s a life of adventure for sailors like me

And I hope some of you understand

That Naida-Lee waits with me and my mates

For you, yes, you, in this land--

This wonderful, seeable, all-sorts-guaranteedable, 

Island of Naida-Lee.

Poem Number Fourteen

 "In My Mind."

Dreary January skies

Grey and heavy

Makes me want to fly

Or sail

In a ship over endless blue.

I could take off to Neverland with the lost boys

Swordfighting and defeating pirates.

I smile. 

To you I may just be a girl staring at a winter sky

But in my mind I’m flying.

Poem Number Thirteen

 "Castles."

I wish a hundred million things

But mostly to be heard

Instead I sit here hoping

Building castles out of words

Most people cannot see them

I only show them to a few

But I can’t promise reality

Or things perfect or true

Mostly it’s my messed-up thoughts. 

Gold eyes, white lies.

Poem Number Twelve

"Life is Hard." Can I get an amen? 

The universe should come with a how-to manual.

Life is hard

There is no level one

No Living 101

Or beginner course

The universe should come with training wheels

For idiots like me 

Who can’t ride a bike. 

Poem Number Eleven

 "Ghosts."

You don’t know it, 

But sometimes

I wish

I was

You.

Effortless, like wind on water,

You know 

Who you

Are. 

Have to remind myself

To breathe.

In.

Out.

Rewind. 

Start over.

Blank slate.

But remnants of prior letters

Still shadow the black,

Ghosts

Of things

I can’t 

Forget. 

Poem Number Ten

 "Words." 

Words.

   Meaningless shapes, formed by squiggles and lines  

  So small, yet they have immense power

The power to create wonder, dreams, and magic

  And the power to destroy, to tear apart.

    They run across the page, flowing

  Like a black river, an ebony ocean of 

 Thoughts, ideas, fantasies, criticisms

  A whole world, sitting in a cobwebbed corner.

      Different shapes of words

  Some ornate and swirly, some plain and bold

  Some are near impossible to read

  All form a story of their own.

  Words must be handled carefully

They can be dangerous, fickle, beasts

Or, if correctly used, they can be

Carriers of light to the abyss of Earth.

  Words are meant to be understood

Must be understood in order to be

  Appreciated and loved by

  All.

            Words.

  

Poem Number Nine

 "Kind of Smallish Biggish."

I’m kind of smallish biggish

But it doesn't bother me.

I don’t mind what I look like

‘Cause I’m more than what you see.

I’m kind of smallish biggish 

And I’m kind of shortish long.

My hair is blondish blackish

And I know I’m not that strong. 

I’m kind of smallish biggish

But my friends are mostly tall

And sometimes when I’m around them 

I feel really, really small.

But I’m okay with smallish biggish

It’s just the way I’m made.

My friends like me the way I am.

Sometimes they’d like to trade.

I’m kind of smallish biggish

It’s the way I’d like to be.

I don’t want to be anything else.

I like just being me. 

Poem Number Eight

 "World Travelers."

Fat white flakes fall merrily and gracefully

Some landing on windows and asking quite politely if they might Come inside. 

We’ve been all over the world, they say. Imagine everything We’ve seen, says one in a lilting Irish accent. 

Or heard, adds another in light airy French. 

Let us in, and we’ll tell you all about it. 

Open the window and let us in. 

Some sit down on windowsills and tree branches to relax before Another long journey.

We’re not moving, they insist. We aren’t the wimpy type of snow, You know. We’re resolute. And we rather like it here. 

We’re very appreciated, since we don’t visit often.

I think I hear a voice in warm, familiar British speak my name.

Hello, I call into the wintry storm. Do you know me? 

Yes, it says. I’ve come from far away, across an ocean. 

I was sent to see you by a friend. Some of us  

Deliver messages overseas too. She says hello, and she hopes You’ll come back soon. I smile. Is this what all of you do? 

I ask the efficient cloud of white. 

Oh no, they chorus. We travel all over the world. Oh dear, moans One, I’m late for my trip to Moscow! I’ll miss my delivery! 

It whisks off into the distance. 

Don’t worry, the British one says kindly as it drifts away. 

We always come back.