More Questions on the Book...

So, I'm kind of shaky bout posting it on here, but I'm getting anxious. I need comments and to know if the thing is worth publishing. Should I post snippets of it? Should I post anything at all? I dunno. Let me know what you think so I can start doing whatever ASAHP:)

I have something to say . . .

I dunno if I should even say this yet, but I'm going to anyway. If any of you care, that'll be great. I want to just get this out it's not like any of you will end up buying it or something. Or anything big will happen. I wonder though. I need to get the news out somehow and I figure, why not do it on my blog, that people may or may not read. I'll get to the point now. I am writing a book. There, I said it. And I want people to like it and read it, but I sort of need opinions. Which is the whole point of this post. If anyone wants to read a portion or something to critique it for me, that'd be wonderful. I need some outside opinions... badly.

Covetous

Introduction to Poetry.
". . . all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it." -Billy Collins
    One of the many things I love about poetry is that I can make it my own. Every person is different, with different life experiences and completely different pasts. What's convenient about poetry is that I can make it my own and it affects other people in the way they see things. If I write a poem about how much I hate broccoli, for instance, there might be someone who absolutely is in love with it and would be lecturing me, telling me I'm wrong. When I'm really not. In my opinion.
From Collins' poem Intro to Poetry, I collected that the people who read poems want immediate answers. They don't want to take time to find out what the author is saying. They want to understand what they were trying to explain right then. Which I agree with. People don't take time to consider what the poet is trying to say about something. They're too impatient. We're all too impatient. We freaking have to watch food in the microwave, waiting for the food to cook milliseconds after we put it in. We sit at the computer, expecting it to work every single time. Expecting it to be lightning speed each time.
Every. Single. Time. Which isn't possible.

Random tangent. Stream of consciousness getting away with me again. Sorry. Collins always expresses what he is trying to say in the most simple phrases, but they seem to have the greatest effect on people. On me, anyway. I wish I could have that effect without having to go into gory detail about everything, but some people have that talent. Able to convey their feelings through a few words. Not moi. I get too into what I'm trying to say. He's very blunt, which I enjoy about him.

Complaints are NOT overrated.

I'm tired. I'm tired of being tired all the time. I'm tired of being judged. I'm tired of being misused and mistreated. I'm tired of the way the media portrays a perfect person. I'm sick and tired of homework. I'm tired of being under my parents' thumb. I'm tired of the way students who have known the teacher for a while act like they own the place. I'm tired of feeling sick. I'm tired of being excluded. I'm tired of money. I'm tired of people wanting money. I'm tired of people wanting power. I'm tired of suicide. I'm tired of death. I'm tired of constant sarcasm. I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of being someone I'm not. I'm tired of living in Happy Valley. I'm tired of sleeping because, frankly, it doesn't make sense. We sleep for eight hours, doing nothing, eyes closed and snoring and we enjoy it. Weird. I'm tired of the 's' on my keyboard of my laptop missing. I'm tired of feet. I'm tired of the word freaking. I'm tired of being normal. I'm tired of broccoli. I'm tired of being blind. All the time. I'm tired of ridicule. I'm tired of sickness. I'm tired of cancer. I'm tired of disease. I'm tired of car bombings and terrorists. I'm tired of hearing about how much people spend on buying another company, when people in Asia, the Mideast, the freaking homeless people in the United States of America are dying of starvation and exposure (oops. I used freaking). I'm tired of rich people. I'm tired of superstition. I'm tired of people who aren't funny who try to be. I'm tired of snow. I'm tired of it not being spring outside. I'm tired of being in love with Heathcliff, yet hating him simultaneously. I'm tired of funerals. I'm tired of not being invited, sitting at home and watching chick flicks with my little brother. I'm tired of talking stuffed animals that don't shut up. I'm tired of being scared. I'm tired of Dr. Who. I'm tired of weeping angels. I'm tired of being lonely.

Admiration or a sickly obsession. What is love, exactly?

Love is a bridge, connecting two worlds. Love is a sea of deep, threatening water. Love is cherishing the moments that block your windpipe. Love is a deep crimson rose. Love is blood on the freeway, impossible to avoid, even when too much of a public display of adhesiveness, or whatever the heck it is. Love is that one unmistakable touch. Love is being injected with fierce adrenaline. Love is a ghost trapped in a beat. Love is sensitivity of sense during sleep. Love is an embrace of fiery ice. Love is the sting of 409. Love is asymmetrical. Love is frizzled hair. Love is curdling buttermilk. Love is an eye twitch. Love is a hand cramp. Love is a blank canvas. Love is a banner of golden silk. Love is a microwavable meal. Love is a heart attack. Love is a tangled, exposed wire in a basement flood. Love is a public fight. Love is torture in the silence. Love is a gas leak. Love is solitaire. Love is boastful freedom. Love is a cliche. Love is a stained glass masterpiece. Love is an echo in an amphitheatre. Love is a fallen tree in a forest of leaves. Love is an inside joke. Love is giving up your life to save it. Love is not dying. Love is being steps away from a door, then waking up. Love is the danger in a situation. Love is closing the window. Love is an issue gone unsolved. Love is an hourglass without time to count. Love is ultimatum. Love is alive. Love is a PowerPoint without a projection. Love is protection from evil. Love is too-sweet semisweet chocolate chip cookies. Love is a dark mystery. Love is unhindered consciousness. Love is a muffin in a field of cupcakes. Love is a balloon in a countryside of scissors. Love is a sunset after an overcast rain. Love is a cut you don't realize is there until you see the blood. Love is unblossomed admiration. Love is a fragile line. Love is sticking with a lover after a traumatic happenstance.

Hair

Sometimes I wish I could cut it off. I dunno if you've ever felt the need to not have it, but I don't see any reason why I need it. And then, once I do cut it, then I'm thinking, What the h*** is wrong with you? This might seem like a really random post, and it is, but I was just playing ping pong at a friends house the other day and didn't have an elastic. You can imagine how irritated I was. Moving constantly to brush it off my face, I would then proceed to miss a play. I lost. Oh, and then we played Foosball and, you guessed it. I lost. Stupid hair. Good for nothing, really. I can't do anything with it and it's dead. Even though it grows, people say it's dead, but why then, does it grow? I've never been able to answer this question and I've never taken time to look it up and see. I've never seen the need to really know. Yet, here I am, rambling on and on, wondering about it. Hmmm. Interesting. I love looking outside and seeing the fog and mist from last night's downpour. It makes me feel like I've refreshed myself and I can start again. It's probably lame, but that's what I think when I see or feel it:)

Writer's Block

Y'know. It's really ironic and frustrating that my creative writing teacher gives us a packet from a book he's read about writer's block, then, helpfully, the next weekend and for the rest of the week, I had none other than writer's block. I haven't been able to write anything creative and flowing for the last week and it's DRIVING ME INSANE! You see, I'm writing a book and I'm almost finished, yet I can't seem to write it because of the lingering, powerful, looming sense of writer's block. Every time I have a sliver of an idea sift through my brain, somehow the ever-present curse flaps its wings and it puffs into a cloud of creative smoke. I don't understand why I have it and I'm having a week where I want to shoot myself because of the overwhelming humidity.