The Dream

There is an unusual place, all indoors that sheilds them from the sun
inside a beauty pageant is taking place with demons instead of girls
I don't fit in and I don't know why but this place is lots of fun
it seems that every door I try is locked from the outside.

They welcome me although we know that I'm from somewhere else
you see they wait for me, they dote on me, and give me lots of gifts.
The children laugh and play with me, the demons push aside.
they all have dogs the strangest thing, but they can't go outside.

I've come of age and now my turn to choose my puppy sweet.
he will be my friend when all will turn against me and my ways.
They're all the same, how could I choose, this choice is far too hard.
But then theres one, whose ne'er been picked, a sweet and floppy lad.

It seems as though the choice is made, but some don't like it there.
They try to make me choose the same to fit in with the crowd.
A brief farewell I'll try this one, this one who is like all.
but alas I cannot settle with this long one thence must fall.

So me and pontiff, for thats his name, we spend our days outside
among the suns and burns we lay with water at our side
and I feel happy, all is done, this world is strange at best
but I will dwell and I will love, for you see, I am at rest.

Okay, so I had a sweet dream last night. It was pretty awesome. First of all I was in this military-like bunker but it had been modified into a living space. We weren't allowed to go outside for some unknown reason. There was a beauty pageant being held that day and all of the girls were really foul and mean. Everyone knew that I was from somewhere else because they were explaining things to me. I looked out a window and noticed that there were four suns. It made finding shade impossible. Anyways, I was coming of age and every boy gets to choose a dog and all of them were dachshunds except for one that they called pontiff. Funny I know. Anyways, I tried to get along with one that was normal but I couldn't get that floppy reckless dog named pontiff off of my mind. So I ended up going back and getting pontiff. We ended up going outside and the sun would burn you in seconds but somehow it didn't matter to me. Me and pontiff watched the suns set and then went back inside. It seemed like so many doors were locked and I had become and outcast because of how different I was. It was really a fun dream and I wish I could go back. It was awesome because weird things would happen. We would be running down a hall and a flash flood would knock us all over and we would just keep going like nothing was wrong. Random stuff like that. Anyways, that was my dream.

My Death (haiku)

The death creeps slowly
with crystal piece on the sill
powdered pale in sleep

I thought it was appropriate with my leaving to Japan and all to write a Haiku. They are traditionally written about seasons or nature.

A Vomit of my Intelect

Sometimes, when sleep evades you and despite all of your best efforts there are just too many things rattling around in your head. I find it is best to gag your mind of all random thought. Then you can often relax those muscles of your brain.

My cluttered mind cannot define, The images I see,
For caught in mazes far too hard, Each thought longs to be free.
An angel passes all the rest, and shouts down from the sky,
a music note falls from his lips, a drop of liquid pie.

A man far down below he sits, his hands are branches long.
He grows each day and ever stays, the source of right and wrong.
She bleeds deep purple lullaby's, while children drink them up,
Around her neck she wears a charm, that's bound to bring her luck.

A man crawls in and cries to her, for opportunities gone,
but he cannot stop his soul from this, he breaks into a song.
And from his hands a bubble blows, and pops into the night
With sun and moon and stars about but none can shed their light.

The twisted gate like hands it bars the way into the grave,
while one small kid hides bruises gleaned for when he misbehaves.
They jump right off his cheeks in song, and dance a merry jig
and with a bow, and some fanfare, each turns into a fig.

The boy grows feathers on his hands, and paints a picture bright
Where wagstop birds soar high above, feasting on the light
He pushed his thumb against a nail to see if he could bleed.
He grabbed a ball of linen dust and promptly planted seeds.

There grew a mighty palace, with kings made of pure gold.
A woman who was young and fair, then promptly became old.
The tapestry's of finest yarn, adorned the hall of Gods.
And terrariums of fish and birds and little candy frogs.

The kingdom cast a wary eye, on all who play with birds.
They pulled the hair of all they saw and even those they heard.
The prince of castles near and far, could not prevail at length,
for vanquished in the end he was, by the yonder velvet skank.

Exploding into colors, the man surrenders throne,
but beware of those that talk too sly, for the salamanders they are prone
But back to angels high above, who cry sweet lemon drops
and come to earth to sing us songs that will our every crop.

Of Gods on High who show us all the mysteries of time
and play on fields of sugar cane and feast on beds of lime.
I'm sorry now for on this page my mind had quite a spill
a vomit of my intellect, my creativity and will.

I'll wipe it up I'm sorry but, I simply cannot sleep.
when too many things are in my head, last on my mind are sheep.
Sorry about your Indian rug, I hope it does not stain,
I better leave and not come back (for I may just vomit again).

Mercy

Oh woe my friend for can't you see
this work of art laid forth
the beauty of the colors bright
cannot you see their worth?

As each and every hue I strove
to make this wondrous thing.
But all for naught it all must be
No yield can e're it bring.

The field so white a burning page
a canvas clean and pure
This thing I've done, the race I've run
what is all this for?

For perseverance, speed and gain
I've liad it all on sheet
But as I've left the quill in dock
I feel that I've been beat.

Don't get me wrong, the victory mine,
I've done it for myself
but world would not in future days
gaze upon the shelf.

So while I've lost somehow I've won
for nothing here can taint.
I've made a work that cannot be
of faded and peeling paint.

The jokes on you for what may seem
the wretched bane of this
The play lives on inside my mind
untainted by your fist.

So here is goes I'm leaving this
I put it down so slow
For mercy is the way within
I here must let it go.

Goodbye my sweet, I bid farewell
This life for you must end
I love you so, I always will,
but to mercy must I tend.

I'll do it soft, long hard strokes,
just close your eyes and breathe
for I could not leave you here to stay,
through death you'll be set free.

It's over now, I've done my deed.
My love exists no more
But deep inside you'll never see,
The shrine I've built for her.

I saved her from this life so cruel,
by taking her inside.
The work of art that was her face,
spared both of our pride.

I put the weapon down so slow,
it weightless in my hand.
The dust it falls as skittles do,
the post-war view just grand.

Don't worry now, its clean as snow.
I've cleaned it up so nice.
No one will know the deed I've done,
The death must be the price.

There is no guilt, just slight regret,
as I leave that canvas clean.
She's gone, it's done, it cannot change,
I'll just dwell on what has been.

Okay, despite what you guys may be thinking right now, This poem is about a dry-erase mural. I know you were thinking about the murder of a lover and all of that jazz but it still applies right? Read it again closely this time. You can't ignore the allusion to art...sometimes not even an allusion at all. It is an inevitable end but there is something in you that needs to put it down yourself. You could leave it for others to see but you wouldn't want the art to be desecrated so, being helpless, you must destroy that beautiful work that you have made to spare it the cruelty. I thought it was interesting to put it into a person kind of context and thought it astoundingly morbid but so relevant. So Andrew, I guess I did write about love in a warped and twisted sense. There are things that give you the cue without this explanation: Long hard strokes with a weightless weapon (usually a weapon would feel heavy in your hand). This is descriptive of me erasing the work of art. The skittle dust is pretty self-explanatory. Read it again, and try to feel the emotion as I have to destroy this work of art just after I have finished it because I know that it cannot last. So out of mercy I let its last moment be in its best state and I am the only one that truly got to behold it.

Inside of Me

Look at me, look deep inside
Do you see it? Past these eyes?
do you see the ocean blue
with clouds hung low obstructing view?

But look right past focus hard
you see the man? the traveling bard?
you see his flute with golden tones
the music graced a thousand thrones.

You see the jade in steps of green
you see the lizard his likely sheen?
The hummingbirds made of pure gold
worth far more than can be sold.

But that's not it, not it at all.
Look deeper past those crumbling walls
you see deep down the surface clear,
the deep blue lake you see it here?

Well press your face down very low
and deeper if you dare to go.
You see the damsel flying by
my widow black her lips so wry?

Among the clouds the jester calls
and dances to rhythms of the falls
where two small bats perch just like birds,
and speak in old forgotten words.

You begin to see it now I'm right?
well perhaps we need a bit more light.
Oh here they come, with boxes firm,
my little moles and faithful worms.

Rubies adorn the beady eyes,
of all my friends the dragon flies
and not to take you too far in,
but the surface is just where we've been

Do you see these things do you see them yet?
do you see how complicated things can get?
for deep inside these eyes of mine
a step to the right and a cup of wine,

There are things too grand for you or me
things my eyes can barely see.
But lurking here inside my mind
lets see what other things we'll find.

Do you see the man with curled in toes?
A mask he wears so no one knows.
Do you see his bowl of Robin eggs
That hatch to birds with human legs?

You see the key too big to lift
it opens him, a perfect fit.
When he gets cut we see inside
a marathon of tears he's cried.

He's not the only one you know,
a woman here cries only snow.
She cannot stop for when she does
she cannot hear above the buzz.

And you see him oh the poor man
he eats sea salt, its all he can
his wife eats lard and nothing else
to keep the weight upon herself.

The man with arms instead of legs
a woman tied to ground and begs
and with a spoon this boy must play
and every night is bright as day.

The lightning strikes but brings no rain,
and leaves fall off no color changed.
The snow is black instead of white,
and bugs rain down eating light.

While men cannot sleep long at all
for in their dreams they always fall
while every step they try and take
gives way to cliffs into the lake

He cannot get on top you see
for upside down he seems to be
and I cannot help but shed a tear,
for the man who felt nothing but fear.

And do you see it? do you know?
is this where you so want to go?
Do you see it deep inside?
and will you stay or will you hide?

Run along, forget this tale.
And get back up should 'ere you fail.
You cannot judge for so you see,
you cannot know the extent of me.

I apologize but this one is pretty deep. I hope you noticed first of all the change in mood throughout the poem. by the end I hope the little journey had become somewhat menacing. Some of you may have also picked up that we are essentially taking a ride through someones mind, personality, struggles and strengths. At the beginning (on the outside of the person) we find happiness, things that are fun to see and be around, but as we venture deeper we find things like the moles and worms with the boxes firm. These are things the person wished to keep buried and hid, a pandora's box of sorts. There are several lines that suggest that we think we know what we see but we could very well be mistaken. For example the Damsel flying by and my widow black. Both may speak of beautiful women or foul insects. Another instance is the bard with the flute. Are the "golden tones" describing the physical color of the flute or the musical tones that he plays? I included the line "there are things to grand for you or me" because in the story of Job he describes his trial as too wonderful to be understood. This lets on to the trials we are about to see. We have the man with a bowl of robin eggs that hatch birds with human legs. This is the affliction of false expectations, we see the woman crying snow: crying is not always bad but the snow is how I describe the bitter kind of tears that burn. And the key too big to lift that opens the man, a perfect fit: another allusion to the fact that even if we had a key to look inside someone, it would be impossible for us to understand. I wont bother you with the rest but you get the picture. The poem ends leaving the person sorry that they had this look into the true person. I want to emphasize that this is not a poem of doom and gloom. It is not telling you guys how tortured I am inside, but I believe some people truly are and if we were given the chance would we want to see?

Under 30 Sec.

so heres the thing, about my life,
theres not much adrenaline, poise, nor strife,
I go to school, make shirts all day
and here I am to tell you...Hey!

Not much I know but its all I've got
my spirits strung on shirts and not
so much into this poetry now
but heres one more and I say Ciao.

Yes, I did write this under 30 seconds right off the top of my head. Hold your applause. But feel free to comment.

For This the Life

For this the life I must submit a way,
You cannot bring and cannot take your mind
But what existence of a soul you say
But adventure, intrigue, are sure to find.

A way to be is thus set forth, declared
As fifty old compile just the same
They tell you all to go and be not scared
But Hell be thine if right you do not gain

Time well spent is not ours to choose but well
What is true on one may not be thus on two
Whether it is man you fear, God or Hell
kaleidoscopes insist on changing hue.

As each man once here then gone must he be
Not mine to say yea nay whilst he was free.

Yeah, my first attempt at a shakespearean sonnet. It seems that ambiguity comes with the territory.

The Great Deliberation

so here's the thing I cannot decide
the bane of my existence.
For just when I think my title grand,
it fades into the distance.

I need some help, a call to arms
for all of my good friends,
decide upon the following five
and comment once again.

Really though, I need to decide on a header. Not to mention a name for my blog. If you would please vote, and have your families vote, heck, have your friends vote, just give me a comment with a real number of how many of your associates voted for which one.

Contestant #1

Contestant #2

Contestant #3

Contestant #4

Contestant #5

The Prayer

The windowsill is haunted, a ghost waits down the stairs,
a person who waits quietly for something just not there.
I see a drip of water, I sip a glass of wine.
and wait to see the helpless state, of all of this: Mankind.

I cannot sleep for hours, I cannot pray for days,
The state I'm in, the one I've been, is driving me insane.
So help me out, I cannot be This person anymore.
There's something here, There's something that,won't cut it anymore.

So this is who I turn to, to this there is no lie.
For when there's someone out there, to hear my desperate cry.
There are daemons in the mountains but there is peace in every way.
The time I take to listen, determines if I'll stay.

I cannot be the person, that you all want me to be.
So I'm casting off, I'm changing all the things that I chose to see.
But take me to the mountains for I cannot be afraid;
of all these things that cannot stay, for you are here with me.

Take me further up while holding me so tight.
Take a chance, make this real, and place me in the light.
So help me out, I cannot be this person any more.
There's something here, theres something that, won't cut it anymore.

So this is who I turn to, to this there is not lie.
For when there's someone out there, to hear my strangled cry.
So show me what I'm missing for I see it all around,
show me what has blinded me, and in what state I drown.

Theres something here I realize, something to defeat.
But I know that I cannot come home, walking on these feet.
So change me for forever. not to be undone.
Change the way I see this life, turned toward thy son.

Take this piece of matter, that's broken on the floor. Make me something better than I could ever be before.

So, this poem is called "The Prayer" I think you may be able to decipher it yourselves. Just remember that this is the poem that I used for the title on header 3. I did not do drafts, I did not backspace, and I did not do it on paper first. This is purely my mind spilling onto the page. (that accounts for the half-stanza at the end) So don't judge too harshly but I would like to hear feedback. If I get a unanimous call for an explanation I will probably provide it.

My World

My worlds as follows listen close
A circus ball with curled in toes
an hour glass with sand to spare
a tiny man is caught in there

a tiny bird with guava skin
a tennis pro who's bound to win
a tiny gecko camped on cheek
my finger hurts from stopping leak

a lie or two it cannot harm
a bat no two are in my farm
my butterflies that bring me dew
some herbal tea one lump, nay two

Then hours in the sun rains down
as little planes with painted frowns
they find a runway on my neck
the clock strikes one with tick then teck

the mice find refuge in the rain
as those with wings find their restraint
the ground alive with umbrellas bright
smaller than a widows mite

while humpty dumpty slips and falls
and the drops turn into bouncy balls
a crazy punk just screams and shouts
and two twin orphans sit and pout

The man across the street sits down
and practices his smiley frown
while frogs perform their symphony
and this my friends, my world to be.

Yeah, I imagine you guys are looking for an explanation. I am pretty sure I have restless leg syndrom, and one night I could not sleep for the life of me, there was just too much bunched up in my head. I wrote this and then fell asleep shortly after and in the morning I could barely remember I had written it. Strangely enough, most of the bizarre things have actual bearing in my life. For example:
An Hour Glass with sand to spare: Hour glasses are supposed to be perfect, the perfect number of grains of sand...something seems to be wrong with my hourglass...I'm still trying to measure the sand correctly.
A bat, no two are in my farm: There are things that I have that are wrong in my life, and as soon as I acknowledge that I find another...I can never be rid of the bats in my barn.
As those with wings find their restraint: Everyone knows you cannot fly in the rain. But who can think of something better than that? sometimes the challenge in this life is finding the restraint not to do something we desperately long to do because we know the consequences.

Anyways, those are just a few examples.

The Mansion

A mansion dank, and dark and broken,
Long since word inside been spoken,
Fallen and forgotten place with broken window, beam and door

Pathways hidden, grown o'er and lost,
Twixt fern and flower, weed and moss,
A fairy tale if 'er there were forgotten but not dead.

He stood inside, a long bone wanderer
who wondered what all this was for
as footfall after footfall he paced along the squeaking floor.

Taking one step, then another,
first his left foot then the other.
Broken down and weary, retired lonely, but not dead

Reaching wall he turned and thought,
of what with all this time he'd wrought.
Pacing through this lonely house, a shell of what it could have been

He stood much longer sat and pondered,
looking round the blue-gray walls.
Then he paced two more and faced,
the prospect of these barren halls.

He broke routine and went and looked.
The sheets removed, the drapes he shook.
Digging deep inside this house that must hold more than empty space.

deep inside the darkest hall,
He found an old familiar wall,
and sitting at its base forgotten brushes paints and ladder tall.

Week on end he spent redoing,
walls and ceilings, furniture moving,
till with time inside unique, he placed his final touch.

Today nobody stops and pauses,
as they pass the mansion gray;
But inside the world is moving, variable as a brand new day.

He brought to light a hidden wonder,
caught beneath in sleepless slumber,
A place he knew existed but pushed beneath inside his head.

And he moves on, himself fulfilling,
running notions through his head.
And though the outside unbecoming,
inside is much alive, not dead.

Well, another self-reflecting poem...It didn't start out that way. I wanted to write a poem with random stanzas and rhyming patterns. I wrote most of it with a 'raven' feel to it which was fun. Pretty self-explanatory I think. If you have questions or are confused feel free to post your concern. I like it when people give me feedback...the harsher the better. To quote Mr. Mellen: "you never improve when people tell you that you are perfect."

Jallop ll - The near reprieve

The building old, the ceiling damp
a rusty pipe, a makeshift clamp.
The mortar breaks and falls apart
A place not for the feint of heart.

32 rounds an easy feat,
4 rounds each day that must be beat.
Down each new hall he greets his task
a challenge done, with ease it's passed.

Jallop prays his suffering brief
but cannot speed his near reprieve
And soon it comes, alight in dark,
a rose glass window betwixt an arch.

Faced with freedom Jallop waits,
as one not worthy at pearly gates.
With others pushing on behind,
their blindfolds on and vision blind.

He heaves a stone midst perfect glass
and moves to light, his suffering past.
He steps into the fearsome rays
and greets the natural light of days.

He sees his friends, some not prepared,
His peers and colleagues ready. Scared.
unsure of where he fits just yet,
he starts anew, his course to set.

it's black and white, spotted, clear.
There is something better, far from here.
his faith restored, his birth anew,
Jallop sets forth his task to do.

As always I like to present some kind of explanation to my poetry to avoid misinterpretation. The task which jallop encounters at the beginning of the poem is of course High School. He bests it with little strain and feels confident that it is time to leave and move on to something better. Once he is faced with the stained glass window he sees that it is merely a rose-colored glass making everything on the other side look perfect. He hesitates wondering whether or not he is ready but realizes he has no choice. He looks around at his friends and hopes desperately that they have prepared themselves as well. In the end Jallop finds the strength to move forward with faith and conviction as he realizes Leer is with him (black and white spotted).

If you feel confused I recommend you read the first Jallop poem again. I didn't bother repeating the same symbols. And if you want to guess at some of my other symbols I would love to hear the guesses...
32, 4, and the arch.

Ode to Michael Cassio

Oh woe is me, for on this day,
My dearest friend has passed away.
A fearless soul who's silent might,
Made each and every day so bright.

He hovered still above each soul,
His beating wings did heavens extol.
His straight and sure proboscis might,
Kept all from fear and banished fright.

He ne'er spoke ill of any one
and brought about much joy and fun.
He, like a ray lit all our lands.
Till he was juiced, 'twixt Tisha's hands.

Yes, she killed him... She will most likely be eternally damned.

No offense Tish...yeah, not true... you offended mother nature...and Michael.

Obituary:
It turns out Michael was a bee fly. A darn [randi can use her word] good one at that. He joined us for lunch every day. For the first time on May 8th he graced us with his eternal presence. He would chase away other bugs that sought us harm and he would play games with us. His cute fuzzy body may be gone, but his gigantic proboscis soul will forever live on. Goodbye Michael Cassio.

Vans with No Socks

There are few things in life, that feeling so grand,
Like dancing in rain, or your toes in the sand.
There are few things to do that make you feel glad,
like taking a hike or things never had.

There are things that we eat, no matter their health,
and there're things that we pay for, despite lack of wealth.
There are places we go, or people we see,
that cannot compare to feeling so free.

So here's how it goes, here's what I say,
I wish I could do it all hours every day.
Comparable to wind flowing through curly locks,
Is the feeling of wearing my vans...with no socks.

Randi and I were sitting in American Government not listening as always and she said something about how happy she was to be wearing Vans with No Socks and I thought to myself: "That sounds like a fabulous poem title." So I spent the next 2 minutes of American Government writing about the beauty of wearing vans...with no socks.

Thank Heaven for my Onion!

I was running through the city,
with wings tightly on my back,

I was oh, in such a hurry,

Thinking'bout what I lacked.

A stone passed by, just below,

my perfectly sound sole;

but I sped on, having drawn,

the longer stick or pole.

I stopped myself, barely then,

and looked down at my feet.

among the mud and grime of life,

the brown and greenish peat.

I knelt in air above what was,

a possible demise,
and realized then how close it was

I had nearly passed it by.

the tugging at my wrist was one,

my heart almost the same

Thank heaven for my Onion,

And thank heaven for my Shame.

I know this one is kind of strange, but I drew a picture to maybe further your understanding. I realized how many times in life I take diety for granted. I often realize close calls but how often do I just attribute it to luck, mere chance, or even worse...my own talent. It is this poem that illustrates my gratitude for all of the tiny things in life that I often don't realize. The man in this poem has a full set of wings, but it is for his little floating onion that has saved him from disaster, that he is Grateful. Another thing that I have realized that I am extremely grateful for in the last little while is my guilt or shame. What kind of person would I be if I never had the motivation or drive to do something better or feel bad when I had genuinely done something wrong?

I Am What I Am.

Far away in the valley of Callor Ma Lou,
Dwelt the little Belleeches, a most interesting crew.
On the most Beautiful Beach bathed the Belleeches of Red,
They wore a sock on one fin and had stars on their heads.

Much upsore by the forst live Belleeches of Green,
they thought they were best, for their fur's elegant sheen.
Only Belleeches who looked most pristine and precise,
could dwell at the treeline for not even a price.

Then of course in the water swam belleeches of blue.
They enjoyed being wet and everyone knew.
For they had not a hair on their aqua tanned hides,
and more often than not their heads tilt to one side.

Then last of their kind were the beleeches of Brown.
Known only to all by their snarls and frowns.
They had no resemblance in color or view,
But they hated belleeches, themselves included...it's true.

Each and every belleech belonged to a crew,
Each and every belleech had a similar view.
They thought they were one and the only right sect,
save one little belleech, a red one called Bect.

One day as he lay in the sun with this friend,
he stood up and did grimace as his skin wrinkled and bent.
Bect tapped his best friend who let loose with a gasp.
"Don't you know that I'm sunburned?" he complained with a rasp.

"Well that's just my point," Bect sheepishly said,
"We hate the fact that we're sun burnt and red.
why don't we go rest in the shade for a bit,
or go to the shore and in the water just sit?"

His friend chuckled a bit before laughing out loud.
"You want to go sit with the greens? They're so proud.
Feel free to go try but disappointment is sure;
Besides, look at them, I just know they're impure."

Ignoring his friend, Bect went up to the trees,
and sat in the shade, enjoying the breeze.
It wasn't too long till a small green belleech
Sat down with poor Bect and gave him a leaf.

Bect looked quite confused as he accepted the gift,
"It will help with the burn, and by the way, my name's shift."
"Oh thank you, I'm Bect. You must love it up here,
in the shade fo the trees theres no sun that you fear."

"But the sun would be nice on occasion I think,
it would get rid of this green stuff, besides it does stink."
"But why do you use it if you hat it so much?"
"It keeps my fur shiny, its pretty cool stuff."

They sat and they talked about both of their homes,
while adults in both places shook their heads and did moan.
They were playing in water, something both knew was wrong.
But within the hour they met a blue on named Tom.

The days passed them by and they did all the things,
that were best for them all they were healthy and clean.
They swam in the ocean that made them most fit,
and they took care of their hair with some help from small shift.

It wasn't too long before Bect's former best friend,
still red from the sun, and at the day's end,
approaced little Bect with a grimace in place,
and said look at you friend, you're no longer our race.

Bect looked down at himself for the very first time,
and saw that his skin had turned gold and did shine.
He looked very much like his friends Tommy and shift,
and it seemed in the groups they had caused quite a rift.

Bect looked at his friend and sank just a little inside.
He remembered the way, he remembered their pride.
He thought for a bit of how he could say it,
then he stood up real straight, and tried to convey it.

"There's things I believe and there's things that I do,
I don't care if we're different, I still care about you.
The things that I do and the things that I say,
They make me quite hapapy, they make me this way.

I'm sorry I'm different, I don't follow the crowd,
But I am what I am, and of that I am proud."
Then he left his friend there, feeling colder than ice,
and for him, the cool shade, now sounded quite nice.

Well, maybe I should explain a little. I created four groups of people that I see. First are the belleeches of red: The belleeches of red are the people that I see that are doing stupid things. Things that they hate and things that everyone else hates but they do it just because it is who they are and it identifies them as someone.
Belleeches of Green: Pretty obvious. They are the people that have to look good for other people. There is the one exception, Shift, because there are some people who just like to look good because it feels nice. But at the same time there are people who dress up because it identifies them with a group.
Belleeches of Blue: Okay, I confess, I put a group of swimmers in there. How could I not? They of course don't have hair and they tilt their head to one side...swimmers ear/ear infection. Not a pleasant experience but we do it because we love it.
Belleeches of Brown: There are some people who are just flat out mean and angry people, and if you notice, nobody want to be anywhere close to them. That is why they never befriended a Belleech of Brown because they were only known by their snarls and frowns. I pity the person that has to be miserable to fit into a certain group.

Jallop the Clown.

It was deep in the night, in a most gloomy town,
when out from his lean-to came Jallop the clown.
He checked both directions of the most lifeless street,
then he pulled on one curl then stamped twice his feet.

Licking one finger, he smoothed each eyebrow,
then he wound up the key of his favorite toy cow.
with a skip and a hop, Jallop followed his friend,
till time after time, it unwound to the end.

Jallop looked down, at his friend not surprised,
and he pulled the same curl, and batted one eye.
Pulling off his glass slipper, he wound his cow tight,
with the toes of his left foot, and then with his right.

The cow sped ahead with a fake little "moo",
and Jallop skipped forward, after dawning his shoe.
The process continued year after year,
Jallop the clown, and his plastic toy: Leer.

It wasn't until, somewhere round about May,
that Jallop sat down, and started to say:
"I've been quite a while, in this circle of two.
I've been skipping in circles, its been just me and you.

I've learned many things, such as what one can do,
if you have shoes on your feet, and a smile of glue.
But what lies beyond, this little ghost town?
What could I find, skipping all the world around?

But I haven't the money, and glass shoes are no fun,
if you're going so far, or you're going to run."
Just then water hit him, a drip on the nose.
Two more followed her on his fingers and toes.

For once in his life, he wasn't so scared,
he had Leer in his pocket, and no one else cared.
As his makeup ran off him, and dripped into the dirt,
he saw his real face, for what is was worth.

He took one foot out, of those expensive glass shoes,
and pulled on one curl, like he once used to do.
He sat down in the mud, not too sad for his pants,
because Leer was still dry, and that wasn't by chance.

The rain didn't last long, but it worked just enough,
to show him beneath, was the permanent stuff.
Jallop zipped shut, his muddy pocket with glee,
for on this road now, its just King Leer and me.

I felt like I needed to something with the new year; and though I am late, I did it anyways. This poem kind of describes my life so far. I used a lot of symbolism so try to keep up.

Jallop: Jallop of course, represents me. Think of a clown. They essentially do the same thing over and over for a very similar crowd for the crowd's own enjoyment and his ultimate embarrassment. Up to this point in my life, I have been going about the same useless routine, gaining knowledge that is useful, but not necessarily applicable. I have on my glass slippers, not like Cinderella's, much cooler in fact. This symbolizes my desire for something to come and find me, essentially doing the work for me. My glued in smile is not because I am not happy but because I feel like it is necessary for the world (which seems to have abandoned me anyways). There are little things that make it obvious it is me, such as the pulling on curls (I used to do that when nervous but don't any more) and the rain cleansing me. (I love the rain)

Leer: My pet cow, King Leer has some very great relevance. Though you don't hear to much of Leer, he in fact, is the thing that prompts every useful thing that I do. Leer is essentially my Father in Heaven. He is always behind the scenes and I don't often acknowledge him for the many good things that he makes me do. At the beginning of my story, I follow close behind him but I stop to wind him just long enough, knowing that he will stop and I can take a break. He is called leer because that is how I see him, looking at me with a crooked sideways glance, possibly critical of me. When the rain begins, I protect Leer because he is the only one that has stayed for me through all of these years. I hold him close to me in the end and I make sure that he stays in my pocket to keep dry from the rain. I finally zip closed my pocket and realize that Leer has been leading me in circles for my own good. It wasn't until I could change that I could get anywhere. By the end of the story, I recognize what leer is, and instead of following him, I move constantly forward with him zipped tight in my pocket as my king.

I now urge you to go back and read it, and see if you can pick out some of the other things I didn't directly explain.