message in a bottle

I miss you. Because when it finally seems like I've ripped you out of my mind, something occurs and all I can remember is how I leaned on you. How you took care of me. and stroked my hair, coddled me on the phone, told me it was okay. That's all I can think of. Exactly how much do I wish I could call you, cry to you, and have you tell me it's gonna be alright? I'd give anything for your comfort right now. I just want my best friend back. You were the easiest to cry in front of, the one person I could be completely honest with, and know that you'd still love me. THere was ever a single secret I didn't confide in you, up to the very end. I want you here now, sitting next to me, with your hand in mine, crying with me, and letting me know that you love me.

Because no matter how horrible everything seemed, looking back; it was all made simple with you. You could smooth away any situation. With you at my side, I'd survive against anything. and now, when I feel like I need you most, there's nobody. Not a single person to take your place. You were one of a kind, my thorn amongst the roses. You were constant. I liked that.

I get headaches trying not to cry, now. I get migraines from just trying to forget. I can drink and smoke and pretend I don't still feel a void. But I do. I feel your absence constantly. I miss you every second, I think about you everyday. You're the sadness, the absence, the pain. You're every thought I have that's against the persona I'm attempting to convey. That awkward silence is you. It's you because it's quiet, it's careless, it's cruel, and thats exactly you in every word.

I want to call you right now. I know those ten digits by heart--another useless artifact of my history forever imprinted in memory--***8031642. I'm not stupid. You wouldn't answer. And i feel shitty enough without you just making it worse.

I wonder every single day why you don't care about me anymore. How you could just go from being my best friend, to some distant observer. But really, it happens all the time. I never imagined you were that ordinary. I think i held you up too high on your pedestal. I think I expected too much from you. And when the going got tough---you ran. That is how situations end up this way, with me begging for you, and you ignoring me.

I like to think you're pretending. But I'm a wishful thinker.

The party's over with power outages. As June approaches, withering minds try to focus because our finals effect graduation. Jumping is the hardest thing I've ever had to do. And he's on that ledge, soaking wet, holding a blue cup of rum, and persuading me to take deep breathes. It's fifty feet or so. And you know you'll survive, but the ride down is nauseating especially when you've been drinking. These are wanton acts of teenagery, part duex.

We have officially lost our minds. "This pool closes at nine" orders from the security guard, but it's not his problem because "my mommy said I ain't gotta be in the room 'til midnight. I ain't goin' nowhere, 'n I ain't scared a no one." Apostrophe at it's finest, and alcohol at it's highest. Let's say---fifty feet, hmm? And land in a creek like a wrecking ball. You're cute when you're calling me stupid, and telling me to put on my clothes.

Liquor is my problem, not yours. I have wine with my chores. I wash my face with miller, and rinse my hair in heineken. It feels. It just does. Like captain is in my blood, and nicotine in my veins. Maybe this is fate? To die from alcohol poisoning. It's a little too elitist, but I'm sure they'd understand.

The Jumptree is a microcosm of high school. The ledge is senior year, the water is the future, and I'm perched above, scared out of my mind to do what I've done before, and hit the water, and feel the pain. The slack-nailed pieces of plywood to climb the tree are actually the first three years and middle school. If you fall off there, you're sort of fucked. Small balls is community college. I never jump there. What's the literary term for taking an analogy too far? I have now reached uproariously canny. and oversitting my unboundaries with pleasant confoundaries. The zip line is true to its word. That's absurd, you've forgotten about the canaries we saw last fall, you are. Oh, leander. Oh, nine. Oh, hell.

Say goodbye to nonperishable items. and hello to refrigerator madness! Thank you for distributing your empathy for ungrateful symphonies of cacophonous limericks. I am Limerence. And I have accepted this.

truly beloved.

Clever sidewalk, oh thickened hallway of grotesque youth. maybe it's near a derivatives by denotation. The place doesn't matter, it's about the meeting. Your knees are going to quiver; cliche. Your heart is going to rebuild the mayan ruins and climb the mexican plateau all in 3.5 seconds flat. Tsunami? That's nothing. With just your glance, you'll redesign the earth's pulsating, radiating, and excitable core; your core will meander, as well. You'll lose your virginity before you say hello.

When Leander utters such precious tones of vocal chords, the ground will shatter beneath you. His maimed groove of stylistic demeanor is rocketing off the walls, like the snap of your bra-strap after only a few more minutes of him drinking your pleasure, and you participating in his covertness. and you won't have even spoken yet.

If he greets you, which he's viable to not, you've peaked his arousal. are you blond? are you cherry? well, you're female. 'twill do. Leander cares not for squander, for formality, he's not looking for something serious this evening, or any between the sheets. He'll say goodbye before you remember your name, and thank him. He doesn't yearn to be thanked; and he won't recall your plow, let alone a moment of forgetting your well-bred mannerisms.

He has beauty pinpointed to a form of seduction. You can't be pretty, if he deems you unworthy. Leander. The sex-drive you feel for a flash when you relive your impure fantasies is just how he'll infatuate the brain cells you have left.

When Leander speaks to me, I have the right, by writ, to address him by his name. He's custom to kiss a cheek, and press my body close to his, but only to demonstrate a previous affection. My affliction is history, mystory, herstory. This disease is unattractive, and he seals our scope with binding commendation. Half a decade ago, I was his, and he was mine. Before he became the Leander of prime. Just a little boy. Did I force his objectification of women upon him with my selfish act of thirteen-year-old lust? Was that original sin, that taste of skin, the very reason he's turned into the Leander he is? The women who fall for him are imbeciles. I'm the one they can learn from.

studying for my AP exam.

These words are accented. They are prominently distinguished in their pronunciation. The fluer-de-lis on my hip is an allegory; it means something other than it is. and I did that on purpose, as the author of such ink. Preaching such approval, I found a fine alliteration; the repetition of initial consonant letters (sounds.) We're like Romeo and Juliet. Allusion. A reference to history; like you leaving me, or other literature, like Shakespeare.

Anapest; understand is, two unaccented syllables followed by one accented. If i add in some more understands, it's anapestic meter. I have a dream = Anaphora. I should know that from honors english three. Apostrophe more than grammatical imagery, A figure of speech in which I talk to you like you're here, when you're evidently not. Approximate rhyme? It's like imaginary numbers...I'm attempting to guess the answer. Assonance; the repetition of middle vowel sounds. hat. ran. and. amber. maybe even vein, maine, insane. Oh yes I am; I'm studying for AP Literature and Composition. Aubade. dawn. morning. love. that's easy. Annabelle Lee, maybe? Ballad. Sweeney Todd. Cacophony is harsh, euphony is not. Caesura. Grammatical pause. The connotation is a suggestion beyond the meaning, denotation is its definition meaning. Consonance, final consonant sounds. Book. plaque, think(er.) Dactyl. The opposite of Anapest. starts with accent, ends in two unaccented. If I'm trying to teach you something through poetry, it's Didactic. politely, rightly, double rhyme, duh. Iambic and trochaic are both duple meter. ababcdcdefefgg = Shakespearean or English sonnet. as apposed to Petrarch Italian.

Appealing ceiling is feminine rhyme. That's interesting, why? Hyperbole, See "Overstatement" wow, since when? Imagery= A representation through language of anything involving your five god-given senses. "Appealing ceiling is feminine rhyme" and that sentence is internal rhyme because a rhyme occurred within the line. There I go again!

Irony. The firehouse burned down? That's situational. Verbal Irony: When the pot calls the kettle black (but thats a figure of speech). Like when I say "You're Gay." haaaa

Dramatic Irony: when the author implies a different meaning by what the speaker said.

Situational Irony; Twelfth night. It's kind of like... How everyone ends up happy in the end, but then gets exploded, or what you will. Dramatic Irony is also when the audience knows something the speaker does not. which can also be situational.

abbaabba, adding either cdcdcd, or cdecde, is officially Petrarch Italian. Limerick my Limerence, I know what this shit is. Masculine rhyme: simple rhyme. Like sad, mad, fad, bad. Easy to remember; men are simple, too.

Metaphor: a comparison NOT using like, or as. Simile; a comparison using LIKE OR AS.

Metonymy. A figure of speech in which one detail or situation is used to represent the entire situation. synecdoche is involved;; the part against the whole.

Octave: 8-lined stanza. That's in Italian. Onomatopoeia. BOOM. Overstatement- see hyperbole. Well THAT was useful. It's an exaggeration.

Oxymoron: paradox like "Brave Slytherin" or "cold fire"

Paradox: The whole situation of oxymoron: like why would a Pro-abortion poster be in the republican mayor's office? That's irony, too, I believe, we'll see. Which is internal rhyme. feminine. I got this. Paradoxical Statement; when something doesnt seem to make sense in itself, but it's true.

If it's rhetorical, it's naturally spoken, through pause, through rhyme, through life. It's unanswered, honestly. Think back to Anapest and Dactyl...now try Spondee...when two rhyming words are equally accented...true..blue.

My favorite word. Synesthesia. When something is portrayed as one sense, when it's typically another. I heard the colors in the painting? Trochee...think back to Anapest....Dactyle...and Spondee...when there is one unstressed, and one stressed...this is "E...asy"

Hardest one? villanelle. a nineteen-line fixed form consisting of five tercets rhymed aba (three-lined stanzas) and a concluding quatrain (four-lined stanza) rhymed abaa, with lines 1 and 3 of the first tercet serving as refrains in an alternating pattern through line fifteen and then repeated as lines 18 and 19.

WHAT THE FUCK? am I supposed to be a robot?!

You have now reached uproariously canny.

From talk to shock, and rock is all we got. Roll fell down the rabbit hole while scissors cut sinners, so now there's blood on the hardwood flooring. Everything was shit in Connecticut and then it's comforted. Truly, it's pouring, or pooring, when the bottom of the rock has chipped and torn holes within your socks. and now we've contracted financial AIDS, and an untreatable strain of the swine flu. Way to go, Mexico.

We'll ride scooters on vacation in fall. and throw dirty vegetable at golden subway ladies. Ninjas do not adhere to bedtime, or common florida law. friday nights are back.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. Knock three times, I'll answer just as many. 'Cause I hate you, but I think about you everyday. While everyone else was perfecting their skills, I was falling in love.

Self-diagnosed with bereft limerence; I'm a doctor ninja, too. Baby, I can take it. You can. I shake when I see you, and cry when far away comes on cause that's our song. Happy birthday. I thought about you every second and that's my present for you.

The state of being infatuated or obsessed with another person, typically involuntary, and characterized by a strong desire

for reciprocation of one's feelings but not primarily for a sexual relationship.

Welcome, disease. and say goodbye to propriety. We're purging our friendships again and dealing such method to misdirected fools. We're phillip screwdrivers lost in a toolbox of flatheads. I'm moving. this summer. I'm home.

I don't have anything else to write about, and even if I did, it would all suck. So much for making a living out of this.