She's Always Buzzing...

I seem to have circled

Myself with the daisy chains that had once

Lain against bare legs on the grass

Hidden in my secret park,

With their yellowing faces

That turned towards the light

As their linked tails curved gracefully

Around my sun-fired head.

I suppose I have entangled

Myself with the quiet vines which 

Grew upon the trellis my mother carefully stowed

Behind the chimney spewing nonexistent smoke,

Their arrowhead tops twisting around

The frame placed to snare them.

I think I've trapped

Myself in the ratted weeds 

Living in the unkempt backyard which survives only for my dog

While he plays behind the bushes of

Unoriginal flowers not requiring a name-

For it will be unoriginal too.

Singin' The Key Of Night...

   I go to an arts school.

   It's been mentioned about 32672347834 times so far, but I thought that I would reiterate.

   I go to an arts school.

   I don't plan on being an artist when I grow up. I'd like to be a news anchor or a talk show host. I feel like I should be ashamed, but I'm not. Everyone around me moves at an artist's pace, fast to the point of exhaustion, or slow, so slow that you barely notice, but this seems not to hinder the pace at which I move. I know that my school is the right place for me to be. Do they make news anchors/poets? I doubt it. Maybe I'll be the first.

   But I still have a nagging feeling that, despite my love of art, creating art, living art, I feel that I don't have anything to show for it. I can't display my paintings, I can't sing a song, I don't dance, I can't form a sculpture, I can't play music. I can only write. Where does that take me? With a painting or a song or a dance, you can spend only a few seconds deciding whether or not you like it, whereas, with writing, you need to take the time to read it, to understand it, to let it sink in.

   In a world so chaotic and fast-paced and recklessly in love with itself, who has time for that? Who has time to listen to whatever angsty teenage words that I jot down between my erratic and occasionally sluggish social life? I don't know. I really don't.

   The human condition is one that tells us that we must find answers to our problems, our questions, our goals. I sure as hell haven't found anything.

   Enlighten me.

-Claire.