Live to Write, Write to Live

She sits on a thumbtack stool,
Perched on a pinprick
Waiting to here the rules
She keeps her lips tight
Opens her ears and eyes
To every sounds and sight
 
The moment passes
Past long eye lashes
When she can't even breath
Just one right word
To one right chord
Quick, before he leaves
 
Little Lightning Bug
Where will you run?
Where will you run to now?
Keep your mouth shut
Just listen up
You're the wrong word, anyhow
Lightning flashes and lightning dazzles
But you look timid and nervous and frazzled
Keep your mouth shut
Just listen up
Where will you run to now?
 
She sits by the light of the moon
Watching and waiting
The lightning's coming soon
She's hoping to learn
By watching the lightning
How to sparkle and burn
 
The moment passes
Past long eye lashes
When she can't even breath
Just one right word
To one right chord
Quick, before he leaves
 
Little Lightning Bug
Where will you run?
Where will you run to now?
Keep your mouth shut
Just listen up
You're the wrong word, anyhow
Lightning flashes and lightning dazzles
But you look timid and nervous and frazzled
Keep your mouth shut
Just listen up
Where will you run to now?
 
Little Lightning Bug
Where do you get your name?
How could you ever
Hope to compare
To the lightning's fame?
So small and fragile
So sweet and docile
So boringly tame
 
Darling, you're nothing
Darling, you're nothing
Nothing but a bug on the wall
No one would notice
No one would notice
No one would notice your fall
 
The moment passes
Past long eye lashes
When she can't even breath
Just one right word
To one right chord
Quick, before he leaves
 
Little Lightning Bug
Where will you run?
Where will you run to now?
Keep your mouth shut
Just listen up
You're the wrong word, anyhow
Lightning flashes and lightning dazzles
But you look timid and nervous and frazzled
Keep your mouth shut
Just listen up
Where will you run to now?

http://tangereendream.tumblr.com/
 
Against the inconceivable emptiness of space,
stretching on far longer than existence,
light streaks through nothing,
exploding over distance faster than anything else.
As it rolls through space,
in waves and particles,
out toward the end of the universe,
out to infinity,
out into nothing,
does the light know to what it is headed?
Can it perceive its journey,
the unending futility of its path?
Yet on it runs,
reverberating beyond existence.
 
It is in certainty of failure that boldness comes easiest.
When there is no change of winning there is nothing to loose.
So take the leap from the sun
and travel out to the blackness.
No more harm can come from flying
than from waiting for a super nova.

Ladies, how many times in your life
have you opened a sentence with the line
“So, there's this guy . . .”
Well, pardon the cliché reality
of my presumed originality,
but I'd like to flip that phrase to say:
 
So, there's this carbon-based life form,
the product of 4 billion of evolution
compressed into 40 trillion cells,
the way Carl Sagan jammed it into 40 seconds
and flipped my perceptions around,
this boy flips my whole brain around.
 
He's hot like an exothermic reaction,
fly like the numerator in a fraction.
He's got more sex appeal than Richard Feynman,
so in a crowded room, it's not hard to find him.
 
Oh, and he looks damn fine in a suit.
And he's a debate boy, so it's not hard to find him in a suit.
There's something about those debate guys,
spouting statistics like I write rhymes,
with arrogant smirks and pick-up lines,
with confident voices and easily-rolled eyes.
Damn, those debate boys are fine.
 
And this boy, this carbon-based life form,
the product of thousands of years of genetic manipulation
ending in this culmination of human expectation,
is sassy and sexy and arrogant
and I like that.
Some girls don't, saying,
“Ew, get away.”
And I say, “Hey, baby, walk my way.”
 
He's smarter than Jimmy
Cooler than a neutron
Sweeter than glucose
Hotter than a bomb-omb
And on top of everything, he's a great debater.
 
He is everything nerdy little me could ask for,
so I summoned all my courage, and then some more,
and I asked him out, and he said,
“Maybe later.”
 
I broke down all barriers,
brought my heart on an aircraft carrier,
and I asked hm out and he said,
“Maybe later.”
 
Because on top of all his admirable features
are also all the twists and detours,
the unavailability,
and the over commitment to everything.
So, maybe later.
 
But I'm finding it hard to accept,
because rejection is not what I met.
So I haven't quite given up yet,
believing your heart is still mine to get.
 
See, I'm a non-ohmic device:
a flash of your smile, and my resistance decreases.
Dear, you're like ozone in the troposphere:
when you're near, my respiration ceases.
Guys like you are more rare than Platinum,
so let's Fluorine Uranium Carbon Potassium!
(That's a periodic table joke. Look it up.)
 
I don't mean to be obsessive, creepy, or alarming,
but when I'm with you, I feel sparks.
And I know I'm strange, but you're so charming,
so together we could be second generation quarks.
 
You're the sunlight to my photosynthesis,
the conclusion to my Extended Essay's thesis.
(IB joke. Don't look that one up. It's terrifying.)
I think about you more than Euler did math.
I sure hope our vectors aren't skew,
so we can cross paths.
 
But I suppose it's not a matter of how you make me feel,
if so we would have sealed this deal.
It's the fact that you don't like me,
which I can totally see,
I get it.
I mean,
I'm like calling pink “anti-green,”
just weird.
But don't you know how explosive we'd be
if you were my anti-Tangereen?
 
So, go out with me.
Because I may be pretty far from perfectly flawless,
but I'm no where near perfectly flawed.
Because this confidence is why public nudity
had to be outlawed.
Because I am the arrogant, crazy girl
who wrote a slam to demand that you go out with her
even though I'm reasonably sure
you'll still say, “No way!”
But I'm still here anyway.
Because I am the Alex Dang of poetry,
the Queen of IEs,
the quite physics geek
waiting to be adorable and sweet,
for no other reason than because I can.
Because I am the warrior princess -
duchess -
maiden?-
 
Because I am the warrior girl
with gray eyes like daggers
and fingers curled,
ready to take on the world
or at least momentary discomfort
if it means the slightest chance at love.
Because I am the warriors girl
with a sword in her hear and a shield on her soul.
The wielder of words like fire
and a voice soft as snow.
Because I am the warrior girl,
strong and brave,
who doesn't care if her heart breaks,
willing to do whatever it takes,
to stay happy enough to continue to be strong and brave.
 
But that doesn't mean it's perfectly okay if you say no,
that I'll be alright, don't worry.
It means stop breaking my heart
before I give up completely.
So I'll ask one last time
before I'm forced to move on with me like:
Can I take you to lunch sometime?

I’m putting a poetry anthology together, because I found a cheap selfpublishing thing and it’s awesome! The anthology title it: Cosmology. Zachy came up with the title. It’s perfect because I write a lot of poetry about space and science.
But I need some help figuring out which poems to put in. If you have a spare moment and want to read some rad poetry, click on one of the links below, pick a random poem, and tell me what you think! It really means a lot to me.
http://www.polyvore.com/my_poetry/collection?id=1153123
http://www.polyvore.com/my_poetry/collection?id=506053
Thank you so much!

I want love like protons,
pushed together by forces stronger than convention,
stuck to each other
the way you'd think protons and electrons
would stick,
but we'd be two protons instead.
 
I want love like relativity,
time dilating as hearts race near the speed of light,
space shrinking.
We can ride light waves
and make physics puns
as the universe dips below us.
 
I want love like integration,
so complexly simple,
so elegantly elaborate,
so perfectly strange,
so logical.
I want love with the fluidity and ease
of the limit sum sign,
and indefinite integral
with no specifications
on where we should begin or end.

At first you shiver, shake, shudder
But push past
Remain
A flood of warmth hits
As blood returns fresh
Then stings
As if the blood cells hardened
And pierced your delicate veins

I always thought on fire,
disregarding the alternative.
I always thought on explosives
and my body torn to bits.
I always thought on dynamite
with a sudden end to life.
I always thought of burning,
of burning 'til I died.
 
But other things will do the trick,
like running down the street,
or masking dead intentions
with an accidental binge.
15 beers will kill me,
shall I take them in?
 
And now I turn to Mr. Frost
and the alternative
of an icy, slow, and painful death
of jumping right in.
 
I always thought on fire,
'til learning ice's desire.

Restriction signs are for losers.
Not the
“You're not cool enough for us”
losers, not the
“you're a wimpy kid”
losers, not the
“Get a pair, baby”
losers.
But the nerds and the punks,
but the timid and the meek.
No, restriction signs are for the losers.
Quiet, awkward stairwells
where no one can hear you sigh,
high off the ecstasy of Pablo Neruda poetry
or depressed off the stress of tournaments.
Restriction signs are for losers
to have a chance to be
the most popular boy in the room,
to talk to the prettiest girl around.
Restriction signs are for losers
who fantasize about being found there
by that perfect young man,
and smiled at and held and
then some other loser will come by
and everything will be awkward.
But it's an unrealistic situation anyways,
because he's not a loser,
so why would he need to violate
the restriction sign?
That is why
restriction signs are for losers,
little victories,
small accomplishments,
miniscule rebellions,
leaping into history's footsteps
and leading your army,
a moment of freedom, perfection, control
before slipping back into your shyness.
One second of voice,
of power,
of corruption.
For a lifetime of confinement?
Restriction signs are for losers.

Had I not been so blinded by searching
I might have stumbled upon
exactly what I needed
far sooner than I did.
 
It's like with love,
it comes when you aren't looking for it.
It's like with happiness,
it appears when you ignore it.
 
A gently bubbling fountain
in a deserted garden square at dusk
may lack the same denotation of
a zen garden,
but the experience here outweighs the old memory
by the same magnitude
as electric and gravitational forces.
Metal herring perch in metal reeds
and ask to be lulled
by amateur poetry.
 
My heart leaps as ripples mirror the figure of a man
and I hope my life might become a movie scene
for a brief moment.
A thousand ideas bubble in the time it takes to look up
and discover the illusion.
 
So love alludes me.
So happiness flees.
So what?
Search brought blistered feet
while wandering brought serenity.
Flirtation brings crushed hopes
while alienation sparks poetry.
So the sky is cloudy.
So the air is cold.
So what?
I find more comfort
on chilling granite
than in the sea of voices and warmth.
My body runs cold.
My mind runs cold.
 
Let me ice my heart.
Let me bathe it in this freezing fountain
while my soul escapes through forgotten tears.
For any tears that would fall
would ice on my cheeks,
and someone might ask questions.
 
And still I long for warmth?
For arms to hold me,
body heat to comfort me,
eyes to beg,
“What is wrong, darling?”
 
Warm, loving eyes
that expel heat wherever they look,
melting hearts of ice in their gaze.
And still I long for eyes to look upon me
and to warm my drowning heart,
let it bubble as a liquid in that freezing fountain.

Part Four: Mount Masochism
 
Neglected and Flighty were dropped off at The Cross Roads, along with a zip-lock bag full of nervous smiles to keep them safe as they traveled their own roads, and then Lonely and Miserable set off on their adventures with the car roaring smooth and depressing alternative rock. Lonely was looking out the back window, waving at Neglected and Flighty, even though they had long since slipped down under the horizon. Miserable was driving and Lonely was looking out of the back window and not keeping a close eye on Miserable, which is when Miserable had an idea, which was to turn off of Highway 666 and onto A Bad Road To Take, which, unfortunately, leads right to the terrible Mount Masochism.
 
Lonely and Miserable were halfway through A Dark And Depressing Forest when Lonely finally caught on that something was not quite right. The car had started to play too much My Chemical Romance, and the mood was abysmal and dreary. It even started raining.
 
“Uh, Miserable.”
 
“Uh, what?”
 
Lonely glared slightly. “Where are we?”
 
Miserable fidgeted in the driver's seat, but didn't answer.
 
“Where the fuck are we, Miserable?”
 
“No where not good?” Miserable replied nervously.
 
Lonely sighed. “Do you have any idea where we're going? Is this going to get us to the Bay of Delirium? Because that up ahead looks an awful lot like . . .”
 
“Yeah.”
 
“Well. I'm more okay with that than I should be.”
 
“Yes, you always are.”
 
“We really ought to be stopping each other, shouldn't we?”
 
Miserable shrugged and parked the car in a dirt lot confined by rocks. It was empty at the moment and the car hummed awkwardly with no one around to talk to. “How about a hike?”
 
Lonely stared out the window at the towering peak. “It's a slippery slope,” she muttered.
 
“It's an adventure,” was Miserable's justification.
 
“Not a very Happy Trail Drunk one.”
 
“Well. No, no it isn't. But. No.”
 
The rain let up and it was suddenly night. Lonely and Miserable didn't eat, and they didn't sleep, and they didn't think happy thoughts and when the stars started shining so brightly that it look like they might burst, Lonely finally opened the door and marched straight toward a little path leading up the slope. Miserable followed eagerly. The mountain wasn't anything new to either of them, as it isn't anything new to many people of the world. For some reason many writers know the path quite well. I'm not sure whether writing makes cutters or cutting inspires writing or if it's an honest coincidence.
 
Lonely and Miserable didn't venture too far. Miserable admitted that they did really need to be going on, but a quick journey down that old path was much needed by the both of them. And maybe that's okay sometimes. It's not good ever, I don't think, but must it always be bad? If it's what one needs, it is what one needs. And Lonely and Miserable needed it. Or did they just think they needed it? And if one only thinks they need it, is it still okay? It's hard to tell sometimes what is genuine need and what is addiction mixed with desperation and loneliness and misery. But I think they needed it and so it wasn't bad. Not good, but not bad.
 
They got what they needed and made their way slowly back to the car as the stars set. It was the kind of day where the sun didn't rise: the stars just set and it was morning, but there wasn't any sun. Miserable started the car and Lonely gave a long lecture over the car screaming rock about how Miserable better at least inform her next time she wants to make a detour. Miserable nodded, smiled, and told Lonely to shut the fuck up. Lonely did and they were on their way again.