Happy New Year 2009!

My dears, my darlings, my cookies, and to you strangers:

*Clears throat noisily*

Time for my New Year's address.
I was going to write out some happy stuff for New Years, but seeing as the way I feel hardly suffices for those purposes, I'm not going to write some flowery wish for the New Year. I only can wish you all love and happiness and the best of everything. I'm sending my love as I sip this champagne and only hope that this New Year brings happiness and fulfillment to me as well.
I wish, of course, that I could be waving glow-sticks and shouting drunken 'Happy New Years' up and down on some roof during a party tonight...this New Year's Eve was dull and boring, and I doubt I shall have much to do in my all-night upstay. Give or take, I still have my resolutions. That is...Love. Not some sentimental relationship affair. *Insert appropriate profanity here* xD
I'm talking about Love for others...Love enough to forgive...Love enough to have a true friendship for once in my life. Friendship and Love. Simple enough...I only hope they can both come true. I won't wish for happiness because that seems extravagance. I'll take it as it comes and try not to complain when it goes.
Enough of this already! Good-bye and Good-night until the 2nd! ^_^ Have a glorious 2009, live live to the full, and enjoy yourself. Cheers!

Love to each of you on this New Year's,

-Jo J.W

Reality

Glancing at the mirror's glassy surface
Only to see a reflection that cannot be proved
Looking deeply into the eyes of another
Unable to decide whether they decieve you too
And while reality is without purpose
There's something frightening in mere fantasy.

How can you be sure what is authentic?
There is no way to ascertain things so vague
So I wonder listlessly, not blissfully
Through a life that seems so unusually surreal
And while its useless to be frantic
I can't help but search for proof among logic.

To the Fog:

Wandering up the hills,
Meandering through the dales,
Wafting through the leaves,
Whispering up the vale

A creeping, sneaking, crawling
Mass of frozen smoke
Drifting through the windows,
Lifting o'er the moat

Creeping along the roadside,
Rumbling along the sea,
Crossing waves and oceans,
To where my heart should be

Darkening, deepening, thickening,
Then slowly creeping away
As sunlight breaks through the mist

This morning cloud of gray.

Hate

I don't know why I'm writing about this now. It goes against my style of poetry; but that's the way it flowed so I have to accept it. What I can't understand is why, just after a time where there was so much focus on 'Love' I've been thinking so heavily on 'Hate', and those drunk with it. Two such opposite things are so dearly connected...and there is a strong connection, because 'Hate' is not a seperate entity entirely. It is the 'lack of Love' and therefore a part of 'Love.' Love is warmth, hate is chill, not because they are two seperate things--warmth is the abscence of heat, just as heat is the abscence of warmth.

Ebbing as the eventide,

Bringing dark waters to your mind,
Festering up into your eyes,
Brew of waters turns you blind.
Crashing waves against your soul,
Seeking a leak to puddle through,

Heart eroding underneath its toil,
A gap, a break, a hole.
You seal your fate in fewer words,
Than anyone would guess,
You open for yourself a new destiny,
Eyes plucked out by ravenous birds.
The gory mess hate has left you with,
Cannot be fixed save by a loving breath,
But when the tide falls back,
Love's story becomes but a myth.
Heart seared with hate for all those who oppress,
You know not why you hate,
So blind you're left,
The lives of others you depress.
And hope one day to attain revenge,
The one thing in life that remains clear,
Through burning eyes and numbing brain,
A hope one day to attain revenge.
This gangrene overcome your mind,
Your reason tossed aside,
Hate is what you live for now.
The infection's root impossible to find.

I'm Feeling Latin!

Mi Morena

And so my love
From my window I can see
A beautiful vision
And when the music plays
Your body rises like a bird of grace

Mi morena
I saw you dancing in the rain
Holy water
Shining like a silver flame
Come like a ghost
I will watch you dance alone
Mi morena
You're the light within my soul

And so my love
The way you're moving in your dress
To a nylon guitar
On wings of silk and lace
You lift upon the notes and slip away

Mi morena
I saw you dancing in the rain
Holy water
Shining like a silver flame
Come like a ghost
I will watch you dance alone
Mi morena
You're the light within my soul

Take this cross of feathers and bone
Take this heart I've carved in stone
In your name

Where the setting sun surrenders to the moon
Mi querida
I wait for you
[repeat chorus]

Mi morena
Hold your hands out to the night
Be my lover
I will fall into your eyes
Sweet fire of love
Fo you I'd steal the stars
`Cause I adore you
O my morena

Love (Les Miserables excerpt)

You can give without loving but you can never love without giving.

The great acts of love are done by those who are habitually performing small acts of kindness. We pardon to the extent that we love. Love is knowing that even when you are alone, you will never be truly alone again. And great happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved. Loved for ourselves. And even loved in spite of ourselves.

Victor Hugo (Les Miserables)

Ho-Ho-Ho and a Drunken Christmas!

Wishing you all the happiest...hope you had a wonderful Christmas...!

I Heard the Bells On Christmas Day

I heard the bells on Christmas day

Their old familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet the words repeat

Of peace on earth, good will to men.

I thought how, as the day had come,

The belfries of all Christendom

Had rolled along th'unbroken song

Of peace on earth, good will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head:

'There is no peace on earth, ' I said

'For hate is strong, and mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good will to men.'

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

'God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;

The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,

With peace on earth, good will to men.'

Till, ringing, singing on its way,

The world revolved from night to day

A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,

Of peace on earth, good will to men.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

My Christmas Eve Wish

"Thankful"

Somedays we forget
To look around us
Somedays we can't see
The joy that surrounds us
So caught up inside ourselves
We take when we should give.

So for tonight we pray for
What we know can be.
And on this day we hope for
What we still can't see.
It's up to us to be the change
And even though we all can still do more
There's so much to be thankful for.

Look beyond ourselves
There's so much sorrow
It's way too late to say
I'll cry tomorrow
Each of us must find our truth
It's so long overdue

So for tonight we pray for
What we know can be
And every day we hope for
What we still can't see
It's up to us to be the change
And even though we all can still do more
There's so much to be thankful for.

Even with our differences
There is a place we're all connected
Each of us can find each other's light

So for tonight we pray for
What we know can be
And on this day we hope for
What we still can't see
It's up to us to be the change
And even though this world needs so much more

There's so much to be thankful for

The Artist

Wandering across fields of white,
Strolling through flowering arbors,
Dancing out among the corn fields,
Gazing over the waters at the harbor

An artist chiseling a masterpiece
Upon the canvass white as winter;
His fingers prick against the shreds
Of his brush going to splinters

Stars twinkling above a silvery moon,
Footprints washed away by the sea,
A red rose pressed against a broken heart,
A lover treading softly over the lea

The artist's spirit soars to land's unknown
As he sketches the golden meadows;
Lost in the depths of sandy dunes
Easing the pain of sweet young widows

Clutching a velvet rose to his bosom
He sketches faces of those broken-hearted;
Smelling the bloody petals of the flower
As his own pain and loss is smarted

The broken-hearted artist
Painting things of beauty all around;
And while he sketches for our pleasure
From his lips is uttered a mournful sound

His broken canvass reduced to tatters,
No longer sweetly snowy white,
But on its dirty cover there's a beginning
Of a painter's masterpiece taking flight

And as the cuts on his fingers sting,
And his deep red rose begins to wilt,
A sweet little bird begins to sing,
And heals the wounds that were dealt

The artist's tears begin to flow
As he picks up his broken masterpiece
And while he remains forgotten to the world,
His broken heart is once again at peace.

Popping Pills

Groping below a darkening sky

Struggling to refresh a mind gone dry
A savage wind rips at your Soul
Seeking to turn your warm heart cold

Searching for sweetness in Life
Popping painkillers and rolling dice
Getting high merely momentarily
Treading Life's dank waters warily

Trusting no-one along the way
Making acquaintances that never stay
Beads of sweat form on your head
Meaningless thoughts that never end

Fighting through the infernal heat
Drunk on glasses somehow bittersweet
Simple happiness would suffice
You pop another pill and roll the dice

The Rose Elf

In the midst of a garden grew a rose-tree, in full blossom, and in the prettiest of all the roses lived an elf. He was such a little wee thing, that no human eye could see him. Behind each leaf of the rose he had a sleeping chamber. He was as well formed and as beautiful as a little child could be, and had wings that reached from his shoulders to his feet. Oh, what sweet fragrance there was in his chambers! and how clean and beautiful were the walls! for they were the blushing leaves of the rose.

During the whole day he enjoyed himself in the warm sunshine, flew from flower to flower, and danced on the wings of the flying butterflies. Then he took it into his head to measure how many steps he would have to go through the roads and cross-roads that are on the leaf of a linden-tree. What we call the veins on a leaf, he took for roads; ay, and very long roads they were for him; for before he had half finished his task, the sun went down: he had commenced his work too late. It became very cold, the dew fell, and the wind blew; so he thought the best thing he could do would be to return home. He hurried himself as much as he could; but he found the roses all closed up, and he could not get in; not a single rose stood open. The poor little elf was very much frightened. He had never before been out at night, but had always slumbered secretly behind the warm rose-leaves. Oh, this would certainly be his death. At the other end of the garden, he knew there was an arbor, overgrown with beautiful honey-suckles. The blossoms looked like large painted horns; and he thought to himself, he would go and sleep in one of these till the morning. He flew thither; but “hush!” two people were in the arbor,—a handsome young man and a beautiful lady. They sat side by side, and wished that they might never be obliged to part. They loved each other much more than the best child can love its father and mother.

“But we must part,” said the young man; “your brother does not like our engagement, and therefore he sends me so far away on business, over mountains and seas. Farewell, my sweet bride; for so you are to me.”

And then they kissed each other, and the girl wept, and gave him a rose; but before she did so, she pressed a kiss upon it so fervently that the flower opened. Then the little elf flew in, and leaned his head on the delicate, fragrant walls. Here he could plainly hear them say, “Farewell, farewell;” and he felt that the rose had been placed on the young man’s breast. Oh, how his heart did beat! The little elf could not go to sleep, it thumped so loudly. The young man took it out as he walked through the dark wood alone, and kissed the flower so often and so violently, that the little elf was almost crushed. He could feel through the leaf how hot the lips of the young man were, and the rose had opened, as if from the heat of the noonday sun.

There came another man, who looked gloomy and wicked. He was the wicked brother of the beautiful maiden. He drew out a sharp knife, and while the other was kissing the rose, the wicked man stabbed him to death; then he cut off his head, and buried it with the body in the soft earth under the linden-tree.

“Now he is gone, and will soon be forgotten,” thought the wicked brother; “he will never come back again. He was going on a long journey over mountains and seas; it is easy for a man to lose his life in such a journey. My sister will suppose he is dead; for he cannot come back, and she will not dare to question me about him.”

Then he scattered the dry leaves over the light earth with his foot, and went home through the darkness; but he went not alone, as he thought,—the little elf accompanied him. He sat in a dry rolled-up linden-leaf, which had fallen from the tree on to the wicked man’s head, as he was digging the grave. The hat was on the head now, which made it very dark, and the little elf shuddered with fright and indignation at the wicked deed.

It was the dawn of morning before the wicked man reached home; he took off his hat, and went into his sister’s room. There lay the beautiful, blooming girl, dreaming of him whom she loved so, and who was now, she supposed, travelling far away over mountain and sea. Her wicked brother stopped over her, and laughed hideously, as fiends only can laugh. The dry leaf fell out of his hair upon the counterpane; but he did not notice it, and went to get a little sleep during the early morning hours. But the elf slipped out of the withered leaf, placed himself by the ear of the sleeping girl, and told her, as in a dream, of the horrid murder; described the place where her brother had slain her lover, and buried his body; and told her of the linden-tree, in full blossom, that stood close by.

“That you may not think this is only a dream that I have told you,” he said, “you will find on your bed a withered leaf.”

Then she awoke, and found it there. Oh, what bitter tears she shed! and she could not open her heart to any one for relief.

The window stood open the whole day, and the little elf could easily have reached the roses, or any of the flowers; but he could not find it in his heart to leave one so afflicted. In the window stood a bush bearing monthly roses. He seated himself in one of the flowers, and gazed on the poor girl. Her brother often came into the room, and would be quite cheerful, in spite of his base conduct; so she dare not say a word to him of her heart’s grief.

As soon as night came on, she slipped out of the house, and went into the wood, to the spot where the linden-tree stood; and after removing the leaves from the earth, she turned it up, and there found him who had been murdered. Oh, how she wept and prayed that she also might die! Gladly would she have taken the body home with her; but that was impossible; so she took up the poor head with the closed eyes, kissed the cold lips, and shook the mould out of the beautiful hair.

“I will keep this,” said she; and as soon as she had covered the body again with the earth and leaves, she took the head and a little sprig of jasmine that bloomed in the wood, near the spot where he was buried, and carried them home with her. As soon as she was in her room, she took the largest flower-pot she could find, and in this she placed the head of the dead man, covered it up with earth, and planted the twig of jasmine in it.

“Farewell, farewell,” whispered the little elf. He could not any longer endure to witness all this agony of grief, he therefore flew away to his own rose in the garden. But the rose was faded; only a few dry leaves still clung to the green hedge behind it.

“Alas! how soon all that is good and beautiful passes away,” sighed the elf.

After a while he found another rose, which became his home, for among its delicate fragrant leaves he could dwell in safety. Every morning he flew to the window of the poor girl, and always found her weeping by the flower pot. The bitter tears fell upon the jasmine twig, and each day, as she became paler and paler, the sprig appeared to grow greener and fresher. One shoot after another sprouted forth, and little white buds blossomed, which the poor girl fondly kissed. But her wicked brother scolded her, and asked her if she was going mad. He could not imagine why she was weeping over that flower-pot, and it annoyed him. He did not know whose closed eyes were there, nor what red lips were fading beneath the earth. And one day she sat and leaned her head against the flower-pot, and the little elf of the rose found her asleep. Then he seated himself by her ear, talked to her of that evening in the arbor, of the sweet perfume of the rose, and the loves of the elves. Sweetly she dreamed, and while she dreamt, her life passed away calmly and gently, and her spirit was with him whom she loved, in heaven. And the jasmine opened its large white bells, and spread forth its sweet fragrance; it had no other way of showing its grief for the dead. But the wicked brother considered the beautiful blooming plant as his own property, left to him by his sister, and he placed it in his sleeping room, close by his bed, for it was very lovely in appearance, and the fragrance sweet and delightful. The little elf of the rose followed it, and flew from flower to flower, telling each little spirit that dwelt in them the story of the murdered young man, whose head now formed part of the earth beneath them, and of the wicked brother and the poor sister. “We know it,” said each little spirit in the flowers, “we know it, for have we not sprung from the eyes and lips of the murdered one. We know it, we know it,” and the flowers nodded with their heads in a peculiar manner. The elf of the rose could not understand how they could rest so quietly in the matter, so he flew to the bees, who were gathering honey, and told them of the wicked brother. And the bees told it to their queen, who commanded that the next morning they should go and kill the murderer. But during the night, the first after the sister’s death, while the brother was sleeping in his bed, close to where he had placed the fragrant jasmine, every flower cup opened, and invisibly the little spirits stole out, armed with poisonous spears. They placed themselves by the ear of the sleeper, told him dreadful dreams and then flew across his lips, and pricked his tongue with their poisoned spears. “Now have we revenged the dead,” said they, and flew back into the white bells of the jasmine flowers. When the morning came, and as soon as the window was opened, the rose elf, with the queen bee, and the whole swarm of bees, rushed in to kill him. But he was already dead. People were standing round the bed, and saying that the scent of the jasmine had killed him. Then the elf of the rose understood the revenge of the flowers, and explained it to the queen bee, and she, with the whole swarm, buzzed about the flower-pot. The bees could not be driven away. Then a man took it up to remove it, and one of the bees stung him in the hand, so that he let the flower-pot fall, and it was broken to pieces. Then every one saw the whitened skull, and they knew the dead man in the bed was a murderer. And the queen bee hummed in the air, and sang of the revenge of the flowers, and of the elf of the rose and said that behind the smallest leaf dwells One, who can discover evil deeds, and punish them also.

Hot 'N Cold

EVERYTHING is wonderful except for the gay guy (I could care less). And now it's stuck in my head xD.

Translucent Fairytale

Suspended above a riveting scene
Fathoming lovely things otherwise unseen
Eyes trailing over countless dewy mounds of green
As the blue of sky reflects serenity

Spirit drifting through seas of time
Searching listlessly for cadence in rhyme
Walking the forested pathway littered with thyme
As your nostrils betray the aroma

Dancing on walls besieged with ivy
Your precarious position leaves you privy
To the conflict ensuing below your own aloof levee
As your eyes mirror depth of sapphire

Alone in your translucent dreaming
Your fairytale free of all sorrow and screaming
Floating through time on glasses and prisms; orbs gleaming
As you waft on pointlessly happy

Picture credited to: http://one-epidemic.deviantart.com/

Dark Angel's Masterpiece

Eyes' glassy surface reflecting,
The charcoal of your empty orbs.
Red flame igniting and gleaming,
Turning blue skies to lightning storms.

Darkness enveloping all that surrounds,
Shadows blacken light of stars.
A red eclipse as a moon's crown,
Holding light behind the iron of bars.

Black wings soaring through dusk
Cackles betraying life lacking trust
My apparition vanishes at dawn
Sunlight captures my Angel of Lust.

Alexandra Burke

This was so beautiful. Alexandra definitely deserved to win the X-Factor; in all fairness no-one else could have.

My December:

A Paragraph...

This is just a paragraph I wrote once for a school project. Nothing special...but I must post something on this grand day! ^_^


He entered the factory and looked about him with the wonder of one who has seen the horror of poverty for the first time. The stench of dye, mingled with sweaty bodies permeated the air as he walked through the rows of men, women, and children, covered in dirt and sweat, toiling in the intense heat. The great iron pots, bubbling with the thick dye, while workers scalded themselves in the burning temperatures, and looked up at him with eyes that declared undying hate. Their arms were permanently stained, but marked still more severely were their souls, etched with a hatred of their oppressors, to which they had become little more than animals, countless, worthless lives, forever placed in the dungeon of society. They muttered incoherently among themselves; about them was the sound of children crying, babies screaming, and all the while the steam rose and on they worked, with the rhythm of souls chained to their labor with no hope of relief.

Life in Winter's Graveyard

Walking down a muddy road

In the throes of December

Heaving through the decay

Of Spring's now frozen embers

Is there life in Winter's graveyard?

Frozen trees bereft of leaves

Stand upright in frosted death

Fields once ripe and lush with fruit

Lay still without the Summer's breath

Is there life in Winter's graveyard?

Soggy soil sloshing below my feet

Autumn's leaves have been swept away

And while I march on viciously

My eyes behold only death and gray

Is there life in Winter's graveyard?

Then comes a patch of greenery

A lush, though simple, paradise

I stop to gaze at the loveliness

Beheld before beauty-starved eyes

There is life in Winter's graveyard.

A patch of three-leaved charms

Circling the base of a withered tree

I gaze at this Springtime green

Surrounded by December's villainy

There is life in Winter's graveyard.

Though Winter's tomb encases

Our world in a carcass' masquerade

This patch of sought-for greenery

Removes the masks from Death's charade

There is life in Winter's graveyard.

-Josephine J.W