It's like I'm in a glass room. In the center of a busy metropolis, watching the people pass. One by one they go, frantic in their daily routines. A few stop by to peer at me, but they never stay long.
I am here. Ever watching, ever waiting. I am here, looking for a way to break out, but no matter how long I search for an exit, no matter how many times I throw my frail body against the glass in hopes of breaking it, I always find myself still suck in the same four walls.

Why do I feel like this? I often ask myself.

I rarely find an answer. Maybe I am just one those people who needs to be around noise and other people to be happy. The quiet, still household I live in is toxic for me. The constraints that barricade me in, they break me. Maybe I am just one of those many teenagers who wants to be free, but is imprisoned by lonely and paranoid parents.

Woven like a Spiderweb.

She sits beneath an amber, midday sun with no canvas stretched overhead. The sun has been on her side for as long as her people can remember, ever since they were still wolves catching prey in their menacing fangs, running wild in packs of grey and white. She spends her days by the roadside, attempting to catch a few silver coins in her outstretched palms in exchange for one of the many fruits displayed on her makeshift stand, one of the many fruits picked from nature.
Nature. Always her best friend, her mother, her protector. It is in the sunlight where she is safe, it is in the coursing rivers where she is cleaned, it is in the lush greens of the forest where she is happy. Her copper face holds a beauty that is exquisite and raw: Thin lips, a straight nose, high cheekbones, almond eyes, and a jet of raven hair running like ink down her back.
Her stride is all-knowing although she has not been anywhere but here. She is wise beyond her years, beyond the limited realms of science and history.
She knows the anatomy of Earth, where every vein runs into the flowers and how every heartbeat pulses into the birds, setting them into flight. She understands the language of the winds and the stars and the waters that are older than history itself. She reads the footprints in the ground and the rings in treebarks.
She is all-knowing, and is bursting with stories to tell.
But she is trapped in a western world she does not want to belong to.
A prisoner, on the roadside, attempting to catch a few silver coins in her outstretched palms.

I got Lucifer himself eating out of my hand.

People often say to go with your instinct. But I have trouble doing so because my instinct consists of two voices fighting inside my head. "Don't do it!" says one, "Do it!" says the other. I guess the slight feeling of guilt should be enough to point me in the proper direction, but it isn't because I'm far too stubborn for my own good. The fact that I'm admitting to all of this while trying to decide what to do should be enough too, but one again, my stubbornness gets the best of me. I guess all I want to do is justify that going in the wrong direction won't be too bad after all. My sisters revealed a number of their secret escapades, I listened in awe to the things I had no idea that they had done, things like sneak out in the middle of the night and climb water towers with their friends. It made me realise that I have been so good. And even though I have been made to feel like I have done something wrong, I really haven't. All I'm doing wrong is sitting in the same place waiting for something to happen, releasing my frustration on the same person who doesn't deserve it, when what I ought to be doing, even if it is a little risky, is making what I want to happen, happen. As long as I don't get caught, nobody will have to know.

Gossamer bridges

There's something about the air here. It's like a late night in a New Orleans jazz club. The orange lights and soulful music cater to my good moods, they make me want to smile and tap my toes and get up and hug strangers. You sit across me happily talking away, not realizing that I'm watching you and hardly hearing a word you say. The way your eyes crinkle and your dimple comes out when you smile, the way you look off into space when you recall something funny, splitsecondly re-living that moment n your mind. The redolence wafts in from all around, enveloping me in a cocoon of comfort. I am safely tucked away from all the poison in the world, all the shadows that seem to stretch just a bit longer than they should. It's moments like these where I love the simple things in life like good music, good company and good food. It's moments like these I wish could last forever.





Photo Source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/papertissue/4569869248/

Wasted Youth

I am a witness to the degradation of today's youth.
What was once poolside celebrations with balloons and marshmallows, stuffing faces with pizza and filling cups to the brim with soda, has turned into sneaking into smoke-filled parties, taking drugs and as many shots as the pre-pubescent body can handle.
Bribing bouncers with their bodies, getting down on their skinny knees in exchange for a night's worth of mistakes.I see these girls, so proud of their exotic features and their foreign blood, flaunting their nonexistant curves to any guy that will throw two seconds to look. Talking down on girls weaker than them, picking on every flaw and tormenting their paranoia with endless insults directed at their insecurities, just because they can.

It's these girls who make me sick. They're blessed with beauty but they abuse it.
It's these girls who carry the proper title of "Bitch".
It's these girls who try to grow up too fast.
It's these girls who try to live it up while they're young, but regret it when they age.
It's these girls I pity.

Finally decided to post the letter.

Dear dad,

It's me, Joanna. I don't really know how to start this off. For a self-acclaimed "Awesome-letter-writer", I never know how to start. Can I just say that I miss you? That it's been 16 hours and your absence has cut us all open like the sharpest knife. I think I am coping the best, out of the four ladies in the Kennedy family. I accpeted this moment a while back. I knew, from the moment you were admitted into the ICU, that I had to brace myself for the worst. And I did, and my face is not as tear-streaked as those of my sisters. It's really hard seeing them so devastated,dad. I know that you do not want them to hurt so badly, but they do. We all do. We love you so much, that the thought of never seeing you again is too much to bear.

I was doing fine sniffling away at the memories we shared. Things like looking through your astrophotography and promising to make it my desktop background (which I swear I will do now), or watching Chelsea on the telly. But then Jayne mentioned that it's not yesterday that's making her sad, it's what will never happen tomorrow. Then the imaginary scenarios started playing out in my head.

I will never get to introduce a boy to you as my boyfriend. No guy I will ever date will have the pleasure of being intimidated by my scary dad.

You will not be there at my graduation. In the sea of faces, I will search endlessly but never come across yours.

I won't be able to phone you when I get my first job, to listen to your complaints about the crappy salary and the ridiculous hours.

You won't be there to give me away at my wedding, or Steph's, or Jaynes. That's what really hits home. The fact that you won't see any of your daughters get married.

But it's okay dad, because I had the pleasure of knowing you for 17 years, and in those 17 years you taught me so much. We shared a love for football, and I know how proud you were of me when I told you that I scored the winning penalty at one of my games. I remember how you supported me when I decided to run for the senior council, and how you consoled me when I didn't get in. Most of all, I remember one of my early birthdays when you walked into my bedroom and spoke to me about the importance of identity. "Find out who you are, before it's too late" are the exact words you said, forever etched into my memory.

I want to apologize for all the times I never managed to meet your expectations. Like when I got an 80 in Math and a 93 in CLE and you were really pissed off, you scolded me. I'm sorry that I stopped playing and watching football, and Im sorry that I never told you that I love you enough. I still remember the last time I hugged you. I think it was because you allowed me to go to a friend's party, last November. November, dad. November. And over such a stupid reason.

I'm sorry for last Saturday, dad. I'm truly, truly sorry. I know I kept you up worrying, because I came home later than I said I would. I promised you that I'd call if I ever had any complications ever again. And I will keep that promise. I know now, to be careful for what you wish for, because life does a lot of crazy, unexpected things. I'm sorry that I had to see you how you were, that Monday morning. I often think about how you were on the floor, bloody and naked and how you said "Help me" in a such a slurred, pityful way. I'm sorry if it's because of me that you fell sick, if perhaps I didn't phone mom fast enough, or if you could have been saved if I called an ambulance instead. I wish I hugged you on Sunday when you weren't pissed at me anymore, dad. But I didn't. I'm just thankful that we made amends before Monday came around.

I'm currently looking at the lyrics I painted onto my wall, you didn't notice them but they say "Look at the stars, look how they shine for you" and nothing could be more true. I will wake up to each day being reminded of you by those lyrics. You are where your heart is, dad. I know you're in the stars. I know you're forever with me.

I will see you again one day.

Joanna.

Stuck in a moment.

I guess that now he's gone, I'm the one you're going to lay all your troubles on. I'm the one who's going to receive all your guilty bullshit. My conscience is stopping me from telling you all the things I want to say, like how you deserve to feel the pain because of all the hurt you caused him. How this is a taste of your own medicine. How I can't wait to leave, all I have is one more year. How constantly low you make me feel. How you aren't as selfless as you think you are. How you are just as selfish and mean as you say I am. I know I'm selfish, I know all I think of is myself. I know I'm lazy, I know I'm mediocre, I know that all I think of is myself. There's nothing you can say to me that I haven't already heard. You are mean. Other people try to lift the confidence of those around them, you repeatedly try your best to bring me down. You doubt me so much, it makes me sick. And the worst part is, I'm alone to deal with all your pent-up frustration.