Temptation is the fire that brings up the scum of the heart.

Uhm, as of late things have sucked really,
I can't stand to talk to Ricky, he's a drug addict,
an addict, I wanna know where the smiling boy went?

He always reeks of weed and he's got
glassy eyes that go on for miles,
I shudder to think of it, the regret.

I should've said something, and now,
he's popping pills, apparently,
he almost OD'ed last week, thanks Rick.

I always wanted to wonder on the weekends,
"Will Ricky be alive on Monday?"
And he calls himself a bad person.

But he won't stop, he can't stop.
He is the victim of addiction.
Ricky is still that good natured boy.

If only he could see that.

It is neither good nor bad, but thinking makes it so.

So, it's been awhile.
Mostly my fault there,
I've been doing a lot of thinking.

I can't really bring myself to blog right now,
everything is a jumbled mess.
And I'm just being dragged along.

Matt said he'd teach me to play guitar,
if we ever had the time,
I never have time when he does.

Whitney, the boy with a girl's name, he held my hand
and made me feel better about being me.
I can't say the word 'beautiful' without thinking of him.

Ian, the boy I have yet to crack.
One day, I will get a willing hug out of him.
It will be a joyous day.

Jeremy, the boy who I can't keep a promise to.
He doesn't know this just yet, but he will,
and I'll regret every inch.

Therese, the girl who listens,
and brings out the child in me,
the one that never got to be.

Bus, the awkward girl that lives near me,
she has a knack for art, whereas I have a knack for words.
Together we'll make a graphic novel of sorts.

Sam, I call her Spamantha, though,
she asks me not to. We have a lot in common,
we just don't...talk very much, the age gap makes it weird.

Erin, her last name is Snowden, (Snowed-in, haha.)
I let her text her delinquent of a boyfriend with my phone,
they broke up last week.

These eight people currently have placeholds in my life.
There are more that have places, but these are the ones,
that came to mind tonight. I am going to bed now. Goodnight.

xo
- Icarus

If we are marked to die, we are enough to do our country loss; and if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honor.

No way in hell I'm going to sleep tonight,
I think I'll probably end up watching
infomercials and flicking through channels.

Maybe it's my fault, I don't know,
I'm currently making tea because,
the answer lies in the tea leaves.

At least, that's what my grandma told me,
when I was a little girl, roughly four or five.
In my blue sunday dress, my favorite dress.

I have a photo of me, sitting on the steps of the church,
A baptist church, a place of heell, fir, and brim'stn.
to put it in a rough phonetic sort of way.

I have these awful sort of bangs,
they're cut evenly across my little forehead,
making me look so small and frail.

They didn't let me run around very often
since being prone to bouts of prolonged coughing
isn't exactly healthy for a small child.

I grew out of that croup of sorts,
and sat down ever so daintily for that photo
of me smiling, honestly wanting my sucker back.

I recall it being a mango flavoured dum-dum,
and I still love them, they're my favorite flavour,
they now remind me of things that have come to pass.

Clayton, and Tyler, and Jonas.
Three boys I lost to that man in the sky.
They had no right to be leaving just yet either.

Of course, none of that occured until about five years
after this photo was taken, me, sitting there,
looking lifelessly pale and frail.

I had been a sickly child, having no other options
but to sit through sermons of what would happen to me
if I wasn't a good little girl.

I most certainly did not want to go to hell,
nor had I ever intended to grow up and become this;
This being an awfully stubborn teenager with a knack for explosives.

Somehow this leads me to the only photo I have of my parents,
together that is. It was taken the year before I was born,
my mother was twenty-two. She never had a chance to live.

She's told me this once or twice, that she didn't get the chance
that she was just a scared young woman who had
what she thought to be no chance at ever having children.

She was raised a Lutheran, don't have the slightest clue
what they do, but I do suspect it is far better
than all that heell, fir, and brim'stn.

This photo is the constant reminder of what not to be.
Though my parents look so....in love...
It wasn't meant to be.

I was three and a half,
asking where my mother,
not mommy, was.

So, Baptist preachers, tea leaves,
and a childhood of lies put me here,
counting in sets of four, and smiling at strangers.

This photo of my parents?
Not to remind me of what could've been.
But to remind me of what I shouldn't be.

Ignorance is the curse of God; knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.

The wind picked up,
and the fire spread.
I was left for dead.

I don't know why I brought you up.
You've been gone for years, but this year,
this year, you would be seventeen.

And Ocala would still be sitting in my living room.
Whistling and saying things, like "Pretty Bird",
And I would sneakily give him Mountain Dew.

You, you would've probably grown your hair out,
not keeping it so short and conformed.
You would be talking about college.

Seven years. I've blocked you out the best I could,
And today, it just slipped out, all of it.
I almost broke down then and there.

You'd mock me for being so pale,
"Where did your farmer's tan go, Jen-Jen?"
And I wouldn't have an answer.

I don't have answers anymore,
can't stand to talk to most of them now.
It's hard to look them in the eye.

Clayton, it's a word that hasn't graced
my tongue in years. It's unfamiliar,
I stumbled over it when I said it earlier.

You'd play much better now, I would assume.
And put my kazoo to shame, but I still beast at
hop-skotch...not like that's something to be proud of...

You, my brother would've made a fine man.
But the world didn't agree with me,
so at the tender age of nine, I lost my hero.

I don't know what really compelled me to write this,
not that I don't love my brother and miss him so,
but this, this is the first time I've really done this.

To sit and think of what could've been.
And to recall the moments of us, singing
Promenade/Carolina.

I suppose near death incidents do that do you,
hearing the screech of tires, the sound of crunching metal,
knowing, that maybe, if she hadn't pressed the breaks...

Clayton James Eller (1993-2003)

I will praise any man that will praise me.

Ugh, my allergies hurt.
can't breathe at all, and then,
to top things off, I keep sneezing.

But this isn't the point, the point is tonight's focus.
My focus is my dining room table, mostly,
because I'm sitting under it, the chairs not there.

In the time that I have lived with my mother,
I am the one that sits most frequently at the table,
we've only sat at the table as a family three times.

A birthday, a breakfast, and Christmas dinner.
It's a lonely looking table, I put a fake potted plant
on it, to make it look less...solitary.

I call it my desk, where I sit, and write, be it
under the table or on the table, it is my dusty
domain, my four-legged companion.

Awhile back, I lay under this table,
while holding a conversation with a
hormonal teenage boy who lay atop the table.

He's the one that calls me Noah.
Noah, not for Arks, or Kings, or Bands.
But for the Noah nobody knows.

He's the one that drove me to the beach, and held me up,
when my knees gave out, the one that encourages me to find meaning.
(He also encourages me to make him creme puffs.)

Awhile back he sat there shuffling through a box,
the one he swiped from the storage room,
it belongs to my mother.

He's pulling out all these photos I've never seen,
mostly polaroids (my family makes a habit of it.)
There's one of us sitting at this very table.

It's the day his brother was in the accident.
I'm slumped over the table, sleeping, for once,
and he's there, slumped over, his hands tangled in my hair.

I'm fond of people running their fingers though my hair,
He claims it's because I'm obviously a cat, it's really
because I love some sort of physical interaction with people

No one ever really touches my hair anymore,
save for him, but he's up and gone to Missouri now,
I know right now he's driving through Okalahoma to find meaning.

We lost our meaning a long time ago,
along with our natural smiles and sense of pride,
sometimes we remember it (and bitter smiles grace our lips)

Yeah.
That's what's up.
I don't know really.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.

My teeth chatter morse code, a long, repetitive
message to myself, saying, oh-so-spitefully,
"You're a silly girl, you shouldn't be so hopeful"

It takes me back to when there was an endless
ocean and I was only a small child, I have a
faded photo of my sister and I, running in the brine.

She's wearing orange, I vaugely remember the lines,
the lines from her sunburn, zig-zagging across her back,
her teeth chattering as we sat in the cold hotel room.

My hair is sticking to my face, and, I look so happy.
I remember that we had Whataburger and I,
I threw my fries at the seagulls in childish amazement.

It was also the first time I had Whataburger,
which, to my pleasure, was much better than
McDonalds' greasy food.

We were so young, so god-forsakenly happy,
I have my arms raised, kicking water up,
as my sister runs away, squealing.

I attempted to build a massive sand castle that day,
but it came out looking like a bunch of lumps in the sand,
so I resigned myself to digging a hole to China.

I don't recall the ride there, but the ride back,
the ride back was antagonizing.
Sunburnt and tired, my sister and I cried.

I being the latter, was just tired, my sister,
was blistered to the extent where she
couldn't lean back comfortably.

Last summer I went to the beach with a friend.
He drove forever, I snoozing in the passenger seat
as the sun rose up from under the earth.

We spent the day there, I falling asleep under the umbrella,
only to wake later to find the sun had moved and my feet,
my poor feet had been burnt to a crisp.

Somehow, we found this funny.
On the way home, he bought me Whataburger,
my feet propped up on the dash of his Jeep.

He wanted to take me during December,
but I told him no, the ocean isn't cold,
that the ocean is only full of warm memories.

He laughed and gave me a polaroid of us sitting the umbrella.
Bribed a little kid with candy and three dollars,
to take a photo I had forgotten.

It's framed on my dresser, a small photo of us grinning like idiots,
me pushing my sunglasses up slightly, a middle finger apparent,
my hair mussed and salty from the breeze.

He's sitting there clinging to me like a fool,
dripping wet from the disgustingly polluted water
that we call the ocean, sticking his tongue out.

My teeth are telling me it's time to go.
The weather today was too cold,
I'm wearing my fuzzy socks.

- . - - - . - . . . .
(Noah)

But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.

So, it's like, one-thirty-ish.
And I'm currently resisting the urge,
to peel my face off.

Putting distance between someone and I,
is much harder than I imagined, perhaps,
it's my fault, for being so naive.

I'm listening to old songs,
things I haven't heard,
since I sat in the backseat of a car.

That backseat was the best place,
the driver humming along to all the songs,
my childhood of cars without seatbelts.

Today I told him I was leaving,
I'm not sure who took it harder.
I just, I don't really know what to say.

"I'll have Alex stop by on Saturday,
to get my things, this is going to sound awful,
but, you hold me down, how am I going to live?"

That look, that look he gave me.
I just wanted to take it all back, and say,
I don't know what I would've said.

He told me not to leave, I nodded.
But I left anyway, thank you Aaron.
Thank you for telling me to just leave.

So, here I am, dazed and drinking V8.
I don't really recall picking up the habit,
of drinking non-choc-full-o'-sugar juice.

I don't even know where to begin,
I'm a total wreck, and I don't know how,
how to pick up all the pieces this time.

Thereforth, I need someone to talk to.
But, they're all asleep, dreaming...
so, oh interwebs, you will take it like a bitch.

I think I'm going to go make some tea,
and maybe then go to sleep.
And I'll dream of the Great Green Room.

http://ittybittycrazy.deviantart.com/art/Goodnight-Moon-112227536

I wrote it forever ago,
to remind myself of what I missed,
But off to make some tea.

Just for the record, the weather today,
is slightly rainy with a good chance of,
mixed emotion and all of what the bad critics say.

-Noah

Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

"I'm not exactly the person you should be asking for relationship advice.
I am nothing more than a practioner of radical honesty and lust.
Anything with more meaning than a lemming is out of my league.
And I don't mean that in an involuntary way, tis because I want it that way."

Well, my life boils down to that.
Obviously I went wrong, somewhere,
but at this point, it's all I really want.

I have also inherited a teapot.
It's sunshine yellow, and well,
I make tea and stay deep in thought.

Another failure upon my part,
the acting so...optimistic, when,
I would prefer to gouge my eyes out.

I find solace upon this plane of E.
The websites and people, and,
the comfort of writing.

Somewhere I went wrong,
I'm not really sure, but,
I suppose I like this prototype.

The one that calls her self Noah,
when she's alone in public, but,
doesn't deny her radical honesty.

I don't really talk to Richard anymore,
I'm not sure where that went, and,
it's...just kind of sad I suppose.

Just for the record,
the weather today,
sucked eggs.

-Noah

Hypocritical Hypothesis

So, I'm sitting here listening to The Format.
Nothing really super special with that,
So then I have this moment.

I'm just sitting there, and it's like...
Shit.
What the fuck am I doing?

More or less,
its me debating with my life,
There was a recruiter at the mall.

And it just struck me, like, hard.
That's what I want to do.
I want to join the army.

Then I'm all like, damnit.
'cause I look like a hypocrite
(which is my favorite word, by the way.)

So, I'm sitting here, listening to The Format,
reading this book about Ghandi,
which makes me feel like a worthless peon.

'Cause, Shit.
Everyone looks like a nazi beside Ghandi.
So, reading a book about non-violence and joining the army.

Way to go Jenn.
Obviously an epic fail.
Slap me.

Just for the record,
the weather today,
was wet and miserable.

lotsalove
Nazichild. JKJK

Cherry Tomatoes

Well, it's Sunday,
not really too dramatic,
is it?

Exams are this week,
and I've been calming
my nervousnesses.

How you ask? I'll tell you,
With the help of The Format,
Ok Go, Sugarcult, and the best,
Motion City Soundtrack.

That and I've been eating tomatoes,
like they're freaking candy,
which makes me suspicious.

Why are Tomatoes so damn tasty?
Why haven't I thought of grilled cheese,
And tomato sandwiches sooner?

New Year's was great by the way.
But what really made last year,
was walking into St. Luke's with Richard

And God didn't smight me:)

Anyhoo, I'm off to do what ever I do,
I've wondered, what if I do agree to
joining the forces? The army?

Too much to consider all at once,
too much to worry about,
too much of everything.

just for the record,
the weather today,
was cold as my freezer.

lotsalove,
Jenna