And to be perfectly honest, I don’t really know how to write a second blog post. I mean, the first one’s great; you introduce yourself and spout some random junk about “goals” and such, and then leave in a cloud of sparkles.
You can’t do that with a second post.
So, instead of spouting some more random junk that no one cares about anyway, I’m going to share a poem I wrote the other week.
See, it was Monday, and I was at homeschool co-op. My dear aunt was taking me home that day, but she was running late. So she told a certain cousin of mine who shall remain nameless (Zachary Brice) to inform me of her schedule breach.
I sat alone in the study hall as the room was slowly disassembled and drained of people, feeling lost and forgotten as the minutes ticked by and no one came for me. Before you start judging, let me explain something: My orders were to wait there until my aunt came to get me, so I didn’t want to wander off in search of my cousin, who was hanging around somewhere. I was afraid my aunt might arrive while I was gone, not see me, assume someone else took me home, and leave me behind by accident.
To be fair, she wouldn’t have done that, but I am not…cough…the most socially bold person, and when my Dreaded Enemy (aka my Imagination) came slinking around inside my head, telling me things like, “She forgot she was supposed to take you home, so you’re going to be sitting here waiting for the rest of your life till the dust covering you is so thick everyone thinks you’re just one big dust bunny and vacuums you up,” anything seemed possible.
Such thoughts are far from pleasant.
Then on top of it all, literally everyone in the study hall left, except for this girl who was mopping the floor. I sat there in the corner, minding my own business, but she kept giving me these LOOKS, if you know what I mean. I would shoot her my own looks of, “Hey, I don’t want to be here either,” which I think she misinterpreted. Needless to say, I may have gained one more enemy in my life that day, but that is why authors write villains: So they can learn how to deal with enemies.
At the moment, however, I didn’t feel like disintegrating anyone, or freezing them in carbonite. I really just wanted to go home. I looked into my trusty art bag for some sort of reassuring something, and what do you know, I found a pretty blue pencil.
This pencil actually has a lot of backstory. Anna bought it a couple of years ago to give as a birthday present to a kid who lives in Canada. Don’t laugh, people, the kid was eight years old. She would have thought a pretty blue pencil was the best thing ever. But woe unto her, Anna, being Anna, and a Baran on top of it all, never got around to giving it to her, and this pencil has floated around our house every since. Just when you think it’s lost, it turns back up again, sometimes in the oddest places, so I concluded that it was a magic pencil and took it as my own.
Random digression over. The point is, I found that pencil in my bag, and a ratty green notebook that looked like it had been fished out of someone’s trash can. The two really didn’t match, but forsaken kids can’t be picky.
So I took the trashcan notebook and the pretty blue pencil, and I started to write a poem. I finished it later, at home, when I knew the end of the story, because, Surprise! My aunt hadn’t forgotten me. She was just late.
I call it, “A Poem of Despair” and to turn the other cheek, I’m dedicating it to the Cousin Who Shall Remain Nameless. Here it is:
Forsaken. Forgotten. Left.
Oh Cruel World! What is this theft?
You stole my hope, my aunt, my ride,
‘Twould have been better if I had died.
Everyone’s gone; I’m all alone.
My heart and innards weep and moan.
There’s only a girl, mopping the floor,
And really, who wants to talk to her?
And then through the door comes my Aunt! Oh joy!
And behind her walks a calm faced boy.
“I was busy,” he told me, and I swear, he looked smug.
“I was napping.” And he gave a nonchalant shrug.
“Oh, of course,” I said, with infinite grace,
Then I wiped that smirk right off his face.
This may or may not be slightly dramatized.