Saturday, February 2, 2013

"The Fall" Review



I recently watched the movie The Fall directed by Tarsem and starring Lee Pace and Cantinca Untaru. I can honestly say that this movie is now settled solidly up on my favorite movies list. It premiered in 2006, and mainly fell under the radar, which was quite a shame. I personally found it at the end of a long journey of Lee Pace fangirling that led me through Breaking Dawn and Pushing Daisies, and deposited me at this movie.
This movie is really what I would call a work of art in all aspects of the phrase. The costume design, the music, the landscapes, the character development, I thought everything was right on point. The story takes place in 1915 in Los Angeles, the era of silent movies. The main character is a stuntman name Roy (Lee Pace) who winds up in the hospital after breaking both his legs while doing a stunt. Alexandria (Cantinca Untaru) is a five year old immigrant who broke her arm when she fell picking oranges, and therefore winds up in the same hospital as Roy. The two meet by chance and Roy forges a fake friendship with her, designed to manipulate her to attain pills for him so he can go through with suicide; he's heartbroken after losing his girlfriend to the star of the movie. As incentive Roy offers to tell her a story, and here is where the other dimension of the movie is introduced. Roy weaves a grandiose tale of five bandits, all seeking revenge against the invidious Governor Odious, who wronged all of them. As Roy tells the story Alexandria envisions it, drawing on familiar faces and objects to create the fantasy world. The movie switches back and forth between the epic story and the mundane hospital, and as the movie goes on, these two dimensions become more and more entwined and bleed into each other. 


A strong point of the film was how the subtle feelings and relationships in the hospital were played out more obviously in the story Roy was telling, the strongest case for this being the relationship between Alexandria and Roy. The attitudes of the characters towards each other in the beginning seem disinterested; they're both stuck in the hospital and likely bored out of their minds. Roy soon begins to see her as a tool to get pills, but you realize very soon that Alexandria is beginning to see him as a father figure; she tells Roy that her father is dead. There is a moment in the movie where she asks Roy why he narrates the Red Bandit in an accent, and he informs her that it's supposed to be her father. She tells Roy that she wants the Bandit to speak like him, and shortly after the bandit removes his mask and  you see that she envisions him as Roy. Although throughout quite a bit of the movie Roy seems to see her only for what she can do for him, Alexandria's view of Roy grows, coming a time in the movie where she tells Roy that she is his daughter in the story. After Alexandria falls and hurts her head trying to get morphine for Roy, he comes to her room drunk and finishes the story, having all the characters die. He is about to make the Red Bandit die, but Alexandria protests, and this is the scene where Roy seems to accept Alexandria's view of him; he tells her that the Red Bandit isn't really her father, and she tells him simply that she loves him. This love seems to heal his broken heart, and he gives up on suicide. What I found out after I watched the movie amazed me: almost all of Alexandria's parts were unscripted. To me it made the whole movie that much more sincere.


I may have died a little at this.


 

 The costume design in the movie was done by  Eiko Ishioka, one of Japan's most well-known graphic designers. The saturated colors and eye-catching designs of the outfits in the fantasy story are a sharp contrast  to the dull and plain outfits in the hospital, and they contribute a great deal to the artistic quality of the film, as well as to the personalities of the characters themselves. I kept noticing throughout the film how well the palettes of each of the character's outfits went so well together, and how they complemented each other.



The outfits of Nurse Evelyn never ceased to amaze me. They are completely fitting to the story Roy is painting and Alexandria imagining; over-the-top in the most elegant and beautiful way. I also love the fact that they call attention to themselves; so often in movies the outfits are supposed to go subtly unnoticed, simply blending with the scene and not getting in the way of anything that is happening. The costumes' roles in this movie were to add to the visual beauty, not to go unnoticed, and I loved that.

A fun fact I noticed only the second time I watched the film- the armor of Odius's men is the same as the gear of the man working the X-Ray room in the hospital. This is a perfect example of what I love about this movie; ideas taken from real life are swirled around in a five-year old's head and spit into this story she's imagining in the way she really feels about them. She was afraid of the X-ray operator, and so that fear was amplified in the story. This happened with the feelings of both characters, enabling you to really feel like you could understand their feelings so much better because you were seeing them portrayed through a different medium.


I would just like to quickly say that I thought the music selections for this movie were perfect. There doesn't seem to be an official sound track for the movie that I can find, but I do know that the theme song was Beethoven's Symphony No. 7 in Allegretto. It seemed an odd choice to use Beethoven as a movie soundtrack, but it fits into the movie so perfectly; it adds to the grandiose air of the story. I would also like to note this scene:

The way the music kicked in, echoing what Nurse Evelyn was saying almost as if she was singing the lyrics, was just a gorgeous touch. I loved how the music in the movie really interacted with what was going on, and I love how the camera zooms out a few times. I'd like to note that Tarsem is a music video director, and I thought that he really brought that aspect to the movie in an interesting way.





I could honestly go on and on about this movie for hours and hours and pages and pages, but I would just like to reiterate that it really is one of my favorite movies. I went online after I watched it, and read reviews about, and I was honestly so surprised because people were, like, HATING on this film. That's why I wanted to write this review in the first place- I wanted to contribute my positive thoughts on the movie. It's obviously not a typical movie: it's not supposed to be. I feel like to watch it you have to relax your view of what a movie is; like I said before, I consider this art. The costumes, the settings, the actors, the music, it's all coming together to create something beautiful and stunning, not to just support a story line. I felt like the movie was equally about those things. To me, it seemed like something made out of love, something that didn't want to be mass marketed, something that was created for the sake of bringing something beautiful into being, and I completely respect that. Because of these things, I felt a sort of sincerity from the film that I don't feel from other works. I could feel Tarsem in every single aspect of the piece, and I didn't mind that in the least.


Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Border World

So, I've been musing with the idea of writing a poem called "The Border World" just because I think it sounds kind of cool. I started tonight and wrote eight lines, but the last four lines I inadvertently slipped into rhyming; I actually ended up liking the last four lines better so I crossed out the first four.

The Border World

A border world that floats between
What you see before you and your dreams.
A snow-blank page where reality resides
Amongst the inky black behind your eyes.

I have to figure out where to go with this- I think it's becoming about writing? And also is amongst a word because it keeps underlining it in red....

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Happy Belated Birthday, Hayao Miyazaki!

These past couple days I've been bedridden with a sore throat and sequestered from any kind of interesting activity around the house, so I picked up a piece of printer paper and a ballpoint pen and drew Haku from Spirited Away. Only later did I realize that it was the amazing creator of that film's birthday a few days back, so I decided to post this as birthday tribute. I could go on for pages waxing romantic about the astounding affect Hayao's films have had on me since childhood, and I probably will in the future, but seeing as it's late at night I'll just leave you with this.


Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Girl In a Shawl

Exactly five seconds after I try to be productive....


Asymmetrical




Fashion Sketch


Ruffles



Evil Eye

This is actually really creepy to have in my sketchbook....

The Girl In the Purple Dress


Emma Stone Is Eating Her Fingers


Mister Jazzy

I guess it's obvious by now that I learned how to scan my sketchbook. Hehe.


Wringing Out My Hair


I drew this a few weeks back- one of my recent excursions into the world of sketching.

Saturday, December 22, 2012

My Place


The rhythm of the waves beneath your feet.
The soft whisper of the wind through your hair.
The open sea to roam, no road, no street.
The light dancing on the water, the glare.
You trim in your sails and you’re on your way.
The sea, the sky, your whole world is dyed blue.
Trust in the waves, they’ll lead you home someday.
You carry no map, for the wind is true.
The land you knew is a forgotten friend.
Long ago swept to the back of your mind.
It fades into the sky and starts to blend.
You have moved on, for the ocean is kind.
The breeze swirls you in a gusty embrace.
No need to worry, you have found your place.

Abandoned


After being abandoned again and again,
there comes a time when you start to expect it.
You hold people loosely in your heart's grasp,
so as to let them easily slip through your fingers.
But then there are the ones,
that make you want to clench down with all your strength
even though you know you can't.
You never can.
Because however strong your grasp,
they will one day slip away too.
So for these people
you spread your hand out wide,
even though it hurts you inside,
even though all of you is screaming to hold on,
because you know it will only hurt more
when they walk away on their own.

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

Rooster Freewrite

So at the beginning of writing class we sometimes do a freewrite, where you get a prompt and you have to just go with it for 20 minutes. For this freewrite I had to start with the sentence ,"Why don't you learn to talk to a rooster?" Hope you like! And post any thoughts you have below where it says comment. I want feedback!


“Why don’t you learn to talk to a rooster?” she asked in her lazy Southern drawl. She was perched on one of the many large hay bales that were piled inside the barn. Her hair swung around her shoulders in two long braids, blending against the color of the hay, and her worn overalls hung loosely on her, rolled up at the ankles.

Johnny sat across from her, eyes downcast as he fiddled with a piece of straw. He lifted them when he said, “Sally, there’s no way to talk to roosters. They’re not humans.”

“I can talk to them,” Sally retorted. “They tell me stuff. Like how much they like biscuits. The ones my Ma makes.”

He liked to think she was simply a free spirit. That she just thought differently from everyone else. But moments like this made him wonder if maybe it wasn’t a barn she should be in. If maybe it was an asylum.

“Sally, come on. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she stood up unsteadily on the bale. “You don’t believe me. No one believes me. They think I’m crazy.” Sally’s chin was trembling, her teeth chattering against eachother. Her whole body began shaking, her fingers clenched into tight white fists. Her mouth opened into a dark angry rectangle, and her lips pulled back as if to scream. Johnny tensed, bracing himself for the onslaught of noise. But it never came. He looked over to see her crumple, and in that moment he couldn’t help but see her as one of those small, delicate birds you capture, only to see it die a moment later, victim of it’s own tiny heart racing out of it’s control.

Sally lay atop the hay, motionless, one of her arms bent beneath her. Johnny threw himself across the hay bail separating them, his breath held unknowingly captive in his chest. Only as he approached did he see Sally’s back moving as she breathed, and he exhaled, kneeling down beside her.

“Sally, what happened? What’s wrong?”, Johnny asked hurriedly. Sally stared straight ahead, her clear, creek-colored eyes glazed over the shade of an overcast sea. “I am, aren’t I?” she asked in a near whisper, turning her head in a creaking way, a way painful to watch. Like a possessed doll in a horror film.

“You are what, Sally? What do you mean?” Johnny’s eyes were creased with worry and incomprehension.

“Insane.”, said Sally, slowly, as if tasting the word for the first time. “Insane,” she said again, this time with a slight curling up of her lips.

Johnny froze. His mind went blank. How could he say that yes, yes, you are insane Sally.  How could he possibly tell her, Sally, you scare me. So he chose denial. “Sally, stop. You know your not insane.”

“I am to you. Not to myself I’m not. But to you, to the rest of the world, I am considered a lunatic. And if the whole world sees you as something, you are that thing, aren’t you?” She said this as an accusation, not a question.

Johnny grabbed for words, but they wouldn’t come. “I-I..” He stuttered.

“You just don’t understand me, Johnny. Nobody understands me.” She cocked her head, her smile growing wider. “But I pity you, Johnny. I really, truly do. If only you could see what it’s like on my side. The world’s a much more interesting place, you know that? People like you, who have no imagination, you just see the world as it is. Cold hard facts. That’s no fun, now is it? I see what I want to see. For example,” she hopped up suddenly, and twirled around, perilously close to the edge. “You would say we’re on a bale of hay right now, wouldn’t you?” She looked at Johnny expectantly. When he did not respond, she repeated more loudly, and with a creeping tone of malice, “Wouldn’t you?” At this Johnny responded with a quick nod of his head, all he could manage in his current state of shock.

Sally smiled again. “But you see,” she said, with an air of explaining a very simple concept to an ignorant little child, “This isn’t a hay bale at all.” She accentuated this fact by wagging her finger and shaking her head. “This is actually a palace, and we’re standing on the rooftop. It’s a rooster palace, by the way. And all day and all night we feast on biscuits. Doesn’t that sound fun, Johnny?”

At the sound of his own name he finally broke out of his shocked stillness, and before thinking, he blurted out, “ Sally, stop, you’re scaring me.”

Sally froze mid-twirl. She pivoted to face Johnny, her eyes incredulous. “ I’m scaring you? Johnny, you’re the one scaring me. Do you realize how horrifying it is that you can’t see what’s in front of your own eyes! Johnny, do you even know that I’m a rooster?”

Johnny’s eyes widened, and he started to slowly back away from the crazy girl across the hay bale from him.

Sally scoffed, a hard sound of disbelief. “You know what? If you think so bad that I’m making this up, Ill prove it. I’m a rooster, and roosters can fly.” Sally turned to face the point where the closely packed yellow hay stopped, and where there was only twenty feet of empty space between her elevation and the floor. Then the realization of what Sally was about to do was a freight train hitting Johnny from behind, knocking the breath from his lungs and propelling him forward. On the air that whooshed out of him was a cry of desperation, a plead of “SALLY! DON’T!”

But it was too late. His friend, or the body of her, raised her arms, and with a look of determination, flung herself from the edge. And Johnny watched amazed, as she seemed to linger in the air, a bird in flight. But it was only a passing second, only a projection of his hope. For a blink later, the spot where she just was was empty, and he heard a sickening thud on the floor below. He couldn’t look. He didn’t want to know. Instead he sunk to his knees, put his face in his hands, and wept.

Sunday, January 1, 2012

Teen Ink

So guess what? Good news! A week or so ago I submitted Gelato, the personal narrative I wrote about a hot day in New York(Go to previous posts on the bar to the right and you can find it), to a website called Teen Ink  
http://teenink.com/ which is basically a huge website for teen writers that want to get their work out there. And the reason I'm happy is because MY PIECE GOT THE EDITORS CHOICE AWARD!!!!!!!!

yay.

But there's also a print magazine, where they put the best and top-voted pieces, so I want everyone reading this to vote for me please! It would mean so much. Really. It would. So heres the linksees and I hope you think my piece is good enough for five stars!

Thursday, December 29, 2011

Stone Soup Submission Update

So, I just got a letter from Stone Soup.... and I'm in the maybe pile.... Well, that's OK because I still have a chance of getting published, right? And I was heartened by the fact that more than 95 percent of the submissions are rejected immediately. So I guess I'm in the top five percent right?? YAY! So keep those fingers crossed and wish me luck!

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Stone Soup- YUM!

Okay everybody it's time for you to all cross your fingers and toes because I just sent in a copy of my poem "Lunar Musings" http://skyewrites7.blogspot.com/2011/02/lunar-musings.html in to Stone Soup, a children's writing magazine!! They'll tell me in four weeks if I'm getting published or not, and I'm kind of freaking outtt!!!

Thursday, October 6, 2011

1:11

1:11
It's a moment I'll never recapture.
I'll never recapture my eyes glancing
upon that clock,
And resting upon those numbers,
Glowing green.
I'll never recapture this feeling of calm,
Lying in my unmade bed,
with only the spiders to keep me company,
and my thoughts.
I'll never again hear the harmony of man and nature,
The soft padding of my fingers against
My phone accompanying the melody
sung by the crickets outside my
window.
Already it's gone, all of it,
Bleeding away, like words in the rain.
1:19

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Seasons Change

It's not spring yet.
It's not spring when the flowers bloom.
It's not spring when the grass grows lush and thick over the hills,
And when green sprouts from barren branches.
Its not spring when the dew of early morning casts a thin veil over the world.
It's not spring yet.

It's not spring until the ice of your frozen heart melts.
It's not spring until you can let new love into your life.
It's not spring until you can rise in the early morning, look out at the blooming flowers, the rolling green grass, the dewdrops on the ground,
and want to live.
Because the seasons don't change
Unless you change them.

Monday, May 23, 2011

Goodbye

A crystal droplet,
A shining tear.
Just one in a million
From all these years.

A crystal droplet,
A fragment of pain.
One bit of purity,
In a heart thats been stained.

A crystal droplet,
A final goodbye.
It falls to the ground,
As she closes her eyes.

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Different

Hey y'alls! At school we are having a poem contest on discrimination, and how it's wrong to discriminate. This is the poem I submitted, so cross your fingers and hope for me!


Different


Sitting in the back of the room,

The new kid.
He has his head hung low,
Back hunched,
As if ashamed of his existence.
He should be.

Doesn’t he realize he’s different?
Doesn’t he realize that no one wants him here?
Doesn’t he understand the looks the other kids give him?
Doesn’t he know why he’s never called on?

And so-
I hate him.
I hate his hunched back.
I hate his sorrowful eyes.
I hate his deep brown skin.
Because my friends do.
Because my parents do.
And what I hate most of all
Is that I don’t even know his name.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Lunare Riflessioni

Out of curiosity, I went on google translate and translated Lunar Musings into Italian. Reading it out loud, I just thought it sounded beautiful, so I decided to post it.

Si può dire quando si tratta di una luna piena
senza guardare il cielo.
E 'quando tutte le fotografie della vita,
non per lo spavento, ma in segno di riverenza.
E 'quando le maree salgono
per incontrare il cielo luminescenti,
e il potere della luna da solo
porta cielo e terra insieme.

Si può dire quando si tratta di una luna piena,
perché la neve brilla
con l'incandescenza riflesso della notte.
Grandi distese di polvere,
come specchi schiacciato una dea lunare
lasciò cadere dalla sua mano,
semplicemente per poter godere del gelido immagine di se stessa.

E quando si tratta di una luna piena,
si sono liberati dalle grinfie del sonno,
perché da qualche parte in fondo,
tu sai che questo è ciò che la bellezza Ã¨ davvero,
e che avete bisogno di assaporarlo,
la rara bellezza di una luna piena.

Yay!

Hey every1! So you know that completely awesome poem that I posted a few days ago? Well surprise surprise-  
It won the environmental fair poem contest! Yay! And furthermore, my prize was a chair made out of skis! Who doesn't love that!?

Monday, April 25, 2011

Black Rose

This is what I'm submitting for the environmental fair poem contest. Wish me luck!

A single flower
The color of blushing cheeks
Swaying in the breeze

A single highway
Newly paved and painted
As dark as oil

Monsters roaring past
Unnatural creatures
Of glass and metal

The bleed as they pass
Their black lifeblood spraying out
Across the pavement

Flowing into grass
Parched stems soaking it up
Gulping down poison

Tainting the flower
Sanguine petals veined with black
The lacework of death

Crumpling, folding
Grief, sorrow bending the stem
Leaves turn to powder

The blackness moves on
Oil engulfing the world
Blue and green turn black

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Gelato

So, in school we had to write personal narratives, and I wanted to share mine with you guys! Its just a moment from my life that I remembered, and it just struck a chord in me somehow...

The Upper East Side of New York City was absolutely sweltering in the July heat. A cool breeze blew off the water of the Hudson, and it swirled around my mother, making her bright patterned maxi skirt billow. My thick brown hair, darker then than it is now, was pulled up from my perspiring neck in a ponytail, and I panted as my mother and I traveled down the baking sidewalk, on the lookout for any unique gallery or boutique. It was one of those days when you felt guilty being stuck indoors, seeing the gorgeous day through your window while you sat in the chill air of your house. However, I was wishing that I had stayed inside now that I was actually experiencing being broiled alive.

"Ooh, this shop looks interesting. Lets check it out." I looked over at the store window my mother was talking about.Mannequins modeled trendy fashions, showing off expensive dresses and jewelery. Fashion-minded as I am, , I was actually more eager to enjoy the air-conditioning than the designer clothes.

I walked through the door my mother had opened, and a front of cold air hit me. Clothes hung on racks all around the room, with tables placed erratically, displaying chunky bangles and tribal-styled earrings. My mother scanned the room for any sales racks first, being her usual frugal self. When she found none, she relaxed and began a slow browsing of the room, picking up different pieces, examining materials and price tags. A pair of dark skinny jeans was leaning half off a shelf, almost as if it were being magnetically pulled to my mother. She spotted these, and if she were a dog her ears would have perked up. She hurried over to them, picked them up, felt them, checked the price tag, her usual routine. When they seemingly met her approval, she called me over.

" Skye, go try these on." She ordered me, and ushered me down the dressing room hallway. Left on my own, I pulled the jeans on. They were Joe's, an Italian brand, although the name was deceiving, and they fit perfectly, if not a little long in the leg. I opened the door and looked around for my mother.She was reclining on a cushioned bench down the hallway, and when I opened the door she looked up.I walked down the hallway to her, and she looked me over, spun me around, pulled at the waist. I expected her to make a comment about the jeans, maybe about the price. But instead she said, "I used to be that skinny. I bet you could actually fit into the jeans my mother made me." I was still relatively young then, and I wasn't all that knowledgeable about my family tree, so I asked, "Your mother made you jeans? Thats so cool!"

"Haha yes, she was a fashion designer when we still lived in Italy. She made all my clothes." She smirked, and got a rather gloating gleam in her eye. " Whatever I wanted, I just drew up as sketch, and she would make it for me."

Her expression fell a little though, when she said, " I wish you could have met my mother. She would have loved you so much."

She ended the moment of reminiscence when she said, " Let's get you these. They fit perfectly." She got up, and together we strode over to the checkout desk, where a girl with iron-straight blonde hair rung us up. I got a little thrill when she handed me the shopping bag, and, purchase in hand,my mother and I left the store, leaving the comfort of air conditioning and braving the heat of summer.

We stopped in and out of a few galleries after that, oohing and aahing over pieces of artwork, gathering a collection of business cards. My mother's eye was caught by a large sculpture in one window, so we went in to examine it further. The sculpture was made of metal, and it was formed into the shape of a Hello Kitty wearing a pink and white space suit, and standing on a glowing orb. My mother seemed to find this extremely funny, and she just stood there smiling and doing that strange chuff thing when you don't want to laugh out loud but still want to show your amusement. We explored further into the gallery, the footsteps of my Juicy Couture pink wedges making a dull thudding on the polished wood floor, that echoed up into the space the high ceiling provided.

My mother and I found that the gallery we had stumbled into actually had a very good collection of unique art, and my mother and I poked around, like mice trying to find food. That actually became more literal when my mother spied a box of cookies resting on the front desk, and I practically had to physically restrain her from eating them. At this point we decided that we had better go find something to eat.

The Upper East side of New York City felt like a totally different civilization than New York City. The sidewalks were wider, and weren't crammed with rushing people and dirty beggars. A pleasant, pure breeze replaced the smell of greasy street food, garbage, and exhaust, and kind shady trees replaced looming skyscrapers. Happy couples ambled through the shade , sidestepping little kids skating on the sidewalks while their mothers talked nearby.

A pair of young girls, probably in their mid-twenties walked by, chattering, and at certain points laughing in that way you can only do when you're young, when the weight of life hasn't worn you down. Their voices were carried to us by the breeze, and what reached my ears was some kind of foreign language . and although  I couldn't understand the words, I could almost understand the meaning of what they were saying just by their expressive inflections. Between phrases they swallowed scoops of melting gelato, eating out of those bright-colored little shovels that always make you so happy when you look at them. Maybe it was the appeal of talking to an interesting foreigner, or maybe it was just my mother's stomach talking, but she saw these two people and made a beeline straight for them. I trailed after my mother, a little bit surprised. My mother isn't the kind of person that is outgoing with strangers, and I've never seen her just approach someone on the street. But here she was, and as I approached, the conversation that my mother was having with the two girls came into focus. My mother was inquiring about the gelato the girls were eating, and they were responding with beaming smiles and lilting words.

"Are you visiting from Italy?" My mother asked, and the girls laughed again, probably at nothing but the joy of life, responded with a very Italian sounding,"Si." At this point whatever they were saying was lost in translation as they transitioned into Italian, and my mother followed suit, changing out of her American Housewife persona and stepping into the character of an Italian foreigner who has found her kin. Their conversation rolled on, and my enraptured mother seemed to forget about the baking sun and her grumbling stomach as she nodded and gestured with her hands like a true Italian. Of course, I was still affected by the heat and my hunger, and soon I tugged at her arm, signaling that I wanted to go. My mother sadly said her goodbyes, and we went in pursuit of the gelato that had started the snapshot of time that would stay with me for years to come. After my hunger was satisfied, I found myself wishing that I hadn't pulled my mother away so soon. Seeing her with those two Italians was one of the only times I had been able to see a different side of her, the side that was Francesca Lavorato, not Francie Kupping.








    

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Weird?


Hey y’all! Sorry I haven’t written in awhile but my school has state testing right now and OMG is it ANNOYING!!!!
Anyway, I wrote this poem on the bus today in the very front seat(I think we all know that’s the worst place) because my anger management French teacher decided to keep us like five minutes late so I got on the bus when all the seats had been taken(ugh!) So, I was trying to look as non-loserish as I could sitting in the front seat of the bus and I was thinking about how people always call me weird(I don’t know why I was thinking about that, Im probably going insane) I mean, its not like they call me weird in a mean, way, its more in a loving way, and people love me because I’m not normal. And then it struck me!(Just so ya know, Im not gonna say what IT is, you’ll find out in the poem) So anyway, being the total literary nerd I am, I decided to write my thoughts in poem format-
Weird?
There is no such thing as weird.
People say,
That if you are not like everyone else,
You are weird.
But,
No two people
Are the same.
That’s why we have
Thumbprints.
Every person has something
Unusual about them,
Even if they try to hide it.

So,
If everyone is weird,
The ones that really are dull,
They who have no personality,
Well,
They are the weird ones.

It goes round and round
Like this.
On and on,
Like the number pi,
If you call that a number.
The only conclusion to come to
Is that,
There is no such thing as weird.

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