I hate a lot of shit.

I'm so fucking sick of some shit, so I'm going to bitch about it on here.
Warning for bad language. (Which I'm sure is definitely coming.)

I'm so fucking sick of French Immersion.
I've been in French Immersion since the seventh grade. I understand French. I can write French. I can speak French. I can conjugate French verbs.
So, why is it necessary to continue it any longer? There's not much time left, I know, but still. I just wish I was over and done with it.

I'm so fucking sick of acting happy.
Fact is; I'm really not happy lately. Call it whatever you like: bitchiness, indifference, rudeness. I don't give a shit. But I'm tired of pretending to be happy just to appease certain people. Why can't I just be myself? That alone would improve my general mood.

I'm so fucking sick of this house.
I HATE this house. There is a constant vibe of tension. It's like walking on egg shells. One minute, the house could be completely quiet. Then, with only minimal words exchanged, all hell breaks loose.

I'm so fucking sick of my iPod Touch.
YES. I find it completely necessary to add this in there. I HATE how I have barely any space left, and how everyone else on the fucking planet has one. I cannot WAIT for Christmas. 160 Gig Classic coming my way, baby.

I'm so fucking sick of feeling ugly.
I wish I had some confidence. Every single day, as I walk through the halls of my High School, I feel like a complete reject. Like people stare at the way clothes fit me. I feel different. My hair never stays the way I want it to, never shines the way I envision it, and my make-up never looks just right. Why can't I just be PRETTY? Is that too much to ask, God?

I'm so fucking sick of waking up early.
I HATE GETTING UP IN THE MORNINGS. That is all.

I'm so fucking sick of NEWFOUNDLAND.
I'm getting angrier as I continue writing. >_> I haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate this Goddamned island with a passion. There's nothing to do, it's cold, and there's not opportunities here.

I'm so fucking sick of trying to act like I'm over someone.
Yeah, I try my best every fucking day of the week to act indifferent towards said person. I don't want to feel anything for them. I don't want to wish we were more than friends (if we are that right now?) But it doesn't help when I have to see their face every Goddamned day. They're not even nice to me. So why can't I get the fuck over it?

Sorry for venting like that. But I fucking hate a lot of shit.

Fall

A poem about leaves... COOL.

The ominous oak tree in your neighbor's backyard is in the process of change.

The fresh, naive leaves sway quietly in the frigid breeze, appearing chilled.
The shake with each burst of wind,
that brushes through the limb's of their home.

With each day passing in autumn, they darken.
Deep, muddy shades of earth; rustic forms of orange; russet obscurities; sunset-colored yellows.

They slowly drift, one by one, to the frost-bitten ground.
The brave cling desperately to their branches,
unwilling to relinquish their hold.

The toughest make it to the edge of winter,
quivering with each breath of wind that flows past and through them.

They watch as their siblings are raked, thrown unceremoniously into bags,
and carted off to desolation.

The strongest fall, eventually.
Swaying to and fro in the air before a graceful landing.

In the dead of winter, the arms stand bare.
Awaiting the return of spring, of glory.

Corroded Morals

I don't even know why I bother posting poetry. I'm really quite shitty.

Lips like ashes,
they crumble, corroded.
They are the remnants of your addiction.

The unwanted part of your necessity.
Strewn away with brisk flicks of your lithe fingertips.

You watch as they tumble to the earth,
falling from the edge of your cigarette, forgotten.
And probably stepped upon as you marched away.

But when you're feeling.. 'moral',
you instead have the decency to toss the remains into an ashtray.

They're grouped together, the useless. Piled with more.
But, their standard of living is so impeccably higher,
for your thoughts may stray to them occasionally, when you use that ashtray.

But that doesn't change the fact that they are trash.
Unhesitatingly thrown aside to make room for new debris.

I watch as you slip another cigarette from the confinements of the package,
propping it between your swollen lips.
Each one awaiting eagerly to be used, destroyed.

Inhaling as you watch the toxins float towards the sky.
Towards the unknown.

I love to hate you.

It's pretty obvious who this one's about.
I wrote this right after school ended. When the pain was still fresh.

Have you no heart?
At one point, we became inseparable.
Never-swaying, solid, avid friends.

My adoration quickly heightened for you.
Rapidly, I fell for your gentle words; altruistic gestures.

Your charming facade dragged me in relentlessly.
My desperate attempts to feign nonchalance plummeted past the boundaries of sanity.

As each day passed, and those words were spoken,
I knew I could deny my true sentiments no longer.

But, as I came to terms with these inexplicable desires,
you changed.

Your complete personality altered.
And, there I stood, confusion and heartbreak manifesting it’s way into my soul.

Now, here I rest, angst clouding my thoughts.

Sincere longing still exists, yes, but your indifference continues to tarnish my happiness.

Is this where you stay, forevermore?
Entrenched in your world of solemnity?

Who the fuck is my inspiration?

Here's another love poem.
If you're wondering about the title, it should be quite clear.
I've written hundreds of love poems (most of which are too shitty to share) but I don't think I've ever been in love.
I've -loved- someone. But I'm pretty sure there's a difference!
ANYWAY. Here is it. Expect lack of original ways to describe love/desire/whatever the fuck you want to call it.

I need you.
All I desire is to envelop you in my arms, and protect you from what lies ahead.
The past, present, futures is ours.
But, all we really need to linger on is the past, apparently.

Your resistance is so infuriating.
Why can't you just realize that we're destined for one another?
That I am yours, and you are mine.

Your hands. Those warm, gentle, loving hands cup my heart oh so delicately.
But, I know you feign gentleness.
Because with quick, rhythmic movements, you could crush it. Mangle it. Obliterate it.

I am aware that you know you hold all the power.
Does this please you? Satisfy you? Placate you?

At what point will you realize that your destiny is already written, already decreed?

See what I mean?
I SUCK AT LOVE POEMS. *Shoots self*