2011+Week+3

=**Week 3**=


 * Hi again! Your prompt for this week is something--anything at all!--that you've been called. Now write away, my lovelies!**

“Emotional” is what they wrote upon my forehead as they pushed me a little further down the assembly line. Melodramatic. Obsessed. Mentally ill. Well, how can I help it if I tend to dwell upon the wrongs that have been committed against me? All of the men and women who've left their own little personal logo with a flaming brand on the walls of my heart have made me who I am today, the person who lives in her own fucked up little past. Growing in the dark has a way of making a person expect darkness. My eyes stung the day I crawled out of the caverns and into the blinding, blinding light and discovered the sun; that big ball of helium that I'll never fully trust; hanging like a hedonist in the sky like he owns the visible spectrum and he mocks me with his words. <span style="color: #404040; font-family: Georgia,serif;">Emotional. <span style="color: #404040; font-family: Georgia,serif;">I'll give you emotion. I will stand on the mountain and I will <span style="color: #404040; font-family: Georgia,serif;">scream to you, rivers flowing from my eyes and my fists becoming <span style="color: #404040; font-family: Georgia,serif;">part of the rock, that I am not what I am defined as. <span style="color: #404040; font-family: Georgia,serif;">I let my feelings dictate themselves and <span style="color: #404040; font-family: Georgia,serif;">I react to what I see and I believe it with every fiber of my being. <span style="color: #404040; font-family: Georgia,serif;">Rivers pour from my eyes when I see you floating in sadness, <span style="color: #404040; font-family: Georgia,serif;">and I shine as I watch two souls twist and entwine across the sky. <span style="color: #404040; font-family: Georgia,serif;">They spell out the lusty anger that consumes me <span style="color: #404040; font-family: Georgia,serif;">when I find that I am part of what is wrong with our system and <span style="color: #404040; font-family: Georgia,serif;">then I'll lock in mortal combat with myself until I'm whole. <span style="color: #404040; font-family: Georgia,serif;">My emotions are just one part of me. <span style="color: #404040; font-family: Georgia,serif;">And I am more than the sum of my parts, asshole.

<span style="color: #404040; font-family: Georgia,serif;">Ellyn "And now for something completely the same" Touchette

//For Nicole//

Let’s speak a bit about

anatomy.

I have a butt.

I have a face.

I do //not// however

have a butt-face.

My face doesn’t look much

like a butt.

My face is a face is a face is a face.

My butt is a butt.

If you’re confused

by my face

because you believe it resembles

//your// butt,

then all I have to say is,

truly and sincerely,

from the bottom of my heart,

You must have one handsome butt.

-Lincoln “Face-Face, Butt-Butt” Gray

Running a marathon is no less strenuous than thinking. Thinking the deepest thoughts of which you wish to make come alive. Breathe the life into your ideas, your goals and aspirations. It takes no less guts to skydive than it does to pour your soul out. I implore you. Try it sometime. Maybe you’ll appear as I do. Sleep inside your mind and paint the masterpiece that is your free will. Spend the meditation where no influence can affect you. Make the piece yours and be sure to express it. Express it the way you want. Maybe you’ll appear as I do. I’m crazy, you may say. ‘Such outlandish expectations. Work I don’t want to do.’ But if you take the time to sail away into the River Lethe And take some time to forget. Forget the way you thought. Forget the person you are. And then try writing about you. Scrap your biased fool’s gold. And take the time to craft Craft your statue. No! Not a statue! Create your being. Maybe you’ll appear as I do. Turn your brain back. Back to the dawn of man. Take the apple willingly because heaven does not belong on Earth. Though high as heaven be, Earth’s where it’s at. Where you can make the effort and where everything doesn’t have to come easily. Because you’re human. And the best part of being human is the ability to make the effort. Take the time to make it. Maybe you’ll appear as I do. Making the effort you are capable of can show. That there is no venue worth your time other than Earth. There’s no need to be the superstar of Heaven or the infamous scourge of Hell. The only thing there’s a need to be, is to be you. Make the effort to take that leap of faith, and with that you wont be steered wrong. It takes real work to make time slow, to stop the blending of the days. That work can really make it all worth it. Let me ask. Is anything worth creating if it is so easy to do? It takes no work to make a lifeless expression. But whether you put in blood, sweat, and tears or if you put in your heart and soul, It takes the same amount of work. An artist who does not work is not an artist. A strongman who doesn’t strain isn’t strong. But the little moth that has to work to flutter, to flit, to survive. That moth is the artist. That moth is the strongest. Strength is not measured in ability. Effort measures the strength. And whether you can bench 210 or I can convey this work to you, It shows the effort it took create, to muster up the courage. The actors, the Olympians, the little moths of the world. All had to work. They all had to tucker themselves out. And as I project this smoky glassed work to you. Think hard about what it takes to work. Maybe you’ll appear as I do. Tired.
 * What they call me**

Jason “ümlaut” Meuse

Eyes drip distain as they slither down from lazily hooded lids and over my effort unclothed in excuses of procrastination or drawled out in lethargic, uncaring tones.

Overachiever, they hiss.

Lazily superior nostrils flare dangerously with the wham bam bam wham of a jealous adrenaline rushed heart fired up at words honestly worked Till they are perfection

Or a one and two circles of bright red ink Spilled from the blood sweat and tears of countless night of studying the stars of closet-smelling textbooks of history And doodles of the future

Yes, I consider 100 as meeting the standard Yes, I tried as hard as I can study Through sleepless nights working for a woman Who can't move from the chest down and needs someone to tell her she's stylish. I tried as hard as I can search the infinity of cyberspace For an “I Spy” ticket to trade for my wings to the world where I can get a job so I can not work But most of all, I tried simply to live As hard and as best and as full as I can With everything this world has to offer

How inconceivable it is to publicize A lack of life effort If you're not trying to live your life Why are you alive?

Clara “livin” Stickney

All people want to do is to fit in. Ever since you first meet people outside the comfort of your home. When you climb on the bus for the first time in your life and you have one goal in mind, “To be accepted”. You start introducing yourself to everyone you meet. But very quickly you learn that everyone you meet is not the “Jim-Dandy, happy go-lucky” person you expect them to be. Before you even get the chance to get situated to the new piece of life you are about to enter you hear those older kids, the kids that you assumed you would end up looking up to, calling you “fat”. And it sticks. It sticks with you throughout your life. It sticks as if someone threw a maple syrup grenade at you and started bombarding you with pancakes. After a few years you start to get used to it. But once you think you have solved all your problems these bullies decide to throw the infamous curveball labeled “Gay” at you. It’s pretty hard when people who you have utterly despised start this chain. And it gets ten times worse when these bullies spread this disease of a detrimental aura so convincingly, that even some of the people that you have considered to be friends believe it. But, hey if these people want to believe it let them, because I’ve learned that they can throw whatever they want at me. But I won’t let them strike me out. Joe "The Strongman" Lambert

I have been called Stalin, And Nixon, And a communist. I don't think that's fair. Because maybe you know I spend sunday mornings Cleaning the cages of homeless dogs. Maybe you know I spend hours a week Coming up with fundraiser ideas That no one cares about To raise money no one knows about. Maybe you know I write When I want to punch a wall. Maybe you know I punch walls. Hard. Maybe you know I hang on to high honors By a thread. Maybe you know I cry, Because my life seems to always Be falling apart, One piece at a time, And just as I think the last piece has fallen, Another one falls. Maybe you know about my brothers, How one is a genius And can't find help To pay for extracurriculars or To go to national competitions. And the other is convinced he is adopted Because he doesn't like the same foods And can't compete with his big sibs. Maybe you know. But probably not. And if not, I don't think you have the right To call me a national traitor.

Cassaundra "don'tmakeitup" Martel