This is my life: the ending of the beginning.

Summer 2010: we've got the positive, we've got the negative. What else do you need when you're stuck waiting for senior year?

Just a late-night phone call.

This was my life: people I saw, things that I heard, and everything I figured out in 180 days.

Sometimes people are mysteries, sometimes they are maps.

Trying to understand who people are and were by studying how they thought of others -- those they left behind and those they were fighting against.

Summer 2009: adventures, misadventures, and anything else with 'adventure' tagged on to the end, really.

They showed it in after-school film club last Thursday and we had practically forgotten, but besides that, the general feeling was of shock and fright. We all had to knaw on Olive Green and Cerulean Blue for a few hours to calm down.

Upon further investigation, there are also veins in there, in case you were wondering.

it's either static messages or nothing but dial tone. i mean, come on, right?

Quinn Holland was getting by pretty well at his public school. That was before his mother went through a phase of applying him to every boarding school she saw fit. This would have been alright, had he not been accepted at Saint Simon's School for Girls.

This has been my life: things I noticed, things I learned, things I wished that I could be.

School buses provide insight into worlds of avian humor, which I suppose they would spell "humour" since they're Canadian. But I'm not, so we'll just do what I say, won't we?

Universal understanding of tonal nuances can really only be grasped by those who have given birth and heard voices from their bellies to voices all grown up; and thus, foreign films are better if you are female.

A lazy person's guide to acing a history test. Granted, the test must be on WWI or later, but that's your problem, not mine.

Have you noticed that Rosetta Stone doesn't offer chatspeak? Huh.

Posterior and poised for perception

Seattle city streets... yeah, I think they've got heaps more to offer.

Summer-time... ice cubes, lemon-bleached hair, shoulder blades...

Concerts taste like waiting.

Nicholas Dunhorn doesn't care about very much other than music, but when he gets the assignment of a social experiment in Psychology class he decides that he will make some friends. While it seems easy enough, someone has other plans for Nick...

...but it did not get to me.

If I'd read your back cover I never would have gotten in to this.

...Because I thought you were a fool.

Nothing was about you; not one word I wrote had your whispers hiding behind the syllables. And those chords? You know, kid, I wrote those in a sad attempt to tie you up.

Oh, you know he was such a conformist.

I'm a selfish kid who wishes that everywhere were like here -- or that people would pay attention to more than our dead poets for once, because we know you do it just to sound smart half of the time. Just plant some trees.

Music surrounds me and it permeates my anecdotes.

There is nothing in summer but books, and even those aren't something anyone wants these days.

Having best friends is easy until you go to a different school than one of them. Then you've got to treasure what you've got, huh?

I guarantee that after reading this essay you will inspired to go out and DO something for the world - and for the world's wombats. Take heart, readers: you could possibly be their only hope of survival, and they need all the hope they can get.

Corbin Lisle thought it was over. He'd saved his family, he'd eaten purple rice, and he'd fought demons... what else was there left to do? So when he travels to the Mainland he's in for a big surprise. Includes snow, ghosts, and tuna. Written in 24 days.

No, I don't know what I'm talking about when I show you what I've written. It changes as my fingers fly, and you don't seem to understand that I really don't know why.

I grew up in a way I wish I hadn't.

Stuffy office does not equal open-mic night.

Chivalry was never a concept I could fully accept.

Essays about music, bands, and people who changed the history of rock and roll.

A cat is rather crap payment, I have to say.

I'm just looking at the skyline...

This is an inside joke.

Into the darkness...

because those trees gossip too much

Sepia summer skin...

A nosebleed is just enough to change the fate of Martin Violet - but it's the first thing that ever has. And with this change, Martin finds himself spiraling into a complex world of cause and effect where the tiniest action can have a huge consequence.

I think the title says it all, no?

I'm not where inspiration grows or something. Take a look around.

I think it's rather obvious what this is about.

As if I couldn't have guessed.

[to patiently throw at your head]

I am old enough to realize now that you aren't perfect. Then again, neither am I.

The grainy, fuzzy horror of it all.

I don't know what this is. But it scares me. In a good way. I guess.

Everything I say is the absolute truth, as everyone obviously knows.

I'm not blind, you know.

I'd rather be sliding, too.

Because this is exactly what I mean to say.

..And I wish it didn't have to end at all...

Go ahead. Take it personally. Since it's all about you, isn't it?

Oh, gross. Waffles.

[would stay with me]

I wish they would play real music on the radio sometimes. I'm really getting sick of stolen beats and copied riffs and people who have never sung a note in their life. I mean, what ever happened to musicians? It makes me feel sick.

He lives so far away, you know.

...when you're worried.

Corbin Lisle has lived on The Island all his life. Then he hears an ancient prophecy and decides to act upon his role. This story involves games of hideandseek, demons, bad jokes, pastries, and towns with purple rice. It was written in 18 days.

It's that one person who gets on your nerves, but you're just too polite to yell at them.

My life has become an allegorical novel, hasn't it?

There's just that one thing I should say, but I can't.

They're all the same, just like these parties.

Neutral's not a color

Everything's so unfamiliar that I just can't form the words.

We're all just these walking cliches, aren't we? Lovely.

Assumptions, teacher, aren't very nice.

I hope I catch you, too.

And sometimes I feel bad, because I think you're going to ask me.

Like a deer in the headlights, I freeze.

Everything you say makes me so angry. Must you be so ignorant?

Rain's taken today away.

[effect]

I'm stuck in a rut.

You dragged me through the slums...

You think you can capture me like all the rest.

All you want is synchronicity.

...in the sea.

Second by minute by hour by day...

Words speak louder than actions.

Sometimes I wonder what I would choose.

I could have done something important.

It's not rude, it's clever.

An inside joke, but all the same I think it makes sense to outsiders. I may be wrong. When he comes all is quiet.

Change is good for some people, but not for me.

Because sometimes love seems so superficial.

Bare feet preferred the warm breeze of summer to the cold hardwood of early autumn.

Summer's final moments can't be taken back...

Whirl around, breath catching, heart stopping...

What would happen if you fell down a strange hole and landed in the Underworld? Wally is about to find out.

The only relief is the cold hardwood.

The lights are going down but the movie magic's already begun.

Ringing interupts my interlude.

You say that July 7, 2007 is lucky. I call it Saturday.

With this doublecrossing haircut you'll never figure me out.

A twentyfifth hour comes naturally when the clocks that we run on are finally set free.

I am not your billboard to be used against my will.

Downpour in Seattle, a masquerade party of umbrella masks.

Icebergs sing a sad tune, and trees, they groan and bend.

For the first time in years

I'll miss this feeling of knowing I can walk here again

My name becomes something more...

Do you remember the baseball games with the crushed glass paths that gleamed like rainbows to run on?

Pixie dust, faerie must, tears like purple heather. Greying skies, birds that fly, memories meander.

Is it possible to be immune to your voices, to turn off this tune?

They say you've got to suffer to be beautiful, but I'm not so sure.

Crosswalks don't seem so safe after this crash.

Next year's gonna be so different...

Was he afraid of friendship, because that's such a strange fear.

Birds fly into windows, looking for life's last prize.

We won't need colors to illustrate what we think and say.

Smoke from the candle illumitates your face: an echo of fire, of the human race.

French verbs roll off my tongue spilling into the light like bugs from the dark corner, of cars from the cold garage, or dust from a book's pages.

But your conscience works even when your nerves are severed and dead and don't tell you to stop. Don't tell you that falling hurts.

Clouds, they meander through mirrors and time as I'm trying to tell you your words do not rhyme.

Back before December, before that January day, I'd never felt this pang of guilt for writing down what I want to say.

Running feet and stomping heels, this is how fear really feels.

Blue clouds your pupils changing the color of this scene from happy to sad with no inbetween.

Pigeons, like soot, coat every surface. Doves disintegrate in their masses. Nothing like a crisis to lock people in car crashes.

They say it's 'inappropriate' and that we shouldn't read, but what right do they have to tell us this? Why shouldn't we be allowed to see? DO NOT TOUCH! Supposedly inappropriate for teens.

My thoughts on some controversial issues. Flames will be ignored and laughed at if necessary.

Petra witnessed a murder of crows when she was young. Now, after years of watching and waiting, there has been another. With the help of a boy named Rowan she will have to catch the murderer. But how do you solve a murder when the witnesses can't speak?

Have you ever heard of the Black Death? The bubonic plague? Yersina pestis? Well, what about Pravat Kovit? He is the real plague, after all.

Thoughts spinning silk so fine creating garments that aren't mine...

Eyes bright with anger, tears of rage, as into the distance you meander off the edge of the page.

Crazy thoughts become something more, maybe even something that makes sense.

It was 10pm, and I couldn't sleep, so I wrote this... Walking down the old dirt road, trees grow up from seeds just sowed...

More nighttime ramblings: Through the underbrush you paddle, steer the little boat Death is taking its last poll, you'd better cast your vote.

The meaning of life, eh? Well, some more deep ramblings from your friend Falcon!

You live inside something that is already decided and you can't escape your fate.

More ramblings that turned into something bigger and better. Thanks to the streetlights that shine through my window.

Stare at the sun until it burns, then close your eyes to take your turn.

Silence clear and darkness bright, daylight is my kind of night...

For my brother's new shoes. Which really aren't that amazing, but inspired the heart of this poem!

Trees crash down around you so that you can't escape... If you figure out what this is about tell me, please. Because I don't have a clue.

Don't you all like summer? Running around having fun while the sun warms your legs who couldn't?

10pm ramblings that seem to make sense. A lot of sense, actually. And there may even be a secret meaning...

What if you hadn't walked to school? What if you hadn't punched that kid? What if you weren't born?

Running away, chased away, you've got nothing to lose and nothing to gain...

I am from the silence, which others don't seem to like.

What is escape? How do you escape? Will you escape? And to where...

Random thoughts connect to make something with a deep meaning. Or maybe not.

Stormy skies, reflected in her eyes...

Because of all those people smoking out there I have lost my choice to say no.

My last task is to catch the sun.

Save all these things, I want them around for those still here when I am not.

Don't. Do. Drugs.

What starting over is like.

This is hate's voice

This is me. This is where I come from. This is what has made me who I am today. An I am From poem.

Deep thoughts in short lines.

This is the end of your dreams, of your road, or your life.

Written at 10 pm. About the night. As you could guess.

They judged me before they knew me.

I'm the falconrider, want to get to know me?

Would you care if the sky was dead? Or do you like the stars better?

For Aaron and his sketch book! Drawing is magic, indeed.

Birds all around you, dancing in the clearing by the full moon's light...