My Gradeschool Self scares me o_o

I think some time last year, I wrote a post issuing a war on poetry. And here I am posting two consecutive posts featuring just that.

I've had my email address for about seven or eight years now? Amazing, huh? No wonder it seems so juvenile. Along with the typical down sides to having such an old email address (cramped inbox, lots of spam and reeeeaaaally sad name) there are also some good sides.

Looking through my inbox and the record of ALL my sent messages makes me nostalgic. I reached a point in my inbox wherein the only emails I got were from my School Newspaper Editor, Lana. (We're still amazingly close until now, due to the bond of our oober fangirlingness of all that is Johnny's Entertainment)

So most of the emails consisted of my poetry submissions, article submissions, revisions, edits and random stuff. We're separated by 5 years, she being the senior, but we related well. Whether it was because my mind was mature or she had her childhood spirit still instilled inside of her is beyond me.

The good thing about old emails is that with the messages, you also get a lot of old attached files. See, in 2nd Year High School, my laptop, along with all my files, articles and poems died. So I really had no backups for them

But after having scanned my email, I was delighted to see that I could re-download all my attached files. Needless to say, not all my literary masterpieces could be salvaged from this crude blast of nostalgia, but some of them could and were.

I'm reading a few of them now, and I must say, I was a very scary child o_o

One of the few poems I wrote, approximately when I was in 4th Grade was this.

Untitled

Fake smiles adorn my face
As I float down the halls
Filled with false memories and regrets
But my heart is heavy as the bells ring…

I try to hide the tears with laughter
Laughter of things that have nothing
No meaning, no sense
I try to drown myself in false hope

What did you do to me?
Is this what I deserve?
I hide under my covers out of the light
Trying to hide from the sorrows and remorse

Feeling escapes me
In a desolate state of numbness
The secluded corner of my heart
Still crushed from your words…

Those haughty words of discontent…
The battle in my heart which you brought about
Still not won by either side
Filled with joys fabricated from my need

The disarray of my soul
Still fails to be sorted
In the uproar of memories of supposed happiness
And memories meant to be forgotten.

I try to piece together what I had
The veiled secrets that I tried
So hard… so very hard to conceal
The adamant longing to live

The vague picture of happiness
Does it exist?
All seems shattered
And my soul left in a flaccid state

I try not to look… I try not to fear
The inconsequential conditions that haunt me
Why does it feel this way?
The foul and malevolent memories plague me…

My state of being seems shrouded
In what seems to be a gaunt tear in reality
Should I search for something…
Something to placate this feeling…?

No… I’d rather keep it this way
In my dormant state of nothingness
In the equanimity of my soul
Silence…

I felt that way…
Now with nothing to foster true hope
Now, then and soon to come
Upon the scolding heat of rebuke…

You sever any glint of bliss
I feel I must go away
Escape the noxious fumes of your arrogance
What am I to become?

Crushed…?
Shattered…?
Lost…?
Or just hidden…?


Note the excessive [mis]use of ellipsis, characteristic of my pre-Sir-Joey-educated self.

I was a SCARY SCARY SCARY youth. Right now I'm seriously wondering where all this angst came from, and where it all went. I mean, I used to be so --- poetic. Where did all that go o_o

What scares me most is that this poem, written roughly five or six years ago, is eerily similar to how I've been feeling the past few months.

Premonition much?

Either way, I was a troubled child, but an artistic one. I'm guessing all my literary prowess in poetry has since then been transmuted into that of journalism. Who knows when the alchemy happened, it just did.

I truthfully hope though, that one day, my talent will come back to me D: I never really did remember why I stopped writing poems, or why I started disliking them so much.

Probably a trip back to my old post on poetry would do the trick.

Either way, nostalgia ensues. Amazing, isn't it?