One hundred seventy-eight days molds itself into an ominous pathway prepared to catapult us into the rest of our lives. I would like to say I will make some wondrous mark, an impact at WHS never to be forgotten. It isn’t true. In reality, I don’t care. In reality, it all boils down to those 178 days. I have had plenty of time for the ups, downs, smiles and frowns in the past three years. Everybody acts like high school is supposed to be this joyous, memorable process of learning and achieving but really it’s about growing and deceiving. Trying to figure out who you are, all the while maintaining a brave face for the outside world.
I have little sentimentality for this town, but an abundance for a few people in it. Those few people who were let in, saw behind the mask and removed theirs too. The same people who saved my life and never tire of pulling me back up from rock bottom to solid ground. I picture this year and I’m scared. Scared of messing up yet again, of needing to be saved yet again. After these 178 days expire, I will be forced to stand on my own. Each one of us will go in separate directions, saying we will call and write, but only time can attest to the validity of such promises.
My deepest fear: What if my own legs aren’t strong enough? In this year, I must complete the formidable senior project, raise my grades, join more clubs, get a job, do anything and everything to piece my life back together. And supposing I survive, what do I have to look forward to? Ahead of me lie exceedingly more difficult curriculum and the pressure of adjusting to life on my own in a foreign city. Senior year will prove or disprove whether the puzzle of my life can ever me made whole once more.
This is what I am to expect from the months ahead. I am anxious to finally be done and yet frightened of the answer that comes with its completion. For on this ride of faith, I am merely a helpless passenger awaiting either my inevitable failure or my fated success. And this car has no brakes.

One hundred seventy-eight days molds itself into an ominous pathway prepared to catapult us into the rest of our lives. I would like to say I will make some wondrous mark, an impact at WHS never to be forgotten. It isn’t true. In reality, I don’t care. In reality, it all boils down to those 178 days. I have had plenty of time for the ups, downs, smiles and frowns in the past three years. Everybody acts like high school is supposed to be this joyous, memorable process of learning and achieving but really it’s about growing and deceiving. Trying to figure out who you are, all the while maintaining a brave face for the outside world.
I have little sentimentality for this town, but an abundance for a few people in it. Those few people who were let in, saw behind the mask and removed theirs too. The same people who saved my life and never tire of pulling me back up from rock bottom to solid ground. I picture this year and I’m scared. Scared of messing up yet again, of needing to be saved yet again. After these 178 days expire, I will be forced to stand on my own. Each one of us will go in separate directions, saying we will call and write, but only time can attest to the validity of such promises.
My deepest fear: What if my own legs aren’t strong enough? In this year, I must complete the formidable senior project, raise my grades, join more clubs, get a job, do anything and everything to piece my life back together. And supposing I survive, what do I have to look forward to? Ahead of me lie exceedingly more difficult curriculum and the pressure of adjusting to life on my own in a foreign city. Senior year will prove or disprove whether the puzzle of my life can ever me made whole once more.
This is what I am to expect from the months ahead. I am anxious to finally be done and yet frightened of the answer that comes with its completion. For on this ride of faith, I am merely a helpless passenger awaiting either my inevitable failure or my fated success. And this car has no brakes.

Holiday Confuzzlement

After seeing Polar Express, some new aspects of Christmas tradition have come to my attention:

I wonder if I'm the only person that sees the disturbing undertones of this movie. Or just the whole North Pole set-up in general...There's thousands of red-uniform-clad happily enslaved clone midgets worshipping an old fat man. (Great likeness to Buddhism, no?). All of these squeaky-voiced cult members live in an isolated facility 24/7 all year, but there's never any public appearance of females. So, they're either promiscuously gay (as there aren't any couples to speak of) or chauvenistic, possibly both. THIS is the Christmas-time ideal we present America's youth with.

I'm so amused...

Blank Canvas

Labeled a sickness as liquid spills forth
Emptying pain as a matter of course
Thankfully blinding the soul that had seen
All too much, thus for loss was keen
Fault is found in the use of a blade
To carve away that which was made
Into a means of torture provoked by despair
Of an ignorant mind seemingly unaware
Providing the tiny droplets of red
Draining the hope that is to be bled
Healing wounds that can't be viewed
Disguising massive internal feud
Creating a new falsified reality
Fueled by the imminent brutality
Of wanting so badly to become whole
From the broken pieces of a shattered soul
Welcoming all attempts to relieve
The anxious sorrow to be believed
Immersed in shadow glides the knife
Guiding the trickling crimson life
Swallowing the wasted prayer
Whispered by the remnant of care
Seeping illness reaches the dark
Running deep to leave such a mark
Drowning a soul with potential to be
Strong, unmarred, and willingly free
But fear prevents awakening the mind
Containing the will to seek for and find
A different escape, A varied release
From the arm so effectively creased
Allowing the flow of bloody grief
When hurt remains the only thief
For metal can't steal what's already been lost
Remaining to be seen is the ultimate cost
A blank canvas awaits the barely sane
To create a masterpiece of pulsing veins

The Silent Outcry Emitted By Crimson

Tiny beads of dew burn behind forced-shut eyes
Threatening to thwart the delicate disguise
Of past memories that remain a lie
For the only wish being wished is one to die
What escape can be sought? What is there to free
A broken soul from such misery
Caught in the tangled web of fake smiles and laughs
An endless maze, containing no path
So much to be said, so much to release
To another mind, so one's own may cease
Feebly attempting to find words to convey
Why this life is scattered in disarray
When once it was whole, believed to be true
Before reality and doubt sprung anew
To destroy the fleeting hope that clung
So desperately, and upon it hung
The last and only reason to smile
Before resorting to the rising bile
Accompanied by thoughts of irrational fear
Demolishing all that was once held dear
What would seem every story is left untold
Awaiting a time when the words may unfold
To those around that ought to know
Thus tightly bound is this tale of woe
Waves of despair wash upon the shore
Of a mind so desolate, in need of much more
Than what any power can grant or afford
Provoking the sickness that hastens to lord
Over all weaknesses and trials being faced
In which reigns the fear, currently based
Upon the consuming pain of a tortured spirit
Seeking relief where only a blade will hear it
For what else provides an outlet to such
Ensconced mute anguish, when too much
Sorrow is held within to possibly be
Bearable, hence arranged is a fee
To be paid with flesh, since only she
Sees how blood has the power to free.

There's Something To Be Said For Growth

At this point, I could cry. I spent almost an hour pouring my heart and soul into a piece on why I hate graduations, and the internet crashed two seconds after I hit the publish key. Now it is lost. I hate that more than anything else on the planet. When you are able to produce a work that is actually good and then lose it before you can ever make it count. The funny thing is, I never realized how much my writing pieces meant to me until now. So, until I can find the ability to re-write it, I figured something would be better than nothing.

At Mr. Rainey's request (see, I said Mister. Aren't you proud?), I was digging through my really old essays from past years, and I found this. I was unsure whether to laugh or cry. So, I'm posting it for nothing else than to please the afore-mentioned party, and provide you as a reader with the amusement of how awful it really is. Feel free to mock, just keep in mind it's really old, and was a school assignment. *blushes miserably* Really, no offense to Germany, I think it was my misguided, failed attempt at early sadistical humor or something. Are all eighth graders this bitter, not to mention corny with their conclusions?

My name only consists of eight letters, but over the years, it has begun to encompass who I am as a person. As a little girl, I always hated my name. My brother, being two years younger than me, couldn’t manage to pronounce it until he was almost four, so he just called me "Muh-lah".
Before I was even born, my name was a controversy. My dad wanted to name me Crystal. My mother is entirely superstitious and refused, because the only Crystal she ever knew became a heroine addict. So, instead she picked her favorite name as a child, and I was thus dubbed. To top it off, my grandfather insisted that I have the same middle name as my mom. This is how I became Michelle Lea Hensler.
It’s amazing how irritating an eighteen-letter title can become. My surname has very little meaning for me. I know that it is of German origin, but obviously my family has very little ties to its roots. Michelle Lea Hensler always struck me as generic, making me picture a pathetic white picket fence in suburban America. I always felt so deprived of culture. I know nothing of German heritage; my knowledge ends at the capabilities of Nazi’s. It doesn’t help that I now live in a bland state, situated in a country that starts wars over oil, and for the last four decades has idolized a boy-band group that was constantly on acid and sang about yellow submarines, and girls with kaleidoscope eyes.
It’s difficult for me not to have issues with the Beatles. Their song, "Michelle", is famous, and has come to cause many problems. I suppose it is, at times, flattering that everyone associates my name with those French lyrics that when translated mean "my beautiful". However this has recently been shattered by how common the name Michelle has become. I despise everything common, so I have a tendency to gravitate towards more unusual names, like Kyler, or Romiette. My kids will not have to endure the all too annoying issue of having four other students in your class with the same name as you.
I quit letting my name irritate me a while ago. After time, it started to feel right. Now, when someone says my name, it’s like those two syllables hold all of my life experiences; every laugh, every tear, every smile, and every frown. It is almost as if those letters are able to encompass the person I have come to be, as well as the potential for what may lie ahead. While the name itself may be generic, it has come to suit a person that is far from it. For this, I may take pride.

Disgraceful Presence

I am in no mood to write anything but elementary thoughts currently consuming an already confused mind. I suppose the inadequacy of this selection or entry or whatever the term that is most properly fitting is of no significance, because I let myself go somewhere I shouldn't have. Again. I let myself be proud of something. I had faith in myself. I had faith in people; a few members of the male gender in particular. That's where it all went wrong. Maybe childhood determines everything. Then, from that point on, you've already been dealt your destiny and the next 80 years are just a matter of running through the motions, pretending we have some variation of a grip on reality, making choices and living independently. When, in truth, our paths are already laid before us. Rejected in childhood? Yup, it's going to happen time and time over again. Thus, there's no way you can win. If you close your heart off, you subject yourself to a life of misery and suffocate your soul. If you open your heart, then this is the result.
I've been thinking a lot about childhood. Rather, about the difference between a father and a dad. I suppose some people would consider them synonyms with the exact same meaning. I know better. Any John Doe can have a fun night and serve as sperm donor. With the exception of disabling medical conditions, any guy can father a child. However, in this twisted tale known as life, it didn't take me long to learn that not everybody is competent in parenting a child. You can live in the same house, go through the daily routine of "hey, honey, how was your day? Let me know if you need anything" and then not be seen for the rest of the night unless some common happening produces a rant of rage directed at whomever is most convenient. Children whose fathers abandoned them are considered fatherless, so what word describes someone with the possession of a father, but not a dad?
Once more, a shotglass was deemed more worthy than family. To live in a house, not once building a relationship, or even more accurate, building it in tiny segments and just when everything is looking productive and well, the small progress is destroyed and one is left to stand in the rubble, full of questions and "could-have-been"s, is a situation more commonly represented than society may realize. It's surprisingly easy. Everything looks pristine and happy in the family portrait, but behind closed doors it is evident that while there is no doubt of love, the home somehow remains a miserable trench of forced conversations and hidden pain. This is the path that carves all others. From then on, one is cursed.
This time, the heart is opened to love. Real, true, butterflies-in-the-stomach, catch-in-the-throat, bite-your-lip-to-contain-the-happiness love. Then...MISSION FAILED.
Fine, recuperate, heal, and move on to the next attempt. This time allowing yourself to trust friends. Then, because all is going so well, branch out farther and take a leap of faith. Going so far as to trust people when they say you have a talent. This is always a mistake, this business of trusting people. If a pattern hasn't been noticed in previous situations, then it at least ought to be blatantly clear by now. You trust this talent, you trust yourself, you trust your friends. So you do it, you reach out to the world and spread your wings and you are free until...Splat! Well, for once I am at a loss for adjectives. Not only has all hope that you may be good at something, something you love with such a strong, unabashed passion, all hope that you might possibly possess the power to make somebody feel something, inspire something within that person, bring to life something that had remained dormant...Not only has all of that disintegrated into a whirlwind of torment and anguish, but an innocence was lost in the process. The respect and love once deemed so great, for which this is felt I am not entirely certain, has been irreparably damaged.
Even that is not all. Also managed is to make an apparent disgrace of yourself and the anguish of a nation, even if that was not your intent. Even if you were finally writing something true and harsh and real. Writing something that was meant to initiate that spark in others, because it was the first time it awoke something in the writer. It takes skill to be so bad at something. I don't mean so bad at writing, however true that may be, but bad at life. It takes some skill to be this bad at life and relationships and clarity. Perhaps it's the one skill obtained in childhood. Others got great gifts, I got the ability to screw up. A predestined path of failure and heartbreak and pain and everything else that I hate myself for feeling. Never before has the fine line between love and hate been so clear, made prominent by ever-powerful frustration. Considering the horrendous failure at the leap of faith, I wonder if maybe I'd be better off trying just the leap. It's an alternative that sounds better every minute. So, fair audience, I am sorry to disappoint. I tried.

Sometimes Silence Says The Most

Back off and listen to what I have to say
I won't let you ignore me another empty day
Never was I invisible as I walked through these halls
Just because to look and see, you had not the gall
You can't shove me off into the grey to serve blind spite
All because you want your world in simple black and white
Sorry babe, you have no reign, no power over me
Don't be coy, I'm not your toy, that I'll never be
Take off the cool designer shades, and use god-given ears
My nose inhales, my mouth makes sound, my eyes do produce tears
O, the shock it must be for you, that I am human too
I need, I want, I feel, I think, as you claim to do
But of course you're so much better, your life has much more worth
I'm no competition for your silver spoon since birth
An inferior such as myself, though, still can make a choice
The one to say "I see through you all" with my little voice
What sets us apart, you and I, I'm not about to play your game
So why are you still unconcerned that you're pathetically all the same
My spoon can be a dirty bronze, but I won't perch on yours
Found in chaotic teen reality of common, silent wars
No longer have I a single care about falsities and pretty stuff
That ego doesn't impress me, it's just your little bluff
You put a cover on, blocking yourself from the truth
Just look in the mirror, hun, right there is enough proof
Think twice before looking down on me, I'm not your living puppet
Attend another mindless party, and pretend you're not sick of it
What's the matter, sweetie, did I disrupt your perfect world?
Without a punch, without a kick, but with some mere words hurled
How odd that it can be so easy to have a set life crumble
That verbal words can move the path, and in the dark, you'll stumble
Welcome to my everyday, my unsteady realm
Despite you, I survived, now babe it's your turn
How long do you think you'll last, with no one holding your hand?
Without a soul to pick you up, and follow each demand
Look back upon what you have done, and find your purpose now
Thyself is thine's worst enemy, what life can you allow?
Come tidal waves, of depression and despair
Since a slit wrist is forever beyond repair
Could it be so hard for you to think of others too?
Not just yourself, and status, and things to say on cue...
Drop the Barbie act, and look for something more
Down the road, it’ll loose it’s glamour, become such a bore
You’ll run out of souls to shove down, so you can rise above
Then alone you’ll have to stand, with no one left to love
I can’t wait for this day, when unto you comes torture
In my eyes it’s justified, a punishment, more-over
So keep up the bleached hair and peppy made-up cheers
For what I’ve seen still, ahead of you yet leers