In all honesty, there are always going to be people you can't stand. Like the teachers you hate, or political leaders, or just stupid people. But I might as well stop myself from talking about it before getting carried away.

I don't always feel my voice is very subtle, I'm told I'm a very loud person. And that's only true when I want it to be.

I kind of just hate money... and politics, and people, and anything and everything that makes me live up to world standards.

I've got an anger problem, I dream about getting into fights and then I imagine winning and suddenly everybody thinks I'm dangerous.

I should probably tell my sister I love her, but if I'm being honest, I have to tell my other sister I hate her.

I don't know how smart I'm supposed to be, or if I should act like I don't care anymore. If I could shoot up a building, I think I would. Not because I want to.

But because I ---



...


*Nobody ever told me how to put an end to this...

Don't get me wrong, I like elevators as much as the next guy. But there's always been something about stairs that just interests me in a way elevators can't.

If you've ever watched me climb a flight of stairs, I usually skip every other step. Mainly to save time because I live life too fast, climbing stairs so I could slow life down somewhere else.

I have this one staircase where all my friends hang out, less than 10 steps with a door at the top. That door wasn't opened very often, we called it the -- "Suicide Door". Only to find that it was a room where there were tons of stacked boxes willed with paper. But we still hung out on that staircase anyway.

Lately, the conversations that take place on those stairs are less than amusing, we don't laugh about how stupid people are. Rather we rant about who we want to **** in this world, and who's mad at who for thier gender or religion, I don't feel safe there anymore.

I fear if I say anything that I'll be shut down because I don't like people's use of "free speech" when it's used to put people down. And yes, I know, I'm not innocent here. There are conversations I regret saying that I have left on that staircase.

We don't talk about those conversations because we know out opinions are still changing. I may not remember any of this when it's finally over.

We don't talk about conversations we had behind closed suicide doors. But we never talk about the ones we had on the staircase below it. Sometimes that door seems like it's locked forever, and we choose to believe that our staircase leads to nowhere.

I miss the way thing used to be, when conversations weren't poisonous to those who heard the even by accident.

It makes me want to take elevators with strangers. Sure, it would be awkward, but at least nobody would want to rant about people to a bunch of strangers.

I sat by the stairs again. All my friends were there. But the school bells ring and everybody leaves. Nobody bothers with a "see you later" of a "c'mon, we gotta go, you'll be late". They just leave.

I'll stay there for a minute, gather my things, and wonder where they all went.

And whether or not they'd come back.

After all, the stairs aren't all that important right?

And these stairs, out of all staircases, just lead to nowhere...

Growing up in a Christian home, you'd expect someone like me to have committed myself to working for God since I was 4 or 5.

Aha...

But no. I used to think that too.

I was 11 and it was the middle of the night. I was crying and sweating bullets calling out to God to save me. This is the kind of thing I will not be required to explain to a skeptic or somebody who questions why I do thing the way I do. I have never been very open about faith during my life. But this isn't about me.

Let's talk about something else, so there's this guy, Isaiah. A prophet, said to have understood and described the mystery of Jesus. Something people today would never figure out. Isaiah would prophesies the future in such a way that you wouldn't know he was talking about the future. He wrote songs about the revelation songs... I write songs...

I know a little boy at my church, his name is Isaiah, and part of me wonders if he will write song, or poetry praising God along with it.

Let's talk about silver, a metal used as currency, or plates written on in biblical times, and its brother metal gold, is seen in the garden of Eden, where everything was perfect.

Gold is seen as perfection. Heaven paved the streets with it, can you imagine the glory? But no, silver, seen as second place to gold, seen as "not-as-pure". Because silver will tarnish right? I am silver, tarnish is my sin, I will never be gold in this skin.

And Isaiah was silver turned gold by God and now Isaiah, you are on silver, printed with your own words.

Here me now:

Written in Isaiah Chapter 55 verse 9.

"For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways, and My thoughts higher than your thoughts." Says the Lord!

This is not to say that because I am religious that I'm better than anybody. This is to remind myself that I am to be humble, and human, and silver.

Not perfect by any means, but working towards a life I've needed since that night when I was 11.

I am human, and Christian, and nothing can change that. this silver reminds me that I'm not perfect.

This verse reminds me...

That I still have work to do.

I once asked my parents if I could join cadets. They asked me if I knew what cadets grew up to be. I never brought it up again.

I got into a fight with a friend about her ex. We haven't spoken in months. She still hasn't forgiven me...

Someone detuned the piano in my mind and now music sounds awful. I want to find where melody and harmony met and made a straight line coming back to me.

Your average human body has hair, a head, arms, legs, a torso, hands and feet, eyes, ears, a brain and heart...

But if my body is made of music, are my arms mallets? Are my legs the legs of a piano?

Is my heart the drum that my feet will always follow? The metronome that my body will always follow?

Is my DNA coded in sheet music?

Are my hands the baton? Are my fingers the keys? Is my spine a xylophone, each vertebrae a singular key?

Fact: The average human body will eventually narrow down to only 207 bones. Are my 207 bones each a separate instrument? All part of the orchestral body,

--This STAGE!

If they say music never dies, do I die?

Does my soul live on generations after I am gone? Will people still remember me?

If my body is made of music...

Will you still listen?
Even if the song is over?

Truth be told, I probably need therapy, or counselling I'm not sure.
But I'm not going to get involved in that.

So instead I go to a karate class twice a week. And it's a good outlet for anger.

Just imagine the person or thing you're currently mad at and go crazy. Punch, kick, fight!

Make it known that you are blazing mad! Don't back down until you have won!

When the class is over, you're probably tired, you've used a lot of your energy, so you can maybe sleep your anger off.

But somedays, you rage does not give up, it sticks with you and you're still not satisfied with the service, you want a refund? Well too bad, you don't get one! Remember, this is not a real therapy session...

Maybe I should go into therapy -- or counselling.

Because even if you fight with all your rage and anger and hate, you won't win a fight if the person you're mad at --

If the person you are fighting...

Is yourself.

Now I said that I wouldn't judge or treat you any different. Because you're still the same person you were before right?

Right?

No, you're not.

2 days, that's all it took. Just 2 simple days.

You come back and suddenly I wonder if I should ask what your name is...

You look -- different. But let me believe that the person I once knew is still there in the projection of a body I don't recognize. You are still here... right?

But then you start talking, and acting, and thinking differently. What?!?!

I start calling your name wondering if you'll respond, tell me you remember me, tell me you're still here, tell me--

Tell me that you can still be my friend. Because I will still be here for you.

*No matter what.

Hi!

My name is ___ and I'm _ years old. My favourite subject is ___ and I like to ____ in my spare time. I believe in __ and from time to time I also go ___.

My family is pretty cool, I've got siblings and I really enjoy my time with my family. My father however is currently ___ and my mom is trying to cope with that.

My school is very ___, but I enjoy being there anyway. My friends are very ___ and I enjoy my time at school, it's a nice time to enjoy my own existence in a building.

But you don't want to live my life. It's too ____. Underneath this skin lies the ___ I try to hide. I'm constantly ___ and ___.

Why am I just so ___ with this?!

You don't know how much I go through. You barely know me. There is always information lost in translation. You shouldn't feel bad that you don't know me. How could you? You're missing something. I can tell you what it is.

You-- are missing ____.

Definition of Selfless:* Putting others before yourself to the point where "you" don't matter anymore.

Definition of Pain: One of the two things that I believe all people have in common. The other thing? Love.

Definition of Love:  --ERROR-- Lost in translation.

Definition of Nothing: Nothing...

Definition of Feeling You've got tons of it don't you?

...

Don't you?

Definition of Me: A personal title I call myself. Also known as *"you" in a sense.

High and mighty and greater than "you".

Because "me", a self proclaimed name that doesn't deserve its definition. Because "I" am hurt, and in "pain", and out of "love", and too "selfless" to take care of "me". So that makes "me"...

*"Nothing."

I could write a meaningful story with a meaningful message for you to carry with you into the future and beyond.

No, I don't think I have enough time to create a picture in your mind of what I have to say.

There is nothing to gain or give to the words I write in the time I have left.

How about 5?

< 5. Would you be able to pull this off by then?

I can't and I have < 10.

Maybe it's easy for you, but accept the fact that it is not easy to write good poetry with purpose and meaning and feeling and anything that is important to you in < 10 minutes...