Dear Ronald Bilius Weasley
No matter what others say
I will always be your fan
You are such a marvellous character
Not perhaps, a perfect one
But a character with flaws
So real, and so beautiful
That we can totally relate to it

In your first year at Hogwarts
You played a game of chess
In such a magnificent manner
That even the Russians of the Muggle world
Could not have done any better

In your second year at Hogwarts
You faced your greatest fears
With a courage and nerve
That Godric Gryffindor would have been proud of
For the sake of your best mates

In your third year at Hogwarts
You almost ruined a friendship
For the sake of a rat and a broomstick
But you made amends for it
By standing up to a notorious murderer
That too with a broken leg
Again, for the sake of your best mate

In your fourth year at Hogwarts
Again, there was a misunderstanding
That threatened to derail a strong friendship
But you were there for Harry
When it truly mattered
There was also some ugly ****** jealousy
As your teenage hormones took centrestage
But at least you got an inkling
That you and Hermione
Were made for each other

In your fifth year at Hogwarts
There was a lot you had to put up with
The constant bullying of the Slytherins
Especially during Quidditch matches
The temper tantrums of your best friend
And finally, the evil Dolores Jane Umbridge
Initially, due to your nerves and insecurities
Your Quidditch performances went from bad to worse
But then, you finally showed us
The stuff you were made of
Saving goals left, right and centre
And to cap it all
You bravely fought a dozen Death Eaters
Yet again, for the sake of your best friend

Finally, we come to the war
Due to your never-ending insecurities
And anxiety for your family
Worsened by a dreadful locket
That contained a part of Voldemort's soul
You briefly deserted your best mates
But returned when it mattered the most
Even saving Harry's life in the process
And then, as you destroyed that darned locket
You finally conquered your fears
And transitioned successfully to manhood
Finally, during the Battle of Hogwarts
You showed us your sensitive side
A side that we had never seen before
As you displayed your concern for the house-elves
Precipitating your first kiss with Hermione
Later on, you lost your dear brother
But continued to soldier on bravely
Even standing up to Voldemort himself
Hence, dear Ronald Bilius Weasley
No matter what others say
I will always be your fan

My First Day at Hogwarts
On a Saturday morning,
I woke up in pain.
Perched on top of my head,
Was an owl shaking its mane.

As I focused my glance,
the owl got clearer.
There was something clutched in its beak;
a pale yellow letter.

When I opened it,
words started to bloom,
Mr Y. Vartak,
The inner bedroom.


‘You have a place
in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,
Points will be taken for wrong,
and awarded for bravery.’

I showed it to my parents,
Who were not at all surprised.
They were in fact very happy,
I am a wizard I realized!

We took a plane to London,
Visit Diagon Alley.
In a hurry to buy my first wand,
robes and stationery.

It was the first of September,
so we hurried to Kings Cross.
We got to platform nine and three quarters,
after struggling through the chaos.

I had everything in my trunk,
I had nothing more to get.
My parents surprised me,
by giving me an owl as a pet.

I got a seat in the Hogwarts Express,
and put my robes,
There was a boy opposite me,
he was juggling bewitched globes.

We got off the train,
At Hogsmeade Station.
There was an amazing castle,
that was beyond my imagination.

We rowed across the lake,
sitting on boats,
It was getting colder,
so we pulled on our coats

We entered the hall,
Full of eyes.
There was a roof above us,
that represented the vast skies.

There was a dusty hat,
in the middle of a stage,
It had a rip near the brim,
so it looked older than its age.

A professor named Minerva,
Put that hat on my head.
The rip opened like a mouth,
Interesting is what it said.

The Sorting Hat as it was called,
said that he had to think some more,
After a while it yelled:
‘He’ll go in GRYFFINDOR!’

I joined the Gryffindor,
at the Start-Of-Term Feast.
We were so involved I talking,
we cared for our sleep the least.

After the feast, we departed,
for Gryffindor Common Room,
Outside the portrait hole, there was,
a shiny black broom.

I changed from my robes to my nightdress,
lay down watching the dying ember.
My eyelids were getting heavy,
I walked into a deep slumber.

This poem is written by me,
Yash Singh.
Specially written for my favourite,
Joanne Kathleen Rowling.

fall was in the air and it was a very dreary october day. the halls of the old victorian house had been filled with new arivals and lots of noise.

"i can barely hear myself think." Madison sneered, a  cigarette in her hand  as she stood next to zoey and nan in the hallway. looking at the new girls with disguist. "and none of these new ******* better step on my toes. this isnt ******* hogwarts." she rolled her eyes. "hogwarts." zoey laughed, making nan laugh aswell. "if this were hogwarts, you would be draco malfoy" nan joked. "hardy har har." Madison snickered. "and you would be harry potters fat cousin because your ugly and nobody loves you." madison smiled. "well, i think it's great." zoey said cheerfully. "all of these girls would feel lost and alone and now they have somewhere to belong.". "you would say that." Madison rolled her eyes. suddenly a slightly younger girl with big green eyes and long brown hair and freckles rushed up to the three of them with a gleam in her eye. "oh my god it is you! you're madison montgomery!" the girl explained. " i love you! will you sign my back pack?" the girl turned around and Madison pulled a pink highlighter out of the side of her floral backpack. her face lit up as she wrote her name on the backpack making zoey and nan smile aswell. "thank you! thank you! thank you! you're my idol." the girl blushed. "my name is Cassie motts, i've seen all of your movies, i love you! i love you! i love you!" the girl giggled. "alright.." Madison had been taken back a step. "have a great day you little ******." she smiled, a look of confusion hung upon her face. "thank you.. you dont know how much this means to me." the girl explained cheerfully and walked away. "well ladies it looks like we're the head honchoes around this **** show." Madison sighed, still slightly smiling. "i was always the head honchoe." nan replied. "yeah, okay, right." zoey rolled her eyes and smiled at nan as the three made there way down the hall together.

Oh you may not think I’m pretty,
But don’t judge on what you see,
I’ll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.

There’s nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can’t see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
if you’ve a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin
You’ll make your real friends,
Those cunning folks use any means
To achieve their ends.

So put me on! Don’t be afraid!
And don’t get in a flap!
You’re in safe hands (though I have none)
For I’m a Thinking Cap!

I’d hazard a guess there aren’t many folk who don’t know the tales of Harry, Hermione and Ron
and how with a cast of a multitude of friends they defeated Voldemort with aplomb,
rightly these heroic adventures are held in the highest regard,
and will be told forever by musicians, singers and bards,
these stories will be remembered, people will talk of those courageous and brave
and how they turned the evil tide of The Dark Lord with everything they gave,
how they dispelled the magic of horror with the strength of the Gryffindor lion,
but less well known than this wonder is the fable of Tayrn and her Ryan.
R and T arrived to Hogwarts  10  years after He Who Can Not Be Named was vanquished in the great struggle,
Tayrn was pure wizard born whereas Ryan was pure muggle,
both took to wizarding school easily and did well in all their classes,
of course Tayrn was a hit with the lads and Ryan a swoon with the lasses,
but it didn’t matter they gave all folk in their year at Hogwarts an involuntary love shudder
because ace Tayrn and Ryan only had eyes for each other!
Their wonderful sweet love was easy and went without a hitch,
spent Saturdays gazing at each other when they should have been watching Quidditch,
hand in hand they skipped around The Forbidden Forest, their romance knowing no rift,
saying hello to a friendly centur or a flying hippogriff,
they galloped around Diagon Alley, their souls full of cheer,
or sat relaxed and tranquil in The Leaky Cauldron sipping butter beer.
T and R were ace at spells, Tayrn’s best was with a wand swish creating healing
and Ryan’s wonderful arty prowess was painting The Sistine Chapel on any ceiling;
yes they were each other’s equal in the way they weaved the magic from above
and this is one of the reasons they were very much in love.
One night T and R were going on one of their romantic walks
and decided to have a jaunt to a wonderful clearing just near Hogwarts,
they sauntered through the darkening evening with a song on their lips,
swaggered along the green with the music of love on their hips,
as they got to the secluded clearing they were anticipating with glee each other’s hold
but then all of a sudden they started feeling very cold.
They both noticed that the summer grass was covered in a blanket of frost,
the trees were looking pale, freezing, withdrawn and lost,
the air was filled with frigidity and held the hints of scare,
the flowers were wilting with chilled terror, bloom given way to despair,
as Tayrn and Ryan wondered what was the cause of such floral bad health
just a few yards away  the answer revealed itself;
over a hill came a hooded figure that immediately brought fright to the fore
as Tayrn and Ryan paid attention in Defence Against The Dark Arts they instantly recognised it as a dementor,
but they noticed something different about this one, it was nearly trebled in size,
and had a deeper blackness where should have been it’s eyes.
Being skilled at magic they knew what they had to do to avoid any harm
so both quickly fired off their best Patronus Charm,
but these spells had no effect, the huge dementor merely shrugged them off
and they could have sworn beneath it’s hood it let out a derisive scoff.
The enormous dementor hovered over Tayrn and Ryan and from its mouth emerged a hiss,
as it prepared to give the two lovers their final goodbye kiss,
but as it stooped over them with it’s awful deathly hue
T and R looked into each other’s eyes and figured out what they were going to do;
they remembered in one class learning about the bravest man Hogwarts had ever knew
and how he was able to hoodwink The Dark Lord with a love strong, solid and true,
how Snape drew on his love of Lilly to ride through any storm,
even on his darkest night it was what kept him warm,
so Tayrn and Ryan pushed their wands together and thought of beautiful Severus
and how they both too shared the romantic love buzz,
and channelling the wonder of that special feeling thus
they both pointed their wands in unison and screamed Expelliarmus!
Emitted from the tip of each wand was the half of a love heart projected from each soul
that both came together to create the fantastic whole,
in the shine of such love the vast dementor instantly recoiled,
knowing that it’s draining wish was in no doubt foiled,
it writhed around and in the glare of joy did it’s nefarious purpose erode,
every bleak and blank about it started to corrode,
the dementor slowly ebbed away until all of it did go
and in it’s place was left a striking brown young doe,
it bowed it’s head to Tayrn and Ryan and then it flew into the trees,
gliding with majesty on the sweet night breeze.
Awed by what had happened Ryan and Tayrn turned and started to walk back to the dorm,
aware of what occurred was special and not the norm,
but then they stopped in their tracks and at the same time both did say,
“oh my beautiful love, I know  I’m going to marry you someday!”

Walk into that crowd
Walk into Hogwarts
Some people wearing formal
A lot in black

But you cannot find Ginevra Weasley
Although you were Harry
Maybe because you've already lost your wand
Or because Ginny could've given you a heart attack

Sometimes I wish I
could go to Hogwarts.
Magic would be
wonderful, but the
real enchantment would
be my House.
I imagine basking
in that Ravenclaw
common room
surrounded by others
like me.
That is the
true fantasy.

Dearest reader,


My name is Margot Dylan and I am no longer a ******.

I stared at Dianne staring at Frieda Bentley, as she dragged on a Camel Blue and as I dragged my pen across my notepad. I sketched her figure as she walked closer to Frieda, dropping her cigarette on the ground. Frieda smiled at Dianne, as she stepped and twisted her shoe on the smoldering carcass.

And they looked at each other. Not like how normal people look at each other. And Dianne smiled. A smile that was not like any smile Dylan ever gave me.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, with ******* slipping to my collarbone. The ******* tapping belonged to a girl. The girl's name was Thora, a brunette that smelled like bubblegum and 'don't go'. Thora had something in common with Dianne: They both recently came out as gay. Unlike me, both family reactions were fairly positive. In fact, so positive that-What are you drawing?

"Margot?"

I paused, looked at Thora, and looked back at Dianne or Dylan Dunham. "That girl," I pointed in their general direction, as Dianne kissed Frieda on the forehead. Thora followed my finger in time for the kiss on the lips, "the ironic one."

Thora Nelson, daughter of Cameron Nelson and the deceased Geraldine Nelson, looked at my chin and asked, "Who is she?"

Thora's cotton-candy-blues met my puddles of mud, as I looked away, putting my notepad in my backpack. Before I zipped, I grabbed the lime green marker sleeping next to my pack of index cards. My teeth squeezed the leaf colored cap off, as I pulled out the fetus, smelling the aroma of non-toxic afterbirth.

I asked if she wanted a tattoo and she shrugged, "Oh no, you mean I get to choose whether you touch me or not?"

Lightly pressing the fiber tip to her arm, I glanced up at her and shrugged a bony shoulder, "Her name is Dylan Dunham. Well, it's actually Dianne. It's complicated. I used to call her Dylan. She used to call me Margot."

"But your name still is Margot," Thora informed as her eyes followed the acid-green ink trail.

"Some people change, some people don't," I said, with the cap held between my teeth.

I painted her arm in lime hope, by the soda machines. My eyes focused on her pores that I imagined swallowed dirt and bacteria from the side of my palm. I could feel Thora disarm me with her eyes, after I had disarmed her with my words. Her heartbeat echoed inside my grasp.

"I didn't know I was dating Leonardo DaVinci," the words flowing from her mouth.

"I am gay and Italian, so it's not like I was doing a terrific job of hiding it from you," I muttered as I finished and held her pale forearm and bracelet cuffed hand a foot from her face, "Look: it's us underneath a tree."

Turning and wrinkling her nose, she adjusted, moving her head back and forth. " Oh wow. Wow, wow, wow. Meta. So meta. So abstract. Brilliant in its simplicity, deconstructing the concept of natural complexity-"

"Shut up-"

"The tree looks like an umbrella. And we look like we have canes-"

"Those are our fishing poles. In that world, we are fishermen. Fisherwomen. Fishergals-"

"And my **** is too big and your ***** are too small and our smiles aren't big enough-well, at least mine isn't, I can't speak on your behalf," she finished.

Grabbing her arm, I looked at my masterpiece, looked at her, looked at it again, and looked at her again as her smile grew with every glance. "Well, I can see how it'd be up to debate, and you're right: very, very meta. But you do have a big ****, and I'm not one to sacrifice accuracy. Speaking of accuracy: as I look at this green ****, I realized I hit the mark by dating you. Honestly, your **** may have its own zip code..And...I'd like to be in its area? Please stop me."

Her chin touched her knee, as she doubled over, laughing. I played with her hair, wrapping her bangs around my fingers. As my hands were enveloped by her dark hair, I found a scar on her crown. I imagined Thora's milky-white fingers scrubbing through shampooed locks, trembling across the zig and zag of removed glass.

I imagined Thora Nelson, of Cameron Nelson and the deceased Geraldine Nelson, hearing sirens instead of water hitting the tiles. Her slumping to the floor, as lather and water runs down her face, each tear a memory of being dragged out of a steel ribcage, onto broken glass jungle pavement. It was too easy yet too difficult to imagine her staring at the steaming showerhead. It was too easy yet too difficult to imagine her reaching towards a metallic carcass growing in flames.

Her hand grabbed my leg and I saw her for what might have been the first time.

"Hey you. Listen. Are you listening?"

I nodded.

"I'm in love with you, Margot Dylan. Like, really in love. To the point to where I feel like I'm in a Jennifer Aniston rom-com. It's disgusting."

I didn't know what happened between my exploration of her hair and her pale face studying mine, but, before I knew it, my blood shook and barbed wire nerves orbited around pieces of my body.

The ricochet of a soda can smacking the mouth of the machine sounded. Time was either too fast or too slow, as I looked at Thora's cheap mascara eyes and chapped, soft pink lips. She was the type of girl that could make someone happy not to believe in god.

"And I love you. To the point to where I'd refuse Hogwarts because of not being able see you during the school year."

"How sweet, I know how badly you wanted to get into Ravenclaw," she smiled.

"Sacrifices must be made in the name of love, you know. And it ***** because you're not even my type," I admitted.

"Oh, how tragic. And what is your type, if I may ask?"

"You may, thank you. And the falling in love type," I'm an idiot.

"Could you be anymore cheesy?"

"Mozzarella."

She stopped and looked at me, "Hey, but really, I'm in love with you. It's real."

"I love you, too."

Her eyes were speckled,"You really love me, Margot Dylan? Because I'll believe you."

I leaned in, softly placed my hands on her cheeks, breathing the word, "Yes." I alternated between staring at her mouth and her eyes, as her lids began to drop.  My lips started to dab hers and soon grab, as if soft hooks grew out of and connected our flesh. I found the corner of her mouth, the summit of her cheek, and each crease in her lips. Nine or ninety seconds past before I stopped, pulled away, and looked into her eyes. "Hogwarts is overrated anyway," I lied. She laughed.

Her face was red, as she looked down while covering her face, "Don't look at me, I'm a dork. I'm being a loser. I'm infected."

"It's okay. You can be my infected dork and we can be losers together," my voice was a rasp.

"It really isn't. You see, my face always becomes extraordinarily red after I kiss or am kissed by someone, especially by someone beautiful. And it doesn't help that I've never been kissed by someone I love. And I've never kissed a girl before and I'm really glad you were the first, so there. Gah," her hands fenced her face,"I'm just going to hide behind these hands, don't mind me."

I was in love, "For how long?"

"Probably forever, I don't know. Or until the next installment of American Horror Story, I haven't made up my mind yet."

We heard Ms. Calloway scold Dianne about smoking on school grounds. I looked at Thora and the bell rang. Her hands slowly dropped, as everyone started to move in blurs. Bodies gaining more and more distance. Inches became miles. Feet grew into light-years, and, before I knew it, Thora kissed my cheek and said, "I hope I see you later, okay?"

My hand had something in it. My fingers unfurled and revealed high school origami. My name was on it, with a heart or a ****-I'm the artist in the relationship. I began pulling on *****, the tips of my fingers breaking the paper safe. So delicate must have been her mysterious movements.

I opened it.




A pebble flew from my hand and blipped off her bedroom window. Funny thing about bedroom windows, they look the same at 12:03 am. Or maybe they look a little different when the person you love is behind the glass, as you do an eighties-film-esque pebble throw. Before my next pebble hit the pane, her bedroom light came on.

Navy blue curtains disappeared to the sides as Thora came to the window and rubbed her eyes. A second later, she was gone as I imagined her sneaking past her father's bedroom, quietly down the stairs, and through the foyer. As I imagined this, I could hear the front door being unlocked and creaking open. I walked towards the porch and a yellow glow escaped with a silhouette living in it.

Thora's left hand is burnt, but I don't mind and I don't think I ever will. She held my hand as we walked through the threshold. At first I was nervous when I saw her father in the living room, but I instantly realized that he was passed out, as my eyes found empty beer cans sleeping beside him and around him.

"It's not like this every night," she whispered, "he just has trouble with certain months."

Thora tucks her toes when standing in place. When we were walking up stairs, I knew she would be embarrassed if I looked at her toes, so I kept my eyes on the second floor. I don't understand why she feels this way, though. She has very nice feet, and that's coming from someone who thinks feet are gross.

We walked past punched in doors adjacent to perfect picture frames. Her mother was a beautiful woman.

As we approached Thora's sticker-clad door, she turned to me and whispered, "You're about to enter the only place in the world I feel safe. So, please don't break my heart in it and please use a coaster."

My thumb kissed her smooth burn, as I took my first steps into her bedroom. The light-switch flicked and her room illuminated. There were movie posters hugging the walls, pinned to a bulletin board were pictures of lost people and found memories. She looked at me and whispered, "I don't know how to keep people."

We stood before the side of her bed and I looked at her smile, "You sure you want to do this?" Thora nodded and I reached towards her thighs to lift the bottom of her shirt. Lifting it over her head, I looked at her porcelain figure clad in black *******. I tossed the grey shirt onto her bed.

My eyes swam from her belly button to her *******. My fingers approached and stopped until she said it was okay. Tracing her curves, scars, and stretch marks, she pet my fingers. Thora glanced at my hands on her ******* and then at me, cooing, "I'm sorry."

My hands slid to her sides, "Sorry for what?"

She shrugged, "I don't know," her eyes spilling, "Sorry for this," she motioned at her torso as she stared at her bulletin board and then at me before looking away again, "I want to be perfect. I want to be perfect for you."

"Oh no, no, no," I asked for her hand and then placed it over my left breast, "Can't you feel how beautiful you are?"




Her arm was under my ******* and her hand was on my rib, occasionally running her fingertips across the bumps. She slept with her leg wrapped around mine, staying as close as she could to me. I looked at her, in her slumber, and left a faint, burgundy stain on her forehead. I reached towards our shins and pulled the black cover over our fused bodies.

I feel like I have been in a coma for seventeen years and I've just woken up. If I could, I'd stretch this moment over centuries and use it to smother wars. This relationship probably won't last past my senior year, but that's okay. It truly is.

In this moment, Thora Nelson is the love of my life, and, in ways I don't understand yet, that is the most beautiful thing in the world.



May the sun set in our eyes forever,


Margot Dylan

I came to study the magical arts
But these troublesome three students
Hermione, Ron and harry,
Last semester those three students
Killed our defence against the dark arts teacher
I guess if he didn't stand against three kids,
How would he survive against the real dark arts,
Now this semester they're up to their shenanigans again
I wish I could just Wingardium Leviosa them off a cliff
But if I do that
Or even if I fail my grade this semester
My parents will probably Avada Kedavra me.

You stepped foot out of the car and sauntered over
I was sure I could watch you come home to me everyday
But we only had 94 hours together
Although, I craved for you to stay

We watched through the tale of The Boy Who Lived
(And you dozed through all my favorite parts)
We relived another seven years in the castle and hallows
While it was really only nineteen hours on the couch

Still, time was of the essence
It had been far too long since your hand was in mine
So, I strived to make the most of it
Before you drove back across the state line

It was during those 94 hours
When you whispered all your affection to me
The glow across your face from the television
When you told me you were falling in love with me

Those 94 hours came to an end and you packed up all your things
You placed my hand on your beating heart, sorting out every feeling
Your car then left the driveway just as easily as it came
All of our time spent apart made me realize one commodity

Absence does make the heart grow fonder

Rest in peace to all the brave gryffindors
The courageous ones with hearts that soar
Rest in peace to all the smart ravenclaws
You left this generation in intelligent awe
Rest in peace to all the clever slytherin
without you, many of us wouldn't grin
Rest in peace to all the kind hufflepuff
I know our journey was tough

Avada kedavra to the other sort
Crucio on voldermort
imperious on the non deluxe
Destroy all of the horcrux

Shortlived were the cohorts
That tried to defeat hogwarts

we thank you

who the hell doesn’t want to be a Jedi
seriously you can control the force and **** siting  
on you couch playing cod all you want is the Mt due in the fridge an don't want to get up
force that **** over to you
like really come on you think this stuff is for nerds
no its not don’t think for one seconded that you didn’t liked something nerdy
hid it from your friends *** they thought it wasn’t cool because you have
you may not remember but you did.
there had to be a moment were you wanted to be a Jedi or join the rebellion or even the empire.
But now you all act to cool for ****
why not go back to you child hood and remember how much fun you had
playing lightsabers, wands and Nurf stuff
also when you came upon an automatic door an acted that you used the force on it
am I right or am I just a fool
I know every generation had their wish to be’s.
Maybe you weren’t a WARS fan
maybe you were a Treckie
or one for the Doctor and his big blue box
or a Wizard with an owl
but at least once in your life you were a nerd
or a fanboy or a fangirl over what you saw as the coolest thing.
Now once again who da hell wishes they were a fracking Jedi,
star fleet officer, a companion of the Doctor or even a student of Hogwarts
Raise yo hand now.

I was once a young boy wizard, who saved the world with his friends.

I was once the Mockingjay, whose
adventures had no end.

I was once Divergent, and
one choice changed my life.

I was once a Demi-god, and
my pen was also a knife.

I was once a kid with a treehouse,
That travelled to anywhere in time.

I was once a young girl who
lived in the woods, in a small house, but that was just fine.

I was once a young German orphan, stole books and read them for fun.  

I was once a hobbit who found the   one ring, but still my exploits weren't done.

When I read a good book, I sail away,  
To Hogwarts, The Factions, The Shire.

I am the characters I read,
I'm Leisel, I'm the ******* Fire.

So sail me away, give me a book,
I promise you it won't bore me.

For when I am reading a well written tale,
Though I am me, I'm the story.








----------------------------------------------------

Once upon a time, not so long ago, there was a boy who say and read all day and all night.  That's all he would do in his spare time, read, read read.  Now, this boy wasn't hard to find in a crowd due to his brilliant blond hair and his misty blue-green eyes which seemed to be as if fog had rolled into a swamp and created a beautiful tranquility.  This boy, was made fun of for reading, for not knowing things, even for having glasses.  They called him things like "******", "four eyes", "stupid".  These words hurt the boy more than anything he could ever imagine.  So he buried himself deeper in books.  He wandered down the halls of Hogwarts from Harry Potter, and slept in the cabins at Camp-Halfblood from Percy Jackson.  He watched on as tributes killed each other in The Hunger Games, and flew with the flock in Maximum Ride.  But one day, something  happened to this misty eyed boy.  He moved schools, with new faces and new insults.  Except, the misty-eyed boy was never called names, never made fun of.  He was accepted, people talked to him without calling him a name.  And he started to respond.  Slowly, he emerged from the pages of the books he had been buried beneath.  When he emerged, something caught his eye.  A beautiful girl, one with auburn hair and hazel eyes that shone like the full moon on a clear night.  She made him feel happier than he had ever felt, and the names that had clung to this poor boy fell off.   This misty-eyed boy decided one day to give his heart to this hazel eyed girl.  And that's when something amazing happened, she gave him hers in return.  And they were happy...for the time being.  As the boy began to talk more and more, he started to read less and less.  He went online and made friends from all over the world.  He indirectly hurt this hazel eyed girl, and she started to take her heart back.  That misty eyed boy tried his best to convince her that he was the right one to hold onto it, but she gave it over to somebody she had met online.  The misty-eyed boy was devastated, he began to do the one thing he had wanted to do all his life.  He wrote.  He wrote and when he did the world seemed to stop, nothing mattered anymore, there was no hazel eyed girl, only him and his emotions.  And the boy was happy.   The boy wrote and wrote and wrote, stealing glances at the hazel eyed girl whenever he could, smiling slightly as he remembered all the fun that they had had together.  One day, the girl gave the boy her heart again, and he felt that feeling that he had felt only once  before in his life.  The misty-eyed boy was even happier.  And they stayed like this, but not even a year later, the hazel-eyed girl started to take her heart back.  She turned to another boy, one who's blond hair was shorter and his eyes were a deep blue like the sea.  He charmed her with his kindness and his grace, and when the misty-eyed boy complained, the hazel eyed girl and the sea blue eyed boy lashed out at him.   And the boy was sad again.  He wrote, but this time, he could not forget about that hazel eyed girl.  He felt the pain envelop him and consume him.  He gave up multiple times but couldn't surrender because he knew if he did he would hurt those who loved him.  Before you give all of your sympathy towards this little misty eyed boy, you must know this.  He too, had let his demons out.  Twice in this story did he make that hazel eyed girl cry, and cut and give up.  He said things that made her feel horrible about herself, he did the things he promised he would never do.  He became a monster.  But that ended as quickly as it arose, and the boy felt horrible.  He sat in his room, crying because he knew that that girl had scars because of him.  And that little misty-eyed boy sat and wondered, what would have happened if he had just stayed buried.

Hollywood sell-outs, bands change
it's only now a new ******* age.
Disney new ballet is ***** to
money, and ideals we knew
vanish with subtlty

Michael Bay puts
the spode into explosion
while the media ****
francises and more.

Horror remakes are they
such a good idea? Suddenly
Jason and Freddy no longer
bring fear. Robert Englund walks
with a stick, but Hollywood
this shtick no good.

Entertainment industry
thrive on naiveity while
we sink deeper into
simplicity. Education
stagnating as a whole
with cries of purity
and morals galore.

Blood and gore we crave
we want, so Roth and Saw
sold us hard, but questions
now number on the minds
as people question our
sanity.

Marvel the gods and
Heroes have forgotten the
way, they're now
in Disney sway.

People are dancing to
the new sensation,
it's lacks a plot,
it vilifies most and
fills with hesitation.
It's High School Musical.

'I want Edward Cullen'
girls now cry, 'He's like
so hot and sweet' Twilight
is the new blue.

The Boy wizard now grown
up he's out of Hogwarts with
friends in tow, pursuing new
careers and other goals.

Sony and Microsoft strive for the
crown while Nintendo say jump
we all ask 'How high?'

Guitar hero, play like a
star, with a couple of buttons
and combinations, you master
AC to the DC with Stones and more.

People yell Fail at Vista,
though eagerly await
Windows 7. Meanwhile
Apple as a company
considered arrogant,
with branches in every
market, ranging with
ipods and iphones, well
you know what they say,
an eye for eye leaves the
whole world blind.

Instant messages and cyber
chat, issue this proclaimation,
that letters are dead and no
longer cool. Conform and
drop archaic methods.

Facebook, Myspace, Bebo
and more, we push for
perfection with a social
site. While people Digg
and Stumble whatever
more.

DIAF we yell to haters,
flaming and trolling
youtube and sites.

Everything viral it's now said
the mistakes you make
could be shown a day later
on any video site.

Generation X move out
and baby boomers time
is up, we're the MTV Generation,
utter jerks, brought up by net,
we learn l33t by age 10 but
english, come again? LOL
and ****, we laugh and laugh
but really we sigh.

Canwehazsanity?
a cute kitty asks

A loud knock,
was what I heard.
At this hour of the night,
who might that be,
I wordered.
Begrudgingly,
I opened the door,
only to meet a giant,
and all so hairy man,
(not in a **** way though).

Hey young lady,
I'm Rubeus Hagrid,
here to pick you up.
You are not a muggle,
you do not belong here.
There is a school for you,
Hogwarts is its name,
school of witchcraft,
and wizardry,
(not a regular school per say).

We better hurry up child,
or the train will leave us.
It awaits at Platform 9¾,
and if we are not on time,
Dumbledore will have my head.
If we are late,
you will miss the sorting hat,
which makes me wonder,
are you a Slytherin,
or a  Gryffindor.

Anyway hurry up,
so go on and pack.
I would give you my wand,
but you do not know how to use it.
Do not look confused my child,
instead be happy.
being a muggle is no fun,
you will realise soon.
So hurry up lets go,
( I already hear snape grumbling).
     $angila$

Caring about other people when you're sixteen is like trying to complete a long jump from a high school football stadium on Friday night to a parallel universe where heteronormativity isn't even a word in the dictionary and misogyny is nothing more than a scary story told around the Girl Scout campfire- deemed impractical by everyone you know and more terrifying than you could possibly imagine.

         I. When I was in second grade, I became best friends with Hermione Granger. She taught me how to fall in love- with books, with learning. My seven year old self had a newfound adoration for life. When I laid awake at night and pretended to be at Hogwarts, I was free to fly across the night sky on adventures and then sit on my bed and read countless books whose titles I had never even heard before. In my second floor bedroom with the door shut tight, I was free to stop pretending.

         II. Fourth grade was the year I realized I could be good at something. It was also the first time I wrote a poem. It was about math, and I won a contest to have it published in a book filled with poems by other kids across the country. When I figured out how to rhyme math related words with each other to convey how much I hated the subject, I didn't know about the sense of accomplishment that would follow. I didn't know that forgetting about personal censorship was a better idea than listening to the priest who talked to our class every week. No one had ever told me about verbalizing the ink stains under your skin and liking what ends up on the page.

         III. Eighth grade was the first time I felt passionate about feminism. It was also the first time I witnessed the effects of **** culture in my tiny, Catholic grade school. The new boy in our class told girls he wanted to **** them through metaphor, as if objectification is justified by pretty words and a smooth tongue. When we informed our teachers, they promptly ordered us to "be nice" and "stop spreading rumors." Eighth grade was the first time I witnessed the effects of **** culture in myself- a loss of compassion for the boy terrorizing fourteen year old girls instead of learning analogies in English class. Boy is to girl as dog is to meat. God is to disciple as man is to woman- **** culture perpetuated by the word of God and only fifty percent of us knew it was wrong without knowing why. We were never taught to be anything more than meat.

When Hermione Granger was thirteen, she slapped a boy in the face for insulting her friend. Because she cared. Considering my complete aversion to confrontation and irreplaceable, debilitating shyness masking a deep seated feminist rage put into the words of a poet, I derive strength from Hermione Granger. Not the strength to fight on the front lines of an endless war, but the strength to care. It comes from best friends and books alike, but its ability to create bridges of freedom through parallel universes and ink scribbled hastily onto a page filled with ideas brilliant enough to fuel the world for centuries is never compromised. I don't identify with the Catholic church anymore, but I pray you find it too.

streams of salt and H2O leak
down reddened cheeks and condense
in a golden beard. a war-torn nation,
half-a-world-away, crystallizes clear as dayspring
in an insomniac's screaming and fragile psyche
at half-past-three in the morning.
what strength must a seven-year-old posses
to persevere amidst the perversity of cluster bombs?
munitions bought and paid for with the taxes
we fork over to the United States. will her blood one day
stain our hands with crimson? will her mother's?
a girl who just wanted to read, to escape
the tragedy that inundates our surroundings,
to a magical realm of pure imagination.
where we can summon spectral stags
to save us from the misery of humanity
and learn to disarm those who would harm  
us with the charm, Expelliarmus!
the bastion where i found the first seeds that grew
into a rebellion opens its doors to you, Bana.
there's a crater where your house used to be,
rubble strewn in Aleppo, Syria. but know that Hogwarts
will always be there to welcome you home.

My generation
Is the generation in waiting.
We're just waiting
For our lives to change.
We do all the things
We're supposed to,
And are still met
With criticism.

Because half of us
Are doing our best,
Working our hands to the bone,
Breaking down from some
Terrible disorder.
And the other half
Are just wading around in the kiddie pool,
Trying to find their footing into adulthood,
Or not.

The adults
That were the adults
That raised us
Like to only focus
On the half that's not even trying.

But we're the generation
In waiting.

We all waited to be eleven,
So our Hogwarts letters would come.
Because we wanted to escape
This pointless existence.

Now we're all twenty two or turning so,
Give or take a few months/years,
And we're waiting for the moment
Everything changes.

Waiting on that interview, that promotion, that phone call.
Waiting for someone to confess, waiting to confess,
Or in my case, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

We wait,
Because we were never taught
That our lives were our own,
We were always considered
Tools to be used by others,
Our purpose isn't ours,
And that's not a bad thing.

We're in waiting,
Because we're waiting for someone to save us,
To come to our aid,
To grab our hands
And whisk us away
To a better place.

But maybe if we all stopped waiting,
Maybe if we got up and did things for us,
And therefore each other,
We wouldn't be the generation in waiting--
Rather, the generation of doing.

Let's get one thing clear: When people say "You're all I've ever wanted", they're lying.

I want many things. I want a pizza. I want to get an A for a paper I hardly studied for. I want a room with wooden floors. I want a house facing the sea. I want to walk into Forever 21 and take home anything I like. I want to travel around the world. I want to be better at sports. I want my ulcer gone immediately. I want longer eyelashes. I want to finish an entire season of a tv show without anyone bothering me. I want more followers on Twitter. I want to be friends with my favorite Youtuber. I want a pair of twin boys. I want Hogwarts to be real. I want to be good at archery like Katniss-freaking-Everdeen, cause it's so ******* cool. I want a new phone. I want to sleep late watching chick flicks without having to worry about sleep deprivation. I want three hamsters. I want superpowers. I want to fly.

But you see, here's the catch: What I want most, is you.

today is your birthday.
a year ago today we were on the phone,
at this exact time.
5:00am.
we had been talking since 9pm,
but time flies when you're having fun,
or in my case,
when you're in love.
i remember exactly what we talked about.
how much my parents loved you,
and how much your mom loved me.
how badly we wanted to have our families meet.
and how bad we had always wanted to go to florida.
together.
or go to universal studios
and take pictures in front of hogwarts.

yesterday i watched your instagram story.
and guess where you were?
in front of the hogwarts castle.
i know i can't be mad
or shocked that i wasn't invited.
you're touring with your new best friends.
meeting more people.
more girls.
prettier than me.
better than me.

however, we exchanged our first words in months.
i snapchatted you to say
happy birthday. a civil thing.
i didn't think you would answer,
so it nearly gave me a heart attack when your name popped up.

"thank you so much, lex. miss you."
that's all you said,
followed by a yellow heart.

i know you don't miss me,
and that was all out of pity.
maybe you want to feel better about leaving me behind.
maybe you know how badly i'm hurting.
but,
maybe you might actually miss me too.
i doubt it though.

boys like you don't love
girls like me.

boys like you don't kiss
girls like me.
not anymore at least.

Perfection,
is an illusion, created by the mocking
sanity of the people
in this newspaper world.

Fairytales were something made up as well-
for the entertainment of children,
to enjoy their life,
their innocence
before reality took it all away from them.

No matter how far I chased the rabbit,
I was not Alice in Wonderland.
And even though the glass slipper fit,
I was not Cinderella.

My Hogwarts letter didn't arrive either;
when I was eleven.

And foolishly, at that time,
I cried.
I cried because my dreams were not real,
and that something this good could not exist in this world.

But-
I do not regret crying.
I cried for everything little in the world-
For my broken pipe that would never shoot water out in a straight line-
For my microwave that would always keep the food cold,
and the refrigerator that would always keep the food warm,
and for the 'tap tap' of the lady's heels
from the apartment above mine.

People say that heaven is a beautiful place
full of anything you could ever imagine.
Would it have all my dreams there, then?
In a plastic goody-bag, prehaps.
A certain one dished out to every person-
Angels looking left and right without a care for identity.

I hate it when my phone gets too warm.
I hate it when my favorite books get wrinkled.
I hate it when I lose my wireless mouse.
I hate it when the internet takes too long to load.
I hate it when the tempature of the room is either too cold, or too hot for my liking.
But I love all those hatreds.
I love how my phone gets too warm, warming my hands up in winter.
I love how my favorite books get wrinkled, so I can lovingly patch them up again.
I love how my wireless mouse always gets lost, because then I have an exuse to buy a corded one.
I love how the internet takes too long to load, because then I can go eat while I'm waiting.
I love how the tempature gets too cold or too hot, because then I can stick an ice cube on my forehead, or bundle up with my favorite scarf in winter.

My mother always told me to be mysef, that I was perfect just the way I was-
I tried,
but all my sentences from that point on would come with a stutter.
"D-Did you hear?"

The voice of the piano that strums so gently beneath my fingers,
I love that sound.  
It was the first time I could be sure-
if music had a face
it would smile,
teasingly,
desparingly,
at me.

And now I'm listening to "Light up the Sky" by YellowCard,
lying on my bed and thinking how much the lead singer
looks like Draco Malfoy.

I love the way poetry sometimes has a shape,
either a diamond,
or a heart.
And I am stunned, when I see those-
In fact, I saw one yesterday,
it was a tiger,
coliling around spairled trendles of
black and white
words.

I wonder how words move people to tears.
they're just words, anyway.
Nothing that would exist if humans weren't here.
but I love the way that I can actually cry
when I hear a beautiful piece of poetry.
I would say 'thank you thank you'
over and over again,
but I couldn't speak for the sound in my head.

And the stereotypical, rentless movies,
on sale-
half price!
at BlockBuster,
I bought them all,
just for the sake of spending some money,
I think.

And I watched them all, alone in the night with nothing but a bowl of popcorn by my side.
They were colorful, crazy, wild
And I drank in that feeling, throwing up my arms
with a freedom that I have never felt before.

I love writing poetry,
because words are truly beautiful.
And I love reading over my old poems, and scoffing at what I thought was eloquent before.
Because that means,
I have grown.
Something Infallible, Like Eternity,
That's a good title.
I love the clicking of keyboard keys, feeling the notch of F and J under my fingers.

And I love this world,
for all its imperfections and mistakes,
becuase then there can always be something better after it.
After all, if you're at the top, all you can do is fall.

From quiet homes and first beginning, Out to the undiscovered ends, There's nothing worth the wear of winning, But laughter and the love of friends.
Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953), British author. "Dedicatory Ode," Verses (1910).

Dear Parents

Thank you for deciding after two years of marriage to have a child, me.
Sorry I wasn't the boy that so many of my family desired, sorry I was late, sorry that you missed the "Rumble in the Jungle", if it's any consolation I know who won.
How I came to be is quite beyond me. Father's family disliked mothers and vice versa. Dad a steelworker, Mam a trainee chef, dad flipped a coin with a mate, my mother was the stake.
Four years later sister came along, then another four years the son, that so many yearned for made an appearance.
I saved my sister's life from my grandparent's dog, lost an ear in that battle, a bit like Van Gogh. Plastic surgery at seven, still hate Cocker Spaniels to this day. I tell everyone I saved her from a rabid Doberman (I know parents, there's no Rabies in Great Britain) what did I get for my trouble? A stuffed white cat and a sister that I made sit in a cow pat.
Thank you parents for sending me to a school that made other kids suspicious of me. A welsh medium school, might as well have been Hogwarts, but they taught me well, (I can swear in five languages) and read and spell.
Dad taught me how to head ****, mam you taught me how to make cake.
My sister taught me how to share, my brother taught me how really not to care. Live each day as if it may be your last, I told my brother that often.
Dad, one of 13 kids, mam one of 3, like me. Dad, I hate your sisters that are alive they remind me of the Moirai, or the three witches from Macbeth, I've tried to like them but I'm terrible at lying, and to be honest they are in their late 70's so they must be close to dying.
Mam, your sister is a lesbian, I think her army days gave that away. Your brother like mine a source of consternation a Navy man that never went to sea????
Now, my grandparents are all dead. Apparently, I have inherited my father's mother's temper. She disappeared for 3 days when she thought she'd killed my grandad!
I'm married now, no rug rats thank God, I'm aunty material, selfish and wicked.
Now, this sounds I know a little quaint and odd, but I know we've had our share of bad luck, but, 42 years wed, still in the family home, surrounded by trees, neighbours we've known for years and people we'd like to poison. But,we've laughed so hard mam you have a hernia, dad you are the male equivalent of a ****, you'll be flirting in the OAP home **** yes, sorry parents as one of your three I get to pick the residential home! And, as they say,that is a good life.
Jo **
P.s I didn't mention our family mental illnesses, early 20th century communism, possible adultery, coveting the neighbours Ford Capri, or pet cemetery in the garden. I'll wait til all are dead then spill about the good secrets.

Home - what is home?
Most people equate it with where they live,
but I have a different idea.
Home is where the heart is, right?
And what's to stop your heart from going to some place you've never been?
Nothing.
Just as you can't help falling in love with people,
neither can you help falling in love with places.
That's why, to me, Hogwarts is home.
221B Baker Street is home.
The TARDIS, the Shire, the Burrow.
All are home.
The USS Enterprise is my home away from home.
Same with the Winchester's 1967 Chevy Impala.

They say you can feel homesick for places you've never been.
Most people can't quite understand how that works,
but I know what it's like.
While I may get to visit all of these places in my mind,
thanks to the stories surrounding them,
I'll never be able to physically visit these places.
They're real to me. They just don't exist.
But I have been there - to all of them.
Through words on a page or through scenes playing out on a screen,
the stories surrounding these places have allowed me to visit them.
I know from these stories what it's like to travel through time and space.
To live in King Arthur's court.
To witness Sherlock Holmes bored.
Stressing over Potions essays, adventuring to Mordor,
bonding through hours-long drives across country.
These things, these experiences;
they've filled gaps in my soul that I didn't even realize were there.
And that, I think, is why I call them home.
So that even when their stories are over,
I'll still have that connection to them.

I remember
Those splendid days
So full of hope
And laced with timeless wonder

Those splended days
Each and every one of them
Loved, as if they were treasures in a chest
As if they were colors and magic, floating through air

Those Sundays
When I would sneak out and peek into the mailbox
Sure that I was invisible to the world
With that same hope

Maybe an early Hogwarts letter?
Maybe an early birthday present?
Something wonderful,
Something just for me

Now and then,
I catch a glimpse of that very same
Sunday hope, still living with magic
Inside of my mailbox.

How does loving him feel like?, my sister had once asked.

I couldn’t put together my words back then,
so here it is now.
Words bearing the weight of the universe,
transliterated into a language you can comprehend.

Loving him feels like Christmas mornings at Hogwarts. When little Harry arrives in the Great Hall, and tasted magic for the very first time. It’s the same feeling Percy gets when he tastes ambrosia, the same satisfaction you’d get when Percabeth kisses underwater.

It’s the safety of your covers when the night had passed, and you still couldn’t bring yourself to sleep. It’s staying indoors when it’s pouring outside, occupied with the company of a book. It’s getting lost between the pages and not minding the time. The fresh smell of your favorite outfit once it’s out of laundry, ready to be worn again.

It’s warm,
it’s soft.

It’s not another cliché,
it’s love.

I didn't find Narnia in my closet
I didn't get my letter to Hogwarts
I didn't get to train as a Jedi
This is my reality
It may not be like yours
That doesn't mean your better then me
You don't know my story
You don't know what I've been though
You only know what I tell you
And what I show
Don't tell me I'm not worth your time
I'm nothing special
Or that I'm a wanna-be you
All you are is a Bully
I didn't chose this life
I am me
I don't want one of you
So I say...
Dear Victims,
Listen to what Ron Weasley said to Neville Longbottom
You're worth a hundred of him
And, Dear Bullies,
Get over yourself

If only, on that fateful day,
my Draft Board had been on LSD.

They might have sent me to Wonderland
to explain croquet and the proper pouring of tea;

they might have sent me to OZ
to get into Dorothy's pants or train flying monkeys;

they might have sent me to Hogwarts
to get an advanced degree in something useful;

they might have sent me to Narnia
in search of ****** pelts and talking mice;

they might have sent me to Never Land
to counsel Captain Hook on anger management;

but no, instead, imagination failed utterly,
and those patriotic imbeciles sent me to Vietnam.

If only, on that fateful day,
my Draft Board had been on LSD.

Sometimes I wonder about the girl in the back of the class with the Hogwarts shirt who knows everything.
Sometimes I wonder about the shy, new boy who is slightly bigger than the rest of our Psych class.
Sometimes I wonder about the varsity soccer player with a little sister who is a newcomer.  
Sometimes I wonder about how my math teacher and assistant director are dating.
Sometimes I wonder why the boy in my English class feels the need to argue everything.
Sometimes I wonder how the girls in my class do their makeup so precisely.
Sometimes I wonder what life would be like without my siblings.
Sometimes I wonder what I would do if my best friend died.
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I died.
Sometimes I wonder about my future.
Sometimes I wonder how we're all connected without really being connected at all.

Is there really a Middle Earth where Hobbits live or a Land called Oz
Are there really munchkins or  a Yellow Brick Road

Is there really a Lion, a Witch and a Wardrobe
do Harry, Hermonie or Ron live at Hogwarts
Or is it a Land of make-believe