Lace and Bad Myths | Teen Ink

Lace and Bad Myths

January 24, 2012
By lookingformargo SILVER, Ithaca, New York
lookingformargo SILVER, Ithaca, New York
8 articles 0 photos 2 comments

Favorite Quote:
A child said, "What is the grass?" fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven... and now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. -Walt Whitman, Leaves Of Grass

We need never be hopeless, because we can never be irreparably broken. We think that we are invincible because we are. We cannot be born, and we cannot die. Like all energy, we can only change shapes and sizes and manifestations. They forget that when they get old. They get scared of losing and falling. But that part of us greater than the sum of our parts cannot begin and cannot end, and so it cannot fail. -Looking For Alaska

Here's what's not beautiful about it: from here, you can't see the rust or the cracked paint or whatever, but you can tell what the place really is. You see how fake it all is. It's not even hard enough to be made out of plastic. It's a paper town. I mean look at it, Q: look at all those cul-de-sacs, those streets that turn in on themselves, all the houses that were built to fall apart. All those paper people living in their paper houses, burning the future to stay warm. All the paper kids drinking beer some bum bought for them at the paper convenience store. Everyone demented with the mania of owning things. All the things paper-thin and paper-frail. And all the people, too. I've lived here for eighteen years and I have never once in my life come across anyone who cares about anything that matters. -Paper Towns

It is so hard to leave—until you leave. And then it is the easiest goddamned thing in the world. -Paper Towns

Elsewhere the landscape is more frank.
The light falls without letup, blindingly. - A Life, Sylvia Plath

I speak taboo words
With a tongue that knows touch
Form the syllables with red-painted lips
Lined with the ghosts of kisses past

And I hide the stories of long, angry nights
Under layers of something like my skin tone
As closely matched as the drugstore deems possible
Slashed with a colour pink that might resemble happiness
Cotton candy, innocence, a little girl's room

I unmask tired eyes deep as the ocean
And you are not allowed to look away
Because a ring of dark brown says I make the rules
Smoky lids make me mysterious
Like tiny bruises I claim as my own
Long dark lashes like fishing lines
Tiny hooks that catch on my cheeks when I blink

And fingers, tipped with nails like poison darts
Broken seashells that scratch my feet
Like forever-bloodied hands
Shrouded in lace and bad myths

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This article has 2 comments.

on Feb. 11 2012 at 10:56 am
AlexanderBurton BRONZE, Pittsfield, Pennsylvania
1 article 0 photos 10 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Fortune Favours The Bold." The Virgil

very nice work

on Feb. 11 2012 at 10:15 am
readaholic PLATINUM, Tomahawk, Wisconsin
27 articles 0 photos 426 comments

Favorite Quote:
I'd rather fail because I fell on my own face than fall because someone tripped me up
~Jhonen Vasquez

oooo...mysterious...very cool ;)

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