Check it out:

So I've decided to economize: bring all things to one website.

This is the new me: anafterwave.weebly.com.

It is much easier to post comments on there! No need to subscribe or anything.
You can also find other links to websites I'm on. It's pretty sweet :)

Peace,
Amanda

Pink and White

I remember a soft pink glow-
the overcompensation of a tomboy,
The proper white ceiling and trim and bookcase,
The checkerboard bedspread and hospital corners.

White and Pink

Not Barbie pink-
Pink like a bold floral arrangement
that's leaked, faded, dried-
on these walls.

Pink and White

The closet-white-
the cover-up of a sinful child
painting angelic flavor
and hiding under sheets.



I'm just going to leave this one as is.

Lo es que lo es!

Sorry I've been gone so long. Spring break was exhausting (if not encouraging and amazing). I have been feeling pretty drained, but I'm getting there.
In other news, I have an 8am class. Every morning, I wake up wondering why I thought I had gained super-wake-up powers this quarter.

Anyway. I'm going to study some Ephesians and sleep. Buenos noches!

Peace o pax,
Amanda

ps. Can you tell that I'm taking Spanish classes again?

Nibs

I'm a retractable pen that's been clicked in,
but got stuck-a nib that can only just see the paper,
I wonder if Jesus walked the entire 40 days
If he slept, how'd he sleep, was it sandy?
Forty, it rhymes with authority-
and thank God I survived the teen years,
to come out without anarchist beliefs.
My synapses snap to the beat of ADHD
It's another round of temptation vs. self-control
Pretending to be OCD to dictate all but myself
In psych they said “Don't think of a purple elephant!”
I thought of a polka-dotted platypus-
too bad that doesn't play out here
Satan tries his reverse psychology on me
And it works-of course-I'm the freak in the classroom
and the accidental caterer to sin.
Focus, focus (throws Jesus around in the head)
But I was never that good at catching
But then, that's grace-Jesus catches for me.

Two poems :0 fresh and unedited

God is Green

That pew felt right-
comfortable-
the harsh, upright wood resisted
my disjointed curved back-
but that's right.
-reminiscent of an ugly orange
that was splattered against other pews-
other lectures-
I remember little me-
the tiny cabin that's been so cleverly tucked
behind a playground-
the street that grew narrow, curved and died-
and the dirt and world that met its end-
Shel Silverstein understood this-
then there were the steps and the largest clovers
I've ever seen-as though they took a bread
and grew into a Wonderland
-people move seamlessly here,
as a royal fabric-deep byzantium-
and voices trickle in-
skipping, dancing, bouncing-
off walls, each other, seamlessly.
If we are created in the image of a Creator,
Then I at least find myself in the element when creating
-and ants crawl over me as my body stills
like one stream of color in a plaid storybook-
other ants have tracked my pensivity...
and verde! Verily, veriteserum-
green is life and life is unable to lie-
verde, truth, God



Words

They were the red pencil sketch on my calf-
the leaking ink-the Hancock on the signature line
the individual pixels-
the primary colors-secondary-tertiary-
the fairy in a bottle-the antidote in a syringe-
(or a poison)-a leaf: grow-burst-fade-fall-decay
a lightning bug: sparking-moving-shadowing-ghost
a lum: find it-absorb it-catch 'em all-sideline some
It's faith that they mean what they mean-
that they cannot be stripped of their identity-
that it's more than a formulated glob of lines, sound-waves-
that we don't make it what it is, they what they are-
It's faith that we can let go and not know.

Look what I found:

once upon a time
i told the world to make up its mind
i was confused by its lies
i was tired of having to hide
i hid the blade under my bed
i hid the food in the garbage
i hid the matches in my drawer
i hid my Bible out of my sight
i hid my family behind my bedroom door
then i locked everything
i was set for an ending
didn’t expect a beginning

I was going through my writing to find the good stuff to take to this Californian writing conference. Then I stumbled upon this!

Can't for the life of me tell you when I wrote it. But it is just fascinating to see where I've come from that point.

This had to be written sometime my senior year... when all of that was still poignantly fresh.

Anyways. It's funny how many beginnings we get in life. I think I'm in one right now.
:)

Peace up and out,
Amanda MfreakingE

Cigarette Field: A rant

Cigarettes litter these streets like grass and trash,
Dutch Pall Mall and Marlboro Lights.
Tobacco that fills the manufactured air-
wafting through my window.
Second-hand smoke-
as if I had a choice not to be addicted-
Walls that smell like shit-
and why not? We're all
human.
Born out of filth, into filth.
Pick up once in a while,
Or I'll Febreze you-douse the world in
perfume.
Is that a bin?
Oh, no, that's just my doorway.
Please. Leave your addiction.
Smoking like there's no personal control-
Forced, like a whale that spouts smoke.
(and to think-
this city could have been beautiful.)

Hollywood makes me evaluate my life

Once, there was a writer. She did typical writer things: pondered, daydreamed, felt, gave, took, drained, hurt, loved, and was always stuck being 100%.

She was a writer. But she loved music.

If she were a pot of boiling water and noodles, then music would be the burner. If she were a dog, then music would be the car ride. If she were a parking meter, then music would be the coin. If she were a narcissist, then music would be the mirror.

The point is this: she lived in music, for music. But she was a writer.

She could only do one half of the music: the lyrics.

And she could write and write, forever.

And try to write melodies, and try to harmonize.

But couldn't escape that she was only really good at lyrics.

But, oh, how in love she was with the melody.

So far gone.

She romanticized it; crushed on it; daydreamed about it.

If melody was a black hole, then she was lost inside, furiously writing.

She was intimidated, transported back into childhood.

She was an awkward kid again; insecure; the naked dream.

So she kept quiet, and held back: awkward.

Every once in a while, she would meet other lyrics; writers.

And she would crush, because that's familiar.

They got her; knew her; understood her.

Somehow, she'd let herself fall for those other lyrics.

They'd talk over each other, overlap, and mean nothing.

And she'd remember how she dreampt of the melody, how she actually needed the melody.

She'd think of treble clef signs and stretch her fingers.

The lyrics would part ways, to achieve meaning-

Realizing that they need melody to be complete.

And really, the melody needs them, too.

The melody needed her.