Hello! I am the original author of the Romance-saturated short story, Razed Expectations. When I was a sixteen-year-old in Reno, I composed that piece in a frenzied hurry, running with the current of emotion I felt at that time. :) Supposing the world exists past the Mayan physical prophecy of doomsday on December 21, 2012, I will be a well-traveled 21-year-old after the Winter Solstice. ;) I'm still wordy, huh? Your comment amused me, and I feel I've improved since then; your advice still stands, and I found it valueable, if a little brazen and brash. I read all three of your poetry pieces, and I find that you do have talent. You're honest and direct, and you harness the emotional climate that you're in. I sincerely hope that you grow and flourish in writing, and that you're always surrounded by truth, goodness and open-minded to adventure and new experiences. I'll catch you later, O young one. A Vision of Growing Older: What is the meaning of so-called success? I mean, I don't know. I really don't. I just know that I don't want to spend the rest of my life in a cubicle, wearing a headset and making half-hearted conversation with people who've never known the meaning of love or life or want or curiosity or passion or wild abandon or anger or failure or sorrow or self-loathing or music or dancing or wandering or fighting or seeing or dying or laughing or the feel of someone else's hands on your skin. I mean, why is it so bizarre? Why can't I just say that I'm in love with the seven'o'clock light? Why? Haven't they ever noticed the way the light looks at that hour? Don't they know the meaning of soul-shattering beauty? I mean, I get it. God, they can be good people. Simple people. The kind of people that break my heart, the kind of people that choke my throat. I want to rip this merciless heart from my chest and give it to them. To the world. To a language more beautiful than I can fathom. I do. I do. They have their worries, their hideous illusions of what life is. Bills, rent, food, car payments. Spending their paycheck on a restaurant meal or a bowling night or a girl they like or a night at the club. Some kind of luxury or indulgence to distract them from the tedious emptiness of their downtrodden lives and broken dreams and predictable pursuits. Why do they work so hard to impress that guy who wears the label "Supervisor" on his name tag? Don't they know that he's a person, too? And their children. And their boyfriends. Their pissy in-laws. God, I just want to climb to the top of their invisible and decaying castles, close my eyes, and make love to the light of the sun. To Hell with their ideas of success. I mean it. Hell with it.   I quit this job after twenty days.

I didn't care for this poem too much. I mean, it was okay, but it wasn't anything special.

Keep up the boring work and rude comments - just trying to keep with my regular format.

Sarcasm. Either way, she has a dream and your classmates probably made her feel awful

You're still bitter about that? Dude, I let my classmates play around with my account for a while.

 

Plus, if you hate it, why'd you read it in the first place? Hm? Or is that sarcasm?

I hate it. Please DON'T look at my works because well, They're SO much better than yours.