Things Unsaid

Disclaimer: I did NOT write this. I found it on a Potter blog, and they broke my heart. So, so touching. I know this blog is for my writing, but I couldn't resist posting.



Regulus Black, to Sirius Black
I tried to do what you would have done, in the end.

Peter Pettigrew, to James Potter
I wish I could take it back.

Gideon Prewett, to Arthur Weasley
You take good care of our Molly, you hear?

Merope Gaunt, to Tom Marvolo Riddle
Grow up strong like your father, Tommy. But learn to love.

Dobby, to Harry Potter
Harry Potter is safe now, sir. Dobby has repaid him.

Quirinus Quirrell, to Sibyll Trelawney
Travelling will bring great peril, indeed. I’m sorry I laughed.

Cedric Diggory, to Amos Diggory
I won, Dad. Aren’t you proud?

Colin Creevey, to Dennis Creevey
I died like a real wizard, Dennis. Isn’t that cool?

Kendra Dumbledore, to Ariana Dumbledore
I wish I could have fixed it. That’s what mothers are supposed to do, right?

Fred Weasley, to George Weasley(Fred's final words)
Don’t worry, George. I’m going to heaven. Guess how I know? Because we’re the Holy Spirit! Get it? Because you’re holey and I’m… dead. Please don’t cry.

Severus Snape, to Lily Evans
I tried to protect him, Lily. I can do no more.

Helena Ravenclaw, to Rowena Ravenclaw
I’m sorry I left, Mother. I’m not like you; I’ve always made stupid choices.

Hepzibah Smith, to Hokey the House Elf
Never trust a pretty face.

Bertha Jorkins, to Rita Skeeter
You’ll never believe who I met in Albania, Rita!

Igor Karkaroff, to Severus Snape
I vish I could haf had your bravery.

Gellert Grindelwald, to Albus Dumbledore
I killed her, Albus. And I’m sorry.

Mrs. Crouch, to Barty Crouch, Junior
Be happy, sweetheart.

Rowena Ravenclaw, to Helena Ravenclaw
I miss you. Please come home.

Fawkes, to Albus Dumbledore
I’ll be back. I promise.

Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin, to Remus Lupin
It was all too brief.

Albus Dumbledore to Aberforth Dumbledore (The last words)
I'm sorry if I dissapointed you, Abe. I love you and I'm proud of you.

Impressionism.

I wrote this during a Creative Writing course last year, but recently edited it an awful lot. The original prompt was to look through a newspaper, and choose a picture that stood out to you. The picture I chose was actually the obituary picture of an art museum curater in Paris, who had recently died. She was holding a painting of a ballerina, standing outside in the cold. Her eyes were what stood out to me. They were a painting, of course, but they could see right into you, I swear. I wish I knew what the painting was called. So anyway, enjoy. Thanks for reading.

It is Paris, 1774.
The shrill winters breeze caresses a trembling hand across our ears, robbing any remaining inklings of warmth, and replacing our skin with the frail, frozen petals of a scarlet rose.
I am ten years old, thin as the final branches of a waning autumn tree, my cheeks losing more and more of their pigments, once vibrant with the colorings of life, as the brittle air slaps us, again and again, and we grow numb.
As I stand shaking, melting away from my own thin bones, a thousand painted faces pass us, all wearing the same numb expressions. Their cheeks lack the luster of life, of purpose. It is feigned, the ambition in their eyes of clay and plaster. They walk with the same stride, of false ingenuity.
And I know that when you look at me, my dear artist, you will not see them. They are but a piece of this interminably frozen background.
But I, however, am not. Even though my artist molded me in too small of a stencil. Even though I cannot grow, and the people of my world, were built to be much taller. And they cannot see me, standing so low.
But you of all souls, my artist, understand that the important things, are not the big things.
Painted to my alabaster skin, is a thin pink dress. It hangs loosely from shoulders that bear no weight, no substance. The colors are muted, and the onslaught of a gentle snow turns the scene to a pallor of icy blue. And I am cold.
In my arms, I clutch a small, torn pail pink pair of point shoes. I don't wear them, though I crave to. I desperately desire the obscure, curious feeling of the fine satin, resting against my toes, warming the ground in which I stand.
My dear, Artist. This was a thoughtless thing to do. I am frozen. So frozen in this time and place, in this ice, and the gaze of my superiors.
Now, freeze.
Remember everything my frail body has told you. Remember the look in my eyes. Remember my thin dress. The shoes I am forbidden to wear. The world I'm not tall enough to be a part of.
Remember this.
Remember me.
Paint my picture, in your hungry minds.
It is a pleasant scene before you, I assume. The bright lights of Paris. The steam from the baker's windows. The charm. The imagery, of the City of Love.
And your heart swims.
You can smell the baguettes.
You feel the snow on your nose.
And then your eyes open, and you see me. I stand against a towering, rusting gate of wrought iron. My stare is fixated unto the very fringes of your wandering hearts. And from my perch here, worlds and ages away from the gallery in which you must be standing, your breath stops for a moment. Your voice catches in your throat. And you regret your happiness, and you are guilty to have been so blessed.
You see me, and though I am gazing at you, I cannot see you. I just pretend. I try very hard, so that maybe, I am remembered.
Are you painting this, my artist? I hope you are. I hope you paint my picture, a thousand times, and send it to every corner of the big planet you inhabit, in which I will never roam. The planet I am too small to reach, to touch. The earth that is too hard for the feet I cannot feel, the dance floors I'll never see.
I'll clutch my ballet shoes, torn and small, and every time you think of me, every time my eyes appear in your midnight musings, I will dance.
So paint this.
Keep me warm.
Keep the image of my gaze, as I stare into you, planted in the depths of your preoccupied minds. And you'll walk taller than me, and see things I'll never see. But I'll be there with you.
A picture is worth a thousand words.
And I am counting on you, my artist, to show me that the world out there is much larger than this corner of an ancient Paris.
And everyone will see me, and when they dance, they will think of me.
For now, I remain forever frozen, but thank you, dear artist, for seeing.
Remember this when it is cold in your heart.
Remember me, when you freeze.
Thank you, artist.
You are free to melt.

Put This Poem Somewhere Safe.

A poem about poems. :)

I wrote a poem, once
when I was littlest.
It was about a horse
with a brown main
in a long braid.
And I showed it to my teacher
and she showed it to my mom.
And she tucked it somewhere
safe
and I haven't seen it since.

I wrote a poem, once
when I was littler.
It was about snowflakes
and how they melted on my nose.
And I showed my grandma
and she hung it on her fridge
safe.
But I haven't seen it in a while.

I wrote a poem, once
when I was little.
It was about flowers
because that's what my teacher
said to write.
And I gave it to my mom
for mothers day.
And she put in a frame
safe.
I wonder if she remembers
the flower I described to her.

I wrote a poem, once
when I was smaller
It was about love
because I thought that love
was something all poems should be about
even though I hadn't the slightest clue
as to what love was.
I still don't.
I didn't show anybody.
I tucked it in a diary
safe.
But I can't really remember it now.

I wrote a poem, once
When I was younger
about school.
And it was very long,
and my teacher put it in the hallway.
I wrote about notebooks
and science teachers
and laughing students.
And I see that poem, from time to time
where I put it,
so it'd be safe.
And I remember what life was like
back then.
And I smile.

I wrote a poem, once
last year
about light
and dark.
And I read it to the professor
who told me I needed
to enhance the characteristics
of my metaphors.
And when I was satisfied
I stared at the words.
And I tried to really believe
everything I'd said.
And then I put that poem in a folder
and it's tucked away somewhere,
hopefully safe.
Because someday
I wonder if it'll really make sense to me
like I said it did.

I wrote a poem, once
a few weeks ago
about changes.
And I didn't show anybody
because it's something that is meant
for only my heart.
And I wrote about how things were so much easier
when I was little.
How family and the perfect outfit
would make me so happy.
And I wrote about how I'm really not sure
why that isn't the case
anymore.

I wrote a poem, once
a few days ago
about my life.
And it was very long
and I didn't use many big words
because that professor, she told me
that sometimes, small words can mean big things.
And so I talked about how things change
but they always stay the same.
And about how I'm very lucky.
And very happy.
And even though I'm sure my mom would love it,
I haven't shown anybody.
It's tucked in my computer.
Where it's safe.

Someday, I'll write a poem
about my life, again.
And it'll be much longer.
And I'll know more words.
And I will have grown so much.

Someday, I'll write a poem
and I'll show it to the world.
And they'll thank me.
Because words are very powerful,
and that's what my dreams tell me.

Someday, I'll write a poem
and it will be me.
And everyone will look at me
and wonder how they've known me for so long
without ever really seeing me.

But right now, I'm writing this poem.
And I'm not sure what I meant for it to be about.
But that professor
who told me to enhance my metaphors
says that a poem can be anything
as long as it means something
to yourself.
And this poem
it means a lot to me.
Words are very powerful.
And I'm proud to have found them.

Someday, write a poem.
And tell me a little bit about who you are.
Because I could live a thousand lifetimes
and never know.
Write all the words in your head.
The words on your tongue, at this very moment:
panda bears
ukeleles
bamboo trees
nail polish.
And then after wards,
you'll know yourself
a little better.that poem
will be safe.


Even though not knowing for sure
is what makes the discovery
worth seeking.

Someday, I'll write a poem.
And then I'll understand
why I began writing
in the first place.
And I'll put it somewhere
where everyone will see it.
And a billion eyes will read it
and understand.
And in their hearts
that poem
will be safe.

Spectacular.

A Poem.
I know the theme's been done so many times, but this poem means a lot to me. So thanks for reading, if you do. :)

I'm not perfect.
Really, I'm nothing special
spectacular.
I wear makeup, to hide
behind every flaw
that doesn't belong.
It's like a mask
I never
take off.
And I wear a cape, too
to complete the look.
To make myself feel invincible.
With words sewn across my chest
in bright colors
that everyone's already seen before
a thousand times
on every other girl.
But this isn't one of those poems where
I try to make you see who I really am
by just spilling every thing
out.
It's not a teenage rant
about how no one understands me
or about how I'm hiding
behind myself.
Because I'm not.
And they do see me, I think.
I hope.
I promise I'm not trying to
win you over with
these little words.
Because I'm not.
The people who see me
who see behind that mask
and cape
I wear
are the ones who never
knew
they existed.
And that's really all I wanted to say.
That even though I hide, sometimes
I don't think you can blame me.
We're all insecure.
Every one of us.
And I'm just another number
on the staircase
to infinity.
Standing on the fringes
of the dance floor
and trying to understand
what brought me here.
But I think that
not knowing
not being sure
about things that don't really
even matter
is what makes the question worth asking.
But this isn't one of those poems where
I try to uncover the answer to life
because, as we all know by now,
we don't know the question
yet.
So here I am.
You can call me average, but
I'm not sure anyone is ever that.
I've got flaws
and imperfections.
And I make mistakes
and I tell lies.
And I hide sometimes.
But we all do.
Right?
But truly, this wasn't meant
to be one of those poems where
I try to make myself feel better
by disgracing everybody else.
Because, I promise, I feel fine as I am.
And yes,
this is one of those poems
where I tell the world
that I'm something bigger than
just another face.
I know it's been done so many times before
but this is one of those poems where
I hope we can all learn
by the end
to accept ourselves.
Even though I'd never ask you
to take off your mask for me.
Because I understand your fear.
We're all scared, I know.
Even me.
Even the wise, and enlightened poet.
What a twist.
Has this been done before?
Probably.
But that's okay.
So take my hand and
all of us can tell a story
together about how
our worlds are getting smaller everyday.
And we can all wear our masks
because we all are
terrified but
it'll be okay, this time
because we'll know.
And we'll understand.
And in our caps and masks
we can stop the world
or we can save it.
And finally,
in a chorus of fear
that we pray to conquer
we can be
so perfect.