Not that you need it, but you have my permission (in writing, even) to be happy (happier). Go.


from a high school assignment: write a poem. coincidentally, it was assigned on the day I decided to hate poetry:

The Story of Prince Zane
By: Daniel Thomas “Newman” Richards

There once lived a young prince,
his name was Sir Robert Zane.
He lived upon a very high hill,
in the kingdom of the same name.

It was named High Hill for a reason,
and a very good reason indeed.
Not only being the highest location,
it was a center of wealth and greed.

Young Zane wasn’t a happy prince,
as these stories often go.
He needed a wife and he needed one now,
but his father gave the answer of, “No.”

Poor Zane’s father King Flack,
was adamant there was to be no bride.
“Why would you need a woman?” he asked
“When you have all this money ‘longside!”

Bob Zane took a good look around him,
and gave a thought to his father’s words.

“You’re right father,” he said,
“Women just tie you down anyway…
and they cry a lot. Never mind what I
said, that was a dumb idea in the first place.
Thanks for reminding me how much better
money was than women! Geez! And to think,
I almost got married to some nagging wench.”

And they all lived happily ever after…

~The End~


i c a n t s t a n d i t s o i c r y

he's always right
she's always right
i won't ever be right for he or she

to whom do i vent
for whom do i cry

this is not poetry


from my little black book, the beginning of a short story/novel/treatise/other:

Her gaze intrigued him--a mechanical stare, evolved and sharp enough to pierce his awkward glance, meticulously implanting itself in the part of his brain thousands of years of evolution saved for the most important of original thoughts and motives: sex.

Analyzing and counter-analyzing, the 1.16 seconds during which their eyes collided transferred more between the two than every spoken, written or otherwise physically communicated thought in the entirety of existence.

"No," he thought.

A single conclusion for the most complex of thoughts, a decision thousands of years in the making, a decision that in 1.16 seconds evolved as such: [...]

continued? perhaps?
I'm never inspired to write poetry.

So, I won't.


Hypocrisy is the lens through which I view the world, constantly apologetic and annoyed by apologies, self-promoting and self-defeating, a conversationalist afraid to speak. This new idea of truth, openmindedness is a start, a catalyst for change. Enough? Never enough?

I am living the life Dr. Jacobs described, "You will feel like a phony, a cheat, someone who slips past every barrier in life despite your incompetence."

Motivation to continue comes from the roller coaster accelerations--hands up, look straight down and pray.


My apathy for Millikin is no one's fault but my own. Immediately someone will try to take the blame (citing my constant attendance and attention).


Agreed: my mind is not on academia, Decaturian, PMA, Honors, MENC, U-choir, OneVoice, family. None of these compel me to be. None of these inspire me to achieve. None so much inspire me to stay, waiting for that stamp of approval on my education by so many that know nothing of the matter.

Friends, friend, one: my only reason(s?) for not giving up when I encounter adversity, shutting down with one more page to go, giving in when I feel crushed.

To God, bog and the rest, a plea: that some day I'll know how to thank through action and be able to do so without crying.


Academic: Breaking - After forty hours of intensity, sleep is welcome. I feel like a failure in every aspect of my academic life. Living up to my potential isn't even an option at this point. Even if I divided all of my time awake evenly among academia, leaving social and personal to asphyxiate, the best I could do is average. Factor in friends and time to develop personally: disaster.

Social: Breathing - A wonderful recital rejuvenated my passion for music and Phi Mu Alpha. Laughter and song: no better combination of sensory experiences exists.

Personal: Breaking/Breathing - Concerning my family, I'm not sure how much longer my mother can live in her current situation. We talked for a while, and she shared that I'm the only person left with whom she can talk and vent. I worry about and for her. Concerning the rest of my personal life, I'm not sure what to say but "roller coaster." (With no sarcasm) I love roller coasters.