This is my legacy (and my only) journal! I try to post once a week or so. I'm a beginning legacy writer, so I'm still figuring things out -- like how to get proper screenshots, fix them up so they look nice, use CC and all of that. :)
But, anyway, about me:
*|My name is Mackenzie! (thus, maquekenzie!) *|I'm a college student at a midwestern college, majoring in English. *|I roleplay white wolf games. *|I write and read poetry. Just for kicks and to fill this space up a bit more, below is one of my favorite poems and a poem I wrote. Cool.
My Favorite Poem "Love Song: I and Thou" -- Alan Dugan
Nothing is plumb, level or square: the studs are bowed, the joists are shaky by nature, no piece fits any other piece without a gap or pinch, and bent nails dance all over the surfacing like maggots. By Christ I am no carpenter. I built the roof for myself, the walls for myself, the floors for myself, and got hung up in it myself. I danced with a purple thumb at this house-warming, drunk with my prime whiskey: rage. Oh I spat rage's nails into the frame-up of my work: It held. It settled plumb. level, solid, square and true for that one great moment. Then it screamed and went on through, skewing as wrong the other way. God damned it. This is hell, but I planned it I sawed it I nailed it and I will live in it until it kills me. I can nail my left palm to the left-hand cross-piece but I can't do everything myself. I need a hand to nail the right, a help, a love, a you, a wife.
It is the crashing steel that peels our eyelashes apart more than the bruised yellow light; sounds of six-hundred used condoms,
malformed aluminum soda cans, mossy pizza slices, plastic bottles with scant remnants of Pantene all being emptied into the toothless
maw of the garbage beast. Chewing is the sound of our dawn; it opens our dilated eyes to the spiked crown atop the distant hospitals and libraries.
It creates megalomaniac kings of buildings we shall soon step into and disturbingly find a drab gray. From here, where lives belonging to our neighbors are compacted
into impenetrable chunks below, the horizon appears infinite—skeletal trees, vacant parking lots, forsaken streets, slumbering apartment complexes
backlit by the sun. You and I are the gods of this place, reigning from our screened window. No others dare, as we do, to claw
toward the bitter, oxygen-less air, to cling hopelessly to their lives six stories up. No others dare, as we do, to allow the frigid drafts
of morning to create those minute hills on their empty flesh, to bathe themselves in that tenuous sunlight, to view loneliness and turn their faces.
There, I bored everyone to death. If you're sticking around still, check out my legacies.