[ Bow ]

My body is every natural disaster, contained by the skin, bursting out of the seams
of my heart and of my eyes, my fingers they burn as a wildfire
I am touching you, yes, leaving my mark
And I'm the only one who feels it
The rivers are bursting again and I am happy
I am free, I ask how I could have ever forgotten
How have we ever forgotten
What it's like to walk and breathe
To become lost in the arms of honesty
I bury my face and smother it, I'll never breathe a contained breathe again
Not one polluted by your opinion, not one uttered by your judgement
Leave me to cry. And let the tears cleanse not only my body, through every pore, but my soul
I am justified by my soul, I am aware because my heart beats
It's only till the lights go out that I know it's over.
Leave me to be broken. Leave my body bruised.
I am the only one, the only who will understand.

Discontinued.

From the seas sheds a pearl
from the heavens sends you.
The crippled times of crippled minds
bind the chains that bare us.
I am calling you now,
half blind and wilted
was I sand soaked and jilted?
Would you breathe life into stony lungs?
Unleash the lock upon my tongue.
Into your sea is where I run.
Until we end where we've begun
I am calling you now

At the edge of the Earth, a silhoutte cries
To none, unnanounced, the silhoutte dies
Why does the longer linger amidst midnight stone?
Black and white ferries, she waits all alone.
I am calling you now from sand and soot
A kiss from the wind is all it took
A whimsical promise, a dreamy white stare,
The frost that clings to the crystalline air

Genova

Are humans "good" creatures. What makes us good?
What establishes right, wrong, good from the bad.
They say we are nurtured, gaining knowledge as we go along
A crawl, to a stumbling walk, a steady walk, to a run so to speak
But we do not learn what it is to have goodness either.
So where does that leave us? We are trapt in the repetition that is repetition
that will never fall out of its evolution.
We thinks things that we cannot control, only define as wrong because society has deemed it wrong. It is wrong to walk around in the nude, at least in this society, to think this is how we naturally are, and it is socially unacceptable. Much like our thoughts. Much like our actions. We think "bad" things, but who had the voice to speak out against the bad in the first place? Surely someone pure? Who was pure? Who was before this cycle? Perhaps it is not wrong, but simply human nature, and in turn, it is wrong because it is human nature. Yet it comes with a twangs and pangs of guilt. Guilt is nurtured. So are we wrong for the thought? Or the action? If the former, then we are all guilty of great crimes. Isn't a thought the beginning of the process? Why do we think these things in the first place.

Pitter. Patter.

The rain pitter patters on my forehead like a christening
People are talking all around me, they are talking to me, all at once
I can't hear anything, just feel the words hitting me like pebbles
Like smooth black pebbles eroded from the Earth
I used to listen to the voices
Force feeding their thoughts down my throat
Swallowing for me, even, after chewing around the thoughts in their own head
Till its been so scrambled you couldn't even identify what it originally was
But it sits there in my belly
Making me sick on the inside, even when they're not there
Still, single droplets fall on my head, reminding me that I'm still here
That there's a hole somewhere where the voices don't go
I just have to swim through the water to the air
Where I can breathe? I don't know.
Maybe I can't. But, it's better than this place.
This place where it's airtight with nothing but sound; chatter
Heaps of expectation, only preceeded by the gap to which I don't fufill.
My arms dangle at my side.
I am looking up.
Pitter Patter. Pitter Patter.

Feelings. Snap. Snap.

The acidity is my validity
That I'm still on this Earth
And worth
More more than the hearst
That carries my mind
but not my soul
There is a hole
Where feelings grow cold

When time isn't real
It's just what I feel
I walk the sunlight
And fall through the Rain
There's pain
Feels like I'm the only one
who feels like this
Immortalized by a kiss
By a promise
to resist
My wrist
is bruised
And so is my tongue
And so I run

Dearest Alexis,

Dearest Alexis,

You're beautiful.
You're strong.
You are confident.
You are loving.
You are a good daughter.
You are a good friend.
You are a good girlfriend.
Relax,
You are ultimately happy
You are free
You are alive and you exist.
Only for a purpose
That you are meant to create
and fufill.
You exist to love and be loved.
You exist to feel passion.
You exist to feel the wind between your fingers
You exist to feel the sun bathe your body
You exist for the rain to kiss your skin
You exist to break the mold
You exist to never settle
You exist to grow and expand
You exist to be better
You exist to get married
You exist to have children
You exist to be their strength
You exist to have a dream
You only have one life, just one.
Remember that such a precious thing
should not go to waste.

Everything is okay, you can come out now.

Love,
Who You Really Are

Mm

Journal journal journal

I breathe life into your pages, not the other way around.

I am the living.

A Song I Wrote

With very deep meaning, I think

I made it during school today w/ an old buddy of mine Jill.

Ehem:
Everyone has aids aids aids aids aids
Everyone has aids aids aids aids aids
We'll be late for class class class class class
It's okay we'll have a pass pass pass pass pass
You deans can kiss my ass ass ass ass ass
Into Main at last ast ast ast ast (which eventually sounds like Last ast ass ass ast...)

There's a full dance to it too, I think you'd enjoy it.

:) Good ole school, never fails to give me a laugh augh augh augh augh

Balloon

It's as if I was a balloon, floating away aimlessly into the sky
Filled with emptiness and air, trapt within till I almost burst
Stretched out as far as I could go, waiting to disappear the higher I went
A simple white string held me from going any further, to stay a little longer
Some of the pressure deflated from my being
And you held me tightly from going up
Your love kept me anchored
Despite the wind or rain
Memories bring me back home
To who I was, and who I am
To who we are, together again

Title

I don't want to be loved anymore.
I don't want to expect anything from anyone.
I figure if you don't expect anything, you won't be let down by them.
You're heart won't wait, and sink.
And you will be happy when they actually do come through,
more than you would if it were expected.
I don't want to talk about how unhappy I feel sometimes
Or that I cry to myself
Because it will only drive them away
But I find myself in that room all the time
The waiting room where I wait for my name to be called
When the people who are my priority see me as a priority as well
But it doesn't happen a lot
Seemingly less and less.
It makes me want to just disappear all together.
I just want to disappear.

Last Night's Dream

"I don't think your horrible, I don't think you're great, and that will make you incredible."

As long as I can dream it

If I'm upset and crying,
he comes to me.
Looks at me, at first worried, then smiles
His fingers brush my tears away
He slowly pulls me into his chest so I can cry into it
I make an excuse.
He silences it with, "I love you"
I make an excuse.
He silences it with, "I love you"
I make an excuse.
He silences it with, "I love you"
I make an excuse.
He silences it with, "I love you"
Until finally I tell him I love him too.
Always...

I dream of a superhero.
One who is indestructable to my ammunition.
One who can break down my armor.
Who gives me strength.
Never tires.
Never gives up.

Something inhuman.

I sometimes wish you were inhuman so I wouldn't hurt you so much.
Delicate humanity, balanced on a pinpoint.

Be my hero. Even though I don't deserve it.

Kansas

Imagine Dorothy. She clicks her ruby red shoes, wishing to return to Kansas.
She closes her eyes tightly, inhales, and anticipates the tornado.
But, nothing happens.
She clicks and wishes.
She clicks and prays.
She clicks and begs.
She clicks and cries.
This time, the only change is that the road beneath her has crumbled,
and everything she knows is rearranged.
What must Dorothy feel like as her legs gave out on the pavement?
How was it to toss the ruby shoes aside?

To know what it feels like to watch the bridge
between yourself and home break apart
between yourself and your normality
between yourself and your love
between yourself and what you could be
...all fall apart, and you are staring of the reflection of that life

If only we all had magic shoes

The Wind

Oh, how I love the wind
It promised me to tie the moon on its back
Carried softly on the back of the drawing black waves
White foam, pearl tears of warmth
It unearthed even the Earth itself
Shaking mountains, uprooting the Great Tree
Our own religion, my own prayer
The same prayer that disturbs the leaves
It promised me to bait the stars to feed fire from my hand
Of psalms and melodies;
to which is met with only melodious short breaths paused
by black wave whimpers
Rain wiped washed away by the moon
The very moon of which was promised
It is only my hands that meet the flesh
And the tree's weight falls eagerly on my back
pulled by gravity
Beckoned by reality
To find that my arms are filled with lightness
Makes them grow only heavier
Makes my body sink

The leaves are no longer restless
There is nothing

It all comes to green

I've wanted to write this one for awhile.

Contemplate this idea: the dollar. I clutch it in my hand, rub my thumb and index finger around it while I wait. It's musky; it's dirty. Funny how I don't like this one, I'd rather have a new crisp dollar that feels better. One that is cleaner, so I am cleaner too. And as I think about this, the man clears his throat and extends his hand, which is holding my coffee, further out and towards me. His mouth, which is surrounded by a rugged and unshaven beard, twitches while his eyes droop down at my thumb and index finger and musky dollar. I exchange my dollar for a coffee, a nod, and a half hearted smile. It is cold outside. It is December. And the lights are out. And just like that the dollar has become someone else. It is no longer me, nor my predecessor of which I cannot name. I cannot name... that's just the thing. We, as humans, share money more than humanity. It passes through us, is us, and moves on. It is the fifty dollars in the hand of an immigrant searching for freedom used to purchase food at a grocery store, where a father is suffering from cancer and paying for his child's college tuition, paid to an institution which is donated to a charity to pay for the clothes for the homeless... What a journey the dollar goes through. And yet, it seems so insignificant. Have you ever thought of where it's been? Of the man, woman, or child who had it before you. In a wallet filled with pictures of people you've never met. It's extrordinary how intimately it connects us. Because it is an involuntary connection. The more money you have, the more lives you've taken. Stories carried upon the back of millionaires. Little do I know if that man with the unshaven beard and tired eyes goes home every night and works for the almighty dollar just so he can kiss his children while they sleep at night. People can be quite extrordinary things. They have strength.

Why?

Why am I here all the time? This will be the 71st entry- and counting.
It's so empty here. Can anybody hear me? Does anybody hear me...
I spill my thoughts, maybe because they don't get vocalized, possibly because people wouldn't
want to hear the same thing over and over again.
It makes me feel suffocated. Because I have to hear the same thing,
and worst of all, feel the same way.
I try to change it, and sometimes I am successful
but other times, like right now, I didn't win
Where are my friends?
Where is my normality?
Why aren't I that person I want to be,
have the life I want...?
I am ashamed that I want to change myself,
or that I think this way despite my better judgement.
Maybe I'll get it in college, or perheaps it isn't the environment but me
Like I am holding myself to myself, unwilling to change
but yearning for what's on the other side of the glass
I'm stuck in between cracks of society.
Do people look down on me
what do they see
what do they see

God, I wish I knew. I wish I wasn't so alone.

And to the second

Greatest one of all...

What happened? It's all a blur really.
A mish-mosh of colors.

Rearview

There's something beautiful about driving the road at night.
A bit mesmerizing to see the quiet city lights,
much like candles burning in a dark room,
a bit like filling your lungs with cool air that never tasted so good.
You grip the the wheel, your music is loud, to drone out
or encourage thoughts and memories.
Where reality becomes a background to, well, your reality.
I had a memory surface tonight, as I drove home with familiarity,
of watching the city fade in my rearview mirror,
the city everlasting at the side.
I was taken back to summer...
I was taken back to freedom, to butterflies and jitters in my stomach,
to the edge of relaxation, and the height of happiness.
When you were new, and fresh, much like the air that poured through my window.
I could feel it tingle in my fingers.
I remember where I was, at the end of the highway with casino lights reflecting off my eyes.

Don't ever forget what a memory makes you feel like.
Don't ever let go of that jittery, tingling, butterflies-in-your-stomach feeling, Alexis.
That's the stuff that makes it all worth it. Renew and re-ignite.
Cherish and love.

God, how amazing.

Bricks

In some parts, I feel alone.
In crevices, and cracks, hidden alleys, and abandoned streets
I realize that the world is full of words, words, words.
Words that create promises. The same ones that create lies.
And glorious stories.
I want so much, all the time.
It makes me feel guilty.
I'd drink up the entirety of my desires.
And leave everything with nothing.
I am wounded when my hands are empty.
When your love is not thick enough to be palpable.
I shall burn with my passions
The ash marking my heart, my palms, and my eyes

Home

Some things can be broken, most things cannot be salvaged
Through cherry lips, through cherry eyes
Through broken glass, and broken hearts composed of the same frailty
Through locked and unlocked doors
Through stained mirrors, from which the reflection I hate more than anything
From the constrained voices, the skipped heartbeats and breathes
The echoes without remorse, tainted now by regret and sorrow
"To you, my everything"
I owe you nothing

It's just the dust settling.

Omg

omgomgomgomgomgomgomgomgomgogmogmogmogmogmgomgomgomgogmogogmogmogmgomgomgogogogmogoggog

I was aware

That tonight would be a night that I'd hardly sleep.
Eyes rimmed with tears, body aching from tossing and turning,
mind at a standstill.
As quiet as the night. As restless as an unused day.
My mind running in circles. Can't think. Can't talk.
And I'm expected to speak? All the while, I am holding my tongue from being malicious.
Or angry. Or upset. Or confused.
But, in all actuality, I'm not a malicious, angry, upset, or confused person at all.
Not even enough to get off the phone, and not to the point that I'd say something I'd regret.
So again, I am at a standstill. If I was a cynic, I'd have a short hair cut, cigarette in one hand, coffee in the other, blowing away all my frustration into the room and out the window. But, I'm not. Could I be as Eliot's Prufrock? Trying to trade my sophistication and status for the knowledge of falling in love or growing old? Reasoning sometimes has nothing to do with love. Sometimes, however, it can make or break it. And as beautiful as the beckoning of the mermaid's call is, it is not reality. The is the realm either above or below it, broken by the human voice.

From what I know

The man or woman you're supposed to be with, will become your best friend.
Not because society teaches us, but because that is the frequent path we all go
Not because you love your "best friend" less than your lover, but because the love is different
the relationships are weighted differently, the metaphors a different kind
If your boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, or wife is your heart
your best friend is your lungs
and you are the brain, unconsciously operating these motor functions,
not favoring either vital organ.
But songs are poetry are rarely focused on the lungs, but rather the heart
And yet, at some point of heartbreak people will say to take a deep breath, and continue on
inhaling, and exhaling, till eventually the pain fades
You don't want to have children with just your best friend,
you want them in the image of your best friend and lover.
You don't live with your best friend the rest of your life,
you live with your husband or wife.
You grow old with them, you grow inseperable to them
Till all the branches grow out and blossom

Carousel

Her eyes are open, blank, with a worn off expression
Her coat dusty, but with the promise of having seen better days
Younger days, from before the weathering
When the lights were still lit, and the music still sang
Fond memories of when I didn't care
Of when I never fell, of a time where my lips weren't red with ambition
Of a time my cheeks were rosy instead
And there was a boy, a boy, a man
Standing across with sand in his hand
I tighten my grip, my knuckles are strained
The circle is slowing, slowly to my grave
The man places a kiss upon my brow,
There is a glimmer on his hand
There is a promise on mine
Together we'll have our time unwind
Or together we'll mend our timely end

The Sincerity of a Kiss

You'll be my sailor, and I'll be your sea
I'll whisper foamy promises,
"Won't you come away with me...?"
Fall into me, and never look away
Crystal wind blowing; lead us astray
Together, together, whatever may be
I ask again, come away with me
Take your dreams, silver dust and gold
My dream is you, to love and to hold

Suppose

We get more beautiful as we get older. We mature from kids whose faces are not quite proportional, perhaps teeth are too big, a smile too broad, eyes too large, and faces still round. This change occurs for two reasons, partly nature and the rest nurture. We have to become beautiful. We have to be appealing because somehow people cease noticing personality. They sure as hell will notice if your mascara is applied properly though. First and foremost, they will judge you. How cruel a practice and right of passage that is. We've all, shamefully so, done it at one point or another.

Suppose I knew who I was. Knew what I looked like. Suppose I knew the truth. All the hundreds of them all different yet all the truth. Think of it. The only time when two opposite statements can be true at the same time. They are called opinions, floating amidst the minds of everyone. Forming their image on, that's right, y-o-u.

Happy New Year.