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.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
And to the second
Greatest one of all...
What happened? It's all a blur really.
A mish-mosh of colors.
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.
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.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
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
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
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, February 1, 2010
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.
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.
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