Tuesday, February 26, 2008


what was, was.
now, isn't.
mistakes are made without aftershock comfort.
distance is found geographically and emotionally.
i hate what i am more often than not.
i speak of the end like it's anyday.
and i am so tired all the time.
analyzation of every thought of every thought of every thought.
no one cares. and no one cares if you care.
kid, it's just so much like the beaten up boy spitting a tooth out
been broke down too many times on this trip through it all.
headache head, heartache heart.
i know it's overplayed, but i'm different now.
wish i wasn't. wish i wasn't. wish i wasn't. wish you weren't.

Monday, February 25, 2008

allez, venez, milord!

Venez dans mon royaume:
Je soigne les remords,
Je chante la romance,
Je chante les milords
Qui n'ont pas eu de chance!
Regardez-moi, Milord!

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

called into a radio station today

and asked a question i knew the answer to.
acted all surprised and happy when they told me things i already knew.
thanked them when they said their goodbyes.

most of the reason was fear of being made fun of after i hung up
some of the reason was nerves about my voice being broadcast
but i'm starting to think that the real reason was that i'm running out of questions.

Thursday, February 14, 2008


chipped off hands, chiseled skin. the flakiness of chapped lips and the stinging of salt against a forgotten wound. when you realize you're bleeding from your fingertips. idle hands always were the devil's playthings.
trapped in your head but careful not to be let go. it's not all you've ever known, and it's definitely not the happiest you've ever been but you feel safe in there, in the chamber of trivia, neurons, best friends and nerve endings and organs and blood and water and imagination all crammed into a tiny space. maybe that's why the thoughts are always so eager to get out of their prison cells, tired of being smashed against the barricade and run over by everything passing.
simply wanting to love makes for bad choices and retrospective heartbreak. but wanting to love something and have it love you back is such a simple thing that people seem to take for granted now. to love inanimate creatures and books and words, fucking words? they're dead and lost and no one could ever have anything returned from them, only to. but put your heart into everything you find your interest in, do all you want because it'll be what's best at the time. not in the future, oh, no, but hell, no one can think about that these days without getting a bill from the insurance agency anyhow.
so you think about the way people's hands work without a single thought, how all the strings are pulled perfectly so it won't hurt when you move but it'll give some leeway to everything. a catch-and-release kind of deal. or maybe an action-reaction one. the way habits are carved in ivory-lined neurons and synapses locked up in that head of ours, how forgetting your size can cause such distortion when you finally see what you are looking at for what it truly is and not what it is in your mind-- pale, willowy arms with thin chains wrapped around bumpy, skinny wrists, and gangly legs peeking out from cuts and holes in your jeans, the folds of your skirt and when you move it's like the flames ghosting your body around the ground, your eyes closed and your lips with their dust-pink pout, your sparingly dashed eyelashes curved on your cheekbones, sprinkled with the tiniest of honey sprinkles. your spider fingers have curled around another's once, and it felt so natural you stopped breathing when they fell apart. like everything, they did. and you collected the pieces shamefully and skulked around the house for days. natural flow of things was the reason for it all. you'll love again when things mean more to you than they do now. and you'll grasp another's skeleton hands in your own wisps of fingers and you'll kiss with your own dust-pink lips when they push theirs out in the pose. and bodies will mesh in the haze, and all the peppered thoughts that have floated outside your head will be calmed and returned, their nerves having been rattled for so long, finally soothed by honey voices and timber laughs mixing in the heavy air surrounding.
you'll look at your fingers again one day and see that they've changed. that they have grown and lengthened with years passing, darkened and bleached in the sun like negatives to a camera, hardened with the pressing of strings and softened with the calm touching of old lovers.
you'll kiss them once with your dust-pink lips and then lay them on your chest.
your ghost will slip out your toes and you will be gone, leaving nothing but the grey shell of your ivory skin, pink lips and careful, spidery, willowy hands.
you cannot offer more than you have, child. so offer it with the entirety of your heart. love like your body wants to. and kiss like porcelain against light.
the dust always stirs in the air, but when it settles you will see it.

Monday, February 11, 2008

"kind of pretty. very odd."

all imagination is ignorant.
and all pauses are only in effect for drama.
both sides of the story never get told.
and both sides of the argument are always the same in the end.
no sincerity is ever accomplished without honesty.
and no honesty is ever found without realization.

the twist in the story was only a bend in the beginning
we've got so much left to mess your mind with.
(exlude all your peers because this belongs to you. to you.)

Friday, February 8, 2008


when in fear,
check pockets for identity.
(but note: most vulnerable position is to be caught with hands in pockets.)

emphasize that wounded or injured men will not be left behind.
caution: make sure you are trying to get the attention of friends, not the enemy.

"tell us, why didn't you answer the phone?"
"there was nobody i wanted to talk to."

music: panic attacks!

Thursday, February 7, 2008

don't you know?

the best kids never got the A's.

Sunday, February 3, 2008


is so absolute.

i am exactly how you think i am.

one of my good friends told me a few weeks ago a very big secret of his to relate to what i was crying about that night.
he's a brilliant boy, always spitting lines like "apathy is synonomous to hell," and he was the first person other than my mom to ever hold me when i cried.
he was actually the first person outside of various therapists, to ever listen to me about my stepdad.
he checks up on me. he asks if i'm okay. he can tell when I'm lonely. and he fixes it. he knows i'm a mess and he knows what's best for me. he likes me with the glasses on or off.
and he's real. he's more real than anyone i think i've ever met.
he's amazing. i'm so glad i know him.
but that secret was a crack. and it made me hurt for him.
he cared about me the night i told too many of my own secrets to him. he hung on till the morning.
i want to take all his open wounds and stitch them shut, I want to hug him and let him know someone cares like he did for me. i want to take him away from his father and take away all his apathy about love and tell him he's so incredible.

I want to make this boy breathe clean air every time he inhales. i want to make this boy live to his fullest without anyone hindering his success and hopes and dreams. i want him to marry the prettiest girl and have the nicest house and go to the bahamas every summer. i want him to be the happiest boy alive.

for now i'm content with being his "kiddo." he's my superman. but I'll show him things like he showed me. and i'll make sure he grows stronger.

I saw the future tonight. or a ditch of it.

roots. a burgundy cover of inverted topsoil. the roots are white and seem to glow. the soil around the burgundy area is a solid-scratchy color of beige-white. it has cracks in it or so it seems. the layer after is grey-beige-black, with ivory roots coming straight through. the walls seem to form now, around. we are in the opposite corner, rounded corner, of course. looking at the opposite side to the left of us. the cracks are black in the first layer and white in the lower layer. the last layer is a seemingly inpenetrable rock of black. solid darkness. but if you look on the edges, before the hole goes down, down, into the earth, the roots barely make its way around the rock, around the big black darkness if only for a short and small while. the cracks i believe continue on a small bit after the roots make their mark on it, but they are evident almost to the center, albeit only one or two visible, and only if you look very very hard. the shading around the top of the hole is dark green and a solid kind of black, mixed but not marbleized. the plant's stem seems to grow above and make dark leafy paths into the dark air around it, but it seems almost mutated, or short and close to the ground. it crawls around the top, but almost an inch above where the topsoil starts. the burgundy layer slowly shifts into the white one, making a shallow dent in the ground. there are white veins in the burgundy soil. there seems to be tan all around, on the outside of this ditch, it's there but it's almost as if we've come upon this discovery simply by chance. the radience of all the colors glow for another minute.

until the tired mother digs her trowel into the ground and pulls the weed out by its base. the summer is coming and she needs to level out the ground for her garden.