where does love come from?

I swear to you that one day this sensation in the pit of my stomach will go away and I swear that the very second that it does, I will yearn for it to come back. That's the thing. It's just history repeating itself. And I am very well aware of the outcome, but that doesn't stop my mind from wandering or my stomach from fluttering, or my palms from sweating, or my skin from bleeding. You know what you do. Every objective has a purpose and no one seems to heed to mine. Its like I am in some sort of giant bubble and I can't break myself out. Someone else has to to do it. But who. No one ever really wants to see me for who I am. Sometimes they pretend to, sometimes they never even try. But time and time again, I slice my heart open for someone to dissect and they get a random spurt of A.D.D. and find something better to do. How many times can a person eat rotten food before they realize they're going to vomit and shit all over the place every single time. Too graphic for you? Then fuck you. My bones and joints crunch and pop and I am self aware of the fact that my body is quitting on me. I will still ignore it. Everything is swollen including my heart and my ability to care. I start to get goosebumps as I imagine running barefoot until I get an asthma attack and double over. Everything is fleeting me now. My worries, my lovers, the people who lied when they told me they would always listen. Like screaming at a chalk board until my sounds turn into my fingernails. I want to cry. I want to turn my fingers into fists but instead I use them to click a bunch of keys. I've never been violent. It's always been pent up inside of me and oozes over into angst and sorrow. I'm trying to refrain from puking my feelings into a mess for you to clean up, so I'll swallow them instead. The things we all do, all for our own reasons, but does anybody ever really stop to think about it? I'd much rather be climbing out of your window in my underwear searching for a taste of reality than to be like this. I'd rather be fucking bald from pulling all my hair out than to be like this. I'd rather be exploring in some woods behind the house I used to live in that we had to give up because everything is unfair and I don't get to have a say, than to be fucking like this. Why don't you go exploit your senseless bullshit somewhere else? huh? Why don't you ever hit me like you mean it? Make me bleed, make me fucking care because it is obvious as fuck that you do not. Tell me you love me. I haven't actually heard it. I haven't actually been awake this entire time. Actually, I've been in a slumber, or hibernation of sorts. I've been bruising my knuckles on nothing but paper and cloth. Nobody ever actually wants my attention. Nobody ever realizes that I'm probably the only one who will do anything nice just because I can. Another night alone. Hungry. Sad. Angry. Nobody seems to notice when I don't eat. Or when I start bleeding. Or when I start slipping into depression merely because its cold outside and that just really makes me fucking sad, okay? I can't even have a tale of addiction. Its become so pathetic. Honestly, the lines have blurred between hating everyone, and just self loathing. I literally don't even know how to feel anymore. I sleep for hours just never having to get up. Really...get up. Wake up. Wake the fuck up. Sometimes, every thing is okay. Sometimes, the sun hits my skin just right and it makes me feel human. Sometimes, I wake up and I see myself in a room where I used to live. Where I had friends and a father. Where the worst thing was just a boy who I would be repulsed by when I got older. I'd still eat over the counter drugs and have monologues with the silhouettes of people who I thought would remain in my life but never did. They'd open their mouths and music would pour out of them as if it were its own language. It was. It is. I have become a moth to a light bulb. But someone has turned off the light and I have no idea where I am, where I am going, or how I even got here. I just wanted it, so I went for it. Its like that one time when I realized that nobody else loves the things I love the way I love them, so I went alone. Then I realized nobody ever loves me the way I love them, so I stayed outside alone for hours until money was dealt in order to be thought about. I'm shaking. I'm lying. I'm trying not to be desperate, but I am. Yet still, nothing can compare to the feeling of comfort. Security. The warmth of a pair of arms wrapped around you. Here's to wishful thinking. I am still the teenager who never found her place in the world. One day someone will love me. One day my body will stop betraying me. One day my sexual frustrations will fleet me like my own self pity and misery. Maybe, I'll be a butterfly instead. People like butterflies.

Just another shadow.

I remember a time where the railroad tracks would lie dormant and I would trace them with my fingertips. As a train steamed by I watched in awe as something passed so quickly and so dangerously before my eyes until the railroad tracks screamed in pain, calling out for me to ease their suffering. All I could do was listen. Some people want to suffer with the rails until their bleak and obligatory ending becomes written like the final chapter to a saga of books. I remember a time when the love I had for another person nearly killed me and I have never been able to love since. I felt my stomach twist so tightly it burst into a thousand little pieces, only to regenerate and do it all over again. I looked you dead in the eye with every single fiber of my being wanting every single fiber of yours as you looked at me with nothing but coldness. I don't even know who you are now. People think, and really honestly think that they know what will make them happy. They believe amongst all else, there is the one thing just barely out of their grasp that if they...could...just...reeeeach for it.... It will not make you happy. She won't make you happy, and he won't make you happy. You try to map out your body, all its crevices, corners, secret spots. You cleverly hide obvious secrets in your map so that when they are found, it seems accidental. Every single story that makes you who you are you let burrow in between your veins and tendons with the slightest bit of hope that someone will come along and dig for them. You do this is the search of something pure. Something honest, something real. But it is all just a lie everyone tells you with a smirk and a "cheers" gesture with their poison cupped firmly in their right hand. Why is it so hard to find an individual soul like mine, trying to read the maps we make of ourselves? We count pounds down. We count tears fallen. We count freckles and goosebumps and spend the money we work for to make everything smell nice and look pretty, and for what? To be ignored. She essentially pushes you to the ground without ever even having to utter one word. We are weak. We allow ourselves to be weak. We only trust ourselves and when our bodies give up on us? we have nothing. I know you are aware. I know you are awake, alert, and you are too far gone. I'm waiting for someone to toss me a line to bring me back on board, because I too, feel that I am far too gone. I jump into portal after portal after portal. To another dimension, another reality. There you are, heart in hand. In one piece. You are my subject. I wring you like a rag and use every single drop of you as a metaphor for my own bleak harsh and monotonous reality. All I thrive on is a little green light. It sits there taunting me. Is he there? Is he listening? Does he want to figure me out? It iss all a fucking game. Its my own fucking game. I, myself, am made up of little tiny bits of imagination and ingenuity. Gears and cogs grind in my brain and I can only think about slaying demons in the freudal age looking for tiny pieces of crystal that bring out inner demons, or inner purity. It's like I keep trying to push an unmovable object with the slightest bit of hope that if I just keep fucking trying, it will eventually budge. And that one little budge that might happen is enough for me to keep pushing until my arms turn into gelatin and my body is covered in sweat. I want to sweat for you. Time continues beating like the heart inside all of us. The more tortured you are, the faster your time moves. We all want the same things. We all try to escape from the society that we built for ourselves. We are beautiful fucking creatures. Our bodies are magnificent machinery that when we keep well maintained, can do anything. I am floating, and am stuck, between two different spectrums of behavior. I want to feel a certain way, but I don't. I sleep for hours, hours, hours. In my dreams everything is perfect. You are not there. The lives we live are fueled by anger, emptiness and sorrow. So much so that we become dried up like raisins with no real direction. The way she moves tantalizes you. You are unaware of how or why, but it does. All alone you search for an answer to questions you don't even really understand but are still asking. I gave up the pretense that if I keep perusing an exhausted cause, eventually everything will fix itself. It does not. It becomes much, much worse. My friends would rather take the chance of betraying me then apologizing than just asking permission, which I would have granted. Your sick sad sorry excuse for a person doesn't belittle the fact that what I felt was real, it was painful, and I haven't been the same since. But, go ahead. You'll just end up feeling the same way. I lay my head down on my pillow my body onto my mattress. I think about what you are doing in your home. How you deal with your stress. I wonder how I can pull this together in the way that I want but after awhile, I realize I cannot. A part of me wants to feel sorry for myself, but that time has since passed. I cut my heart open for you and I watch it bleed out but you do nothing. I won't regret a thing. I swam through the halls in search of love, but it was never reciprocated. I am the ghost within your walls holding all your secrets preventing the sunlight from reaching your face. You are trapped inside the idea of what you think you want. Phrases and words make their way around my head as if swimming in a pool of lost emotions and thoughts. We're all fucking trapped in our own ideas of happiness. How are we to escape? We may never figure it out. Stop focusing on the Heavens your branches are reaching for, you will always be rooted in the dirt. Never forget where you come from. The scars and stories that make up your existence. All we are and ever will be is a string of experiences. My ideals bounce within the measures and notes of the sweet melodies that appease my inner soul. I feel warm all over from the sounds that understand me so much better than people do. The manifestation of the sheet music rings through my skull and I smile. This is it. This is all we will ever have. Time to face it with dignity and eloquence. I give you everything. Take it or not, it's all I have.

lingering scents and blood in my mouth.

Brace yourselves for this one. The facets of a person are limitless and we know this but it still shocks me how easily we forget that. I am in love with nobody. I am in love, but it is with existence. Or non-existence. One of the two. Here's the thing: my imagination goes much farther than my actual life ever will. I perceive this as a false understanding better hindering myself into a bleak state of sadness, or nothingness, depending on the position of the moon and the weather that night. Always, after midnight. Sometimes you can even imagine the very scent of another human being. Dream of it. Dream of all the magic that is buried in your bone marrow and wake up with your smile fading because nothing you ever imagine happens. But, hey. It's all good. Nothing is quite ever what it seems albeit right or left. Right or wrong. Whichever. Every thread within your pillow case holds every single thing you've ever wanted to exist. And that, my friend, is exactly where they shall remain. Let's talk a walk. Find a tree. Climb it. And you and I will sit on a branch and become sponges to each others' spills. Then, we will trace each others scars, freckles, bumps, wrinkles, and delve into a realm of laughter. Your turn. Go ahead. You scared? That's okay. There are little tiny things in this world that people find fulfilling. The heat of your breath as you kiss your way down my tummy. The period printed at the end of my favorite sentence in my favorite book, concluding my favorite thought. You are everything in this world that you want yourself to be. A simple turn of the head, flick of the wrist, one tiny smirk. It all adds up to everything and absolutely nothing all at once. We give ourselves checkpoints. Vanity checkpoints, happiness checkpoints...sadness checkpoints. all for our own mindless self indulgence. You gasp for air, hoping that the oxygen stretching out your lung tissue will be some sort of reminder that hey- you're alive. and you're okay. It still won't negate the fact that you're twitching in artificial pain. But...we all know you like it. I lick my lips. I chew the inside of my mouth until it bleeds and I realize that I'm doing it. Its sort of like...a prism. Each side has its own secret story, but once a light shines through the gem, all the sides combine to form a rainbow. You don't really know how you got here, do you? To this exact point in your life? Take a step back. Remember every single word you wanted her to say, but never heard fall off her beautiful, beautiful, lips. Your body will always forgive you for the things that you do. Your heart, however, won't. I muster up some sort of paradoxical idea that not being myself is actually being more myself. And I'm not quite sure how I feel about it. Is anybody ever really sure how they feel about anything? Your eyelashes catch your sweat, and your fingertips curl into your mattress reminding you, that your body is kind of the only thing you trust. For the most part. I want to feel like a broken piece of glass in the ocean as it smooths me over. I want to be pressed up against the wall with someone's breath heavy in my ear. I want to be lost within the bass of a speaker and have my concerns be bumped away. The difference between me and you, is that I am open to interpretation. I taste your cigarettes on your mouth. The same mouth that lies and makes fake promises. I prick myself with the gift you gave me then demanded I give it back. Because it was special to you but I'm not anymore. I want a tear to fall on the tip of your tongue and you realize how bad sadness tastes. You say the same thing in circles but no one ever hears you say it. You hide notes and letters inside crevices of corners, but the only person reading them is a ghost who never lived. See things from a different perspective. See things with a new taste, a new smell, a new slimy, disgusting, sticky texture and then you tell me how exactly the fuck you feel. The doors have opened a path for you into a new way of seeing every single thing you see every single day. You crush molecules beneath your feet, thoughts and ideas within your head, and you think nothing about it. You're haunted. I'm haunted. We're all fucking haunted. I demand more. The thing about that is only I can make it happen. Every single hair upon my head will be pulled out upon request. I count ceiling tiles. I fit my foot in the boxes printed on the floor. I make sure each side of my mouth chews my food equally. Imagine a world with no melody. Imagine living in it. Imagine living in filthy quietness until one day you scream at the top of your lungs and that is the first sound you've ever heard. The one thing you love the most will be taken away from you after you realize how much you fucking love it. The one time I ever wanted to run as fast as I could, I was wearing shoes that were too big for me. Mottos and lyrics will get you through the day, sounds and images through the night. Always. I forgot what you smell like. Your voice, the bumps on your skin, the smirk on your face. My imagination makes up for it, but I know it isn't right. I let it all go within the words on my shampoo bottle. Let it go within the numbers as I count money. Let it go within the miles I put on my feet. Think stop explode. Sleep. This is it. I have run out of excuses to make.

All the world's a stage.

Its that person you want to hate, but you cannot. They're too much like you. At one time, I felt complete. My purple streak poked out of my short red hair and all you ever saw plastered on my face was a smile. But you see, the time I was complete was a time that I wasn't myself. When someone dies, people expect a month or two for people to get over it. They don't imagine that it takes a year to eat at your sub-conscience, then a few more years to eat at your flesh. People forget that its the little things that make us the way we are. The old boyfriend shirts we cut up from years ago. The purple streak in your hair that you held on to for dear life. Jeans. Flip flops. Zombie Audrey Hepburn. Sup. A bruised ego. If I could take back some of the things I've said, some of the time I wasted, I would. Bridges were burnt since then and I cannot repair them no matter how hard I try. I ran away one time. It was all I ever wanted. Yet somehow, I couldn't manage to escape my problems. My growing hatred has turned to sorrow but my pride won't let it go. Funny how the thing that brought me to that new place was the reason I left. Seasons change and we are growing old. Pain is so constant we've have come to not even acknowledge it. Some days, I'd rather just sleep. And fly. And dream. A phone call could have changed every thing. A nod. A smile. So many friendships wasted. Because of you. Because of me. Needles were pushed through our body parts as a sign of our ability or inabilty to grow up. I'm not sure which. We inhaled until the world muted itself and we were left with nothing but our own inner thoughts. I remember sitting in your spot looking at your back yard. With every cloud of smoke I inhaled everything became brighter and details became unimportant, or more important. I'm not sure which. The world we live in has so many set backs built into it, setting us up for failure. And while our friends all have the time of their life, we stay in the same spot searching for answers. Yearning for acknowledgement. I know there is more than this. There has to be. Its so simple for us to forget. One little scene or even one person can bring you back. You say you're making progress, but now its a big mess. You know its cold this year. The time might have been worse but it felt so good to indulge in it. So good to allow it to overcome me. Close your eyes, inhale, pretend you're not coming back to the same source several times in a row. Pretending is natural now. Remember how easy it used to be? Remember how you could channel it all into eloquent imagery? Its that split second when you realize everything you thought you knew was the opposite. Its that exact moment when the only thing you want to be compassionate about, you can't. Someone born deaf wanting to sing. The blind wanting to paint. Being spit on in your time of expression. You cannot love any person or thing, just sounds and ideas. I am in love with ideas. In that last moment before sleep when your head touches your cold pillow. When you close your eyes hoping for a better outcome of tomorrow, you realize you are one hundred percent completely and utterly alone and that the world will go on as it is without you. When your world shatters no one takes a second out of their day to recognize everything you've been taught as a child and have loved for so long is forever gone. Never. Coming. Back. You show a little skin. Confidence covers the fact that in reality you have no friends, no one to love, nothing to care for. Welcome to hell. But at this point, its not even an issue. You sleep, wake, work, sleep, wake, work, repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Puke. I am small. I am warm. Its the same song, the same character, the same show, the same feeling, the same person. Always. Repeat, repeat, repeat. I want it to make sense, really I do. But you. You're just not there to understand. A monologue to an empty theatre. Voice bouncing off the walls into empty ears. Its real. Its raw. Its unheard, and its beautiful. The world continues to turn whether or not anyone else will be there to listen. Its writing notes to ghosts. Its marking out names on my wall. Its swallowing the things I can get my hands on, because they make me crazy and going crazy just feels so much better than whatever this is. Open. Exhale. Breathe me. Use me. Hold me. This is what I am and if you can't make sense of that, that is okay. Because I can't either. Its so many little cogs and gears inside my brain, bumps on my skin, beats in my heart, adrenaline in my veins. Every single second that is me. None of you will take time to figure out. Polaroids of strangers having fun, lights, smiles. Such things that make you happy but you don't know why. Memories of the salty wind blowing through your hair with not a soul sharing in your collective thought. Utterly alone. It's all a lie. Remember a time when it was real and it was honest. Hold on to that until your hands turn white and start bleeding. Push an unmovable force until you realize your body is shaking and your face is covered in tears. They will applaud you. That's all you've ever wanted anyway. Recognition. Take your bow and repeat. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Scene.

Nothing good happens in winter.

What if I told you I could hold all your wishes in the palm of my hand? Would you believe me if I told you that I can stretch out my fingers across any ocean and grab all the stars above them in one move? I blow them out like petals to a flower. Make a wish. My empathy for you has turned into pain, but. I like it. It keeps me warm through the wind stinging my cheeks. Crying never felt so bad before until you cry in the cold. Every tear stings your frozen face. Makes you wonder. Why is it that everything bad happens in winter? Is it because its the time where mourning and sorrow hurt the most? Happiness is a warm gun. Something about the weather change always flashes me back to a better time. When studying was fun and everyone was alive and well. Christmas was fun, and snow was fun, and we decorated for the holidays. From pumpkins to turkeys to a tree. One by one everything fell. Hi, hello, hey there. You're an adult. Naturally every thing you hold onto represents childhood. You're not naive, you're just trying to stay happy. I grab up all the stars in one scoop. I hold them so tight that my hand starts to bleed. So much hope, so much faith into nothing. Why? For what? Dusty books you never finish. Tye dye dreams of laughter and friendship. Imaginary friends to make up for the fact that no one is ever really there for you.Your narcissistic complex you've given yourself to counteract the fact that underneath all of it you really think your thighs are too big, your cheeks are too round, your breasts are too small, your...stop. Remember a goofy face. Remember a girl not much smaller than you sitting beside you as you sob like you have never sobbed before. Remember the yearning, the want, the pain, of wishing for him to be the one sitting beside you. Now he pretends like you two never even met. All while smiling pretending not to care, I'm repairing the giant CRACK that has manifested itself into my heart from all the pressure around in within the past five years. Ultimately, all alone. Blink blink blink. She said she could fly. Told her not to. Once you go up, you won't want to come down. Reality hits. boom. Its gone. Guess what? That one time you had that made you feel alive and restored your faith in people, yeah that was A YEAR AGO. All blotched up. I keep dancing hoping that it will all melt away but it just always comes right back. Rent a book, watch a series. Completely obsess over fictional characters and their love for each other. They're really you're only friends, you know. Heartbreak is literally your only company. Its too cold to cry. Your body betrays you and your friends aren't really your friends. You hide under the covers and discover the power of magic through a small rectangular screen. Come to think of it, I've always done this shit on my own. The fights, the anger, the heartbreak, the creation, the dancing, the imagination. You've always been there for yourself. Never fear. Mascara is only as strong as you allow it to be. I release the stars from my hands and blow them back where they belong. They were never my wishes to begin with. Then again nothing is ever really mine. Especially during the winter.

Home is where the heart is.

Can you even hear yourself fucking talk? You're selfish. You are so selfish. You know it, you admit it. You're okay with being selfish. In fact, you bring other people down and justify it by saying someone brought you down, so why not? You want someone to go out of their way, and go so far deep down in searching before you let anyone see the real you? And how far down is that exactly? Fucking bottomless pit. And when they don't reach the bottom, its their fault for not trying hard enough? Fuck that. I used to be the same way and as frustrating as it is, its a wake up call. I remember how I used to feel. Then I remembered how stupid I was for feeling that way. I cannot waste time dwelling on you. I have to remember how stubborn I was and be glad I realized the smut I was sitting in and got out of. I stood up on my own, shook it off, and realized the beauty in the nature around me. And you will have to do the same, on your own. Anger seeps into my eye sockets just from general lack of realization. You're not stupid, you're blind. I remember how great the sun makes me feel, and how liberating the dirt between my toes is. I remember sentence fragments and ending sentences in prepositions. Then I remember how silly everything is. How we over-analyze things that don't have any meaning at all. Papers, words, structure, rules, other people's ignorance. Insincerity oozes out of you as you apologize for something but then just do it again seconds later. Prime time example of a mental block on someone who was never worth it to begin with. I photosynthesize like the chloroplast and I breathe just like any other animal. I mellow out, turn on my art, then make some of my own. I know deep in my heart there is a way to defeat the system and live as we were supposed to. I want to succumb myself into nature and art and beauty and meaning. I realized this week that I don't want to be a machine, or part of one. My body rejects it and so does my mind. Where is my outlet? Where are my wrinkles? How am I here? Somewhere out there, there is a heart that beats in tune with mine. There is a knowledge tree, there is a fountain of youth, and there are time machines. I just gotta find them all. Even if its within the confines of my own patterned mind, I will pacify my desire to dream, my desire to live. You'll just rot in your own smut. It hurts my heart, but it no longer angers me. I'm ready for the world to pick me up and put me exactly where I belong. And I will not miss you.

Money makes the world go round.

This one is going to be different. But in actuality, they are always identical. Pause. Breathe. Remember. Continue. We were Yin and we were Yang and I was intoxicated from everything, including my emotions. Like a bubble map or a flow chart of sorts, I poured myself to her like batter to a pan. She is what I've always wanted. She's the voice of Marceline, the ears of a mute, the eyes of a porcelain doll. As I stumble upon my own reasoning, I wonder what makes myself tick; What makes myself tock? How far can intelligence fill the void of sheer loneliness? The reasoning I have always had has psychedelically transformed into a matter all of its own. Energy once formed is never lost, just transferred. That's a fact; that's science. My neurological tendencies and abominable imagination are being completely wasted within this ocean of stupidity we all live in. Society. Let me allude to a different country of people who are far more intelligent than we. Within its boundaries holds a mind far greater than any other I have seen. And he loves me. They all do. I purposefully take them all for granted in an excuse to hide from my own fears and realizations of the world. He wants me to write a story. That's not what I do. I imagine stories, I do not write them. I feel as if I live in a different plane than most people. I see things from my own perspective. That of which, is an infinite amount of possibilities. No one will ever see things from your gaze, perspective, or heart. How far do good intentions go? I said this was different. Maybe I lied. We all lie. Why are people offended when they do the same thing? I'm starting to feel as if I'm the only person who understands why everyone around me behaves they way they do. Maybe I see things from a different point of view. One day my brain will have reached its capacity. I try to fill it with insight, creepy stories... eloquence from my surrounding neighbors. My head is filled with silly ideas and my own fucked up reasoning for why I do the things the way I do them. I'm surrounded by beauty. All I want to is explore it all as my brain feeds off of the earth. Therein lies my beauty. Beauty that I will share with all who listens.

Because you're beautiful tonight.

I am slowly sinking into my mattress and becoming part of it. The weight of everything I'm trying so hard to ignore is pushing me deeper into it. My eyelids start falling like a garage door and even though my body hurts all over, words and ideas are ricocheting in my mind like a bullet in a metal room. I imagine a pair of arms wrapped around my goosebump ridden body. I do not imagine them attached to anybody or anything, just that they're there. It's very hard for me to look at everything the way everyone wants me to, but that doesn't mean I'm not still trying. While everything gets jumbled up I envision a person that does not exist coming in while everything is so fucked up and just laying down next to me. Nothing more, nothing less. Just someone to be physically there for me. I have literally never felt more alone than I do right now. I am more than well aware that I am so much stronger than I'm allowing myself to be. I'm just too exhausted, physically, emotionally... As I slowly open my eyelids, I stare at the ceiling. I turn the shapes of my popcorn ceiling into either familiar symbols and pictures or made up characters. After realizing what I am doing and convincing myself that I'm going mad, I close my eyes once more and make up my own fairy tale land. Grass the greenest of grasses rolls onto hill, after hill, after hill...freshly cut of course. A few trees here and there, the kind that only exist in cartoons, with the exception of lower branches, so as they're easy for climbing. Don't even get me started on the flowers and meadows. Places like this actually exist, I think. Or so I am told and I want to believe. But here I am, sunken into my jersey sheets worrying about boys and money. Do you think that this is what life is supposed to be about? Spending year after year wasting away in front of a desk just for a piece of paper? Sinking into our beds trying to forget what we read or heard? And do you think we're meant to go through people's lives the way we do? Passing by strangers that may not be such strangers after all. I just want to hug everyone. Let them know that while I may not really have anyone here for me, they have someone here for them. I honestly think that everything around me, every single atom, has a beauty far deeper than we ever imagined...and while I may pout, and whine, and indulge in my own loneliness, deep in my heart, I know its not about me. It's not supposed to be this way. Every single person put on this planet has a story. And I want to hear every single one. I don't even care if not one them asks me about mine, I just want to know what its like to live on this planet through every single person's perspective. I'm missing something. I'm right there, its on the tip of my tongue, but I am missing it. All my senses peek and I'm struggling to find away to be at peace with them. It's odd to me how someone can tell me all these nice things, and fill my head and heart with hope, and even though they shatter everything I looked forward to in them, I still hope they end up alright. Maybe I'm so exhausted because I spend so much time caring, and so much time just thinking. Constantly. Infinite amount of possibilities. Science. Alternate universes. Imagination. Books and cartoons. Characters, people. What-ifs and how tos. The human body. The human compassion. The human mind. Art. All of it, it astonishes me to no end. And yet as I try to soak it all in, here I am metamorphosing with my manifestation of a sleeping place. Something needs to change. I just have to figure out what.

Long lost lover.

I want to feel it so badly it makes my heart pop like an over inflated balloon. Nine times out of ten I expect it to end up differently when I know better...why? My skin is raised and my chest is turning red. You've all just used me like toothpaste and now the tube is empty and I'm ready for the trash. I've decided. I won't fall in love. My love lies within the grapes in wine and the melodies the hurt, betrayed, and lonely lead singer wailing through my speakers. My body parts fall asleep and for a second I enjoy it. Reminds me that I'm still working the way I should. My glass is empty and my heart is loud enough to over power the music. Why can't anybody stop thinking about their selves for one second? Just remember what it's like to be on the other end? I'm wheezing now. Asthma. Chalk up another issue with me. Where are you now? I clung to someone because they reminded me of someone else one time. Someone that I barely remember. I'd rather be angry, I've realized. It's my favorite. Its more energetic and fueled and it feels much better than sorrow. Why is everything always the same? The further away someone is from me, the safer I feel. You can't drink away your problems, but you can drink enough to where you start to not feel the pain. There will always be someone better than you, there will always be someone there first. And while you're reaching out with bloody palms hoping that someone out there gets it, you have to open your eyes under water and realize that no one does. As many times as someone says they do, they don't. This isn't home. Home isn't home. Home is dead. And I wanna go home. Don't think that just because you read this that you know me. Don't consider yourself enlightened because you relate to me. Two people can go through the same process and realize they are still in two totally completely different places. I love being angry. I haven't felt anything for so long and its my favorite emotion. I remember being center stage, curled into a ball screaming and crying with the spot light on me and EVERYONE FUCKING APPLAUDED ME. I like it. I like it so much because everyone thinks I am pretending and that I am talented but every fucking drop of it is one hundred percent real and I WOULD GIVE ANYTHING TO GO BACK. People paid money to see me drop my barriers. I stood, on risers, down stage center, spot light on me, and I gave a monologue about tulips and windmills and I made people cry. It was real. We are all trying so hard to be people we think we are not. But really, that's all we were to begin with. As I sober up, my anger dissipates. The bleak numb feeling I am so used to having has approached itself upon my shoulders. The alcohol mixed in with my blood stream and time moved faster as if I stepped onto a carrousel, but now the ride is over. I am patient. I am kind. I don't like it anymore. I get sick, feel okay, get sick, feel okay, and the process repeats itself. Its something we overlook everyday, kind of like gravity. Gravity gets in my way. I want to bounce so high up in the air that only the ceiling can stop me. Like the characters in the story I love so much. Bet you didn't know about that either. I want you all to be happy, and if you need me to be your doormat in order to get there, then I'll just suck it up and deal with it. I live on music. I live on art, beauty, lust, and lies. I live upon the shadows. Where I hide. In the closet, the cubbard, hoping someone will realize that I am missing and come looking for me. They never do. I'm clogged. I'm stuffed up. I am wounded, but it's nothing serious. Truth is, I didn't want it anyway. Everything I've ever wanted bounces between scenic. Bounces with confessional. Bounces with every word you didn't say. And you know what? I'm okay with that.

Scenery will always be the death of me.

Oh man. I can feel it at the base of my lungs bubbling, building, burning, and juicing over into my arteries. This time its not from exhaustion. Its not from depression, addiction, or sulking. Its from frustration flaming over into anger. I want to be the girl that you want me to be, but you aren't letting me. Adrenaline makes my pulse a little harder and my lungs fill with air my heart wants to boil into a scream. I am exactly where you left me. And you, my friend are completely oblivious to the fact that every single word that comes from you is another little needle sticking into my skin. I want to give up so badly. But that is exactly what I always do and I told myself I wouldn't. It's like everything I have been avoiding doing for what feels like forever, I decided to try again with you. How blind are you? The images we conjure from our memories and mind tells us who we really are. Please stop telling me one thing when you mean another. I've decided to dance away my fears, anxieties, and loneliness to music I understand nothing about except for the fact that it makes my feet move. My thoughts are stretching out of my head like some sort of gamma radiation ray. Its reaching for you to pull it out. Literally right in front of your face and you smile at it and turn away. Look at me. I don't give a shit if that doesn't make sense. Every hair follicle on my body tells me that if I start it all over from the beginning, it would be so much better than just trying the same thing once more. I chose to ignore the pain of the world for a reason. I don't want to indulge in a tragedy that isn't right next to me. How come you guys are so quick to tell me of the deepest hurt you've been through? Mine is a secret. Because I only want to relive it if I actually know the other person gives a flying fuck. There are scenes in my head that I can replay over like a part from a movie I've seen a thousand times. The details constantly changing, but the facts remaining true. I wish I could play them for you so you knew how vividly I remember them. How come I'm stressing over here wanting you to share with me when I have stories you've never even fathomed about? Hah. I love how you can't even bother with a "sleep tight." My hips speak more truth and rhyme than my mouth ever could. Alice fell down the hole into her world all by herself. Maybe on purpose so she didn't have to share it with anyone else. Maybe that's what I'm doing. I'm glad I didn't show you my world. You wouldn't have appreciated it anyway. I like to photosynthesize with the sun and I like to trade my idiosyncrasies for chemicals to pour into my brain, hair, nails and skin. What exactly did I put in Chicago? Funny how you can forget things so easily. The beats are on a loop in my head. Loop after loop after loop, and mother nature fucking gets me. It doesn't have to try. All I've ever wanted is for one of the appointed to divulge their selves into my freaky, colorful, musical, and beautiful world. Its amusing to me how passive aggressive I can be while consistently vomiting my imagery all over the web for every one to see, but hardly anyone to read. I can't tell which part is which and if I'm at the beginning or end. What exactly do you think we're accomplishing? Dancing so close to each other in circles...just over and over...but never actually touching each other? It's just another game. Funny to me how much more beautiful a person looks when they're sad as opposed to when they were happy. I think we've got it all wrong. The point of it all isn't to be happy. Its to feel every single form and fragment of every human emotion possible. That's why all the intelligent people are constantly unhappy. They're just experiencing life instead of living mindlessly happy. I will just spread out all over a bed in a familiar room with unfamiliar surroundings, close my eyes, and imagine myself as a line in a song, a step in a dance, a scene in a play, a lover with no one to love. A fighter with no one to fight....just basking in all that is the world. Unhappy or not...I am embodying everything the world wants me to be.

Sail.

Blame it. You can blame it on anything you want, really. Sometimes I think things will be different for me. That my emotions and feelings will grow, develop, mature. But then I remember why I'm here in the first place and I remember why I do the things the way I do them. Call me all the names in the world, fine. But you don't understand why living this way is so much easier for me. People in my life take a shit on me, and I just let them, because if that's what makes them happy, screw whatever I feel. Every time I find something hopeful, fresh, new, fun. Something that makes me happy, I get excited. I should know better by now. If it sounds to good to be true, it is. So, its time to run away again with my tail between my legs hoping I can go back to feeling numb. The thing is, I frame myself on always being there for other people. Always. Every now and again there is a diamond in the rough that proves their shine. But why are kind, honest, loving people are rare? Shouldn't everyone else be rare? That's what they taught us growing up. Its so easy to believe the truth when the truth is ugly. People just live their whole lives without ever being appreciated. Maybe I'm one of them. I never asked for that, you know. It's bad enough I can't afford a full tummy, but when I go out of my way for someone...and they never even say thank you...the fact that it didn't bother me before is more bothersome than the fact itself. Thing with me is I always find myself claiming something that was never mine to begin with. It never surprises me anymore. It never surprises me when someone doesn't even try. No one ever has. They don't try, they don't fight, and I'm just used to it. I mean it when I say, "Life sucks, then you die." It's okay though, because even if you take the time to read this and understand how I feel, at the end of the day, I'm the one there for myself. I calm myself down. I listen to me talk. I hold myself while I cry because no one else does. Remember? I do this shit on my own. Because the very minute I let someone do it for me, they leave. Who needs em? My heart races as I try to pinpoint accurate and aesthetic lines to make myself sound better than I actually am. Today, the storm accompanied me on my way home. The lightening opened every pore of my skin and the thunder raised every hair. The music from my speakers understood me more than I understand myself and for a moment...everything was alright. Its funny to me how warped everyone has it. How everyone thinks everything can just fit in this little tiny box along with your favorite trinkets. Somethings never will change even though you knew for a fact they would. Where would I be if the world was ugly? I'd be dead. I would give up. I would ignore my thoughts of reason when I feel this way. But it is, so...here I am. Hey, at least I'm trying. Apparently a lot more than most people around me are. One day I will take my brain out and ring it out like a wet rag for the entire world to see. At least...maybe then, you'll notice me a little more. Maybe then, I'll actually be worth something.

Ace of Spades.

You start off with good intentions. A spark is lit, then the flame slowly turns into fire, slowly turns into an explosion. It's very funny how your whole body, mind, and thoughts can be completely inflamed...and yet no one will take heed until you're screaming in their face and they belch up a simple "why?" ...if I knew why...the problem would have a solution, yes? No one wants to be scum...it just somehow becomes easy after awhile. We are born onto a world that is essentially one giant head fuck. There are beauties and brilliances hidden amongst ever single square foot of this world. Most of it...we never get to see. And while reasons to be alive are out there...we're stuck being forced to rely on currency and propaganda for everything. Why isn't exploring a job anymore? The world then basically says...."there's what you want...here's what you get." And you get to decide to settle or be without anything at all. My brain keeps blood pumping, but it still craves answers to our existence as a whole person. What is all of this? And how can everyone else live so content with the fact that nothing is explained? Why was I born with the strange curiosities and chemicals in my brain? The drugs make everything calm. It feels okay. Until they're gone, then its worse. I was born upside down. The drugs aide in the sadness until they become the sadness. Then they go away...but so do you. Its not supposed to be this easy. To give up. That's why he died...so I would know not to give up. But why is it so easy? We shall overcome. With respect? What is all of this? I sleep. And I don't wake up. Everything makes more sense in dream land. How long can words be on paper until they enter someone's head? Until they become forgotten? Just like everything else. What happens when you want someone to read them and then you wish they were never written? Can you remember the same things I do? The dog, the dress, the tree? The little black book that held lines that you thought were inadequate until you grew up and read them from a different perspective. You blatantly chose to be unhappy because you're stubborn and your mind is made up that there is something far better than this out there. The irony is what is aesthetic. I know you know. And you're aware of that, too. yet we talk in circles to avoid it, because that is just what we always do. That's how we dealt the cards since day one. What makes people happy? A job? Money? Family? Love? ...or simply...knowledge or wisdom? How far out of this realm can you go before you end up never coming back? I don't want anything from you. I secretly do, but as far as everyone is concerned, I do not. And in reality and actuality, that is exactly how it should be. How far can we push our brains? ...our lungs? Our Hearts. The body can rebuild itself. physically. But how long until the visions, nightmares, and fears go away? They say fear is a choice. Unhappiness is a choice. I say they're very wrong. Who are you to tell me who I am or how to express myself? There comes a point in time where everything becomes strained. And at that point, you just have to stop. Hope it goes away. And if it doesn't? Shuffle the deck again.

Empty bed. Empty heart.

I feel it coming. Not sure why it's there, but it has always been there. How long can I ignore it? Before it becomes me? You're trying to solve the problem, but you have yet to realize that you're one of the causes. I keep reminding myself that everything will be so much better tomorrow. However, my heart keeps getting heavier and heavier. And I'm exhausted but the weight of it all is making me feel wide awake. Somewhere on this universe...the bottom of the ocean or strung along in a nebula, is opportunity. But for what, exactly? What if the bottom of the ocean is just where everyone's tears fall to? There's a strange comfort in sorrow. Every word carefully transferred from mind to fingers makes me crave to tell you things I've never told anyone before. Things of childhood. Things that I never really thought of before until I wondered why I am where I am right now. Do you ever wonder if you're given second chances? What would you do with them anyway? Who would you be now after you re-did your life? It's funny to me how a person never really goes away when they die. The memories of them fade and the details become unclear, but you never forget their presence, their essence. While that stands true, someone alive could be in the house next door and you'd probably never know it. Once upon a time, there was a beautiful happy little girl. Then she grew up. I guess everyone has to face the same patches of loneliness. There comes a time when doing things the way you're doing them gets old, you get sick of it. But...you don't know what to do because that's the way you've done them for so long. Makes you feel vulnerable. Makes you feel weak. Truth is, the tragedies are aesthetic. So no one judges them. Suicides are down to two categories: Pretty and painful, or ugly and easy. You can only pick one. You ever want to just hop in your car and keep driving as long as you can just to see where you would end up? Or maybe you get out of bed one day and say "today I will start smoking cigarettes." Hiding from the world under the blankets seems to solve everything, and now is a bad a time as any. Or as good as any. The harder you try to be happy, the harder it is to understand the corners and details of the world. Hiding under the blankets from the world is like being a bug in a glass jar, but the child forgot to poke holes in the lid. Its like my brain is stuttering and my thoughts aren't fluid anymore. Everything is broken. And there's only one thing I want. I want you. I want you to hold me and not say anything or do anything, or even feel anything...just be there with your arms around me, and that scares me. Because I've never wanted it before. And there, I said it. Its there, it's done. I want the same thing I've wanted from you all along and truth be told, I like it the way it is now. Because its safe. My heart lightens for a moment, and I breathe slowly to give myself something to fall asleep to. My head pounds because I'm suddenly surrounded by everyone's bad habits enticing me to have them too. Replace one bad habit with another. The seasons are changing. And so am I. Or maybe, rather evolving. And it's confusing me. How do I handle it? A vast wide of emotions, regrets, wants needs...and then there's you. As always. Someone has to give oxygen to my brain.

A thousand clever lines unread on clever napkins.

I just want to watch it over and over. Where have I gone? What am I even doing. Paint on my nails, heat in my mind, ice in my tummy and my heart is swollen. Its like I'm so close. So close I can touch it. I really want to tell you. Just blurt it out. But I won't, because then it will be over. I want the chase, but I want it on both ends. Maybe I'll wake up one day and realized you followed me. You chased after me. Didn't let me get away. But that's the thing. You'll always let me get away. I'm not good enough to go the extra mile for. I referred to myself as the girl who got away one time. I was never the girl who got away. I have and always will be the girl who ran away. There's so many goals I have for myself, but yet here I am again, throwing yet another day in the fucking garbage. Sometimes, all it takes is one day. If I can go a whole day without thinking I'm crazy, chances are it's a good day. Sometimes I just want to close my eyes really tight and open them and just be in a new place. It should be that easy. Yet time and time again, I see myself changing plans and sitting exactly where I've been sitting this entire time: no where,and for the most part? Unhappy. I'm tired of having so much passion, not knowing what to do with it, and putting it where it doesn't belong. Where it isn't wanted. Let's be frank here. You and I are still playing games.That's all it has ever been to me, and I'm bored. My back really fucking hurts, my heart is really fucking sad, and no matter how hard I try, I'm still just not as pretty as I want to be. What is it about this time of the day that intrigues me so much? Sometimes I feel like I have changed a lot. Other times I feel like I am exactly the same. The same fucking merry go round, looking for the same fucking horse. And I want to hide under my bed. I want to cry as someone holds my hand across from me. And I want to drink and get lost in whatever foreign substance I come across, because I know when I wake up, someone will be there to pull me up and take care of my inability to cope with being a simple human being. I do this shit on my own, you know? Every come down or freak out or panic attack or anxiety attack, I do on my own. They call it crashing for a reason. Time and time I crash and burn and I do it alone. I lose my breath and hyperventilate and avoid eye contact so you can't see mine swelling, I hide. I don't know what I'm hiding from...maybe my conscience. Maybe from nostalgia. Nothing hurts my heart worse than nostalgia. Why is it I spend all my time and efforts helping other people I love...holding them when they cry, freeing them when their stuck, and they can't even call to keep in touch, or take me up on my offers to see what my life is about? At what point did it turn around? How many times can I watch it over and over until I get the fuck over it and move on? Remember when you were little and they told you the world was constantly spinning and you stood really still and you felt as if you could feel it spinning on its orbit? I lied on father's grave and I looked up at the stars, since I won't get to see them as clearly anymore and I swear for one instant, I felt the earth spinning, and for a moment I had that magic feeling you get in your stomach when you're a child that makes you live day to day with almost no worries. Crows feet. Brain damage. Paranoia. Growing out. The point, is that there is no point. Everyone lives numbly and mindlessly until one day they remember that magic feeling in their gut. Then they wake up, the weather is nice, the sun is shining...then they blink. And everything goes back to normal and monotonous routine schedule. It's okay. Take a deep breath... be very very still. And maybe...just maybe.. you can feel the earth turning below your feet. No one seems to listen....even when I scream.

Dripping in Gold.

I would say that I'm not myself right now, but in order to that I would have to know myself. Everyone has limits...until you push them. I am raw. I have all these ideas in my head and that's most likely where they live and die. Why is it the saddest days are always the coldest? I don't want the things I'm used to wanting. After I cry hysterically, puke, turn pale, start shaking, I realize something. I don't want to end up like you. I do not want to stay here one more minute. So I get up and leave. I am not used to having feelings anymore. And I hate it. I want to love, to feel something. Attracted to tragedy, tragic tragic girl. The clock has sped so fast before me until I figure out something I want to do and then it couldn't go slower. Too late, did it anyway. There isn't a whole lot inside me right now. My bad habits, which I for some reason feel the need to make yours. The rubber band around my wrist has gone missing... I expected to pour onto this blank screen, but that's the problem with the things I do, it kills the good thoughts I have. At least then I know they're all mine. Not like you. That's the funny thing. I finally feel something I haven't felt in oh so long and I can't even grasp it, not even for just a second. My better thoughts in life include me being some one else for just a night. Out of no where I decided to tell you about my urge for you to know me. Really? I want you to sit in my car. I will drive to my dad's grave, my old home, my favorite playground, the road that spooked us all, and why? Because maybe, just maybe it might make you love me. My heart is pounding, my mouth is a wreck, and I want to feel sorry for myself because of the choices I have made. How many of you even remember me? Think of past memories? What's funny is they called you crazy. They gave you meds, made you normal. Why? That was what made you who you are...were. I am torn between sleeping for so long my dreams turn into reality and staying awake so long my reality becomes my dreams. I want to show this all to you, but you have to want to see it. Everything always sounds much better in theory. My body aches so much, but not nearly as much as my heart, and what for? I used to be full of so much ambition. Now I'm only full of lust, drugs, and anger. Look, I get that you're a loner, but I see something special in you. I was just hoping, that maybe, you saw something special in me too. I want a message from you so bad I literally hear the sound. I am not in love with you. I am in love with the idea of you. I am voluntarily driving myself mad. I miss so many things, that really, aren't worth missing. My car, my dog, a kitchen table, family dinners... family. I believe this is the worst thing about tragedy. The years after. Like its been too long for you to still be mourning. It still hurts, but its almost a numb kind of pain. At least when it happens, you feel it. A punch in your stomach... My eyelids are heavy, but my mind is wired. This a joke. A joke without a punchline, but for some reason, everyone is laughing. And I'm going to figure out why.

Hide and seek.

Its funny. Its fucking hilarious, actually. Really. I want you to look at me just for once with the same intentions I look with at you. I'm just a jerk playing with matches. Why do the melodies coming from my speakers understand me so much better than you could ever try to? Why do all the tiny little hairs on my raised skin feel so much better than you make me feel? And why must I push and pull and kick and scream to get a response? Only in my head though. The more frustrated I get, the more saddened I become. Will you feel anything at all? I keep telling my veins to pump more blood to the tips of my fingertips but the longer I push, the more dried up I become. I remember one night. I remember that song was playing while I just cried. I sobbed. Doesn't it just piss you off? How much passion I used to have for you? How much love my heart used to contain? "Used to." You didn't even know what the song was even about. you never knew how much you took from me when you left. And I never got it back. I cried. And you held me. But you never stopped it. Some people are just all talk. Some people only care for their own satisfaction. And I pity those people. Those people will continue to do so until they realize one day that they're choking on their own misery. Secrets lies and excuses. No one wants to really stay. Whether its me, or you. I wish you would take one moment to dissect my brain. I wish you would read this. Honestly, I'm wrapped around one to many fingers. I wonder what it was like to be sixteen. To be eighteen. To literally collapse on the floor in desperation. Because my daddy is dead and the only person i had ever loved doesn't want to acknowledge me. To literally collapse mentally because the drugs I pumped into my system were no match for the ones in yours. Maybe thats why i am the way i am. I dont have any more tragedy. Its like I'm pulling and ripping the arteries within the chambers of my heart to feel something again. Something other than disappointment. Hell, pain even. Anything. I'm looking at all the friends passed. What happened? Why does everyone grow up hating every one else? How far does friendship even go? Its like they spit in your face and you just smile and say "stop." and they just keep going. Its like when someone tells you a story and you imagine it in a room you've been in before...She tells you of the rape. The death, the treachery, the lack of friends and family. And you've been in the same speck of time with her, just in different rooms, in different space. And everyone is so smug and think they're doing the right thing, but sometimes they're not. And they can't even fork up an excuse to bark at you. To yell at you. They just metaphorically scream at you but you ask and beg to know why. There is no reasonable answer. They just become a glitch in time to you as you are to them. A fucking glitch. Nothing to lose? Nothing to gain. Because. My skin is bumpy and my heart is thumping. No time for it? No time for me. I try. I really do. I give a big heart to this world and no matter how many times its fucking shattered by your words or actions or lack of actions, I always fucking try. You never wanted me where I was in the first place. Thats how we know each other. I don't understand how you live with yourself, or how you even think your honesty makes of for your inability to be kind. At least the world gets beautiful melodies out of it. And you can look at the world with such happiness, amazement, curiosity, and love and no matter what...no matter what. Its still going to make you cry.