is everybody in?

Sometimes we forget the calmness that is in absolute silence. Sometimes we forget what silence sounds like. After all, silence is the loudest noise there is. I can hear nothing but the sound of my breathing and the thoughts ricocheting in my mind like bullets in a metal room. There is a familiar weight on my chest and its over absolutely nothing. I feel forced to smile and not allow my feelings known because they make people uncomfortable. This whole "stay positive" way of thinking is dangerous. We are human. We bleed, we laugh, we cry, and sometimes we get really fucking pissed off. Deal with it. It's such a sad thing to know that being raw and in a natural state of being is such a taboo for the rest of the world. Not us. Not the outcasts, rejects, the broken, the beautiful. The loving. Not everyone can just jump up and run away from their problems. Trust us, we've tried and we've failed. You will do the same. You have to let people learn their own lessons and fall on their asses the way you fell on yours before they realize how selfish they actually are. As if they're the only ones to be in the spot they're in. I'm ready for everyone to stop tip toe-ing over the way other people feel. People only want to discuss anger or sadness if its their own. There are so many nuances about ourselves to which we hold value. We hope that one day people can actually see us-really see us- and the little things we appreciate about ourselves. One day, our eyes open from sleep and we realize how even though we've come so far, we're still in the same spot. I take it in stride. Sometimes, your hair grows, the texture of your face changes, and very little by little your morality morphs into something it wasn't when you were younger. I am not ready to love. I want to, but it isn't the time. The things that fascinate me haven't stopped fascinating me and I think that's a sign that I haven't reach my limit of self discovery. Is there even a limit to self discovery? The things that tie me down to this world are so different than the things that tie you. The things that tie us up. ...the thing that tie us together. Body pressed against body, Breath hot against each others' as our hearts beat faster and faster. Is innocence a thing to believe in? How simple things used to be with chalk and markers and angst all meshed up into a discombobulated pile of a person. How much can one person scream over the deep rooted holes in her hands until people fucking hear it? Who cares if they hear it. They can't fix it. Black holes can't be shut. Sometimes its hard to say what you want. The English language only has so many words. My stomach gets twisted like the wringing out of a rag but with nothing left in it to be wrung out. What is it that you expect from me? I can't be what you want me to be, I can and will only be who I want me to be and if you can't handle that then why are you even here? Don't put yourself in a situation you can't handle. Don't allow yourself to be numb when you want to feel and don't allow yourself to feel when you want to be numb. I remember walking under the moonlight with a boy smiling at me. That one smile that gave me hope. So simple. Having passion. For nothing other than myself. I remember being up further than I should have been then coming down and feeling so much that I couldn't contain myself. 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 feudal age looking for tiny pieces of crystal that bring out inner demons, or inner purity. You won't understand it. You won't understand me, or how I think, feel, or what I see in other people. I don't want a real life fairy tale. I want a fairy tale. I go back to where my veins once pumped with anger, love, compassion, sorrow, and depression. I can feel it in the wind, and I can feel it deep in my bones. It makes my heart skip a beat. Like it did when you used to yell at me. Like it did when that phone rang inside the theatre. Copy paste, copy paste. The pieces of me from before attached to the pieces of me now. I try to keep them together. It's all we really can do is keep ourselves together. One day this world is going to break. It's going to snap in half. Every single person in this world is connected through the hardships we all go through. We all hurt, we all love, we all hate. Every single one of us, whether we want to admit it or not. Its insane how much power we all hold. One click of a button, one half assed smile, one kiss. Maybe not even a kiss, but faces only an inch away, feeling energy and heat radiating off of one another. We're all typically looking for the same thing except no one quite knows what that is. How lovely is it that we are all connected through the feelings we feel, or sometimes, trying not to feel. Sometimes you bump into broken souls. Broken souls, with broken hearts, with broken spirits. All I want to do is wrap my arms around them, run my fingers through their hair, and let them know it will be okay. No one is different though. We're all some from of broken pieces stuck together with makeshift glue. One day, we will break apart and sew ourselves shut out of fear. How easy it is for others to feel when it is just as easy for the half to not feel. How silly. Sometimes I imagine myself romanticizing a time where the melody of a certain boys voice soothed me. Like the smell of a freshly baked pastry lured you into a kitchen, the sounds of his voice lured me into his living room at 3 AM. Bare footed, Indian style on the flannel couch, my head on your shoulder meant a lot more to me than I would ever admit at the time. Sometimes the familiar scent of pheromones and honey can remind you of more simpler things. Sometimes simpler things are better. Then again, sometimes they're not. Kind of like the silence that screams in our ears right before they start ringing.

Cold weather.

It still amazes me how powerful words can be, even in the simplest of ways. The way the consonants cut like smooth blades slicing your skin, sometimes daggers jabbing tiny holes all over your body and lungs. Writing is a weapon; your voice can shake people's bodies in painful, in thoughtful, and in sexual ways. When was the last time you watched a woman put lotion on? Watched her slowly glide her hands up her legs while grinning, smelling so sweetly you can't help but watch as if she's painting you a picture. Sex is subjective. You take things for granted. The small little things that frustrate you can bring beauty to other people. We are all so fragile, frayed, and yet we're pieced together like paper mache, with our insides hanging out in the open. Our tiny little stories make up so many atmospheres in our lives, giggling to ourselves over something we remember. It's amazing how each individual life is comprised of such vastly different illustrations that no one can see but us. What lines in books most people have never read, lyrics in a song that people haven’t heard, things that people have said to you that you've never forgotten that contributes to your make-up? Strange how we're all made up of words. If we all ate our consciences, we'd have full bellies. We give so much thought and so much meaning to letters that ultimately we've created as a human race. We give things meaning and sentiment. Pretty fucking beautiful. Sometimes I just want someone to come along and slap my face and look into my eyes and tell me that they know who I am and that it’s going to be okay. I know its okay, it will always be okay, but sometimes you just need to hear someone else say it. To connect with another person without having to make an effort, they can just...see you. All of you. Sometimes someone just needs to take your hand and lead you into a new world where you'll gawk in amazement as they sit back and grin, thinking, "Yep. That's right." All of my life leading up until now has been so much to take in. It's sad that we can't remember everything. Every single second is a second of who we are. Sometimes forgetting is necessary. Like those times when getting drunk become more than just for fun. Sometimes you need a reason to get out of bed, to stop your routine, to remember every thing that’s put you right the fuck here; this is where you are supposed to be. Sometimes you want to love so badly it fucking hurts then the next day you want to be left alone because you’re angry and you want to hate but sometimes you just can’t. Every eyelash on your face keeps sweat out of your eyes like its meant to and you don’t even realize it. Wake up, feel the cold air as it punches you in the stomach reminding you that you are still human in there. Remember a kiss of a boy you’ve never kissed before? It just feels so good. A shirt brushing your shoulder, an empty smile with hateful thoughts lurking behind them. You are who you are without anyone’s help and you’re doing just fine. Sometimes you just want to feel pain because that’s all you’ve ever done. It feels welcoming, has a purpose, it reminds you of how strong you really are. The winter. It's right around the corner and I know its coming. The flaky pale skin on my face will show every detail of just how tired I am for no reason at all. Why is it so beautiful to be broken?

Just scribbles on paper.

It's amazing how the brisk of a sleeve can make you feel. Honestly, it's not even about you. You are just an extension of some deep rooted gunk inside me. Ever wonder why we stay in the lines, inside the margins? Ever wonder why we have to practice tricking our hearts into being on the same page as our brains? Heartbreak can manifest itself in almost any shape or form-like an unbeatable boss of sorts. How can you fly with clipped wings? Do you still try? There's something within the grip of the steering wheel or the way the wind blows wisps of your hair onto your cheeks, brushing them with a slight tickle such as a feather, which can only bring nothing but a grin with no other reason. Do I scare you? Do I entice you? Do I remind you of who you are, what you are capable of feeling, what primal instincts you cannot shut out? Does my presence make you fear, not me, but yourself? I've allowed myself to feel a couple of times. I wanted to scream into the sky for no one to hear but the stars that mourn our downfalls. Loving someone hurts. To do everything around their liking to get them to realize the extent of what you feel. Meaningless expression. I remember slammed doors and empty, empty, shallow laughs. Sometimes, I laughed at nothing. Anything to feel any amount of joy-real or not. That's love for ya. A pack of cigarettes and a tank of gas held so much weight even when you didn't care enough to stop me. It was never enough, was it? I could have put it all into a grave if I wanted, it would overflow and it still just wasn't enough for you. Love is pain and pain is love and I get that. Really- I do. But I want to feel it. I want to feel it all over, running and pumping in my veins like an adrenaline rush that just really gets you off. The perfect climax. To hurt for a reason, to hurt for a cause. To fight for something people just don't believe in anymore. I do. But I don't just want to love. I want to hurt. Because screaming and slammed doors and sobbing and watching my lit cigarette burn holes into my pants just feels so much better than feeling nothing at all. I am human. That is the beauty of being human. To feel. When absolute blankness is all you are exposed to-pain just sound so damn good. You can't put love or pain on your grocery list. The universe is a fucking joke that way. I want to love and feel and hurt until it damn near kills me, to fall to my knees, beg for mercy and then beg for more. Because that's the way my body works. That's the way it’s supposed to fucking work. That's the way my mind works and that’s the way my fucking heart works too. Empathy is never the same to another person as it is to you. Hurting for someone who hurts doesn't make their pain any more tolerable. Why do we always fall in love with strangers? Passing by, stopping in your life with a simple kiss-a hug- a fuck- a conversation. Do we ever actually know people? No one knows the thoughts we think before we go to bed and when we wake up. What secrets we hide from ourselves and how are hearts become so heavy in the middle of the night and we can't sleep, but all we can do is think think think until there are no more thoughts in the world to think and the heaviness in our hearts shifts to our eyelids. What is the equivalent to the dull feeling that creeps its way into your body without you noticing until its in full swing? It’s a want. ... a need. But for what? I'm still the same lost girl I've always been. I've not made much progress. I don't know what to do- not sure how to feel. Every feeling I have comes with repercussions and WHY. Why is it so wrong to be human, for me to be a fucking human. Has humanity come to point where we've lost sight of what's important? That we just don't fucking get it? I want it to go away. The winter months- the cold- the sadness. The imprints of my teeth engraved into my upper lip. I want to feel joy at my fingertips to spread to others. The blindness I feel has become overwhelming. There is a hollowness perching itself inside us all and we fucking let it. How will we let it define us? How will you let it define you? That’s the true characterization of humanity. How far are you willing to push yourself. My body has a mild vibration to it as I lay physically drained, exhausted. Surrounded by cubicles, I want to jump up! Shout out for mercy! Shake up the world, tell everyone around me to wake the fuck up! This is it- this is the revolution. When mankind battles it biggest enemy. The enemy that has been around for the longest time. Itself. Mankind is mankind's greatest weakness. To hurt each other and tear each other apart limb from limb. And we don’t even see it. I take comfort in the small things. A film used to watch to help me forget that my father is dead and he will not be able to hold me again. My arms and hands wrapped tightly around my warm belly, the best feeling and touching there is. You will never ever get under my skin. You won't see what beauty there is within this heart because you will not allow it. That goes for all of you. I'd like to go back to a tree in the woods. To enjoy my innocence I didn't know I had until it was gone. I want to remember the flesh that is underneath the threads tied from the graves, the attic stairs, the church bathroom, the black box theatre, the inside of a Buick Century. That's who I am. You're just too naive to know it.

Nothing brings comfort like being alone.

Sometimes you have to jump in without knowing the temperature of the water. Because the truth is, it might be freezing and it might make you wrinkly, but your body will become used to it. Out of the three rainbows I have managed to see this week, the first one was the best. Its odd to me how similar we as people all feel and think. We always think nobody else will understand but in actuality, they might be thinking the same thing. I crave a pulse pressed against my skin. Do not ask me why, but I just need a connection similar to the shock you get from walking on carpet with socks and touching a doorknob. I want to feel an electric current raise the hairs on the back of my neck and I want to project it onto the rainbows that I keep seeing. It's much like this feeling when you finish a book you've been reading for sometime. Its so exciting, and new and once you finish the end...you're not really sure what to do with yourself. I want to center myself around and idea of a peaceful mind, however, whilst my eyes are close, my mind thinks thoughts quicker than can be put into words. How many people would take the time to get to know me. How much certain albums and T.V. series make up of me. I want to be the book you read. I want to make you not know what to do with yourself. I want to read you. Know every story behind every scar. Memorize every freckle only to forget and then remember later. People are just people. Why is there so much electricity between hand touches and deep breaths? So much reassuring in wind that makes your hair tickle your scalp. You are not what you think you are. And do we actually all become the opposite of what we thought? Sometimes I cry for music. I cry for stories. I cry for the breeze. Sad and lonely, the breeze never belongs with anybody yet makes such an impact on the way we feel. I'm tired of my body quitting on me. That is to say, I'm tired of the back pain and the headaches but more importantly, I'm tired of tricking myself into thinking I am content when I am actually not. We all kind of lie to ourselves. Everybody lies. Its kind of sad that the only person you can actually believe in and trust is yourself: the person who lies to you the most. You aren't happy. I mean externally we can be happy but really deep down there is something we're always wanting and needing. And as much as we try to ignore it, that instinct is there. Lurking and waiting for a moment to become obvious to you and just because you recognize its there? Doesn't change a damn thing. Our body runs on sleep, our minds run on expose, but our hearts? They run on lies and comforting ideas of curling up into a ball and squeezing your eyes so tightly that tears can't possibly fall out of them, can they? You want to let the whole world in but all you do is shut it out. Nothing can penetrate your blankets and books and tea. Somedays we want to run as fast as we can hoping to eventually fall off the Earth, but we are simply not allowed to fall off. Someone once told me they envied a dying man. How absurd. But was he wrong? Are any of us ever really wrong? Everything can be chalked up to a gray area. Simplistically complicated. Twist me up and wring me out and tell me what exactly you see pour out of me. Is it beautiful? is it ugly? Another gray area. We all have demons we battle, who's to say yours are any different than mine? Instead of hiding them, why don't we let them play with each other? Let them distract each other. Riding backseat watching drop upon drop upon drop splash onto the glass when I was younger never occurred to me that it would be a significant memory. And in some ways, its not- but I remember. How much of me can I put into a container to save for later- another day-to share with someone who actually gives a damn? I'm tired. I am really fucking tired. I am so tired of putting in effort for no one to put in any back. And even furthermore- I'm tired that it hardly bothers me. A shrug, an eye roll. I should scream. I should scream at the top of my fucking lungs instead of being a clump of apathy. Because this is exactly who the fuck I am. I am a knot. I am a saint with demons. I am every single thing I need to be and every single thing you need me to be to. If only someone weren't too blind to see it. Being blind is a funny thing. Sometimes you don't see what you want. Sometimes you can't see what you need. I built a wooden box to contain my heart. Put it away for a rainy day-a day with rainbows. Maybe I'll bury it. Deep deep deep. A time castle. Centuries later they'll find it, dissect it and see more from it than anyone else has ever tried to. How pathetic. I want to be someone's drug. To leave a taste on your lips that you will never be able to shake from your mind, from under your skin. Something you'd never expect yourself to feel. To be slapped with unrecognizable feelings. To be prevalent and existing and every single part of your skin would miss the feeling of mine. We never really knew what to expect from ourselves as we tuned into what we became. Heroes-villains-standbys. The action is actually all around us and what fate have we chosen? Do we chose fate? Maybe we've all just been dead this entire time and this is Hell and we never even fucking knew. Surprise, surprise. My hands become shaky, my body stabs and stabs in pain and discomfort. Who are you? Who am I? Why don't we try and find out? Let's just be real here. Fear overpowers all. Or rather- comfort overpowers fear. So why don't you overpower yourself?

You never know where that heart has been, and we'll never know how hard it's been.

There's beauty in that pain. The way she bites her lip until it bleeds, the way she smiles while looking out into nothing; what is she smiling at. The way her hair and skin smell like apples and flowers. I want you to want to live on that skin, build a house within the crevices and wrinkles and tender felt. There's something deep within the way you can pretend to fly inside your quaint imagination in loud car rides to no where or nothing. I recall a time when the unsaid feelings we both shared drew us near a tiny, quiet playground, where we swang and played and cried without having to say a word. I wonder if you recall it too. There is something within the water of our souls that connect us in ways we are unable to put into the English language. Sometimes you wonder if you were ever really awake in the first place. The stories behind the paint on the walls hold so much depth that they want to cry along with us. When I was sixteen I was sure the house I lived in cried along with me every step of the way. It's the feeling deep inside the humidity of the air that holds all the feelings of nostalgia and everything feels right. Interpretations of everything she loves is the way into her cavity in which her heart lives. You can either dive in head first, or feet first, either way your bones will shatter. And that's something we cannot prevent because one way or another, you're going to get into that water. I want to exchange my fears in for someone else's. Take them as my own; cradle them, nurture them, and give them back in a better form that they were given to me. I want to fall onto my knees in every sense of self destruction. Destruction is the way to creation. Somewhere inside all of us is a layer of doubts that keeps the demons at bay. What is it that we're all trying feel? How are we so capable of putting our limitations into a cardboard box we can slide under our bed? The monsters we feared as children are real because we made them and never let the idea that something is going to get us when we least expect it go. We pass by so many stories every fucking day and we never even realize it. All we are is big fleshy meaty clumps of fairy tales and stories and hardships and we are all such perfect beings for doing what we have to do every single day. I want to tear down every wall you've ever put up with my fingernails until they are ripped clean off my skin. I want to cry with the walls that are forced to hold all of our secrets, our vices, our pains because we are all too ashamed to share it with anyone else. And why? Because we cannot be pushed when we're ready to jump. I want to rip my fucking clothes off in a fit of anger for no reason other than wanting to be raw. I want to scream until my chest and cheeks turn blood red like an orgasm of sorts, and I want you to yearn for me the way I yearn for human contact. To want it so fucking bad that it hurts. There's something so simplistic in the air that slaps your cheeks through the window, feet on the dashboard, heart becoming heavier and heavier. I feel a hatred burning and bubbling and bursting over and I want to jar it and save it on my counter top until I can smash it on the ground. I feel weightless in my discovery of the person I can be. I want you to want me. I want you to memorize the goosebumps, the scars, the stories, the different shapes of my curves. We are all just tales of rejection, depression, addiction, science fiction. Who I am is not definitive of how I feel. To be pressed up against the wall and feeling your mouth on my body, to feel the texture of book pages between my fingertips as I turn page, to feel the pain in my hand as I punch something that I've never been able to punch. I want you to bleed. I want you to miss the way I observe the things that are engraved in your existence. Empathy is the poor man's cocaine. What we do and experience is beautiful. To be able to witness death in the face and live alongside it with nothing in our hearts besides hope. Wishing upon wishes as if magic were real; it is. Something inside the sounds of the chords on a guitar or a key on the piano numb what we feel momentarily. And to have that option is more overwhelming than we ever realize. So much is taken for granted. The scent of you lingered on top of the scent of me as if they were making love the same way the raindrops do with pavement. And I want to be with the idea of you, the thought of you, the smell of you, the feel of you but never knowing who you are. The way strangers aren't actually strangers, just untold stories, skins unfelt maps of secret treasure. I want to pour out to you like water onto the thirsty plants that need it in order to survive. I want to become that map of discovery. Read me. Find my treasures. Or...just pass by with a nod, a smile, and a shuffle. The other people you come in contact frame you, whether or not you realize it. I want you to hunger for the melodies under my skin and the scars within my heart the exact same way your body magnetizes to mine. Somewhere along the lines we all lost sight of how to dump our insides onto the table for others to see. What exactly are we afraid of? We claim to be comfortable with ourselves and yet we hide our secrets within the subtleties of the things we're actually comfortable with sharing. The beauty of all of us is within the fears we don't even realize exist. What kind of monsters are under your bed?

I wonder if you still read these.

Through all the rough patches and efforts put into becoming who you're meant to become, it shocks you how after a year or so can pass between two people and yet you get slapped in the face with nostalgia and uncomfortable feelings the second you make eye contact with them again. I didn't think the sound of your voice could get my blood pumping again. It's amazing how many people touch our lives in such vastly different ways. I recalled a time where you wanted to run up and down the streets of a woman and how implications were made that the woman was me. I grin at the thought of how 2 am meant more to us than anyone else at the time. The problem with all of these things is that I keep allowing myself to get lost inside my own head. Being able to let things go has never been a forte. A familiar sense of a heavy weight inside my chest plate arose and I kept conjuring up imaginary situations that would just make things okay. But, they never happened. I am trying hard to be everything I should: a person filled with love and energy. The clouds have been making love to the sky in a way that I feel like people don't really appreciate. Some people thrive on being inspiration for art. You've been doing this to me for quite sometime. And, its not even about you, really. Its every single little instance that happens that makes me question myself. I felt like I lost sight of whats important. But then again, what is important. I wanted my blood to boil and I wanted to be kissed after being slapped in the face. I desire your body heat and sweat radiating into a mix with mine until the only thing we can hear is the heaviness of each others' breath. Face to face, chest to chest. I want to hurt for a reason, for a cause, for a purpose. Fighting for something until it nearly kills me. And I'll stand up, with dirt on my face and blood on my hands and smile. Life is funny like that. Getting punched in the stomach at 10 pm on a white wine belly wasn't actually much different than driving home from your place at 11 am without feeling like I accomplished a goddamn thing. A few weeks ago I realized that some people will live their lives the complete opposite way that you think everyone should. But then again, who are you to dictate how others live? Some people make it hard to love them. Those are the people you cannot control but you have to find a way to love them anyway. For your own sake. I fell down a hole. I fell in it so hard I came out of myself and all I could conjure was your face for what seemed like hours. Your stupid face. I used to press my lips on that face. I want a connection to last and build and strengthen together, not strengthen apart. I glimpsed into something I thought would grow and the fact that it died instead made me sad. We all get over sad. But you'll still find yourself questioning whether any of it was worth it in the first place. The sounds from the speakers answer all those questions. The sounds pull you out of the holes, make you smile when you feel like you don't even have lips to use anymore. Every instinct to pull someone inwards towards your core has repercussions. We've had more history then I recalled. Someone recently made me realize that I very well might be a gem. Or at least, I deserve the right to become one. Why is it that you never actually stop loving people? And when you think you hate them...its actually only love warped into something else because we had no where else to put it. I no longer remember the feeling of the goosebumps on your skin as I slid my fingertips across it. You probably don't remember the smell of my hair I used to leave on your pillow. How much love can a person squeeze out before they become dry? The thing is- I don't even want to sit here at almost 2 AM thinking about you right now. That was always the time. But there's just this crazy notion in my head that we need to mend whatever became broken. Otherwise, why would you keep popping up? Ah- that's the thing. Life's funny that way. I want to be craved. To burn an image into your mind. I want you to see me in the light I deserve to be seen in. My tummy ties in knots and I want to cry but don't feel the need to. I want to turn it off, I want to press a button. But I suppose the torment is what makes me human, and I guess that you are too. We're not so different you and me.

it's like coming home.

Sometimes it's easier to make yourself believe that nothing is wrong. Sometimes, it strikes you pretty hard how something you expected still stings anyway. Like a big slap in the face that you anticipate, but...it still hurts your cheek and your ego. That gut wrenching feeling in the pit of your heart the second you realize this is pretty much what you've wanted this entire time; countered with the pinch immediately after when you realize....they will not love you. They never do. You'd think it'd be numb by now. That's the thing about potential, it leaves so much room for disappointment even when you've tried to train yourself not to go down that path. Sometimes, it just happens. I'm swimming in a sea of disappointment and now it just feels like I'm drowning with no one to reach in and grab me out of the water. That's the really difficult part about being a listener. No one wants to listen to how you feel or your story. I might not enjoy conveying how I feel but I still have feelings and particular parts of me that are hollow that I'm trying to fill. In the end, instead of filling the emptiness, I end up just ignoring it until another person comes along and makes me think it can be filled but then reminds me why it's hollow in the first place. It makes me feel so so old when I know that I am so so young and the confliction causes anxiety and makes my system turn into a nervous wreck. The camera I hold gives me wings and the ability to fly. A long lost friend said that once. Her hatred of the birds around her, mocking her in her inability to soar the skies inspired me to become a little more wholesome. That same hatred turned into a larger one, practically consuming her entire essence. Thing is, I'm always second best, there will always be someone prettier or someone there first. And it's fine, it's okay; because deep down I know that I am unable to feel anyway. I want to wash the smell of failure and rejection off in a hot bath but I'm afraid the stench remains long after. The trestle below the bridge alongside the train tracks held our scribbles of laughter and secrets. Our stories echoed and ricocheted between the graffitied walls. The films and songs and tales that grew to mold you into the person you are today replay over and over until you are completely overwhelmed with nostalgic sorrow. Those same stories now ricocheting and echoing inside your head with no one to listen to them. Ignore the feelings that remind you of the past. Look forward even in the present. Who you are and what you do is not defined by the people you think you care about. Give it enough time and you'll forget all the nuances you took so much effort and so much time to memorize like the marks on their skin or the melody in their voice. The way their eyes look in the sun. Your feelings for others do not run your life. You do. ...I don't like to talk when I inhale my poison. Something about pouring chemicals into your body to lose yourself, even if just for a mere moment make communication seem below you. Remember back to a time when poison was all you knew? You've become so much better than that and yet...somehow you envy the former pretense you used to hide behind. Strange how sad happy memories can make you. You give up too easy. The tingle in the bottom of your feet you got one time to run as fast as you could until you literally could not go anywhere. As if running would make him come back to life. Replace one bad habit with a new one. Replace too much sleep with not enough. Put on something special, something specific only to be punched with news you expected to hear. Nothing is surprising anymore. And that's alright. I'm no longer blindsided. I cannot even cry when I feel like I should. At my expense, I'll do whatever is asked to make others happy. Chalk it up to another tally. Notch on my bed post type of thing. When my belly goes empty, or the flesh of my lips start to tear, or I cannot get that disgusting smoke smell out of my hair, no worries. You're all just so fucking happy and so am I. I just hope one day soon someone snaps me out of this lonely void that lies within me and within my heart so I can blossom just like everyone else. That's all I want to do, really. Blossom. Like the flower that I know I am. The flower that I deserve to be. What if each strand of hair on my head stood for every disappointment in my life? Our faults lie within our own hearts, our habits, our choices. The tears that once hit your driveway no longer burden themselves within my eyes. The love I used to have so easily is trying so hard to burst out onto the ends of the little hairs raised on my skin but I refuse to let it go. That is all mine. Taking steps is easy. Standing still is hard. I recall a time where I yearned for someone to care about me and they never did. I learned my lesson. Learning lessons takes the spark out of life. Guess I've become dull. I live my life by a lesson-to-lesson basis. One things for sure, my feelings will come out one way or another. One day I'll be fully alive and well. One day I will become the story everybody wants to hear.

After the past few days I've realized something. I am simply not allowed to feel. According to my society, feelings for others are wrong and are always surrounded by hate, anger, and certain consequences. How nice it would be to sell my things, get up, and go. The gypsy life seems surreal but maybe we're actually getting at something. How much happiness fits in a cup? A quart, a gallon? We measure our happiness by the fragments of the perceptions of other people. I am not actually sure how to define how I feel. I'm not sorry, I'm not really sad. Maybe a little anger but not as much as you would expect. Friendship has been put into this very angular box and its hard to fill it corner to corner. Today I caught the eye of someone I do not know. We used to be lovers but we no longer know each other anymore. How ironic it is to force yourself to stay away from something you were once compassionate about. I used to enjoy the smell of your sheets and the pillow case wrapped about the pillow you lent me for the night. I made shapes out of the lights peering through the areas of the windows your blinds didn't cover wondering if this night could last for just a little longer. Something about 2 am brings together the lost lonely souls of this town and even though we will remain the same, one night can ease the indifference to our suffering. Everything that comprises how we see ourselves and the people around us is manifested into one giant shadow. Growing, moving, and making love to the lights against your walls. You can't get rid of shadows. I cannot accept any explanation you will give me as to why at 2 am you no longer think of me, why your cigarettes no longer taste like me, why my pillow's scent is just not the same as yours. I crave to be the smell on your pillow, the taste in your mouth, the skin under your fingernails. I pride myself on knowing that at one point in time, you couldn't have me and that pissed you off. The demons inside your head are now rising to the surface of your skin and you're so scared that all you can feel is anger. I will not allow you to share your demons with me. I have my own and we manage to get along fine. I remember the paths I used to take and how I would never take them now. Funny how we all evolve into such different people as we grow older but still remain the same. You make yourself feel better by vomiting up some sort of self righteous apology only to admit that you're not really sorry. You were never worth the effort. I want to feel the salt in the air and the wind in my fist until I cannot feel any more happy. I want to liquify happiness and sprinkle it on to the faces I meet in my travels. I want to feel the torment of the twisting knots inside my stomach bubbling into a pure smile that says "Its not okay sometimes, but sometimes it is." I want you to know what it feels like to be me. To make the decisions I make, to love the way I love. I no longer have anything to say about this matter. I want to feel. Whether or not I am allowed to, I want to. So I will. If that offends you, please. Go fuck yourself.

You crash. You burn.

Knock knock. Who is it? This one is for the books. I wonder what's greater, the amount of time we stay asleep, or the amount of time we stay awake? Amazing how someone can be such a fucked up individual that they release sorrow from the things done to them but then do them to others as well. No one man is greater than the next. We all have little maps within our tissues and organs displaying the people we will become. You always become the thing you hate the most. I had forgotten what panic felt like. It was me wanting to cry, me wanting to let it out, but being physically unable to do so because I have become so used to this feeling. So? I lost my breath. Panic attack into an asthma attack. Yeah, thanks for that. Bad habits will never actually go away. They just dwell in the back of your mind until you think its okay to let them out. Then you remember why you put them there in the first place. The drugs, the feelings. You usually lock them away. Strange to me how a heart can become such a cold hard callous over the time of it being beaten. This isn't as bad as it used to be. But that one little needle pushed into it hurts but only because its a reminder of what its become. Why am I always fighting? I'm always exhausted, yet for some reason I am unable to sleep. The brick walls I put up for other people to knock down I've realized I've been trying to knock them down for them and pull them in here. The warmth of the sheets in my bed are far better than the false warmth within your soul. You'll live your whole life being absolutely nothing but a let down. You fucking know it too. The cold crept into my feet and the sun started rising. I almost liked it. It made my toes just as numb as the inside of me. Half of me wants to feel it, but the other half just isn't ready. In fact, it was humorous. I try so hard to allow people to use me to make themselves happy. Maybe that's it. The worth of each individual shouldn't be measured by how much you need them. They should be worth as much as any other. You are the epitome of every single thought of angst, loneliness, and heartbreak ever put to paper, screen, melody, or brush. And you will feel it vicariously through the way you are to other people. Every single prick or pain I've ever felt bubbled up to the surface...only to fizzle away. I am in search of somebody to lay beside until the demons go away. I want to sit in the middle of my floor with paint and a canvas with music playing and just keep going until I pass out from lack of energy or creativity. How many times will I drive past my father's grave whilst the rain makes love to my windshield? How many times will I refuse human kindness merely so I can be the one everyone loves to hate? Don't even blink. You kiss every known scar on her body as if your lips were magic and could take the pain of the past away. She can feel your breath on the tips of her hair filling her with warmth and fear. Every single word you've ever let fall off your tongue is a representation of the misfortune that is... you. We all know what will happen. In the back of our minds, we fear and are anxious about the ending that we know is coming. Yet, we choose to ignore it until it presents itself to us but, we are only half blinded by the sting that consumes us. Think about it tomorrow. Never really coming to terms with the hurt of yesterday. Pretending and wishing it all away until one drunken night of open doors reminds you of every single pinch that makes you the human you have become. The youth of your formal self is most likely disgusted of the lack of ambition you've manifested. We always become the thing we hate most. what we swore we would never become. We give ourselves ideals of the perfect goal, the perfect body, the perfect mindset when in actuality each and every single one of us are falling apart at the seams on the inside and the worse we feel, the bigger we smile. Someone always has it better, someone always has it worse, but our pain, our suffering, our madness is the only thing that is completely all our own. His sorrow was uninformed. The tears and rips inside our souls are always going to be there. Some people just bring them out more than others. Our faces are nothing more than paper mâché starting to crack and break from all the years of use. All I want is for someone to notice the little things I do. Someone other than my inner inhibitions. The faint smell of cigarettes on your clothes, the taste of bubble gum on your mouth, the sound of the hums you sing to yourself quietly in kitchen in the morning. They all deserve to go without being unnoticed. That feeling you get when a stranger's scent reminds you of someone you once cared for but you can't seem to place your finger on whom. You remember random memories of your childhood- having no idea that this is where you were going to end up...still having not a clue of where you're going. Shake off the feeling of abandonment, betrayal, being unwanted. Put them away for another day. Never facing the nuances of the shades of feelings towards someone else. Its always the same feeling of yearning, it just misshapes itself every time you allow yourself to want another human being. Tricking you in all its cunning and clever idiosyncratic methods. What is it exactly? It isn't quite love, but its more than attraction. Its feeling the resonance deep down within your bone marrow of passionately stretching an arm out for someone to grab you. Yank you. Pull you. Jerk you. inwards towards them. and them curling you to their body, squeezing you with all their might as if you were drowning underwater and their very touch is oxygen to your water filled lungs. No one has ever tried to save you. Nobody has ever taken the time to noticed you needed saving. They sit their heavy body blatantly on your chest, wiggling around, weighing you down, cutting off your circulation, then when they get off? They leave. My mind is filled with lackadaisical efforts that have turned into absurd jokes. You are a fucking joke. My fingers cramp from stretching them toward you. I can feel you spitting on me inside your mind. Hope you know it. You are the epitome of everything you've never wanted to be. Sometimes, its worth it. Do you feel like its worth it?

delirium.

I am so fucking lost. Floating around like a speck of dust. What am I even doing anymore? It's time to leave. It's time to branch out onto another limb because sitting on this one has no more meaning. But where does this direction take me? What's out there? I fell in love with your voice. It took me back to when I was in grade school and I was within the halls of the music room. You raised all the hairs on my body and I felt my heart beating faster, all through your vocals pouring from my speakers. My pulse matched your rhythm. And I don't even know you. I've never wanted to know a stranger so badly before. I want to collect all my thoughts and paint them. I want to hear all the sounds and write them. I want to see all the colors and turn them into song. I want to be on stage and I want to twist my own intestines for you to see because that is the only way I can ever make myself feel alive. I am the epitome of angst, hatred, sorrow, loneliness and joy. All in one. I do is sleep, cry and make excuses for why I can't do anything. I want to call you at 3 AM. Hear your voice, ask what you're doing in your room I can only imagine. I imagine what your laughter sounds like. For now, I'll dream of living by the beach with skates on my feet and money in my bank. I'll laugh at everything I've been through. My hair will be so long, and I'll be tan and skinny. I'm so broken. I thought I was broken before, but I'm really broken now. Broken into fragments. like a mug shattered but too many pieces are missing. I close my eyes, hoping it will all go away, but it doesn't. I squeeze my eyes shut and ball up my fists. I make whimpers and push all my energy into absolutely nothing but air. I have no tales of love. No tales of addiction. No tales of therapy. Only tales of nostalgia. What a fucking waste. I'm not even sure what the point is, anymore. I dream and dream. I imagine tiny knocks on my window with you and a boom box. fucking classic. The air feels acoustic. My skin blushes as the wind slaps it. I want to put shoes on my feet and run until I am dead. Running from everything and absolutely nothing. Beyond this point of creative flow. Take me. Take all of me. Put me in your novels, your songs, your paintings. Anything to show the world what kind of fucking spirit I have, because none of you even know it. Nobody has taken the time to see it. I don't give up. This life will not knock me into the deep end. You got that? I want every piece of me to linger in your mind. The taste of my mouth, the smell of my hair. I want to be sentences and lines. I'm tired of chasing my issues with a false idea of what could be better. How much longer do we have before the word "youth" is no longer a reasonable excuse for the things we do? They've always called me a late bloomer. My head never stops pounding and my heart never stops yearning. The silence creeps in and is much louder than the trains or the fans in the next room. You all hide in your own insecurities. Place the blame on someone else because its easier to than to just accept the fact that maybe you're a terrible fucking human being. Broken bones can mend but broken hearts grow back crooked. You give me a sense of false hope and I know it is false, but it is exactly what I need. Don't tell me its false, I want to have something to hold on to. Something to take care of little by little every day. If I have something to look forward to, then I don't have to hide for so long. Have you yearned for something so hard that the second its taken away from you, you are too exhausted to care? Its like taking your time creating something into your perception of perfection. How easily it is for something to be taken away from you that was never yours in the first place. So many lost souls out there searching for their own existence in tangent with the pulse of the Earth we live on. Sometimes we dump out old memories to make room for the new ones, but there are moments when you remember the most insignificant of events occurring and the simple beauty of just that is enough to pacify our own screaming mind. Every single thing that keeps me breathing and moving is nothing more than a string of events attached to my existence. Why is it so much easier for every one else to find a place of comfort? I am only comfortable in my sleep. You once told me to wait for you. I have no choice. The fabrications I conjure from below my fingernails and from inside my brain folds are nothing more than an illusion for me to stay put and get going. Always keep going. There is probably something beyond us that is so incredible, so much better, that giving up would be worth it. But that is too easy. And I've seen what giving up can do to other people. You can all ignore me and pretend I don't exist but I will not do that to you. Even if you all deserve it. Strange how you can be uncomfortable but still within a comfort zone. The taste of your skin I can only imagine. Of all the things I imagine, that is my favorite. All of my favorite things nobody has cared to ask. No one is there. It's just me, my adrenaline filled pulse, my imagination, and my fucking spirit. Maybe that's all I'll need to conjure up a point of self worth. Maybe one day someone will ask me how I'm really doing. And I'll tell them how terrible it actually is. Its like being underwater and you keep kicking up to the surface, but you can only get one breath before you're pushed back under again. Everything is so hostile and negative. I'm always sad, but in a optimistic kind of way. I'm just waiting for someone to take the time to notice. I wanted that to be you. I'll imagine you singing me to sleep this time. I'll be able to fall asleep, then.