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.

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.