Journal Entry Number....4?

Current Mood: Non-caring
Current Tunes: Make Me A Mix Tape - The Promise Ring

This'll be my last post for 2010. I don't think anyone gives a shit really. I'm going to see Trucks tonight at the Florida Theather with my mom and her boyfriend. It's whatever. I guess it'll be a good show.

I think I need new pills or something. The ones I have aren't working. Woohoo. Party last night was really fun. My body hurts.

I'm going to a party sunday also. Yay? I don't know. I don't really want to go back to school... then again who does? My level of caring has just shot down dramaticly.

New Years resolution? Try and hang out with friends more.

Dead Kennedys.

I've never been protected this much in my life before.

They, the older ones who stood in the back and didn't subject themselfs to rape in the pit, stood around me.

Yet they all made sure I could see.

I wanted to dive in there in desprate move to make them notice me.

But they probably wouldn't give a fuck.

The Dead Kennedys are to cool for that.

Nevertheless, I was in a circle of sober and slightly trashed older generation punk fans.

They all had patches on there jacket.

Some laughed at my buttons.

They all laughed at the 5'2 kid attemtping to pogo.

A style of dance they haven't seen in years.

At least I could see threw the cloud of smoke.

Although I felt like I never wanted a toke because it was hot and hard to breathe.

I'm proud of the bruises they gave me.

Proud of how I probably still smell like drunk girl.

Proud how I punched a blonde poser bimbo in the face.

That was my birthday present, mother fucker.

Untilted 3

I sat on a landing on the staircase and started reading. The world outside, outside of my head, was cold. There was ice on the rail and ice on my toes. I thought about yesterday.

Yesterday. Coming home from work in the car with my dad. We were going threw various raidostations. We both herd John Lennon's voice come to us on the airwaves. It was the biggest joy for me, much more so than him, mind you. I was slumped over in a daze then I heard him. My body pricked up and my eyes were wide.

"Beautiful Boy, Darling Boy." I knew the song instantly, but Dad didn't. "What is it?" I told him so. "Oh..." At that moment I went inside myself and I tried to figure out just what he ment to me. Not my dad, John.

When I was little it was like I had found a friend. Slowly, well, no. I'm lying. Very quickly it turned into love... or what I thought love was. I used to sit, sometimes still do, curled up by my speaker. Nothing else really matters. Just him. Long nights were spent, its not as frequent now, laying in front of the speaker listening to him sing about love. Love. And then I twist it around til it feels like we were ment for each other but in truth we wern't. Never were.

I don't know why I wrote this.

Cyberspace

I glare into cyberspace and wonder why I'm here. Why am I here, this moment, stuck in a room with four walls, and one hollow being staring into a light up box. What's the point?

I can't tell you. No one can. If you believe in something up in the sky then maybe you can ask that something. Say hello for me if it answers you back. Whatever it is.

I wonder why I'm stuck out here on a lonely peice of cyberspace. What's the point of this if it's lost in a sea of other poets rising and falling dreams?

What's the point if this data can just be ereased as quickly as the words form from brain to fingures to keystrokes?

The box sits looking back at me. It's a mirror of whatever I tell it to say. I wish the box would answer my how's and why's.

Why am I apart of the human race? Why have I become another poet? Another drifert on a digital frontieer? Am I to be a pioneer? Or should I and my words be laid to waste for a thousand light years?

So here is a soul stuck out in cyberspace... a drifter slowly detactching from the human race. I wonder if my words will survive or just get lost in digital waste? Was I ment to be a human soul? Or was I ment to disspear on bits of digital frontieers?

A Rough Draft From A Peice Of Music

She runs out the door.

The she is alone with herself.

And she reflects.

Girl meets a man on a bus.

Simple.

Only skin deep.

Years back she thinks...

To the time he forgot to call.

To the time he forgot to answer.

To all the times he forgot to remember.

So she ended it.

There relationship.

So she ended it.

Her life.

Fin.

A Blurb About Jim Morrison

Jim Morrison's "Indian Summer" wrapped around my head like silk.

In dreams we talk.

Of life, of death, of love.

Or I do anyway.

He just sits and listens.

He stares at me.

Sometimes I wonder if he is really dead.

Sometimes he'll talk to me.

I wait for the day when I'm awake and he comes.

The Love That Must Not Be Named

It's hard to write this now. The tears burn my vision and blurr up everything I see.

I feel as if my heart just stopped. The physical pain is over whelming. It crashes into me like waves. Waves of anger, frustration, and above all loss. I lost her, the girl I love. The girl I waited for since day one. The girl I would still give myself up for. The girl who I cried over.

And she was taken from me by hands of her own. I can't do anything. Just stand there frozen as tears stream down my face. It's at the point now I can no longer produce tears. And the only thing I can ask myself is why and how.

How can I face tommorow? How can I look at her and not brake down?

It's like Oscar Wilde called it.. "The Love That Must Not Be Named."

Even quiet love can be found out Oscar because her walls have ears and eyes and mouths and tounges to shape horrible words with.

Excuse me now for I wish to lay in hell and die. I pray to God if any that she know that I love her madly and I'll wait beyond the end of time.

I feel like I could die. It would be better than right now. It would be better to lay in a grave than to face other faces.

All because of love, I won and now all because of love I am broken and killed.

And all I can do is sit here and sob and wonder why all this had to happen. I can only cry in vain for The Love That Must Not Be Named.

December

The road was open and lonely. "But we have ta' ride it out..." In December on it's icy hillsides.

When I woke up, there was snow. Quiet woods nestled in gentle December souls. They all leave there mark on the world by the prints on natures hardened ground.

Many-a-day, lays Robert Frost in his ever moving tomb; the winter weather... the time of the writers birth.

Only to be choked by snowfall and whisk anyway on frosted windows of death and maybe shame. And only the corpse who have all the answers are to be buried under the demons of an unforgiving blizzard.

December, the time I was born in.
December, the time that I nursed in.
December, the time that I love and hate in.

My love and I, lay in folk song fields of snow. Her cheeks turn pick at Jack Frost kiss. Her body, pale and slender, against grey skies. Her eyes muse me like a winters sunshine. Her hair burning crimson as if the murder was conducted on her skin.

For my love is winter. She is the angel that I make in the snow. She is the breath of fast approaching Christmas on my skin.

For my love is Decemember.

Untilted 2

In the event of this still eve the sky turned gray. My eye lids heavy from lack of sheer sleep deprivation.

And where am I going now? Trapped in a house which your mother calls it a home but yet for some reason you don't seem to feel that way at all. It's just a house. And this room is just a room with four walls, a roof, and a bed. Not to say that I am not grateful for these things. But this is not a home.

Then again what is a home? When your only home was in a car and thats all you will ever think of it. You, like I, tend to be more grateful for the monsterous thing on four wheels; a peice of metal that you would gladly call your own home if it was legal to do so.

It was fustrating to think about all of the events in one life that lead up to now. The present. Where can I go if the roads end? Or if my home brakes down on a highway on a rainy rainy highway.

Yesterday (A Poem for John Lennon)

I didn't want to go to school today.

I didn't want to wake up.

If I could lay in a dream of yesterday for the rest of today.

Then you'd be alive.

You would be alive.

If I closed my eyes.

And my days would be brighter.

And my heart would beat faster.

I miss the yesterdays that I never saw.

Yesterdays that I never walked apon.

A yesterday where I could actualy feel you right here.

Right now.

But that was yesterday.

And this is today.

Oh, I believe in a million yesterdays.

And If I close my eyes.

You're still alive.

A Rant: Champan.

Thirty years. I haven't even been in existence that long. Yet... I grieve. I hate you, Chapman. I damn you to hell. You took away something from the world, someone important. Someone who meant something. Someone who if was still alive they would mean more now in these times of sorrow than anything. But the bullet cracked his skull. And down went a poet, and down went a lover, and down went a hero. And down went a dreamer. You killed someone that I can't even explain these feelings I have for. Ruined. You're a sick bastard, Chapman. And to think the Government probably hired you... Fuck you. I hate you.

Writers

Maybe they are the only ones who sit in dark rooms and listen to Bonnie Prince Billy at four in the morning when the rest of the world is asleep. Writers. They tend to be the only ones to speak only when spoken to.

To wear baggy clothes to hide there flesh... however pale it lays. They tend to be the ones who wear long sleeves in the dead of the summer. As if there protecting themselfs from the worlds hungrey eyes because they feel that the world peers into other peoples lifes and flesh like perverts.


Writers can be a soft spoken breed in speech. There voices muffled by the power of there one friend who seems to always speak for them; scilence. Inside them quakes a curious power. One that is built on swift movement, weather it be pen, quill, pencil, fingures, or hands.

They keep a hidden voice thats barbbed wire shut with a lock and tiny sliver key.

Missing

I hated it. All of it.

Every inch of my body yelled at me for letting you go... even when we both know you didn't want to.

My bed was empty, dark, and cold.

Your scent lingered on my bed frame and my sheets.

Slowly pulling me into the unsettling hope that at any moment you will walk into my solitary state and fill my empty head.

Your face was soft at twilight. So angelic in its place.

This new emotion I entered was lovely, dark and deep.

But I have many a dream to dream before you are back to me.

Back to a person that no one else seems to know but me.

Before you are back with a part of me no one else will ever see...in the coldness of early morning.

Yet in bleak December wind we stay safe and warm.

Snuggled as lambs in a can of soup.

And so I lay missing in an empty bed.

And so I long for your warmth so I can rest my head.

Tangled

The girl told me her feelings and I was glad. We laid on my bed and listend to Neil Young in the dawn of night.

And then perhaps a light year later, I woke up and she was on the floor, digging threw my albums. I watched her with glazed eyes not from drunkeness.. hardly that. My eyes were glazed from being in the dark so long. From being without whatever we gave each other for so long. She picked out a Dylan album.

I had to show her how to put it on the needle. She was new to records. We sat there dumbfounded as Dylan spoke of Isis. She played it over and over again. I thought I was the only one who could sit there for hours and hear the cowboy tell his story.

It seemed the night lasted forever even when dawn began the day. Even when dawn began the day we knew she couldn't stay. But we stayed in each others arms anyway. Two dumbfounded kids in the same bed. I told her I loved her then she kissed my head. Even when she left that day... she was still there. Tangled in my jacket, tangled in my hair.

Untilted.

Sometimes.

Sometimes I sit and wonder why.

Wonder what the hell I did... what the hell I didn't do.

I wonder if my head will stop pounding with unanswerd questions in the drama of life.

I wonder if my parents really beleive they understand rebels like us.

If they knew the pain I feel at the bottom of my stomach.

Or how they were constantly judged inward and outward?

Reguardless I will be placed into a rebel.

To the masses I, like others, will be just another rebel with out a cause.

The Denver Hero

I stayed up like a bum with my hands coverd in ash. I sprawled out on the roof. I listend to Jack Keuroac for four hours now. My breath smelled like hot rum and it burned in my throat and feet and fingers.

I was drunk. Damn drunk. I was reeling and laughing and crying at his adventures in Mexico. He was a bum, I'm a bum, You're a bum, too! I paid more attention to his airwaves and hollowed out recording than I did my own parents.

His voice gravled on, dark and sexy and lonely in his discription of the America's to Mexico and back again. How he was lonely in Denver, How he went away from Denver, How he bloody died in Denver. The time were he sat and listend to Dean and Carlo talk about the mechine and how you couldn't shut it off because if you did everything would die. How he laid with some girl in some grass mummbling and slurring til everything made sence in there minds.


And about Mary Lou. How her honey colored body and soul was enough to drive him to the brink of hell, into hell and repeat itself before morning. Then morning came and he, a hero of this American teenager, walked and hitch hiked into the shadey road of alholoic death. Into the shadey woeful boxcar night on the railroads of maybe his hometown... but probably Denver. Everything happens in Denver. Living, loving, and dying in Denver. The hero of Denver, the devil of Denver, gets out of a shadow truck and onto the boxcar. Only to ride off in the rainy naked light blub night once again... all the way to Denver.

A Quick Twenty

As I'm sitting here trying to get Darklands to download and waiting for my brother to show up so I can beat him in some serious video games, I've been thinking. Here now from my mind comes two list. These are not in by number of importance... they are simply there because they popped into my head first. This is not meant to be a piece of writing... just a random blurb so possibly readers could know me better.

Ten Things That I Hate And Or Annoy Me:

1. I hate it when people think The Jesus and Mary Chain are a Christan Rock Band.
2. Christan's in general.
3. Posers.
4. I hate it when you say you're bisexual that automatically means you're lesbian apparently.
5. Justin Beiber.
6. The really hard core (not necessarily religious) purist. "I don't drink or smoke or do drugs or anything of that nature so there for I have a better life than you. I'm so clean." You fucking wanker. Get a life!
7. Math. Enough said.
8. When you're mom even starts calling you goth... whatever that is.
9. Really really slow music downloads. Isn't download supposed to be instant?
10. The fact that The Cure isn't touring.

Ten Things I Like And Or Enjoy Doing etc:

1. Lou Reed.
2. The Jesus And Mary Chain
3. Music in general.
4. Ranting about things I hate.
5. Rum.
6. That moment you know there's something between you and a person.
7. Seeing someone you missed.
8. Anytime a Beatles song comes on the radio.
9. New eyeliner.
10. Christmas.

The end.

It's Complicated

It's complicated... when you're this sad. When you're this alone. It's complicated to tie you're own shoes when you're this sad.. this alone. It's hard to see in the darkness of you're own poedic, tragic, thoughts. They bubble up blacking out the star map of my mind. It's complicated to be involed with someone you love and yet you love someone else the same way... the same portion of you're heart you're willing to give up to them. But you can't take both. It gets so long; the days. It gets so short; my breath. It gets so bleak; my days. It is cold; the tile floor I lay my head on. And hard. Resting on a stone blanket of ice, rolling over to hear the dumb hum of the naked kitchen bulb. Now all I do is watch it swing back and forth, most days. Also I count my miserable exsistance on the kitchen floor. Every drop from the rusty faucet into the skin means another tear drop on the tile floor. I love you, can't you see that? Can't you feel that? It's complicated.. when you're this sad. "What's wrong?" I heard someone ask, looking down at me. "It's compleicated."

"Not In Love" A Rave

There's a neew single out by Crystal Castles featuring Robert Smith called "Not In Love" And It's really awesome! There's alot of awesome synth and keybord. And Robert has this grate bassline. And his voice is just wonderful. Listen for you're self! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ftKBjYUamQY&feature=fvst

America

America, the secert subject of these poems.

America, my home land.

America, a hell hole.

America, a melting pot.

The driving force of the futures super highways.

Roads lined with trees of red violet.

Roads cut into this land like the old, dried up, river beds of Mississippi and Arkansas.

Dusty grit and gravel; America's ash tray.

The road.

Beat Angel

I awoke looking like a survior of a concentration camp. I was hungrey and I could feel my ribs poking at me threw the thin wall of my stomaches flesh. I sat upright then I rememberd a dream.

I was sprawled out naked on a tile floor and my wrist were cuffed by metal loops with spikes dug into my flesh so my arms would be wrapped around me. I was a human straight jacket. I witherd and convulsed in anger as I heard Howl read and reread out to me millions of times by someone that wasn't him. My body arched in a way that it wasn't suppoed to be naturaly and my cerbal pasly made my legs twitch. It was all so bleak. The night sky from what I could tell threw this barred window..... was acid. The moon was full but it wasn't pretty. It gave off a war time greenish glow.

My own vile slid out my mouth as I heard his horrid visions. Then I cried. I was no longer a child. Was this what it was like becoming a woman? No longer a child yet I remained untouched. Everything around me was blue. A soft glowing blue, like the clean sheets at my Grandmothers house. The steal cuffs had melted off of me and then I heard his voice. He stepped threw the mist of acid night and wall and bricks to get to me. My twisted gaping body. I could move my hands again. He knelt down next to me and then I knew I was dead.

I saw the angel and for a moment I believed. His wings were a soft blue. He had jeans and a flannel shirt and no shoes; he was a beat angel. I felt something well up inside of me; my words. "Are you with me?" I asked. It didn't talk. I saw now that it had no gender. Beat Angel wrapped me up in its embrace and then I was floating backwards towards infancy.

Journal Entry 2

Mood: Neutral? Confused? Confused works.
Tunes: "Fire In Ciaro" The Cure

I'm not really sure what to write about to be honest. Feels like the ink well of my mind has dried up. For now.

Security Within Insecurity

I laid there.

In shadows of firmilar night. Cut open raw like a wound in the skin.

I lay flat on my back.

Staring up at the night sky that is the roof of these four walls; security within insecurity.

Blackness all around me.

Washing over me.

But I can still see.. when I close my eyes.

Red flowers flow gently past the inky rivers of my thoughts.

And then I see a darkness.

Journal Entry

Mood: Sulky.
Tunes: Bonnie 'Prince' Billy- I See A Darkness

I've deiceded to do some journal entries. About my life, I guess. Maybe It'll make for a good piece of writing. I don't know. This year is one of grate change. I can feel it. I keep going down and down in a spiral. As if I'm sinking and I'll never get better... or I'll drown and pull myself up then I'll fall again.

I don't know. It's all so bleak now that I think about it.

- The Typist

That this is life

I cried because I got it.

My tears were cold on my frozen freckled face.

Oh Allen! Oh Allen! I understand!

Oh Oscar! I know now! I know!

I get life!

My legs shake as I realize what this all this.

That this is life.

And that is all.

A brighter red flower blooms in my vision.

The moon becomes paler and lonely.

I become the same.

But that is okay.

That is life.

And that is all.

What? (A peice of writing to be considerd a poem, story, or rant and everything else in between)

Look where I am now.

I tried to be a poet of the Beat Generation.

Till Allen set me straight.

What now?

What now that my typewriters out of ribbon?

What now that my pen is out of ink?

And my mounting sea of paper starts to shrink?

Where will I go then?

What do I do when I get to the end of the road?

Who will I look up to when my poet dies?

When Bobby is gone?

I stare at the wall in horrible frustration trying to picture life with out his words coming threw my speaker soft and strong; like a sewing needle hitting the tile floor.

They'll still be there.

But he won't be around to read them.

That's life isn't it?

People love you more when you're dead.

People realize you're genius when you can't produce anymore of it because you're laying in some hole in the ground or a ditch. They don't want you back though. They say how grate you are but secertly they, the masses, are glad your ideas of change are out of there heads... because they are afraid.

Afraid that if you are still alive you can cause more harm; more change.

My father once said that there isn't a grate need for writers these days. He was wrong. They always need writer's who will write not for artistic reality or truth but they write what they are told. There are needs for writers... just not poets.

No. No. We poet's live in secret society's of our minds. Everyone says because I am a girl that I therefore am labeled to write poems of the feminist. "They need creative inspiration!" Fuck that! I write what I feel. Not for the female masses so they can preach some fat middle age women wine drinking self empowerment bitch fest. All genders are wrong.

When Bobby dies my pen will die, too. I know it. I just know it.

What am I gonna' do when I'm lost in the rain in Juarez and it's Easter time, too?

All those hopes and dreams I've had sense little-girl-hood will be exposed all at once for everyone to see. It all boils down to the question that everyone has asked a million times when they lay akwake at night all pent up from there own lonliness.

What do I do now?

Hyper Writing: Gonzo In Action

I'm cold. And bored. Hence why I'm doing this. Basicly I'm just typing whatever comes in my head. See if anyone reads this. If you get this far I congradualate you! I miss Amsterdam. I have no idea why. I guess the same reason why everybody misses the place; pot. Chtulhu for president 2012! I don't want to do this science project at all even though it won't take long. Grr. I wish I lived in England so I didn't have to wait another week for the Doctor Who Christmas special. A week isn't that bad really but I get excited. I'm going for a walk.

A Conversation With Kurt Cobain

I looked at my poster. This blue wall that I pined you too. And yes. It was in every way meant to be sexual. I sat on the edge of my bed and looked at you. Studying you. Wavy blond hair, those tortured blue eyes that I'm a complete sucker for. What can I say? I like the artistic moody type. And then I go to me. My insides. This feeling of lust... or is it love? I can't tell you, Kurt. I honestly can't. I changed my middle name to Cobain for you, and I have a jacket named after you, too. I wear you everyday wrapped around my body like a shroud. You feel good there. Looking deep into your paper eyes I can almost feel some reality in them. You know, I've wanted to die before... just like you. "I'm so happy 'cause today I found my friends." You did? "There in my head.." Yea. I have lots of those. "I'm so ugly.." No you're not! I touch your paper face, maybe if you could feel human skin again you could see how much the world needs you to come back in zombie form and kill that cunt of a bitch you took for a wife. "But so are you." What? I light a cigarette and I kept staring at you. Your face remained the same.. placid. No emotion. I looked over to another place I pined you. Here you look happy and your playing guitar. Maybe you didn't mean to call me ugly. I go back to the first one right up o n the wall where my bed is. "Go away.." You said to me. Fine. I fell back on my bed but I couldn't see you. Wouldn't we make a lovely couple? "I like you I'm not gonna crack... I miss you I'm not gonna crack.. I love you I'm not gonna crack..... I kill you I'm not gonna crack." Aww... that's so sweet.

Stereotypes

What the fuck is wrong with you?

There all a bunch of whores...

All the girls love him.

Too bad.

Too bad he's a fag.

Bitches and Dykes...

Another sexual teenage sterotype.

They all try and say "I'm better than you. I'm better than you."

Bro's... and Ho's.

Another sexual teenage sterotype.

I hate my life.

I hate my life.

We all fall into sterotypes!

Highschool.

Nothing but a label.

Nothing but a label.

Nothing but a fucking sterotype.

Deface

This page I will deface.

This virginity I took.

Fuck it all.

I rant and rave about socitiey. Every punch I take, I do it for this.

This page I will deface.

These pages I will discrace.

For all thoes times I've been called a punk.

For all thoes times I've been called a goth.

For all thoes times I've cried....

These are my rants, raves, and rages.

This is the face they are afraid to see; everyone's scared in bullshit socitiy.

This page I fucked up to royaly, to show that you are wrong, to punch the fucking whores.

This page has been defaced.

Because I had A Vision.

We all sat there. Staring up at the poet Jesus of the 20th decade. A year of my life I never got. And he howled. Then I howled. I howled, piercing the night.

Her skin burned like hot oranges and cigarettes. I was the frustrated teenage girl in the back row, wanting to be physical. Go! Go! Strip your clothes off and fuck. Fuck America for we are free now.

We are free like lost children in the Midwestern night. Or the hot southern swamp. I am trapped here in it's acid filled lakes. It's hungry, sexless roads. The cigarettes pile up in numbers.

And where was he? He. The man of the hour. He. A dead poet. He. An alive poet. He. The bum. He. The hoodlum hero. He. The writer?

You call this gesture absence. Yet you groan and you grind along with the other naked man and his pulsating body. A summer night of hot, shimmering heat on bronzed skin.

I called out to Jim Morrison in the summer night. In the winter night. In the night. I called out to him, begging him. Wanting him. Needing him on my body and my mind.

Thrown into a vast abyss of sidewalks and city streets. They keep going. Lost in some once glorious vision of the 1960s, all faded away with the bloodshed. The bleeding of its last pawns of war. The rise of the American Capitalism and the fall of Jack Kerouac.

Yes! Yes! All I felt was skin. Skin of an animal. It wasn't human. This feeling of tremors and cold sweats and screams. I was hunched over on the cold tile in the bathroom. As I looked up at her naked, bronzed, body I saw it all. I saw life thrashing inside her soul. The ark angel trying to get out of her prison of flesh and bones. Her body.

Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty is the sidewalks at dusk in small town America. Empty is the wallet of a poor man. Empty is the parking lot on a Sunday afternoon in swamp lands.

The souls of angels spread out over the horizons of the people in the hospital. Like a germ. They were all dust. They were all thrown into war. They were all abused. They were the rape objects. The horrid sexual feeling of seeing the body of the young boy in the river, stripped naked and bruised. Oh! The tragedy! Such is the American Way! Oh, little boy. Oh, big man who raped him. OH! The cruelly of it all!

My lover stands poised in the face of the man that marked her. My lover spits on the lesser man. Her father. The one who gave her life, she damns. She damns it all with the wave of her hand.

I am not some grate movement. I AM NOT some crack head in the basement jerking off to sorrowful poems of Poe... thoughts of dead bodies. Drowned.

We all sat there in the building staring at the screen mindlessly. All of us sick perverted souls who just wanted to be fucked then left alone to make thick fog on the edge of our illegal illusions we bought of the street.

We want to be something. We want to be poets and perverts and lovers and Jesus and drugs and dreams and bums! All of us want to be something! We want to be free and alive and dead and pleasured and tortured and heard about and hidden. We want to be alright and horrified at the gaping bodies and we want to be the cold corpse; the price of war. We want to howl at the night for no goddamn reason other than we want to free our angelic souls from our prisons. From our prisons of flesh and bones. From this hellish world we created for our self. For the rest of it be damned! Everyone is an angel even the devil and I say fuck it all.

She threw the bottle in the garbage and watched as the glass hit the rim and shattered into a million microscopic pieces of souls. And she herd them scream. They called out into the only night we know. They called out for something else beyond ourselfs. A drugged up world were dreams are reality and reality is a foreign concept.

Oh everyones a faggot! Just fuck it all. Suck a cock and get it over with. Fuck it all. I'm a grown being now, there. You happy? Are you satisfied? Was it good for you, too?

In these valleys of death I traveled threw a rickety world of barns and houses and cities and back alleys and whores and drugged up dreams. Because I had a vision. Because I had a vision. Because I couldn't sleep. Because I had a vision. What was it? I visioned my naked body twisted and battered and bloody and bruised. Forever dying and unholy death in the river. Hot swamp, hot frog.

We wanted to be something. We wanted to be herd. Damn it we want to howl. To expose our lungs in the night! To cry out for every god damn thing we've done or haven't done. Herd or seen. Been or being. We want to howl! Howl! Howl! Howl! Cuss! Fuss! Fuck! Drink! All these things! We will be lost in the vision of the night.

Time in Class

I'm sitting in class dressed as The Doctor. Several people thought it was a good idea to attack me. Ha ha. I was in several persons pictures... most of whom I didn't know. My friend is dressed Ala Rocky Horror. Heh. Oh costume day. I should be working on my story for class... eh. I'll do it later. I can't focus. It's a mess. I pushed my forward plastered bangs to the side of my face and exhale. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm amazed this thing isn't blocked. Oh, boredom.... watching the clock. Words on my screen. Time to save the world again.

The Road Home (A Poem For Jack)

All I remeber is that we were lost.

Lost.

Neck deep in highway and road.

Asfault and gravel.

Yellow lines.

And this is the road.

And this is my home.

I threw my head back at the wind in my face and laughed.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Everything is a consant blur in the little toy mechine.

And this is my car.

And this is my home.

I am a lost cause, built only for the road.

The open world is my lady.

And she calls to me sweetly.

Like a cluster of bees to a pot of honey and wild flowers,

"You are your own. Go my child, go. I will meet you in the promise land. I will make you. I will meet you in the promise land...."

I herd dead mans voice...

Jack.

I'm coming back to you.

To New York....

And this is the road...

and this is my home.

A letter to Faris Rotter...

I know we were never ment to be together. You're 23 years old and I'm 8 years younger. But... deep down, I wanted you to know my face. Just once. I wanted you to know my skin, just once. Yes it's wrong but I don't care. Sometimes at night I used to pick flowers and rip there petals off hoping you loved me... one point you did. I taped the petal in my notebook. It was something symbolic but now, I know that it never met anything. I have to get over you... the man I never knew. You're with some other girl now... whatever her name is. She probably understands you. I won't try and steal you from her, whoever she is. It's not logical. I shouldn't be upset but then I would be lying to you. Knowing that you could and never would love me is something that I'll have to get over. It's not like I knew you anyway or I will I ever know you. I just know what everyone can see. And yet, if we ever passed each other on the street, I would know you but you wouldn't even stop for a moment to ponder my exsistance. I still love you but I let the petal burn.

A Dream.

"Come on! Come on! Time to save the world!" What? You always seemed to find yourself in the middle of a dream, not knowing how you got there or what lead up to it. One moment I was laying down on my floor passing out from playing video games and the next thing I know... I'm running. Running threw London in the rain? "Come on! Come on! Time to save the world!" said some random man's voice running in front of me. I looked down. Well, I was dressed normally, thank god. Just jeans and a shirt and my chucks... the standard American Teen running from what? I looked back. Robots. Oh wonderful. "WHAT IF I DON'T WANT TO SAVE THE WORLD!?" I cried, still running very much out of breath. "I'm afraid you don't have any choice... Now.. in ya' go!" I was shoved into a phone box. "It's bigger on the inside!" My brain suddenly kicked in. Wait a minute... London plus box plus random British man saving world plus robots plus random girl (me) equals.... DOCTOR WHO!? I suddenly was very excitied.Alittle kid on Christmas morning times ten. I dug frantically for my own screwdriver but it wasn't there. Looking around, still standing in the door way I was in the TARDIS. Grinning like a git I just stood there. The Doctor... or the person that sure as better hell be the doctor sense I'm in the TARDIS. I jumped up and down and started to make TARDIS noises like I did when I was three. "Stop being all wibbly wobbly and watch the screen." Seeing it was Ten, I had to be professional. The world was in danger! I buried all the girly thoughts I ever had about the tenth Doctor deep down inside me and gave him a hug. "Will you let go!? Did a Dalex get you or something?" He wiggled awkwardly. "Hi...' I grinned up at him with shaky knees. "Pay attention! We're going up against weeping angels... what ever you do... don't blink, okay?" I fell over when we landed. I wasn't used to space travel. Soon we were outside on something that made me think Mars. "Stay close... and don't blink." he warned. Oh I'll stay close alright.... I thought. We were in some abyss of sand and stone. It was really eerie. We stood back to back, each facing a stone angel. They looked pretty. The one on my side seemed to move forward, coming closer and closer. "Use your screwdriver..." Ten whispered. "You have it..." I said, shaking. How the hell did you kill those things? My eyes hurt from the strain of not blinking. The stone creature was touching the tip of my shoe. It was a staring contest. I blinked. Its once calm face turned like the scream and lunged at me. "I told you not to blink!" the Doctor said turning around he zapped it with my screwdriver. But there were two... the other one grabbed me. Then in cold realization I was back on my floor... my hands buried in my face trying to hide. "I told you not to blink..."

Your Scene Sucks: A Rant About Scene Girls

Mother fucker. I'm sick of all these stupid, dumb ass, preteen or teen wanna-be-some-area-of-pop-culter-label! The best example of this I can think of is Scene. Now, what is it? Well, basicly its every cool thing from the 1980s compleatly ruined with stupid hair, big sun glasses,japan and a fuck load of makeup that looks like the said "scencester" (as they are called) is compleatly willing to give them a fucking blow job because there whores. It's annoying! Here is a discription of a Scene Queen (AKA Wanna-be-goth-or-some-such-BITCH) as told by one of my favorite websites (http://yourscenesucks.com/)

this utterly useless scene queen is internet-famous for no apparent reason other than the fact that she looks like a clown and is as naive as she is colorful.

she claims that she invented fashion trends like stripes and becomes furious if anyone “steals” her hairstyle or any of her other patented looks. making it a point to hunt down anyone who has a similar style and subsequently spending countless hours chastising others, she still can't help but wonder why she only has friends in the online world.

the scene queen boasts that she is buddybuddy with fellow myspace icon jeffree star, but outside of gender-bending 15 year-olds, who really cares?

like most "artsy" girls her age, she has dreams of being a fashion designer and attempts to pass off bedazzled trinkets from michaels as jewelry. all that she has truly mastered is the art of manipulating mindless fans into buying her cheap junk through endless blog postings.

do mommy and daddy really know what their little girl is up to when she really should be doing her homework?

Now, the irony, I am blogging about this. So there. Most of there music sucks ass anyway... No. All of there music sucks actualy. They think there so origonal and differnt when people have been doing shit like that forever. This also leads to another thing... interent fame. Once again, I see the irony in this. Alot of girls want to be interet famous now a days. (I could be an example perhaps? I just kind of do this for a good bitch fest and some writing but you know..) And how to do suppose they achive this? Take a million fucking pictures of them selfs pretty much half naked with a shit load of makeup on then post it on myspace or some other form of social network. Alot of them say for art purposes and for clothing. One, the clothing that they uses has been done numerous times over the course of fashion history. (EX: Stripes and Joan Jett hair.) And second, the only people you'll really get looking at your so called art is pedofiles and other scene whores bitching about how you stole "there look".

In closing, You're music sucks, YOU probably suck dick, and you're make up is horrid. Oh also, fuck you.

Have a good day.

- The Typist.

The Theroy of Evolution

It awakes from bed. So begins the day. It slithers out of the safety of the craddle. Pale feet step unto white painted later downwards. The kingdom of its four walls remain the same. The same pictures glued to the wall, the same things scatterd on the floor, the broken alarm clock in the corner, the beloved typewriter with no ribbion. All is there. It slips on the candy cane color robe. It pushes the white door open and it replies with a groan. The door hates being op end. The door likes to remain shut. To hide things. It walks into bathroom and looks at its self in mirrior. Slowly, ever so slowly, IT becomes GIRL. Girl stares down, never to be content with the way she looks. Girl throws on robe again. She forces the door open again. This time the door opens with a long drawn out "Whhhhhhhyyyyy?" "You had to be opend. I had to get in."

Her kingdom of four walls is the same. She turns to her typewriter affectionatly. "Soon my love, soon." she says with her dark eyes. Girl lifts up the needle on the record player and drops it down to "Herion". A pale hand reaches up to touch the dark hair. It hangs in her face freely. Girl yawns. She feels like the room is smokey. As if someone had smoked with her several nights, days, or hours ago.

Slowly her realization that she is alive sets in. There, right there. In the middle of her own floor, facing the record table. The lyrics roll of the needle and unto her face and into her mouth. But this is okay because it is normal. Cracking snow-boney-fingers, she starts to look for clothes. The same ones call out to her and she answers.

Picking up grey pants, a shirt from a various band, a rainbow belt to hold the pants, socks, her Chucks. Slipping into these things she slowly, ever so slowly, starts to become something more than GIRL. Girl advances to mirror again, ignoring the doors moans of pain. Girl applies her normal face. Eyeliner on the top of lids and pin-up lips. Eveolution

So now we see that IT eveloved into GIRL and GIRL eveoled into MARGARET.



About the peice: I had to write something about myself for English. I liked the peice so I posted

Alone On The Floor

I see you standing there, alone.

The lights light up your skin.

And you speak, unaware of what you mean to me.

And I watch; helpless.

If I called out to you, you wouldn't hear.

And if I cried? You'd be blind to me.

Yet somehow I can feel your eyes robbing me of everything.

Then you leave me laying here.

Alone on the floor.

The Tile Floor

The girl that walked beside me remained quiet.

I kept glancing at her, thinking that the next moment in time would be the right.


Then she told me.

And like an arrow I was broken.

My heart lay stabbed and opened.

Laying on the tile floor, I cried.

She was so close and she was never to be mine...

The tile floor my only lover.

The tile floor, collected stone.

This tile floor knows my secrets.

This tile floor my only home.

This is it

FINALLY! After what felt like years and years of waiting its finally here. Just have to hang in there a few more hours.... Man I really hope Dylan plays "Stuck Inside A Mobil With The Memphis Blues Again." And that I run into him. More so the first one sence the second one is rediculously far fetched at this point but oh well.

Love,

- The Typist

Waiting is the hardest part.

I woke up this morning and obediently ran to my record player. Croucnhing down I put the needle on Dylan and so began another day of waiting. The words "I'm SO close...." flashes on and off in my brain like a neon. I looked over to the window ledge. The candle I had left burning last night had died and its remains were a green waxy glow. Happy Birthday John Lennon. You are 70 years old today. The sky glowed a bright fall blue. Excitement ran threw my body at the coming weather. I love winter and fall. The process of my vanity took over as i fixed my hair. It annoyed me but I did it anyway. Blaring "Absolutely Sweet Marie" I fell back on my bed. Waiting. Waiting for that time when I'd surely find someone willing enough to share there joint. When he would brake down and finally play it. After years of going and going threw heart brake he would play it. I know he won't see me but its all I got. Just a little bit of faith. Oooohh Mama, can this really be the end? To be stuck inside of Mobil with the Memphis blues again? I guess Tom Petty was right... the waiting is the hardest part.

On The Road And Little Confused

Got into Atlana, GA. Seeing family. I'm on the road again but I'm a little confused. I like this girl at school but at the same time I like this other girl who I went to school with last year. >< Ughhhhh. So. Confusing. That's my rant for the day.

9 days.

Into The Sun

The stars seemed right tonight.

Her skin seemed right tonight.

We held hands that night.

The stars kept burning brightly in a super nova.

Like bits of crushed glass.

I felt her lips touch mine.

And then I knew.

I knew that everything didn't matter.

That people are like stars.

Brightly burning til we all just melt into the sun.

I looked into her china eyes.

And then we became just one.

Drifting on and on...

Into the sun.

Alone With The Moon

Laying in a darkened room.

The moon peers down at me.

Me; the speck. The ant. The insect.

The tiny human life.

The moon is a harsh woman.

Burning you with her scorn.

Anger boils on pale skin.

The night.

Poets dream for what they've lost.

And dreamers dream for what they haven't got.

Laying in the darkend room.

Shadows trace the wall.

Leaving me, stranded in the gloom.

Alone.

Alone with the moon.

I'm going to do it!

THAT'S IT! I'm going to build a CARDBORD TARDIS!! .... I need a cool place to read. And yes it will have a flashy light at the top....

Advice.

Don't watch a TV show, particularly a TV show you have a very very creepy obsession with (DOCTOR WHO -cough- -cough- David Tennat -cough- -cough-) You....you.... You'll just have weird dreams. I was the Doctors companion until I woke up... :(


- The Typist (AKA Creepy Doctor Who fangirl)

Yearning.

Waking up in the middle of the night I find you.

In my head.

Over and over again.

I look at my calender.

And everything falls.

I keep crying.

Your so far away from me.

Even though, you were never close.

Theres a yearning here.

Something you don't feel right now, I know.

But you don't know.

And you never will.

You haunt me and you never know.

Your words sooth me and hurt me.

And you never know.

Theres a yearning in here.

OH MY GOD!

IM GOING TO SEE BOB DYLAN IN OCTOBER!! I'm so excited... I'm having a very very hard time typing this... my hands keep shaking.... oooh geez..... October come to me! NOW!

-The Typist.

Ian (another poem for Ian Curtis)

Ian.

Why did you come and see me, Ian?

What did I do?

Why are you here?

My headache keeps pounding like a drum.

It's constant.

I wanted to hold you but you kept fading away...

Come back to me, Ian.

Another letter to my darling poet

Dearest Oscar Wilde,

I love you. Love you as I have ever loved a girl or boy. I love you. Here I stand here now, thinking. For today I am sad, and so I call to you. I am lost and alone and afraid and not sure what to do. The words you my write me may make me sleep safely for a night....

When you die, did you think, that you too, had to dawn a suit of grey? And did you have to swing?

It's the end of the world as we know it... and I feel..fine?

I was listening to "Its The End Of The World" (favorite R.E.M song) today then all of a sudden I felt so lonely! Like this wave of depression came over me. Then I started to sob and laugh hysterical braking and ripping things apart. I just kept blaring the song and laughing and crying and dancing and destroying. Damn, what the fuck happened to me? If this shit keeps up whats going to happen? It all happend just last night and now I can't explain why it went on. What the fuck is wrong with me?

- The Typist

The First.

I'm around people who don't stare at me. Everyones hair is a bright color almost. People are laughing and playing guitar and such and such at lunch. We can listen to music in class. I'm around people who understand.

- The Typist.

Death

The ice on my tounge made it bleed. I felt confusion, and then a percing cold. I shiver. Shiver. Tremble in the wake of my changing body. The ice slides down my throat. My lips are numb. I try to breathe. I cling to the other persons body. We are alone. I dig into its skin with my hands, hoping for warmth. Warmth from the corpse, from its humanly flesh. The hallow feeling of the ice spread out all over me. I shiverd. Shiverd. I pressed my skin close to the person in question. The words I tried to speak were lost from the screams I herd when they found us.. laying there. Cold. Bruised. Bleeding. Freezing. As my limbs grew limp I realized I was compleatly exposed. I tried to speak again. But was drowned out by screams. And that is simplicity in its self. And that is death.

Life Part...something or other

Today was the first day I noticed the bags and lines under my eyes. There so much clearer now. I rubbed them. I thought about people. Tea, my friend, my other friend, this paitent at work. I just kept thinking about everything. I don't know why. I still am. Highschool. I really think about Tea alot. She's awesome. And cute. And stuff. She's like a bag of skittles. :) I miss her. Thats it I guess.

Listening to "Letters and Packages" American Football

Grave Song

This poem is the poem I left for Jim Morrison at his grave. He is buried in Paris.



You were born on the 13th moon, child of darkness and acid and gloom.

Born from fragile tragic egg shell moon and hence you became inside your mothers womb.

And so you were trusted into the earth.

Now I stand amidst the Paris rain looking for your resting place.

Ah! I see you are guarded well.

Cigarettes unsmoked and full bottles of whiskey and vodka lay above to greet you.

We watch your patch of earth and beg for you to come back threw.

I stand as close as I can around the hungry crowd... the rest of us.

I long to lay my body next to you.

I weep for you. Why I do not know

Paris's soft rain falls down on us all; The Followers of the religion you made for us.

Oh mighty king! Come forth unto earth and give us more sins.

Come unto our useless place and grant us with your kiss.

Now I kneel down. And I watch lizards scurry at your tombstone.

I pray to you. I pray that you can hear us. I pray that you can feel my lips on your space of earth.

You were born on the 13th moon. you we're born a king.

I want to lay next to your corpse.

We chant.

We cry.

Yes, you were born on the 13th moon a king.

You were born a lizard king.

Lost In Dreams

In my dream I drifted.

In my dream, I lay.

My body paralized.

My thoughts, drifting.

My fingures in your hair.

My lips on your skin.

Your arms around me.

Just lost together.

Forever, maybe..

If I can ever fall alseep.

Road Trip So Far....

Greetings! I'm sitting in Baltimore Maryland in an old mansion from Victorian days. It was redone into a hostle. It is very pretty to sit by the window and think of dresses and tea and carriges. The Poe House is in a very bad part of town and such. Plus they moved the offical museme to Richmond, VA. But a man still owns it. But we arn't here on the days that its open and he's out of town! GAH! Damn my luck! We did go to the beutiful Annabel Lee Tavern. Tommorrow we see his grave and head upstate to stay on a farm for awhile then take a bus to the big apple.


The rest of the trip before that was all country stuff which I found boring expect I made a few friends (AND fellow HP Lovecraft fans.... CHTULU IS GOD!) at a hostle in Harpers Fary. The town its self was boring. Blah. Working on a Sherlock Holmes fan fiction! Should have some of it up soon I guess.

Onwards! The game is afoot!

- The Typist

Life Part 8

Alot has changed. Love I had I cut away, for awhile anyway. I'm out on my own again. I'm happy about it but at the same time I wonder why I did it. I'm ignoring it for now.

Going on a road trip soon. Finaly. I don't really want to camp and listen to mom talk about how grate nature is. "Look at all this around you! Meditate on it." "Yea. Ok. That's grate, Ma." "You haven't even looked!" "Yup." "You don't care about anything and...." everything else she said is lost. I'm burried within my self again. Playing "Romeo and Juliet" in my head because I'm mad. I can't wait to go to the cities. That's where I want to live. A city. New York. Something like that. I'm digging threw music again. "Early one mornin' the sun was shinin' I was layin' in bed.." Man, I love Bob Dylan. He can sum up everything I feel. I wish I could write like him. Or let him know of my general exsistance. Something lke that.

-The Typist.

Drown in your eyes

When I first herd you my whole exsitance brightend.

I have something to live for.

Dawn bleeds into Sunset and then Night.

Laying in my bed.

Laying on an ocean.

Of my thoughts.

And I am cold.

And drowing.

Why won't you save me?

Why won't you take me?

Far far away....

There is a heavy rock tied to my feet.

Dragging towards the emtpiness.

Of shadows.

Of hallows.

Of nightmeres.

Make it go away.

Why won't you save me?

I want to die in your arms.

Drown in your eyes.

So lost and dark, like mine.

I want to kiss your face.

But I can't.

Because I am drowning.

Drowning.

In the hallows of my mind.

And all I wanted was to drown in your eyes.

Play with scissors

A hand on my neck.

Digging.

Clawing.

Grasping.

Stop! Please!

Strange fingures creep over pale skin.

What's going on?

The ash fell from my lips into a pool.

A pool of blood and ice.

I fell back into the strangers body.

Only to fall into cold water.

It cut.

Like scissors

on paper

on hair

on my skin.

I love to play with scissors.

RINGO!!!

I went to see Ringo Starr in Mississippi this weeekend. HE WAS SO AWESOME!!! Nothing more.

- The Typist

Life Part 7

I fell out of bed because the phone rang. It scared me. I'm always startled so easily! I answerd with a grumble and groan then hung up. It wasn't important. I fall back on my floor and grab my ipod. You know, I don't think I could live without this thing. Well, music I mean. I turn on The Ramones. Ahh, bliss. I always listen to them in the morning. I love Joey Ramone! I wanted to name my cat Joey but mom said that "was a stupid name" Psssht... she has no idea. So we agreed on Ramonea. This would probably make a funny picture...

Picture if you will, dear reader, a short girl with a bedhead of a moptop in jeans and a really old, really fadeded full of holes, Bob Dylan tshirt curled up in a ball by portible speakers, eyes closed in thoughts listening to "I Want You Around". That's me in the morning.

- The Typist

Death at Tea Time

Oh! To take tea with you, dearest.

To laugh and dance without a care.

And yet... somehow I wish I was dead.

I should be lucky to lay in his bed...

But I'd be safer in a grave instead!

If you love me I fear I won't fallow.

I have better to love, kiss and keep under cover.

But having tea with you is pleasing to me.

And yet some would be lucky to lay in his bed yet somehow....

I wish I was dead.

Life Part 6

I had tea with friends today. It was fun. Much cake and talk was had. I've been starting to hurt more and more each day. He haunts me still in my dreams. I get mad so i start to chip at the black paint on my nails. I hope I'm not on the verge of a brake down. I turn on some Emilie Autumn and mutter along with her while I strach and nip the paint away.. strach and nip my pain away.

"Oh what pretty dresses I'll have...." The song is wonderfuly frighting and sickening. I sip my tea and dream about scuicide. "I did what any girl would do... And when I'm beheaded and least I was wedded and when I am married at least I was burried..." Another sip "I'll fuck who I choose for I have nothing to lose." And another and another. I burt my lip on the hot brew. "What lovely dresses and hair... I'm lucky to share his bed... why do I wish I was dead?" I ponder the song for a moment then realize its self explainitory. I sing alone the best I can then stop realizing that its pointless. I fall back "God he's ugly but the fourtune he has..." I laugh at the line. The song "Marry Me" has always made me laugh... I don't know why. I think to much. I strach at my nails again revelaing there pale skin from the black cloaks that they hide under. I sat up then fell back again. Smack. I looked at my cleaning deep in thought... my fingure tips were sore... I was sore. Ugh. Am I to pale? Why won't my head shut up? Why won't I just shut up! Gahh... Now I'm mad. Wonderful. I drink my tea. It's not so hot now. I drink it gratefuly. "In times of sarrow... tea is the answer" as i remeber Oscar Wilde saying something along thoes lines. I wish I could have tea with him! But he'd fine me boring I'm sure. Oh well! Now I must go! The game is afoot!

- The Typist.

Life Part 5

I woke up. I hurt ALL over. My breathing isn't normal. My hands are all shaky. I am cold and hot at the same time. I look a mess. After awhile it subsides, but always nagging at the back of my brain. I listen to The Horrors. I try and calm myself down... but it isn't working. I look at the clock... it's 3 AM. My head is in a spin as I listen to "Scarlet Fields". What's wrong with me? I just focus on the words and his voice... just forget everything else. Forget the pain. Just focus on his voice. It makes it worse. I can't deal with him! Feeling as if my heart might brake. I turn on "Superstar" by Sonic Youth. I feel myself going into that numbness and I just listen to the words wishing I had a smoke to dull my pain. "Don't you remember you told me you loved me baby? Baby baby baby baby I love you..." Why is everything all fuzzy... like looking threw broken glass? "Loneliness.. such a sad affair.." Oh... I'm crying. Why am I crying? "But you're not really there... it's just the radio.." I sighed. I fell back on my floor whipping unknown tears off my face. "I can hardly wait.. to be with you again..." Why am I listening to this song? It's not helping at all... "Come back to me again... and play your sad guitar..." I don't know. Sometimes you need sad songs. "Baby baby baby baby oh baby... I love you..."

- The Typist.

Life Part 4 - EXTRA BORING EDITION!

Nothing to write about today.

- The Typist.

Something of a Physco.

My head aches.
All over.
Pushing, pulsating, pushing.

Shut up shut up SHUT UP!

The drum of my brain keeps trashing on and on and on.

Trashing.

Crashing.

Why won't it stop?

I can't give into my poison.

Lights.

Those lights.

Flashing.

Over and over.

Some sickening, heart clenching, beating to my madness.

This isn't happening....

I look up and see gaping mouths.

Leeches of Horrible FIGURES!

The voices in my head scream over my own out cry.

The last of my humanity.

"FEED YOUR POISON!"

No no no.

I coughed.

The knife was in constant range of my vision.

Pure.

Silver.

I touched the handle.

The voices...

"Raise the dagger. Raise the dagger."

I did.

The voices...

"Open your lips for me."

That moment of white hot trashing wonderful pain.

Then a sea of red.

Hot. Crimson.

Like my lipstick.

Then bliss.

Moaning.

Moaning.

Cry out!

To what?

The voices.

Those fucking voices.

Make them go away, mom.

Mom?!

She's not there....

Hand to my lips.

Red.

Clotting.

Dried caked on blood and vile in my taste buds.

My head...

My head...

How did I get here?

Pulsing. Pushing.

Shut up.

Shut up.

Shut up.

They all said I was something of a physco....

HA!

HA!

HA!

Life Part 3

I awoke this morning and feverishly read "Running With Scissors" in bed. I finished. I was sad. I climbed down my bunk latter in my Tye-dye shirt, which were my PJ's. I grabbed my jeans and slid them on. I looked at the time. 10:42 AM. I dug around for a shirt. The Cure. I slid it on. I could tell I was in one of those moods. I lurked to my mirror in my bathroom to doll my self up. I dug my figures into my hair and teased and teased and teased. I fixed my hair. I grabbed my can of lethal hair spray and dosed it so it would stay. I looked at my self. Half pleased. I grabbed the lquid eyeliner. I started to put it on. It was a we rid shade of black. Oh wait. It was fucking brown. "GAH." I said. I canned it. I grabbed my tried and true worn out pencil. I started on the under eyes. I sighed. "How vain this all is." I raced back to my room to turn on The Horrors "Sea Within A Sea." I laughed. Well, more cackled. I had the house to my self for awhile. As I finished my eyes I hummed the track and wounded what mom would say. "Take it off you look slutty." I laughed louder. Slutty? my arms are showing...oooo. Scandal. When I was done I stood back and inspected. Hmm. I needed lipstick. My lip stick is a bloody bloody red. And I wouldn't have it any other way. I reflected grimly on how I used to cut my lips to get them to look this way. I never understood the senssation of why I did. I applied, wiped off the smudges. Then I was done. People called me goth alot. I perferd a different name. What? I don't know. I turned on "She Is The New Thing" and grabbed a sticky note...

"Look out world... here comes a horror."

- The Typist

The Choking Game

I grit my teeth and think of you.

My breath wheezes threw my asthmatic throat.

I cough.

I cough.

Over and over.

Feels like I'm choking.

Like your hands are around my neck.

And I'm choking.

Choking on your hands.

Choking on the winter air.

Choking on my cigarette.

When I'm dead I know you'll grieve for me.

Because you love me.

I grit my teeth and enter the seas of paranoid obsession.

Feel my nails dig into your flesh.

I want to chok.

I want to choak on your tounge.

Feeling your hands on my throat.

Your skin on my skin.

It's all the same.

It dwindles down to us.

Just us two... choaking.

The Sailing Adventure Part 2

As the flight waned on, we deiced to play catch with thoes little towle things they give you. I believe my brother won because we think he hit another person. Oh my god, I'm so sleepy again. Jim Morrison's voice is so soft... making me sleepy. I feel my body giving into the peaceful bliss of something. Ok, Jim. I'll sleep for you... I promise.

After what seemed forever, we landed in Tortola (Beef Island... crazy name, huh?) The ride from the aiport was most eventful. Wide green lush plants and honey people of the islands wizzed past in a tropical dream scape. The roads were "twisty turny". Made me sick to my stomach. We made it to the marina in the nic of time. My stomach is STILL grateful.

Amist grate confusion, we got a boat. Her name is La Bella Vita wich means The Good Life my sister and I quickly added an "awwww" on the end. The name sounds French, or Spanish. My sis and I sit outside reading books and drinking. All is well.

Later in the day when the food was stored, (alone with all the mother fucking tonic!), I got to sit on the tarp in the front of the boat. (I think the front is the bow?) I watched with wonderous eyes the clouds making shapes. Oh, I also learned that the boats name is Itiailian. Boy! My guesses were off....

So I sat on the tarp and looked at the twinkling lights of cars shinig like gems going up or down into an emerald mine of trees never to be seen again. I heard little children laughing. As I walked back I soon found my ballance. I later became more social and we all went out to eat. We went to a bar called... yup. You guessed it, The Batcave (WIN!!!). We had a waitress who didnt want to give us water, or so it seemed. Bellies full, I'm falling alseep. Tommorow we sail.

- The Typist

He Woke Me

I wait for bird to fly.

I fall alseep to Jim Morrison.

And soon enough, the bird has flown.

And he shakes me awake.

Gently.

Softly.

"Shhhake dreams from your hair my pretty child, my sweet one."

I awake with a smile on my face.

He woke me.

The Sailing Adventure Part 1

Date: The Start

I hate writing in pencil. I got a pen. I laid in the carpet of my room. Clutters of clothes and papers around me. I listen to Kerouac. Soon I'll be on the road. In my fathers big white truck, suit cases in the back and my bare feet on the dashboard. Down to tropical places,but, for now, I lay here....

Now after several miles we are at my older brothers apartment in Tampa, FL. We lay on couch. "Don't write about me." "Okay." Moments later, I lay in the loft and whimper to the sound of my dad snoring. I lay coverd in darkness and I listen to "Strawberry Swing." I think of my beautiful sister and how she dances. She is a dancer. Light. Soft. Fast. Simple. Like a petal in the breeze...


We awoke before dawn for a "Breakfast of Champions": Cold Pizza and an Energy drink. We all mumbled threw airport security like a bunch of zombies.

- The Typist

Where am I now?

Greetings. I'm sitting in the gally of a sail boat in the B.V.I's about to go to a wedding... how crazy is that? Its very very pretty down here. I am starting to miss an actlual bed.. and people who DON'T SNORE!!! Ugh. I knew I would forget ear plugs. My adventures will be known to the world on my arrival back to the U.S.

- The Typist

Fly Away

I dreamed of you.

In grey and blue.

I dreamed of you.

Everyday you wake.

Paper butterflies greet you in your wake.

They soared around our heads making.

Dizzy.

Dizzy.

We ran around in fields of green.

The butterfilies laughed and kissed our face.

The grass we trampled on was wet with dew.

We laughed and played tag with the sun.

It was a perfect day.

Gazed at the sky.

It could be blue.

Or it could be grey.

But if the sky didn't see you...

All it would do is rain.

And the butterflies would all fly away.

Fly away.

Life Part 2

I wonderd at lenth at what being a Carlo ment. I just pushed it out of mind. My leg twitched from being alseep. I stare at the screen looking for something to flow of an idea into words. It's hard to write sometimes when you have nothing to go on. I turned on Coldplay mentaly agreeing with myself. I had to get out of the house. My mom was making racket in the kitchen but I decied to ignore it. Painfuly, I sharpend my hearing for a call in the drive way of truck tire on pavement. My eye lids felt heavy. Yet, tired I was not. Everything was peaceful now. Each doing there one thing. Mother left to cook wonderful food of which I wouldnt be here for. A grimmace turned on my face. Why now? When I'm not here? I shook my head in distaste. No matter. Soon I'd see sunrise and Cuban. There were several feverish glances towards the window only to avial to nothing at all. So, this is life. Waiting on the edge of an invisible line waiting to be able to dive off into whatever the focus is. I realized now that I wouldnt be here, in this office chair for awhile typing so freely about whoever and whatever. I sighed and relished in the stillness of just my fingures hammering out on the keybords like dancers. Keep telling yourself you'll be on the road soon. Remember that. So I did.

- The Typist

Life Part 1

I sat in the kitchen at my Moms house digging olives out of the jar with a spoon. I ate them quietly and listened to the public radio station. It was really just half listening. I was focused on the olives in the jar and dad picking me up. By this time tomorrow I'd be in the British Virgin Islands scribbling like I am now but in my notebook. I sighed as I thought about virgin pure blue water below my feet again. And a wedding. Someone is getting married on the trip. We'll be gone for awhile. I was glad. I walked off to my room and listend to more of "On The Road" audio tape. I laughed at Kerouac's adventures and mischief. When I am that age would I cause chaos in a '49 Hudson and yell "YES!" to everything? Or would I be like Carlo and read sad poetry and call to cool Denver dawns of "wither thou goest now? Sweet Dhrama dolls...." I probably will end up like Carlo.... I'm not meant to be a Dean, or a Sal, or a Mary Lou. Turned on Lou Reed again. I was put on this earth to be a Carlo. For awhile anyway.

- The Typist

What This Is For

Hello. This is a space where I will blurb and rave and rant and talk and type from time to time. You can read it if you like.

- The Typist