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.