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Well Would You Look At That

The standard height requirement for a NASA Astronaut is between 62- and 72 inches. And guess how tall I am? 62. YES! This is great! I can't believe I meet the height requirements by that much. And my friend, Elaine, is too short to be one. But I don't think she wants to do that anyway.

Well... I got something done today. So begins the road to the career to an astronaut. I'm glad I won't have to wear high heels in space.

room!

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haha

My best friend took this picture.

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This is alex. He's my cousin.

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scarf

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Yes.

This is mine now.. I'm sleeping with it.

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Am I the only one who dosn't give a hell about Thanksgiving? Because, I don't. My parents are split up so it's not like we all have a sit down dinner or anything. And my mom is vegan! Oh well.

I suppose this is just a rambling of where I am now. Heart was broken, heart stayed broke for a bit, but now it's mended. I like that. When someone comes along and lifts you up just a little and lets your head do the rest for you. It's a simple jesture, but it means a lot to me just the same.

I was thinking about when I was born today. I was really small when I was born. Small and sick. I was 1 pound and 13 ounces. Three months early. My mom was talking about that today for some reason. I guess I'm supposed to be here for something if I lived through all that stuff. It's kinda neat.

And When Carl Sagan Died

And when he died, planet Earth was sad. They wondered why, the humans did, why he had to go on. He seemed fine, didn't he? Oh how the humans wonder still.

And when he died, the universe was happy. The cosmos held a beautiful welcoming. Stars were born in his honor. The universe gave him a present. The universe gave him nothing. He was now back into the cosmos, where we all belong.

On Earth, people looked to the sky, wondering where nature was taking him. Was he really here at all? they asked.

Carl Sagan became a star, nay, billions and billions of stars.

And then Earth understood, and now, when they look into the sky, they're happy.

Wack Job.

Dream catcher,

Is this wack job art junkie in a suit.

He's my boyfriend.

Sometimes.

He dosnt have a suit all the time.

His name is David Byrne.

He lives inside my head and comes out when I wiggle my arms, and toes.

He comes out all the time,

I don't think people notice.

He's the twitch, the stare, the whatever.

Thanks David. I love you, man.

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I Am The Crow!

Whoo hoo!

Halloween 10/31/11

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heh

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A Lady

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Ian!

Not good with pictures. My mom took this

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Look What I Did

Ta Da.

It bothers me how I've taken so much from someone and now, after a fight for lack of a better word, I feel as if I have given nothing. And now lost it all. All I can do is ask for forgiveness. That's it. Not complete trust, just forgivness. It hurts to give that. I start to think about the old him. The one he said I don't know. Was that it? Blah. Does it matter? Does anything we've done matter? Its all been words and glances. But the words so meaningful. And the glaces long enough to remember. When he dies what will I do? There's relief in death because you know that person will never come back. There is none in this isolation because you know that person is out there. Usually a slash on the wrist would have fixed it and given me an excuse to hide. Now there is none. All I can do is wait and try and be hopeful. Hopeful that time will mend this, that I can mend this.

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Wallow In Division. Ian Curtis Poem. Final

Wallow in Division
Margaret Middlebrooks final draft

You died before I spoke my first words,
Dead to the eyes of the living before I was forced into the world,
Ian you should mean absolutely nothing to me,
You mean everything.

I shouldn’t want to touch your face and look into those eyes.
The eyes of isolation.
So blue;
So clear.

I shouldn’t want to be near your voice,
The voice that carries souls of lost children,
To the divisions of their own personal hells,
Then leave us there to rot for awhile.

I’m waiting for the day you can come and take me away.
I’ve been waiting for a guide to come and take me by the hand.
Because it makes me feel the pleasures of a normal man.
Those words, your words, fill my trembling body.


Physicality isn’t needed for you now.
Just tossed away your flesh and bone,
Like a phoenix rising from ash.
Now you are the stars.

Ian draft 2

For Better or For Worse
Margaret Middlebrooks draft 2
You died before I spoke my first words.
Dead to me before I was forced into the world.
Ian you should mean absolutely nothing to me.
But you mean everything.
I shouldn’t want to touch your face and look into those eyes.
The eyes of isolation.
So blue.
So clear.
I shouldn’t want to be near your voice.
The voice that carries the souls of lost children.
To the hollows of their own personal hells.
And then leave us there to rot for awhile.
Different colors,
Different shades.
Duration oh so plain to see.
A loaded gun won’t set you free.
Those words, your words, fill my trembling body..
I’m waiting for the day you can come and take me away.
I’ve been waiting for a guide to come and take me by the hand.
Because it makes me feel the pleasures of a normal man.
Physicality isn’t needed for you.
Just tossed away your flesh and bone,
Like a phoenix rising from ash.
Now you are the stars.
For better or for worse.

For Better or For Worse. For Ian.

You have died before I spoke my first words.
You have lived before I walked.
You were dead to me before I was forced into a world I don’t want to be in.
Ian you should mean absolutely nothing.
I shouldn’t know you.
I shouldn’t want to touch your face and look into those eyes.
The eyes of someone who is so alone; so blue and clear.
Such a longing to not be noticed and yet, cared for.
Or want to be near the voice.
The voice that carried the souls of the lost children to the hollows of their own personal hells.
And then leaving us there to rot for awhile.
But one time, you reached out for me in my sleep.
With sprits ghostly hand and twitching body.
I can hear your heart in a dream, for a little while.
Then I wake up at witching hour.
I just want to hold your hand.
I’ll be ready for the day when you can take my hand and take me away.
Just rid yourself of flesh and bone.
Now you are the stars.
For better or for worse.

beach

I felt like a little girl. When I died. It was white and I was on a. Beach. Cold and rocky and foggy. The Crow said don't look. And I didn't. I waited for birds wings. And I saw them. But I saw them on a man. He was clothed in all black. Gently, oh so gently, he lifted me out of my prison of flesh. He carried me to the beach. I was young. Ageless. And in my mind beautiful. It was how I looked on my wedding day. White dress with a black band around my waist and no shoes. He, the angel of death, set me down. I took it all in; the rushing water, the sand in my toes, the rainy sky. I had a handful of purple flowers. I saw deaths messenger on the rocks. Just sitting starring out into the abyss. I knew instantly who it was. "Ian..." he turned around. My voice sounded like a small child. I held out violets. And he shook his head and sighed. "They don't help you here." He said. "They're for you." "I don't need them." I sat next to him. Close. Too close maybe as he jolted slightly, causing the black feathers to ruffle. "I..um.." I looked him in the face. "I love you." Ian sighed deeply. It was useless but at the same time relief. I felt tears well up in my eyes. But I expected it all damn it. I touched his silver face. He didn't wince, but looked down at me with big eyes as blue as the ocean. It was his sea of lonliness. And I can't save him. He dosnt want to be saved. He kissed the top of my forehead, and hugged me, nay, held me. I cried so hard. I cried for days and days pleading don't go. He pulled away from me when he felt my body, or, my spirit. Weaken. His fingers danced in my hair. "I don't know if I care." He said. I nodded. How I longed to be in the safety of the fold of his wings and the beating of his heart I can still hear. He kissed my lips softly. "Go away now." He said. "But..." "GO." He was final and I didn't argue. As I walked away I looked back and saw him fly off, to collect another soul perhaps, to take to the endless beach.

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I Want To Lay Next To You.

True Story

I dressed up to go to bed. I put on my favorite black dress and painted my lips and eyes black. I put on my best jewlery and fixed my hair. Then I laid down on my bed. Flat on my back, arms folded across me. I'm waiting. I'm waiting for Eric Draven to come. Someone to hold me, protect, love and kiss me. To touch. Someone that will never leave me. I sit up and light a candle. I let the wax drip on to my arms. It hurts so much but I don't want to do anything about it. It left marks on my skin. This is true desperation. I've felt it before and I know. I blow the candle out because I can see my shadow on the wall. It's ugly. It's a horrible birthmark of my state. Parents are no help. School. That's all they want from me. Where are you Eric? I made myself beautiful for you. Dressed to impress the shadows. But all there is is my own. I hate it all so much. Living. It's endless. I want to die. But I can't. I can't because I have to work. I feel trapped. Someone help me... even though I know I'll drown. But at least I look pretty. I set the candle on the window and leave it open. Someone come and love me and take me. Someone come and take me away.

This Is Robert

This is Robert Smith. Heheh.. my friend made me an adipose from doctor who so I decorated it.

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Summer Girls And Winter Girls.

There were girls.

Girls in there cherry colored cotton sundresses that smelled sweet.

It was the last of a summer.

I welcome it though, and gladly.

An ending that is bitter sweet.

A goodbye to the blazing gold, and boiling blood red punch colored sunsets.

To welcome my favorite naked trees, exposed for what they really are.

And a hello to the crunch of the corpse of a thousand leaves beneath my boots.

Of crisper air and halloween.

And the summer girls, turn to winter girls with long scarfs and perfect hair.

Deep down though, I'll always miss the summer girls.

Jars

Give me happy and I'll keep it in a jar under my bed and take it out on rainy days, sad days, mad days, whatever.

Happy will glow like the color of fire flies in the summer.

Give me sadness and I'll keep it in a broken jar and it will be blue.

I'll toss the cracked jar in the water, watch it sink, then go up to my room and pull out happy.

I'll put the jar in my bag and take it back and forth.

Then one day I'll go swimming, with the jar of happy in my pocket, and step on shards of sad.

And then I wil grab sad and it's broken jar and swim up with happy in my pocket and sad in my hand.

Go back up to my room, and pull out other jars.

One is red because I got mad at you.

Another is green because I hated you.

This one is white because I don't have anything to say to you.

I like all my jars under my bed.

Even the broken one.

On my birthday, give me another jar of happy and it'll glow like fire flies again and I'll put it under my bed.

Limbo

Waiting in this limbo of clean white sheets.

For you.

Waiting in limbo for your lips on my ivory. My skin.

Waiting to stare in the pools of night sky. Your eyes.

Just... lingering here.

And Fate, draws her weapon, anxiety, and begins to peirce my heart and mind.

But Faith has quicker wings. Faith comes in waves, first lapping lazily around my ankles. Then it sees the attack of Fate, and feels the urgency swell, and Faith takes action.

The lapping becomes waves, soft, but gradually growing. Rising up, consuming me. Water to end the fire of this hell; limbo.

Soon Fate, a sometimes temporary woman, has changed her pace. She lingers in the shadows to remind me she is still there, and she'll never let me forget.

Fate and Faith are the ones that keep my eyes glued to the door. Waiting for the tinker of the hindges, a sign of joy.

An ending to this limbo. One day, you will walk through that door, and my limbo will be no more.

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Hello.

Hello. This is where I work.

There is a desk and a lamp and a computer and a keyboard.

This is where I work.

Gothness Day 2

Day 2 – Share photos and experiences from your Baby Bat days.

Oh God. You want to see what? Really? Honestly? Okay…


Experience: I wanted to be steam and all I got was goggles. I gave my goggles away two years later.

Goth Day 1

Day 1 – How did you come across the subculture?

When I was eleven I heard The Cure’s Just Like Heaven on the radio. So I looked them up. It was love from the moment I saw Robert Smith and his fabulous locks.

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History

I've been waiting about sixteen years to write this post. Here we go.

I was born in 1994 in a hopsital. Hospital is the place where people go to be born, get better, get sick and die. Not all in one day. Well, actually, that can happen in one day... if you let it. That almost happen to me. But I didn't want to go. I had life to do. And so I went.

It's somewhere around 2007. I am twelve. My parents no longer live in the same house and my grandfather is dead, again, in the hospital. This time I am a vistor, not a paient. Although, at the time I wondered if I should be... and my gradad could watch me laying there. But no. He wouldn't want that.

Now it's about 2010. And Teagan, my first real girlfriend/bestfriend now just bestfriend have gone to see Howl. A movie about Allen Ginsburg. I wore a dress shirt and dress pants. I wanted to be a man. We walked up to the girls bathroom because it was empty so we could kiss in front of a mirror just to see what it looked like. Across the street from the theater is where I fell down in the middle of the road and she helped me up. We laughed a lot and we still do. At one point in time when we both smoked we shared the same cigarette and I pretended I was french and I told her sexy things, because she made me feel that way. Then she spent the night at my house and I held her close and she called me Dorian. Because that's what I wanted to be called. Dorian. She was the best girlfriend I ever had.

We broke up. Then together. Then broke up. It's alright. Don't cry.

Now it's 2011 and it's June 9th. School is out and I am done with freshman year. My head's pounding and I feel sick because I tell the older man, older by two years AND going into senior year is a big thing apparently for highschool girls to want... I never understood, that I like him. He laughs for the longest time then admist, taken slightly back that he likes me, too. We're currently in love and I have a date tommorow.

Look outside and you'll see what the sun looks like in 2011. Or the moon. Or the rain. Or whatever.

I Really Need...

I know that needs are different from wants but... I feel like I need this to happen. I find myself laying in bed thinking about the moment when I'll see The Cure. I know, to some it's just a band, but they're more than that to me. You know this if you know me. As I lay there I get a lump in my throat and I start to shake all over, but soon enough it passes. But, a thought occured to me as I laid there. It's a simple question really. What if they don't play Pictures Of You? At first my mind reacted with "They HAVE to!" And they do, I think. Well, I don't know. They don't have to play anything they don't want to. I feel as if though, I'd be physically sick if I didn't hear it. They need to play Pictures Of You so I can finally grow up and admit that Robert Smith never has and never will love me, as cruel as it sounds.

Homeward

It's nights like this that hold a charm for me.

Quiet and serenity.

Folk music streams with sleepy eyed schemes.

Starry hearts, louder heart in harmony.

Homeward bound.

Waiting for the winter.

The soft gentle winters.

Summer is strong now.

And my dreams dangle in the ceiling fan.

I am homeward bound.

Strumming on a six string is where I am to be.

Emptiness and harmony, I am homeward bound.

The Story Of Ordinary Morgan

Once upon a time, there was Ordinary Morgan. Ordinary Morgan was a quiet, middle-aged, working man. He has a wife and three kids. He doesn't sleep much on the account of a terrible, throbbing pain in his head. Sometimes he'll stay up in the loft of their little row house and read from a book of children stories. As Ordinary Morgan was trying to escape from the nine-to-five, six-o-clock-sharp-dinners, and his wife and her constant begging. She is blamed for his slow love. There were heavy bags under his eyes, from lack of sleep. He slides in between the sheets, feeling hot, sick, and trapped only to wake up at what feels like five minutes later. It's six-o-clock now. "Put on the monkey suit like a good boy..." his conditions echo off the walls of his brain. He hears his three kids pounce down the stairs in their little school shoes. His head throbs harder. Soon enough he is dressed and seated down to eggs at the family table. How he dreads seeing their faces each morning and evening. Georgie, the oldest, with her straight brown hair, delicate and well refined. Morgan likes Georgie best simply because she knows that Daddy is a very sad man indeed and would like to be left alone. The other two? Who are they? He can't recall the names, or care quiet frankly. He tries to read the paper but all he can see on the page are red lines. Clock strikes seven. At last. Today is a different day for Ordinary Morgan. He hugs and kisses each of his children goodbye and it seems that he is almost happy. Almost.

Here, Ordinary Morgan, lover of one and father of three, walks out the door. The day outside is gray, but today is a good day for him today. His head is pounding now, so hard that it makes him grit his teeth as he walks to the station. Here is where he gets his train to work.

Now this is the part of the story where we learn that Ordinary Morgan isn't so ordinary. Inside his head buzzles and crackles like a broken TV. Static and he starts to laugh but it is cut off by a short sigh. Ordinary Morgan lays his head across the tracks and waits.

The End.

Rambling 3

I just played video games for several hours. Sometimes I wish life was like a video game.

There are a lot of questions in life I want answered and lots that I don't. I guess sometimes its better to have no answers...

Writers Block.

My Mask

This is how I dress most of the time. I'm not sure why I'm showing you. Maybe because I hope Robert Smith can see this.....please? Good. Mood. Today.

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The Best Way To Explain This Dream Is To Tell A Story

I WAS DAVE BOWMAN.

And that's all it said. She rubbed her eyes. Still...

I WAS DAVE BOWMAN.

"No... No. He's-" She didn't want to say "dead" because she didn't know. She tried at the radio control to contact the other ship Discovery was docked to. It buzzed and crackled like a broken TV set and then nothing. Only the silence of space. A silence you think a well trained astronaut such as herself would have been used to by now. She went back to the messages she had seen before in her mind.

HELLO.

She typed in the keyboard: WAS THIS A RECORDING?

And Hal said: NO.

WHO WAS IT SENT BY?

NO IDENTIFICATION.

Then the screen went black for a moment. Was this some cruel but altogether good humored joke of her co-workers? Simply messing with her head on another uneventful night watch? Then suddenly, the screen flickered.

I WAS DAVE BOWMAN.

And here she was now. Her eyes held wide in a trance, like a small child starring at a movie screen. Her body shook in the space suit that hardly fit. She looked and felt like a small child. At that moment she wanted to cry. Her heart and head felt as empty as space... "But is space truly empty?"

I NEED PROOF, HAL.

I KNOW THIS MAY SEEM DIFFICULT TO UNDERSTAND, BUT TURN AROUND.

Turn around. Lilly gave out a gasp of physical and mental shock. She was alone, save for Hal, but yet she felt a presence. A presence of something that could be very well considered human, if one looked hard enough. But what was there to see? She turned around slowly in her chair. Many speckles of dust swirled about in the ship but now they had the glow of another world. It slowly began to form outlines of a body, of a man, of a man in a space suit and finally, of David Bowman. "Hello Lilly."

His lips did not move but his voice seemed to be all around her. His facial expression was altogether unworldly. It showed no emotion and yet every emotion at the same time, as if they were in perfect balance with each other. The human brain could consider it "relief." for lack of a better word. She stood, slowly, afraid that the slightest movement would upset the fragile balance of these two worlds meeting for the first and maybe last time. Afraid that she, her world, would lose Dave Bowman once again to the starry universe from which he went and, now, came from.

"Are you dead?" Now she was indeed a child. Her body on the verge of collapse from shock and lack of sleep.

"I don't know, Lilly." he said. Lilly started to wonder why he was here. Maybe he forgot something? Could he take it with him if it was a physical thing? True, she had, has, loved him. But she never said anything. She didn't want to say anything. "Maybe I should now..."

"Is there something you must tell me, Dave?" It was strange hearing her voice now. It was soft as it had always been and she recalled all the times when Dave was in this world, whatever this world was, and him asking her to repeat herself all those years ago during her training.

Bowman, stood or floated, without saying anything for what seemed like forever to her but to him it was merely just a few second. Time doesn't matter when you have all the time in the world. "Yes Lilly. Don't be afraid."

But she was. Her eyes drifted toward his hands... if they were hands. They looked like human hands, like his hands. She reached hers out for his. It was hidden by a mass of space suit sleeve. The fingers poked out like white feathers. If Bowman could do what we call laughter, he would have now. She was indeed a child reaching out for his hand. He extended his own and in that moment the other world embraced the world that is filled with the creatures of flesh. His "skin" was cool and warm and yet nothing; it was everything. Lilly finally understood. Dave Bowman was the universe. She wanted to hug him and kiss him and cry to him but she could feel the meeting was soon to end. "Is this death, Dave?"

"I don't know." And then there came a voice, far greater than the both of theirs.

YOU ARE NOW BEGINNING TO UNDERSTAND.

"Goodbye Lilly."

"Please don't go!" she yelled, desperate. He was alive! But... no. She must not kid herself. He was beyond something of human comprehension. The feeling, or lack there of, around her hand had died away; he had let go. The dust that had made Dave was made into dust once more swirling in its random patterns. She pressed her face toward the windows. Nothing but stars. Full of stars... she shivered at the thought of the human form of Dave Bowman's last words. Hal had been switched off as had everything else on Discovery. She walked down to Pod Bay in nothing but darkness. She could find her way around the ship with her eyes closed if needed. Her helmet sat where it was left. She picked it up and put it on. The hindges holding the door were loose, anyone could push them open. And thats what she did. She opened the doors and let go of the rail. Lilly began to drift out into free space. Earth seemed like such a small unimportant thing now. Everything seemed to be okay now. Everything was balanced. It was useless to try and bring Discovery back. Some parts in the universe are not ment for earthly eyes. That was understood now. "You're right Dave." she said aloud, hopefully to him. "It is full of stars." She was floating in them, becoming one of them. And so for the last time, Lilly closed her eyes and slept.

Rambling 2

I feel like just typing whatever comes into my head lately because poems or stories arn't really coming to mind. Well, I guess this could be considered one. Kool thang sittin' with a kitty... I really like Sonic Youth. I like a lot of music, too much music. Maybe. Such a thing? I'm bored of this.

Rambling

This is an attempt at uh... stream of thought writing. Yeah. Here we go. This is it. You know, that moment, yeah that one, will never happen again. Or that one. I could go on. Where is he? Its hard to act like you haven't been waiting for him to get back. Hard to act like you've been keeping busy with something when you've really just been looking at a screen for the past hour waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting in the later hours. Listening to New Order's "Ceremony" over and over because the drums beat as fast as my heart right now. Its been that fast since all of this happened. He knows I'm awake. He knows. Why am I frustrated? Why do I seem to get an insight on religion from 2001!? I need to stop asking questions and accept things as they are, right now because that's all there is. Is now. But this now is a slow one. I should try again to make contact... maybe? Has it even been five mintues? Stop asking questions. Just let it happen. Its harder than it sounds. Oh well. Heaven knows its got to be this time..... those words aren't my own. Actually I don't think anyones words are theirs since its an old language. Words are stolen not borrowed. Everyone is a theif.

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Sink Or Swim

Hand touching hand.

Eye meeting eye.

Skin touching skin.

Heart melting into heart.

Two becoming one.

You and I sewn in frabric of time.

Words becoming murmurers of things we know are true.

Sayings like "I love you".

Hand touching hand.

Fingers feeling in treads of hair.

Skin touching skin.

We dive into pools of each others eyes.

Sink or swim into our skins.

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Sinking in love and in sorrow

There is me. Curled up in a ball and, Morrissey moans. I yearn for far away lovers touch while the only touch I can have is the cold hands of time reminding me every second of every hour that I am alone and that the one I need is gone. How Could Anyone Know How I Possibly Feel? Indeed, Morrissey. Indeed. Just. Shut up. I don't need you to bitch to me your woes. I do not need this. The Cure seem to sit this drama of a "just a phase" depression. The Figure Head. Something to sew together the shattered glass of the turth that I am sinking with my fanasty of being rescued; dreaming the thoughts only a little girl could dream again. A knight on a shining horse... only to see that the armor is tarished and the horse is made of sand. Not to say that this is me. No. I see no more knights or of the possibility of being rescused. I simply will have to make my own escape to get to him. The journey will be long and hard but worth it in the end I know. He knows. We both accept this. That I am blissful in, but now, this moment, I am not. My head burns with clouded thoughts of falling of the edge of the earth forever. Death. "It's just a phase. It's your choice to feel the way you do." I have been given this all before. Can't it be understood that this is something that I would like help on? Give me drugs for all I care just make my passion for the kiss of death go away! You can't see me now, for I have blended into the shadows once again. And I am slipping down the cool tile floor of this shower in vain for no one can see me. How I twist my body in want, almost begging, but no. I am not that low. These acts are not for everyone; just a someone. I am sinking in love and in sorrow. The love is something I do not mind, for it's something I've always wanted to feel. In this darkness, it makes me smile and feel warm. And to know I will feel the rush of it soon again makes me warmer still. But yet, my feet are cold and my head is clouded. Because it's "just a phase". A long phase then. "What's wrong with you?" If I knew I would tell you! I wake up feeling empty and gray. There is no reason why it just exsist but YOU certainly are not helping me swim. Nay, you're helping me drown, for lack of a better word. No. I won't kill myself for I have a few things to live for tonight and tomorrow and the tomorrows after that. I will feel whole soon as are figures are intwined and we can lay in almost no sounds, save, for a record to fit the mood. To fit the love that almost makes us burst into stars and dust. In that I am whole. In my books and music and pens and papers and inks I am whole. In this hotel room? I am not. I am broken. Robert Smith understands, or the lyrics do. So this is the night. Drowning in thoughts of love and the touch of sorrow.

Human Life.

This human life is all we know.

This path; our only road.

Starting lines to finish lines.

Day to night.

We are real.

Eyes, flesh and cuts to make then heal.

Love is real, not made of steel.

Fire Flies Stars And You

If fire flies could melt into stars they wouldn't shine as bright as you.

If the sweetest song could be heard it wouldn't be a tender of harmony as your voice.

You are not merely flesh and bone.

You are something more.

Though you fumble and fall it only adds to you, as a whole, as one thing.

And yes, you bleed and cry and sigh to the moon in love or frustration.

But like I said before, you are different.

You are special.

If fire flies could melt into stars they would not shine as bright as you.

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Getting The Twitch

Sometimes I can't stop shaking.

Sometimes I can't stop a wiggling and giggling and squiggling.

Standing up to snap my fingers.

Standing up to snap my toes.

Getting the twitch, getting the twitch, getting the twitch.

Just for kicks.

It's not as easy as you... think.

Sometimes its in your brain or in your feet.

And its harder than you think.

It's hard to get the twitch.

Beautifully Ringing

Please stop making me twist and turn in fits of soft laugher and a red and growing redder face. Stop making me think you'll knock on the door so I can run as fast as I can to get to you. You do this to all the girls don't you? I'm still twisting and turning on the floor because I can't controll my laughter. Or my twisted toes. Please please come. Please ring the bell so I can run. Oh, I want to run! For you I'll run! I stand only to fall to the couch. I feel weak but I don't mind. My ears pricked for the doorbell and your voice straight in my ear. You say such wonderful things to me... I can't wait for you to be here. So many beautiful things for me... I can't wait to run as fast as I can and see you. You always say the prettiest things, right in my ear, so no one else car hear a breath. Oh how you make me short of them. All my dreams I'll keep for you, in a little glass jar. These day dreams are delicious. Shh.. don't sing so loud, I won't hear when you ring.

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This...

This longing is too much now. It hurts so bad I feel like the slighest glance would kill me. Because I've waited, still waiting, on thin silk threads of hope and hopelesses itself for you to understand, and want and to feel. Oh god. Why? Why do I cry for you, harder than I've ever cried and yet, you know not that I breathe the same air and look up at the same moon at night and wake under same sun everyday.
Fate, how cruel you seem now. Although for good reasons it might have I cannot be greatful. If only stars could be adjusted when time began writing out the courses of our lifes. Found you, yes. And distance didn't so much when I was younger. Now I can feel it. Pounding in my inner cage of bone and flesh. If you could read these words, and know that this is a real feeling and tell me no. Tell me no so I can dream a different dream. Tell me no so I can walk away from this. But.. oh. Don't say no. Just, don't anything. Just hold me there to your cage inside your bones and let me hear your heart beat. For a second then I could be whole, I think. If you let me. Oh god, this hurts so bad. I love you. I love you I love you I love you but you won't know that. You can't until I see you, until we are at last in the same spot for a moment. I don't care how long it is. And all the feelings, the excitment will be there but my face will arrage in set lines of dermination and hunger and loss and yearning to speak the words, those wonderful, horrid, horrible, lovely words to you. And maybe you will roll your eyes and be done with me. Or maybe you will just stare down at me, gaze at me like the Mad Hatter to little Alice and sigh and just say "Thank you." Or maybe you will realized that I was the thing you wanted but fate had to be cruel and it wouldn't work now. Perhaps a crooked smile and a shake of head at a childlike jesutre that you have seen too many times to remember. Maybe you would... kiss me. Just, one. That's it. Please. Just sing Pictures Of You then kiss me. Then walk far away from me, don't send me letters. The longing is too great. Why can't you read this? Damn it why can't you see this?

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Somethig New

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Eleven

Eleven was my first time.

No its not what you think.

Eleven is the year I began the endless waiting. Or. It feels endless, to a point. True. They are another band in my ever going lists of bands but they mean something more than that.

Love.

Hate.

Sadness.

All of these things, the core of everyone I found within their words.

And such pretty words they are at that.

And no. I haven't seen them. But I've felt them inside of me. In my head. Making noises. Pretty noises.

Pretty pretty thoughtful noise and something of a first crush, too!

Thank you Robert and Simon and Porl and Jason. My hearts yours.

Grown Up

Does Peter Pan EVER grow up?

Do we ever grow up?
Or is our youth pulled down like a sinking boat in a stormy sea?

Youth slips away.
Like a melting sand castle.
Except just a few memories.
A few grains of sand.

Only the lucky ones can row their boat gracefully into the sea of adulthood.
Just like Captain Hook.
But he was a pirate, a master of the seas.

Maybe its true.
Maybe we never grow up.
Maybe we just skate forever on a frozen lake.
Making imprints of memories with the blades of our skates.

Until the ice breaks.

We killed our own youth.
We’re forced to grow up.
With a first kiss.
A first dance.
First time.
For everything.

We all grow up,
Don’t we Peter?

One Of The Boys

Her eyes poised dreamily in the mirror.
Hands combing hair.
A small, simple effort,
To look like one of the boys.

One of The Beatles.
Oh, anyone will do.

As she thought this she realized it was vanity.
Her lips turned sour.

“God I want to be a boy. One of the boys. One of The Beatles.”
She could sing, twist, and shout when she tried. But nothing could hide her red lips and a curving frame.

She would have fit right in.
On a poster with The Fab Four.

No one would ever know.

Why God, couldn’t she be a boy?
One of the boys?

The Reflection and Realization of a Detective.

The detective sat with brier pipe.

Brooding over the denouement that he himself had so recently solved… with the Doctor’s help of course.

Ah yes. Ah yes.

How he had with chatoyant eye, discovered the hidden knife the Doctor had stepped on.

“How simple a knife really is. How something that glitters so brightly can be used for such a dark deed like murder, for example.” He mused as smoke swirled in an evanescent above his head.

He remembered it all, sitting there in heavy oak chair.

How the Doctor and he had walked in the petrichor of the slippery streets they had stalked for a man, only to find a knife glimmering with blood newly drawn.

Tretiorous city.

A pastiche he mused once more.

Big Ben chimed with lassitude.

He looked down now at the killers blade tightly in his grip.

The knife gleamed smugly up at him, as if surreptitiously saying “There’s more than meets the eye.”

He had said that time and time again, with woebegone air only to himself.

Then he stood with knife in hand and brier pipe clentched between his teeth.

The detective adjusts his cap and cape.

Peering over the city.

There is more work to be done, he knew.

He always knew.

The game is a-foot.

What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up?

I looked down at the jelly babies in my hand and wondered why. They were a sharp contast to how I was feeling. It feels like I've lost someone very close when in reality we never saw each other. Never talked. Never called, yet somehow, we got along. Sometimes like sisters, or the best of friends. I eat one jelly baby. I laugh about how someone asked what I wanted to do when I grow up. I was about four. I raised my shaggy head of hair proudly, standing as tall as I could on my tip toes with jelly babies even then still in my head and said "I want to be just like Sarah Jane."

For Teenagers

I collapsed in a blur of Mellon Collie and The Infinite Sadness.... again. And again. Smashing Pumpkins seemed to challenge my angst to its highest high and my sadness to the deepest deaths. These are the days that blur the most. These are the days where I don't have a body until I am forced to look into a mirror while "Zero" is played constantly as something of an outcry of "Look what you're doing to me, MOM! Look at all of YOU! Living down right LIES! I hate you! I hate all of you!" And mentally I kick and I scream and I cuss and cut at everything and anything that crosses my path.

This is for us teenagers. We are tired, driven to sadness saying that this is just a phase, this is just a normal thing. What do they know? Our parents? When they say they've fucking been there have they really been there before? Or had they just seen it on TV. They expect us to be perfect all the time when its not possible. "Make good grades!" When they themselves did not make good grades in high school. Hypocrites. I'm sick of them.

I'm sick of everything. If I dropped off the face of the earth I probably wouldn't care. My life isn't bad. My life isn't awful as some poor souls are, no. This problem of normal teenage angst (please.) is all on the inside.

"1979" and the rage is cooled down to an icy stare into emptiness. The fingers that strangled my insides let go, leaving sad caresses and then I almost miss them. Almost. Now my only function seems to be to wither away in the room that I made dark, to fit for my mood. Just laying on the floor, curled up in a ball, the same sad song of the day stuck on repeat as if it shows us no end.

Parents say we "grow out of it." This rage and sadness. But do we really? Or are we just digging a pit deeper and deeper? The days bluer now as Summer takes her sweet time in coming. The days blur into Mellon Collie And The Infinite Sadness.

Time In Paris

Time was something else then. In a city. Far away from here. Far away from distant country railways leading into more country and the blood rivers of the south; its veins. I am from a land of cotton and speech that sounds like nails against a black board.

It bothers me none. As I wander streets now in a shade of winter; New York in spring, perhaps Paris in summer. Paris. I am here and you are there. Oh how far away we are.

It bothers me none. The jazz in the summer time on a hot sidewalk. A sidewalk you can stick to with your sweat. And every so often a breeze ruffles your hair; that is Paris. Wine following good natured hearts over somewhere picturesque. I often picked a walk in the graveyard. How sweet it was. That was time in Paris.

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I feel like Capote standing up here

Under blood red curtain.

Reading a peice of soul.

To the mist of southern town

As he did once.

As I am supposed to do now for twenty percent of a grade. more or less

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Here he is.

This is Iggy

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To Iggy

That was it. Done. Over with. Bam. I became fascinated by this creature. He's like some being on another planet. He's like... wow. My heart was beating faster than I thought my body would allow. And then my mind gave way to the teenage hype hysteria over something. No. He isn't new. He's been around a long while... before my time. Iggy...

I never expect my mother to understand. "Are you working?" she asked, casting a glance at my computer screen. "Yes..." I say, voice slight higher pitched and less raspy as I quickly click out of a Google image search of Iggy Pop. I was desperate. Over and over again "Tonight" played. It almost rattled the house. "What's so good about that song?! It's just about some punk who died." Like I said, never expect a mother to understand.

I looked off glassy eyed, lips slightly parted in teenage fascination. He's raw. He's real. He's alive! I get him! I do! I do! My heart sang out praises though my lips never moved. They wonder whats wrong with me. I can only mumble some generic answer as I fall into the old pattern of arms wrapped around legs, twitching in an awkward poise to The Idiot. Over and over and over. Like a dog to its owner, drug addict to his drugs; THIS is my fix, god damn it! This is the thing I've been searching for. He is the thing that cuts right down to the core of my soul and shines a light on it. He's the one I wake up with in the morning then he is the one to sing me to sleep.

I know you'll never read this. I love you Iggy Pop.

Does anything matter?

A friend I haven't seen in a very long time came over today. She's a dancer and my mother being a former costumer needed help with a badly made tutu. Yes, I can tell the difference between a good one and a bad one by now. Thanks sister! It was odd to see someone I haven't seen in a long time. She certainly did not have the dancers body I remembered her having. Or that spark in her eyes. Where did that go?

I realize that people change as does pretty much everything. Lines are crossed and I wounded if its all worth it. Living I mean. We're all going to die. Sorry kiddies if I scare you but its the truth. I'm not even old but I feel like so much has happened. There's lines on my face, and scars everywhere. It makes me wonder if people are misguided and they just wander until something makes sense and they go into this dull life or do they just keep wandering forever until they can wander no more? And just die? That's it? Done? Fin?

Have you ever thought about how much of our life we waste sleeping? Waiting when we could be doing something? Students stuck in a class room cramming knowledge into them when I woke up today and realized that it doesn't matter where I go in the end because I'll just end up like everything else in the world; dead. On the surface it might be morbid, and sure its cynical but its true. I mean think of some grate influence to your country or something like that. They're dead. Yeah. And yes they left impact and yes that's important but honestly we all end up the same.

Thats why I don't get why we have to fight about stuff. Religion, sexuality, whatever. It dosn't matter. So I wonder if anything matters if we all end up the same.

A Play Named Trash

Scene: Ms. Rachel throws trash bag out for fourth story window into dumpster. Mr. Smith walks causally threw the door.

S: What are you doing Ms. Rachel?
R: Takin’ out the trash, Mr. Smith.
S: Did the coons get in the cans again?
R: -sigh- As always.
S: Did they flip the lid?
R: Don’t they all?
S: Did the bastards put up a fight?
R: Don’t they all? (irritated)
Pause
R: Your friend John Q. Law stopped by today, Mr. Smith.
S: What did he want?
R: Wanted to know where the garbage man was at, of course.
S: Did you tell him about the dump?
R: All the raccoons want to get in the dump, get in our trash, those J.Qs are all the same. Dirty dirty coons every last one of them.
S: Yes, but did you tell him about the dump? (irritated, annoyed.)
R: Ha! Why the hell would I tell HIM, a nobody, a chump, where the garbage man was at?
S: Well… you know words get around…. And if he finds out we’re trash.
Pause
S: So… when’s the garbage man going to pick it up?
R: Same time as usual. No later or earlier.
S: Why then? Why not now?
R: You know he makes his rounds, Mr. Smith.
S: What did you do with-
R: Oh! That. Ha-ha… I.. I took care of that.
S: -sigh- You know,, one day some fucker is going to go through your trash and then one day you won’t be so lucky. (scolding, angry)
R: Ha! I’m the fox, remember? I always get away. Always. (shaky confidence)
Pause: both glance down out at the dumpster
S: Why’d you do it?
R: No one likes raccoons in their trash, Mr. Smith.
S: Well, wash up Rachel. Takin’ out the trash can get pretty damn dirty.

Crash.

Sorrow is the rock tied to my feet.

It drags me down so dark and so deep.

Sinking slower to the bottom I try and claw for air.

A breath of hope that simply isn't there.

These waves of doubt and tears seem to rise and fall each year.

Thunder boomed. Lighting flashed.

Waves roared and then I crashed.

I crashed into more.

And threw it all I'm never alone.

Because sorrow is always there.

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A View On Feminist.

Sulking to what seems to be riot girl music laying in a sea of pen and paper and books and clothes. I am 32 flavors and then some... tell 'em Ani.

I thought about feminism. And how pointless it all was. Shouldn't we be proud of us as an individual? Regardless of gender? I am a woman... I think. The line between straight, and not, is disfigured. I only have a gender when I stare at pale frame naked. Only then for a split second do I cross the line of gender. Whatever it is. You know its there. Just unspoken rules about how ones label behaves and that we all follow and some of us and most of us end up braking anyway. Feminist bug the hell out of me. "I am woman!" Well, so am I and I don't care! You guys shouldn't either. Being stuck up and bitching about your gender only divides us further. Times have changed.

A long time ago, or maybe not so long ago for some, we needed them. So eventually women got a voice. Grate. Now shut it. Society will always really be "A Mans World" if you can even call it that. So it goes. I think it's more important to stand your ground as just a person in the universe. Not speaking for the whole of one gender.

Just chill out and shut up.

A Lock. A Key

Forever and even beyond the end of time.

My heart a lock of trembling tender years.

And your heart, a key.

A tiny silver key, dazzling in your dark iris.

Forever we can be.

My heart a lock and your heart a key

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The Harlot House

They usually come a dime a dozen.

You know the kind I mean.

Painted lips and painted faces to hide there age. Bigger the bossum, bigger the dollar, eh?

But not this girl.

Out of all the dimes she was a dollar.

She sat in a corner in her silver dress and silver shoes.

Her long blonde hair forced to be put up in curls.

Her face glowed in the dim lighting.

I don't know why I walked into such a place.

A place caught between heaven and hell; limbo.

She was shocked when I grabbed her hand first instead of her breast.

I didn't want her as the men around me groped for various things and a wild band of greasy gypies smoked there opium in a den.

Her skin was coverd in grease and she began to dance with me.

A horrid actress she was indeed.

If I paid a few dollars she would talk to me sweet, if I laid down a few more you know what I would get.

Sad and lonely she was.

Painted lady if I could save you from the house of these hells I would.

If I could save you from the streets, I would.

But you and I both know you won't stray away from this harlot house in the city on a bay.

Out of all the dimes, damn.

She was a dollar.

The Universe

We are the Universe.

Dare we discover?

Dare we disturb the inner peace?

Dare we become the unknown?

Shaking

Where ever we sat, it was too bright.

My knuckles bumped yours in a chain reaction that lead to laughing then to simple kissing.

We sat in a chairs close to each other.

And I herd your heart beat.

Thumping like a drum to a song I know how to play.

All the while in the silence that formed around us I was fighting.

Fighting the knots and butterflies in my stomach.

Trying to stop this inner shaking.

Wondering if you stopped my heart braking.

All the while in the silence and white walls I kept shaking.

The Low Spark Of High Heeled Boys

The Low Spark Of High Heeled Boys

Quintin doesn't remember much. Except for one thing. He remembers "The Low Spark Of High Heeled Boys", grass, and this emptiness. It wasn't the gun who laid him to rest but the low spark of high heeled boys.

Quintin, called Quinn, wakes up. His head hurts and his eyes are hazy. His mouth dry and there is crust upon his eyelids. His tongue darks out to lick his lips. Looking about him his shirt is gone "What went on?" It's musty and dark in the room. Slowly, the brain tells Quinn to listen. Gingerly he pricks his ears. Traffic. What a glorious feeling to wake up to the same song you passed out to!

The apartment was furnished Spartan at best. All there was his turn table and a few albums in the small living room of the apartment. And an even smaller bath room. He stretches then yawns. Gliding over to the mirror, he notices that his long sea of hair is awry. "You have girl hair son. Shave it." His fathers voice echoed in his skull.

"You look like Jim Morrison." remarked Squib. His friend. Some would say his only friend. He didn't believe him. Squib was a junkie. He had bleach blonde hair naturally and he hung out in the back alley of a pool hall. He peers at his face in the mirror. The eyes are red, bloodshot. The stuff Squib gave him really did him right. He picks up his comb and goes threw his hair once.

The only sound in the room was the scratch of the album on its last run. It needed to be changed. Quinn walks back to his turn table and sits cross legged on the floor staring at it. He picks up a stack of albums and starts to sift through them. He always picks the one that speaks to him out of the pile. Strange Days. A Doors album. Chuckling at the luck and irony of the previous mention from Squib he sets it down. He presses play. The needle response accordingly, going down on the set path of the groove like a road. "Life is like a record..." Quinn toughed. "Strange days have found us..." Quinn nodded and agreed with Jim. He lays down and begins to smoke a cigarette listlessly listening.

But the spell is broken. A sharp knock at the door. He sits up at attention, suddenly becomes aware of his partial nakedness and covers himself. He slips on his glasses and hastily opens the door.

“Hey man.”
“Hey.” says Squib. His eyes are red and dog tired. He is a worn out shallow shell of a man that once was apart of society, now, turned to the lesser grade. The drug culture, as it was politely called by Policemen and the like. More so called “Bums” to the common man, dreamers call them “Free.”

“C-c-can I sleep here, man?” Squib spoke with a stutter.
“Fine man, fine.” Quinn replied coolly opening the door wider so that Squib could enter. They both seem to wreak of the same smell. You cannot describe it as anything else but “Unclean.”

The two sat on the floor cross legged facing the record table. Like people in a church facing the altar. And today at this moment, Jim Morrison is preaching to them “What have they done to the Earth? What have they done to our fair sister?”

The two lay on the ground now with there heads pressed against one speaker. Each note rolls over them as if they are being baptized in the sanctum of his words.

“Hey. Hey man…” Squib whispers as if Jim Morrison were actually there talking to them and as if he didn’t want to brake this God of There Culture’s concentration. As if his words were the truth.

“What?”
“Read me something. Something beautiful.”

Quinn draws out a heavy, heavy sigh. “Alright man, Alright.”

He turns off Jim. And grabs a piece of paper, a scribbling from the night before, he thinks but then again he can’t remember. He adjusts his glasses to gain a professorial air about him so he can perform a heart string to the only friend.

“We sit here, smoking.

Laughing.

Life is like a record.

It spins and spins and spins.

Eventually, it flips over, to produce a change from the previous sound.

And eventually as all things do, it dies.

As do people.

As do cigarettes.

As does love.

I saw a boy wearing women’s shoes.

And at first, I laughed at him.

But then I saw that it was nothing really in the grand scheme of the album of our life’s.

And I hated him in that moment because he was living his life on a B-side.

He lives his life caught in a world that is not his own.

He lives in eyes of a hollowed out generation gripped by television madness.

But people fear this boy.

And the next day I saw him again.

Dead in a gutter. With a gun in hand.

The gun was used to kill a man. And then himself.

The gun didn’t make any noise.

He was the low spark of high heeled boys.”

So it goes.

Heart Strings

A tug.

A push.

A pull.

A few exteneded strings...

This is the song my heart sings.

Far off.

Far away.

Hoping you'll be back one day.

This is the strain my heart plays.

A push.

A pull.

Some long streached out strings.

This is the song my heart sings.

" Oh yeah I'll tell you something, I think you'll understand. When I say that something, I want to hold your hand."

In Class Writing

I'm pissed off. I don't know why... I mean. Why I'm pissed at her. I loved her once. Dearly in fact. We're still freinds but... she annoys me more. I wish I could explain why. Class is boring so I'm twidding. This box dosn't give you any words. You have to make them yourself. It dosn't put down ideas on this blank space. You, the writer, the physical person, has to make the words, make the idea, and click the little orange button that says publish post. I want to sleep almost. I know I won't. I should go. My book is calling me.

- The Typist.

Roses

It was blood on my hands. Sticky. My blood but still... sticky. It was dark when I walked home so I couldn't see the rose bush.

Roses are strange. At a glance they seem to love you. With there poise and there grace. But they're hard to get. Only when you look closer do you see the thorns.

I tripped. I was never good at walking right or straight or anything. They cut into my hands. I didn't cry though, I wasn't good at that either.

Roses are like people. Some tend to be in groups but most end up alone on someones grave or a vase left to rot. After a brakeup. Love is funny that way.

I washed my hands in the once white skin. Stained now. Here is when I cried. Now is when I mopped up my face and hands.

Roses are like people. Pretty, hurtful, lost, lonely.

Roses are like people.

Because they always die.

Glam Rock Queen

My mood was up and down.

A happy, dreamy sigh here.

A pissed off groan there.

A fustrated flip of the hair.

Puckerd up for nobody.

Glamed up for one.

I got it all.

Bowie's on the turn tabel.

On my perfect mechine.

I'm just a glam rock junkie with stars in my eyes.

But these stars have faded.

Telegram Sam... what happend to him?

Died in Vitienman.

And Ziggy's gone back to mars.

Here I am sixteen years old and seeing old stars!

I'm in a glam rock scene and I got Bowie on my little old mechine.

But Now Isn't Simply Now

She wakes up to the same words everyday. That same passage from A Single Man. A Single Man is a book ment to be read alone, in a solitary state. The words are as follows:
"Waking up begins with saying am and now. That which has awoken then lies for a while staring up at the ceiling and down into itself until it has recognized I, and therefrom deduced I am, I am now. Here comes next, and is at least negatively reassuring; because here, this morning, is where it has expected to find itself: what’s called at home."

"But now isn't simply now." She remembers. Tonight, she looks down at the dinner she made for herself. A frozen chicken pie which she burnt. Sitting down at the counter she feels alone. Not that she is alone by any means. Her mother is inside as well but in a different room. She wonders, then, if they should eat dinner together more. But it wouldn't work. Her fork goes in for the kill. Stabbing at its tanned body steama rises up. She sees no other alterinitive but to eat it.

Sometimes, sometimes food is good. Sometimes not. But tonight it is just there in existance. It is neither good or bad, just simply there. A part of space. She reads the same section over and over.

"But now isn’t simply now. Now is also a cold reminder: one whole day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Every now is labeled with its date, rendering all past nows obsolete, until — later of sooner — perhaps — no, not perhaps — quite certainly: it will come."

And she wonders why that book was kept so close to her. Why she reads it whenever she can find the time to truly be alone. Not to say she dosn't have a social life. Most of the past time was spent with friends but that felt shallow to her. It didn't stick. She chews her food sofly and glups down the bitter lemon water. Staring at the page, unturned kept frozen there as if its something really important. A glance down at the food shows that its almost gone. Eating suddenly becomes replusive to her and she throws the rest away. She sits back down at empty plate and empty glass.

Like these things, she's become empty. "But now isn't simply now..." a few tears hit the page of her book softly. Without noise. She wish there could be scilince now. For a moment. But there is none, has been none, and never will be none. Sounds will always come threw her and brake her. She grabs her book and slips away back to the four walls of the empty feeling house she is most firmiliar with.

She lays down and remembers....
"Waking up begins with saying am and now. That which has awoken then lies for a while staring up at the ceiling and down into itself until it has recognized I, and therefrom deduced I am, I am now. Here comes next, and is at least negatively reassuring; because here, this morning, is where it has expected to find itself: what’s called at home."


"But now isn’t simply now. Now is also a cold reminder: one whole day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Every now is labeled with its date, rendering all past nows obsolete, until — later of sooner — perhaps — no, not perhaps — quite certainly: it will come."

The Swans

I can not look at her the same way again. No. No! I can not. This creature that was once composed of rarites and purites, a white swan, now. Now has fallen victum to the sin of lust upon her own flesh.

Feathers that were as white as her skin have grown black. Black like the night itself, black as the hallowness of her eyes. They have grown black as to show the void of darkness and shame. A flaw in something perfect. A void that is and was created by lust!

And yet as I aimed to capture her, I could not. I could not slay the beast that was the Swan. Because I loved her. To take her in my arms again I would and slay no more I would, to have her free from a prison of feather and beak.

How I loath that vile creature! How I loath its haunting beauty! How does its lack of remorse not consume it to waste on its own? Can it not feel its own self distruction? And yet, I am to blame. She came, the Swan, and bewitched me with its silky wings of black lace.

How was I so blind to see? How? I was caught up hunting after a lie, a laugh. With her I felt it was right but I abandoned what was true! Now not an angel would cry for me because of what I have done. I am a fool. Still now I can see her slender body, twisting and turning before me in a gentle plea of one so innocent. One so lost. But then she came, from the hells below and tempted me. And I succumbed to it. Like a fool, I did. She waltz and dove before me with such compeling grace.

And... what now? I see her! She! The one so pure and innocent, perfection in its self this creature! Yet she acts as if she is blind to me. What has happend?

And, as she dove off into the sea, I saw it. I saw that purity and sin were one in the same. I saw that the Swan was a flaw and perfection in itself.

They were one and the same.

A Conversation With Myself Part One

How long has it been?

Forever? Maybe.

Does it matter? Maybe not.

How many times have you listend to that song?

Too much.

Can you change it?

I don't want to.

Why?

Because I like it.

You have the words on your arms....

Yeah. I know.

Wash them off.

NO!

Ugh. It's been awhile... change it. Listen to some Bowie.

But it's THE CURE.

I know. I know. Just do it.

No.

Come on.

Why?

Just.... ugh.

Fine. I'll do it.

YES!

Now what?

Now what?

Coffee Grounds And Coffee Grinds

Coffee grounds and bitter lies.



The coffee is murky like a lost soul.



Fogged up in its thoughts and hopes for a perfect life.



Then it grows cold knowing it won't happen.



Coffee grounds and bitter lies.



I've thought of all the times I've cried.



How I've waited for something more... only to be left behind a closed door.



Coffee grinds and hollow dreams... is sadness all thats left for me?

Questions.

I asked my self life changing questions on the floor, I concluded. I laid there in a cool rainy January night wondering. Why isn't sleep coming?

Is there a god? I've asked my self that many times. Looking up at the cealing squinting hard enough to maybe even see some form of higher power. And did I ever believe? Would I ever? All I saw when I squinted them now where colors from a dying naked light bulb.

Will I ever be someones permit lover? Someones wife? An impossible task, finding love in a sea of illusions. Maybe. I've haven't had much luck with it. And now, as a year has left its mark on me in more ways than one I am starting to be bothered by that fact. Whats the point?

Why am I laying here on the floor? I ask myself life changing quesitons.

To The Spoon

In truth, it wasn't as bad as I made it out to be. The ice cream I scooped in the white bowl was vanilla. I wanted something not so complex. I wanted something that brought me back to a happier time a simplier time when I was younger and things like you're outward apperance didn't matter much. Or all everybody wonderd who was dating whom.


The time gave me an illusion of safey when really I was bare footed on a glass edge. And the edge was cracking. I was with my dad on the back of his old truck. The truck he said I could have one day but I never got. Oh well. We sat and to avoid my mother's terrible cooking we would walk up to the Jiffy Mart and get vanilla ice cream. A simple time.

I felt bad after I ate the contents of the bowl. Not because I had injested something. Not because eating this would hold me back from getting a picture of my self in a certain size of pants. I wanted to cry because I had placed something cold inside of me. Because I was desprate for company in an empty house. Because I longed for a taste of certainty. I knew vanilla ice cream would always taste the same. And it would always be there. I pressed the cold spoon to my lips. Touching it with soft skins. The spoon would always be there, too. I understood how the spoon felt when it was the only one left in the drawer. When it was the only one who tried to see everybody in an equal light but the reflection gave off only a blurred picutre.

At first I thought I was like the ice cream. Cold, dissapearing, something that some people wanted but some people couldn't have.

Time went on, I realized I was the spoon. I grew cold when people were cold to me, I tried to see people in equality but each picture was duller and duller with time. Often I would lay awaken in my drawer and wonder when I would rust away.

So, to the lonely spoon now in an empty bowl, like an empty world, like an empty home, I feel you.

What Have You Done

I laid in coma of a sort. I laid there in a daze and I herd Bob Dylan's whiney voice far off someplace. He droned on and on about some girl. What do you want from her, Bobby? A kiss? A glance? Something else?

What do you want? I pondered on my bedroom floor thinking he has been here before but yet I know he has never set foot inside my door.

No. He had never set foot in here. The four walls held his voice in thight and inside of me. The echos of a six string rattled my bones and the rest of my soul.

I couldn't face him in reality. I know that now. It would be to much for my little body. My heart and head would burst with so many questions and desiers never dare I speak them to him. No. Never dare I. He is too old now. Or I am too young.

All the same.

So it goes.

So it goes.

Why do I hold you, Bobby, so near and dear to me? What have you done?

What have you done?

Highlights And Lowlights

I open the new year with The Jesus and Mary Chain's "Never Understand." Have I really become something I've tried to disown from myself? Have I really become "goth"? I think I'm coming to terms with who I am as an individual. What I want, need, like and don't like. A relflection of the past year, good and bad, is as follows:

- Got into the highschool I've wanted to get into.
- Got so drunk I blacked out.
- Found out that certain scars on my body will never heal... and accepted that.
- Colored my hair three times.
- Hung out with friends more than usual.
- Overall put more effort into what I'm doing.
- Had my heart ripped in two and I don't think it'll ever be healed.

There is more than that but that's all I can focus on at the moment.