bedtime stories

My mother was, still is, the most beautifully optimistic melancholy person I have ever known.I never remember exactly how she smiled, but it must of been the most radiant thing this unforgiving world has ever seen. Nature herself loved the curve of her mouth, the sky opened to her touch. She was love in personification. Every argument, every raised voice could never seem to reach her eyes. She was unnatural, and my father bent to every slight will of this creature. She wasn't made for us, wasn't built for us, wasn't meant for us. It drove her her mad. Ate her insides and hollowed out her eyes. My father died to watch it happen. I could not understand when she began to waste away. I don't think anyone could, not even her. My mother was beautiful, and the most broken thing. She never saw life coming. I cannot see her any differently than how she was in the end. I cannot see anything, but my father crying, bones brilliant in the sun.

earth

even with the wind and all this oxygen crushing chest muscles

i am more a l i v e than nature herself

dappled leaves a crown to break my brow

majestic throne of damp-set seeping love

knee-high in quicksand

with so many ways to sink.

lye

dear diary,

i can't love you right anymore.

remember the day i crawled crying to your crowded shelf

and from the midst of poetry and prose; plucked a friend.

i wove a secret you and me tale

of death and destruction and bad hair days.

we were inseparable,

till i let him come between

till i began writing my heart on his skin and eyes.

i can't tell you anything anymore

i-- i am sorrier than you know.

don't forgive me;

forget.

divine.

And I'm angrier than ever at these walls and this house.

Angry at nothing but empty space and blank windows.

I want to crawl in bed; let you drip back into my head.

Sliding down limbs and sheets,

through cracks in the floor--

till you're gone.

so okay right.

I cannot explain myself anymore.

I have tried and tried all weekend.

I have cried and screamed and haven't slept. 

By being too divided, too willing to love too many.

I want comfort, I want close.

And I have not.

And should want not.

I feel confined in this expanding heart of mine.

That wants more love, yet gives away too much.

With naught in return wheezing it's way along after the beautiful lively loveliness of life.

tithe me down

i don't know what's wrong with me,

sometimes, i really want to cry,

then i'm catapulted into a sea of white.

it's all very odd and my chest hurts.

it's hard, i won't lie.

harder still when i suddenly realize i don't know what i'm doing.

i'll get through it.

i just cant stand it anymore.

the big chest-aching-crushing lonliness feelings.

I went through today in a daze

a haze, a mess.

i write pseudo-poetry.

in mangled tangled heaps and shreds

broken lines 

without purpose or order

trying trying trying

to be important.

somehow,

to be loved.

!!¡¡

two am is the start of that odd morning time

which runs from then till five,

in which no one can ever sleep.

when you immediately crash at five regardless

blacked out till noon.

sleeping like death.

and there's about a hundred million things on your bed 

when you finally wake up.

mostly books, read in desperation.

pillow cases with their entrails gone somewhere 

inside the comforter and bed sheets.

paper and pens, crumpled and cap-less

the only evidence of their secret late night meetings being

ill-conceived poetry to laugh about in the morning.

crushed and discarded.

yea, i stabbed a man in the heart

we're a little immature.

Confused, but pretty sure we're not

Just trying to explain that feeling

of knowing what to say

but not what you're talking about.

I love talking about love

Being that depressed teenager.

But what can I say?

I'm not wise beyond my years,

I still do stupid things

I still act self important to a fault.

Don't be too hard on yourself.

I never meant to make you feel down.

¡¡¡~

dear santa, i want...

the first time it happened, i never said a word

i always thought i'd say something.

i thought i'd be the kind of person who'd fight back.

i thought i'd never let it happen

but i never said

one 

single 

blessed 

t h i n g .

the first time.

or the second.

or not even the third.

i wish we didn't fight.

i wish i didn't have to look at you like you're a monster.

i wish i didn't want a family.

ay, si yo pudiera volar

iré más lejos de aquí.

iré a ti.

porque tu,

tu eres mi quierdo.

mi corazón.

y yo necesito tu

más de todo el

mundo.

the boy and his fast dancing machine

It's interesting how.
when you close your eyes.
everything is brighter and brighter and
brighter


i live in a shell of impenetrable glass and steel.
i call it a heart.
and in this shell, this prison.
i keep all my emotions.
in jars on shelves.
one for love,
one for hate,
one for envy,
one for compassion,
one for joy.
it's when i talk to you that they all crack open
and flow together.
i can't seem to focus then,
drowning in this puddle I've made.

all I can say is that I wish all conflicts in life were resolved with laser tag

I love you john campbell.



To extrapolate, he's the maker of pictures for sad children, and peeerrr-tea damn amazing. I have been reading that comic since it began and enjoy it throughly. (hinthintwinkwink, you should too.)


Besides all that, I have been hurting. (No, not like that.) Just a dull ache in my chest. I had a heart, and it's now a pound of lead. Seizing up all my blood. But it's okay. I promise. It's not like I'm dying or anything. It's not for any reason you might think of either, (well okay maybe you can, but it's probably not what you thought of first.) I am simply worn down. Wasted and wistful. Still happy to be alive though, still laughing and smiling and being twirled around in those awkward too-friendly hugs that you look forward too but wish would end as soon as they began. I find joy in all the same things, sing at the same times, drag my pencil across paper in the same familiar shapes and lines. A person! A tree! Circles and squares and shapes with no names. It's so peaceful to draw.

the handsomest drowned man in the world

i feel sad and upset and deliciously happy
all in a million trillion billion ways
i cannot think
i cannot breathe
i cannot anything
but smile



"he was a handsome man
and what I want to know is
how do you like your blue-eyed boy
Mister Death"

don't let the pidgeon drive the bus

Though she's ten years younger.
She's not like me,
Too fair haired, with a smaller forehead.
Darker eyes and a charm that only children have.
So bright, so smart.
Just as tall as her brother too! (well... almost.)
I assure you, go on, ask her.
She has logic that makes perfect sense.
With hands that will soon be too big,
are too big,
Too hold hands with old unwanted me.
So much bigger and shinier than everyone.
This sister of mine.

---

She's not my daughter, but still I feel like she is. A mother and a sister and a friend, my heart still swells when she reads. So perfect, stumbling less and less, till she's practically shouting. But no, it's... it's more like singing. I can only sit and think, maybe I was like her once.

if i had it would you want it?

Drag me down, down down down.
Let me meet the center of the earth.
Upon her molten chair.
Let me feel the crushing weight of the world
Cracking my ribs all the wrong way.
Let me sing till my throat slams shut,
And my lungs are clogged.
Let all my organs burst with the greatest of ease.
While I laugh like I don't care.
Just let me die happy.


Oh darling, I think I'm dying. Things are funny when you want them really badly.
I wonder, what you're thinking when I'm all messed up.
It's not because of you, or rather it is.
But not really.

.

My heart hurts in a million ways
and all of them are for you.
All of them
are for love.

~~~

I wont be able to blog much during summer.
I have work.
Soooooo
Not much free time.

Tired.

I really would rather you leave it alone.


~

I'm singing too much.

I find myself singing all the time, everyday. Mostly a jumble of songs. I think it comes from being alone. Trying to fill up all the air around you, but not really knowing how. So you sing and you sing and you hum and you whistle. Stomp stomp clap, shuffle right and back. Repeat the chorus, and there... shuffle left. An awkward waltz around the kitchen with no one but yourself.

There was something else.

I remember January
with the cold, and the tired feeling
of being older again.
With fire engine red hands,
who can't save a thing
for want of warmth.

I remember Feburary,
and forgetting birthdays while loosing days
and that close feeling you get
when everything is still snow
and it's too quiet,
too quiet to be comfortable.

I remember March,
and the spring that's
just-not-here-yet
while feeling sorry for all the flowers
and being sick of things you can't name
or even remember

I remember April,
with mean words and a wet face
and those times you're sure that everything
is just a million little pieces
of worry and doubt and
something that wasn't ever anything.

I remember May,
when it's springspringspring!
and forgiving and forgetting and remembering
and holding a grudge were all sort of the same thing
but it didn't really matter
because we were laughing again.

I remember June
while you wished for winter
and that odd quiet feeling you couldn't remember
can't remember,
and lament you never will.
when water and wishful thinking were your best friends.

I remember July
and that same old complaint
but with the excitement of summer and noise
laughing in the dirt
wondering why things ain't ever been this good
or this alive.

I remember August,
when mix-matched days and weeks
made you want summer back, and then gone again
of wanting hot then cold
and missing rain and then not
and being unsure of which you liked better

I remember September,
with new faces and things you didn't miss.
when grudges came back and things ended.
when fall wasn't really here yet,
but it didn't matter
because you didn't want it anyway.

I remember October,
when you begged to go out,
justthisonce.
and stole candy when you couldn't
cursing school and thinking
fall wasn't as pretty as you thought it was supposed to be.

I remember November,
and not being thankful
of feeling older and tired,
and missing summer so bad.
with arguments about things you hadn't heard since April.
and how the cold came back all at once.

I remember December,
when you're too old, too mature,
to believe in santa anymore.
and you're getting older by the day
with red hands again
wishing for summer.

And it doesn't really matter at all if you're not listening

I don't know for sure why I'm blogging again.
But I miss writing.
I went through a bit of a dry spell.
With immensely intense moments,
followed by languid and unimaginative periods
that stretched unto forever.
and made me nearly uncomfortable in my own mind.
Feelings are a silly fickle thing.