I have answered myself so many times, but I don't want to be a textbook. I enjoy the rain too much, and the ink stains my skin and scarves. I'm dyslexic too. Imagine how much of a pain in the ass that is when your entire existence is based on reading, and you're mixing up boobs and books. It's alright, I guess. I've been marked from the start.
More importantly, I'm tired of this cough. I start to open up and just as your eyes begin to water and my hands begin to shake, my throat starts screaming what sounds like barbaric limericks. Then it's all ruined. You still grab me a glass of water though. Thank goodness you've always had steady hands.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
I wonder if it's really raining or if it's just my eyes shaking
Oh we are forsaken
Little lies dangle from the tall trees we once called our childhood
Irony
That smile of yours
Caress it underneath your pillow at night
It’s a calm out here
Where it’s unholy and unnatural
But we’ll survive
We have before
We’re resilient just like we were made to be
Ticking bombs and jagged edges are confusions we don’t have time for
But just laugh a minute baby
Open your mouth and let it sing
For old times sake
No
For everyone’s sake
For you and me and for the fallen of Rome
For the sun and stars and the terrorists who are just as sure as we are
Do it for my hope that I threw away last week because you had forgotten
Or don’t
I can’t force you into anything
Your face can be my existence and that will be all I need
Typical
Your love affair with the snack machine
Just remember who tucks you in at night
Little lies dangle from the tall trees we once called our childhood
Irony
That smile of yours
Caress it underneath your pillow at night
It’s a calm out here
Where it’s unholy and unnatural
But we’ll survive
We have before
We’re resilient just like we were made to be
Ticking bombs and jagged edges are confusions we don’t have time for
But just laugh a minute baby
Open your mouth and let it sing
For old times sake
No
For everyone’s sake
For you and me and for the fallen of Rome
For the sun and stars and the terrorists who are just as sure as we are
Do it for my hope that I threw away last week because you had forgotten
Or don’t
I can’t force you into anything
Your face can be my existence and that will be all I need
Typical
Your love affair with the snack machine
Just remember who tucks you in at night
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Me, Myself, and a bottle of muscle relaxers
There are painted nails because the rest of me has no color. If I were to remain void of this madness, I would only lose myself. Polka dots and stripes. Snow men and Christmas trees. Images to scream out to the world that I am OK. That I'm not going anywhere. Sometimes you have to lie to the world to make it forget it's problems. In all honesty, I've been packing my bags for years, just waiting for when I hear the whistle and see the crowds part. Maybe that day, I paint them pink with stars.
My wrists are clothed because I am not whole. One should not think of the continuity of the skin as a connector of bone and joint. Arm and wrist are separate and that must be marked. Long ago, I set out to make those marks permanent and oh Lord did I succeed. No one likes to see those divisions, so now I wear them with stretched bands and colored string. People smile at bracelets, no one smiles at scars.
I wear curls in my hair because I am completely lost. Road maps are not straight, so why should I follow them? When the wind catches my hair and tells it to watch it's mouth, I am reminded of just how elegant we all are. Elegant and vulnerable. When I walk, I do not march so much as jive, skip, dance. Maybe I'm walking to hell? But damn, I will look flashy.
My wrists are clothed because I am not whole. One should not think of the continuity of the skin as a connector of bone and joint. Arm and wrist are separate and that must be marked. Long ago, I set out to make those marks permanent and oh Lord did I succeed. No one likes to see those divisions, so now I wear them with stretched bands and colored string. People smile at bracelets, no one smiles at scars.
I wear curls in my hair because I am completely lost. Road maps are not straight, so why should I follow them? When the wind catches my hair and tells it to watch it's mouth, I am reminded of just how elegant we all are. Elegant and vulnerable. When I walk, I do not march so much as jive, skip, dance. Maybe I'm walking to hell? But damn, I will look flashy.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Listen, Oh Dear Bodyparts
A letter to the knees who bend and break, fall and ache. You are rebellious and questioning. What exactly is it that you've asked of me? I have given you everything from paid leave to avenged regrets so why do you continue to disobey? You are disproportionate and lazy and I no longer know how to care for you. Graceful but barbaric is your existence. Maybe you should take a rain check on this light source.
A song for an unstable spine. How do you not have your act together? It is a good thing that you are not victim of the public school system, for you would have failed the standardized tests before you could have amounted to anything. You have too long ago accepted that life is no fairy tale. If you could get a grasp on reality, maybe we would both be OK.
A public service announcement for my shitzophrenic muscles. When you get too stressed, you lose your cool. This isn't a popularity contest, so stop settling for only what gets you by. Your irresponsibility causes more unrest than you could ever know. When you flinch, you not only take down walls, but set fire to the lamp shades. Let's not be hasty- you can't stay like this forever.
A novella for the joint that can no longer turn. I hate how I must bend to fit your needs. A faulty drama queen- you know it was nothing more than a slight grimace. When you're not to blame, you call on me to pull the labor. It's astounding, you know, how little you care for yourself. Simple tasks are all I ask, and you continue to let me down. There's no use in apologizing, you've already broken my heart.
A door mat for these thoughts that spark old habits. When I tell you to stay down, you are not supposed to revolt. You feed off of routines that only injure the rest of us. Similar to a heroin addict, your fix is what distances you from the roads of the world. Oh how nice it would be to scream your mistakes, but you know that your vocal chords are kept under lock and key. How many times have we discussed the consequences for your actions? I'm beginning to think that you've lost your sense of caring.
A song for an unstable spine. How do you not have your act together? It is a good thing that you are not victim of the public school system, for you would have failed the standardized tests before you could have amounted to anything. You have too long ago accepted that life is no fairy tale. If you could get a grasp on reality, maybe we would both be OK.
A public service announcement for my shitzophrenic muscles. When you get too stressed, you lose your cool. This isn't a popularity contest, so stop settling for only what gets you by. Your irresponsibility causes more unrest than you could ever know. When you flinch, you not only take down walls, but set fire to the lamp shades. Let's not be hasty- you can't stay like this forever.
A novella for the joint that can no longer turn. I hate how I must bend to fit your needs. A faulty drama queen- you know it was nothing more than a slight grimace. When you're not to blame, you call on me to pull the labor. It's astounding, you know, how little you care for yourself. Simple tasks are all I ask, and you continue to let me down. There's no use in apologizing, you've already broken my heart.
A door mat for these thoughts that spark old habits. When I tell you to stay down, you are not supposed to revolt. You feed off of routines that only injure the rest of us. Similar to a heroin addict, your fix is what distances you from the roads of the world. Oh how nice it would be to scream your mistakes, but you know that your vocal chords are kept under lock and key. How many times have we discussed the consequences for your actions? I'm beginning to think that you've lost your sense of caring.
Let's Not Speak Before The Meds Kick In
When we're carefree, everything makes sense. We are awkward and gentle and kind and the summer days wait long before opening the door for nighttime. A smile is permanently plastered on our faces and all laughs come from the soul, not from the thought of being fake. I'll hold your hand just as quickly as I'll take a breath. I am yours and I made you mine. You're the biggest dork I know and flaunt it like it's a badge to brag about.
When we grow older, we start to ask questions. Living the life isn't just following directions. We are still awkward, but we hide it from all, our once soft hands are now blistered and tired and they can no longer hold on to something that isn't there. Our words become bitter and angry and tears mean nothing to us unless they are our own. We laugh still, but only to make a good impression. You push me to be someone I don't want to be and I push your hand away in disgust. I am your pain in the ass and you make my head hurt. I wouldn't show you off to anyone.
When we believe we have grown up, we fight for the answers to questions no one has heard of. We make our own rules and beg that others respect them. We are no longer awkward for we know who we are and like to think that we're ok with what we've become. Our hands are graceful, yet strong, and reach for the things we know we are going to make out of our lives. We speak as if to demand respect, but it's only because we have been hurt before and now think we know how to evade it. When the tears are forced to flow, they burn like never before because they are so rare these days. We smile warmly and only belly laugh ever so often. I have slammed the door, but you keep it cracked. I have told you that I never wanted it, and you swear that you want it still. I am your hope for the future, and you are the anchor that is making me drown. If I could get away with it, I would leave you here and never look back.
And then I saw him. Not a beacon of light, or a rescue swimmer, but someone to simply say “we don’t need to fix you”.
I want to tell you about him, but it would make you hurt me more. And I want to tell him about you, but I'm frightened that he won't understand that you are not my fault.
You're killing yourself and taking me down with you.
Cut the line and let me drift.
When we grow older, we start to ask questions. Living the life isn't just following directions. We are still awkward, but we hide it from all, our once soft hands are now blistered and tired and they can no longer hold on to something that isn't there. Our words become bitter and angry and tears mean nothing to us unless they are our own. We laugh still, but only to make a good impression. You push me to be someone I don't want to be and I push your hand away in disgust. I am your pain in the ass and you make my head hurt. I wouldn't show you off to anyone.
When we believe we have grown up, we fight for the answers to questions no one has heard of. We make our own rules and beg that others respect them. We are no longer awkward for we know who we are and like to think that we're ok with what we've become. Our hands are graceful, yet strong, and reach for the things we know we are going to make out of our lives. We speak as if to demand respect, but it's only because we have been hurt before and now think we know how to evade it. When the tears are forced to flow, they burn like never before because they are so rare these days. We smile warmly and only belly laugh ever so often. I have slammed the door, but you keep it cracked. I have told you that I never wanted it, and you swear that you want it still. I am your hope for the future, and you are the anchor that is making me drown. If I could get away with it, I would leave you here and never look back.
And then I saw him. Not a beacon of light, or a rescue swimmer, but someone to simply say “we don’t need to fix you”.
I want to tell you about him, but it would make you hurt me more. And I want to tell him about you, but I'm frightened that he won't understand that you are not my fault.
You're killing yourself and taking me down with you.
Cut the line and let me drift.
Can't Hold Me Forever, Baby, I'm Off To San Fran
The lead weights attached to her shoes had somehow been removed. Carelessness, she presumed, was the cause of her renewed virginity. Eagerly she raised, lifted. There was no destination in mind. Only up.
The world thinks not like her. Those people do not have fingers that lace the stars or spines that curve with the waves of the ocean. Her eyes are made of grass, while theirs are filled with asphalt. How sad, that there are people in the world who do not know how to embrace what is reaching for them. Their euphamisums mean nothing to the ones who have their mouths taped shut. And now she is feeling their choke hold.
A thud and silence. A net of their lost innocence. What acid one must swallow in order to place barbed wire between a dreamer and the stars. She feels that sick sparkle. She knows that twisted turning. A lonely ending, but her tears turn to diamonds and strengthen the economies of fallen countries.
We can't all be winners.
The world thinks not like her. Those people do not have fingers that lace the stars or spines that curve with the waves of the ocean. Her eyes are made of grass, while theirs are filled with asphalt. How sad, that there are people in the world who do not know how to embrace what is reaching for them. Their euphamisums mean nothing to the ones who have their mouths taped shut. And now she is feeling their choke hold.
A thud and silence. A net of their lost innocence. What acid one must swallow in order to place barbed wire between a dreamer and the stars. She feels that sick sparkle. She knows that twisted turning. A lonely ending, but her tears turn to diamonds and strengthen the economies of fallen countries.
We can't all be winners.
Esmerelda
Radiance. You're full of it. Oh how the skies would damn the day I told them your name.
Simplicity. It's your move. How could this pencil ever define you?
Cosmopolitan. It's only how you speak.
Why would I ever try and cage you in pages? Mr. Webster never knew there could be people like you. Too bad none of this is relevant to the burning we have on our tongues. You're so god damn perfect but you choose to ignore it.
Where are all the others like you?
Simplicity. It's your move. How could this pencil ever define you?
Cosmopolitan. It's only how you speak.
Why would I ever try and cage you in pages? Mr. Webster never knew there could be people like you. Too bad none of this is relevant to the burning we have on our tongues. You're so god damn perfect but you choose to ignore it.
Where are all the others like you?
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