My X kicked me back here, to my home town
I thought it was his greatest revenge
Every crack in the sidewalk was a painful reminder
of the years of silent suffering with a smile pasted across it
I call growing up and
as I'd the therapy habit now, begun in LA and
reinforced and practiced in New York in the Therapist infested Island of
Manhattan
I got one here, and strange things started happening and
the sand of the filthy beaches started to sing to me and
my old high school looked like a pleasant nursery
and I started to groove here again,
feel strong here again like I'd never had
and I learned to love
my home town
after 500 years of therapy

How do you tell someone that they’re not real
Politely?
Quietly?
I don’t know what to do anymore
What if none of this really matters
What if we’re all going to be okay
Because I’m not real
And you’re not real
But how do you say that because we aren’t actually human
We’re just pretending
Because life is about the things that we don’t understand
We don’t see
But why can’t anyone tell me how to tell them I don’t experience
What I’m supposed to because
I’m not real
And you’re not real
And reality is just an illusion because we don’t really exist
And humans are just a concept
And life is just a fleeting idea in the mind of something we can’t even begin to understand
Because we’re not real
I’m not real
I don’t understand and I can’t see with all this dust around me
Dust kicked up by the thousands of feet
All copies of the same feet marching
Oh god we’re not real we all have the same feet look at your feet
How do I say this because we aren’t real so we can’t listen and we can’t hear
Is it polite to tell someone that their entire life is false?
Can it be done quietly?
We’re all going to be okay I swear to god
Because in a thousand other places we don’t exist
And in two thousand more we are okay already
So the odds say that we’re likely to be okay here
Because we’re already okay somewhere
I swear to god
But in the long run it probably doesn't matter anyway because there is no long run
Because I’m not real
I’m not real and I can’t see oh god there’s so much dust
All I can hear is the marching
I’m not real
I’m a thought in a bubble in a cloud in the dirt
I can’t be real because they told me reality wasn’t like this
But then when I hear you speak
Why do I hear humanity’s voice
When I read those words
Your words
Why can I feel the idea creeping politely
quietly
Into my mind that I might be a real person
Because this isn’t supposed to happen
Oh god, not to just a thought
Not to a mere figment
My feet are itchy
This isn’t supposed to happen
Not to a lie
Not to a lie like me

a boy flies on a city
swing set
perching for a brief second
on a sunbeam
before gravity rips him
back down from the clouds
and away from the
green chain link fence he faces.

as i drove by,
i wondered
if the thought
crossed his mind
that a few inches from today
he would be
too tall to ride
the already aged sunbeams
that warm our
separate stories;

too tall to ride
one last time
knees scraping the
pockmarked metal and
he, i imagine, will
sigh quietly,
exhaling a body temperature breath
that will dissipate
before it has
the chance to cool.

already past, i
will be even farther gone
before the air
absorbs pieces of him,
of a green chain link fence
facing a rusting swing set.

A furious typhoon
slipped through the heavens.

The unraveling of time is a linear process,
Prediction is not.
Dynamic instability in the system
caused by the chaotic theory of thought.

Lost in dissociation,
We see the lines
that transcend time.

Infinity:
I can't give it up;
Because it's not enough

2-CB typhoon run amok.

as i slid it in for the first time
i said
i love you

i was confused.
she was confused.
(relieved, yet confused)

you see,
i did not mean it.
it just seemed right.
(the justification)

in hindsight we should have waited.
thought more intensely on our actions.
(my car had been very cramped)
we should have waited for a bed.

as i slid it in for the first time
i said
i love you

i was confused.
she was confused.
(relieved, yet confused)

you see,
i did not mean it.
it just seemed right.
(the justification)

in hindsight we should have waited.
thought more intensely on our actions.
(my car had been very cramped)
we should have waited for a bed.

72 years. Thats how long true love lasts. Well I like to think it lasts longer. I don’t know that for sure yet but I’d like to some day. Together since age fourteen and sixteen, I think thats pretty impressive. A different time. Which sucks because so much of ‘love’ nowadays revolves around lust. Which is more physical than emotional. So then I wonder how can they throw the word love around, whilst throwing themselves around. Oh the irony
Well I thought I loved someone once. Eight months, with probably triple that amount in fights. Though we fought it came easy to us. I guess thats more than I can say then the couples that were around us. But it was too hard. Hearing what he really thought about me. Not good enough. Too far away. Like I was so object only to be attained, to be shown off. Like a prize. Well I stopped being that object the same day he decided he didn’t love me
That’s what also sucks about this generation. There isn’t just a relationship or single there is: Talking, talking talking, flirt texting, couple dates talking, occasionally hook up talking, got drunk that one time at a party and now things are awkward talking. Then there’s: Having a thing, kind of together, pretty much together but not official, pretty much together but not Facebook official, together, and too many more.  
We can’t go two seconds with out Facebook stalking, texting, IMing, calling, or being together without fights, or assumptions about unfaithfulness. People are treated as objects and love it because someone, somewhere is paying attention to them and making them feel special. Generation X. Who can’t stop worrying about all their ex’s. More like generation disappointment.

Sometimes I like to be random. I guess my whole life’s been pretty random. I don’t like to think before I speak. I sometimes start my sentences mid thought... My dad hates that. I like to go swimming at night, and have breakfast for dinner. Sometimes you have to change it up. Because mundane is boring. And before you know it, you’ll be too set in your own ways to change anything. Girls are confusing. Boys are oblivious. And generalizations suck.
I like to change it up because sometimes the only thing you can control is what you do. That doesn’t seem like much, but its more than what some people have. My favorite color is green. Once I taught myself the entire alphabet backwards... just because. I have a stuffed Unicorn named Sparkles and he is a boy. I bought him for myself last week.
I like change, but crave the routine. Weird isn’t it. Well weird is pretty accurate for a girl who likes Nickelodeon more than MTV. Netflix with my dog and parents more than parties. Sometimes I even go to late movies... With my mom. Then again sometimes, I just like to be random.

(I think I've lost the ability to start things, so please forgive this poem for not having an attention grabbing genesis)
I've been twiddling my thumbs for almost eight months now
Putting off all that I care about
(And especially everything that I don't. Here's lookin' at you, AP World History)
Sitting around amassing a booklet of words to use in the future for novels and whatnot
But only using them in essays so I seem smarter than I am
(For example, susurrus means 'a whispering or rustling sound; a murmur')
Hoarding anything affiliated with Ben Folds because he makes me feel things on occasion
(I currently have 189 songs of his on my iTunes library; No one understands me.)
Making dick jokes at lunch while masking the thoughts of substance ricocheting around in my head
(Also your mom jokes because no one would think that you're crying internally about the uncertainty of the afterlife whilst making lewd stabs at their mother's integrity(and vagina. Ba dum tss.))
Apparently craving the lingering feel of another's touch
(I had a dream a few weeks back that Ben Folds licked my hand; My stomach folded (hahahah, folded) in on itself.)
Thinking that my feelings of misanthropy and apathy and everything else I can't find the words for yet are mine alone because everyone else is too stupid to have thought them themselves
(Even though I know that I'm not particularly special and I should stop being so elitist and stupid)

But I've finally found a light at the end of the table in the last place I'd expect--
(I meant to say tunnel, but hey, the source of said light does sit at my lunch table.)
A cherubic Presbyterian boy with an aversion to all things perverse,
(Which includes my sailor's tongue and occasional tendencies to want to put it on a member of my own sex, thought he doesn't know about that)
A spec of cleanliness on the grimy waistcoat of humanity who makes me want to be the best I can be
(Today when I saw him, I only swore once; I was very proud of myself)
But maybe I'm just jumping the gun
Because what would a good Christian boy want with a heathen like me who isn't even sure she believes in God?
Maybe his prolonged contingencies were merely contingent and I'm just overreacting because of my few and far between incidences of human contact.
(Seriously. Don't touch me.)
Maybe I just want someone to talk to for hours about everything and nothing at all.
(What with me being relatively antisocial, it's hard to find people with similar mindsets.)
Maybe I just want someone to funnel my adolescent attention into
(Because teen movies have taught me that one obviously can't be happy without having a crush on someone at any given time.)
Or maybe it's just because the way the Bible quote on the back of his t-shirt conflicted so humorously with the way he shook his hips to a J-Lo song on "Just Dance."
(Seriously, though, it was hilarious. I was dying.)
Or the way our fingers brushed when we were catching frogs
Or the way he blushed when I stepped out in my bikini
(I went to a pool party today.)
Or the way he held me momentarily in the delirious confusion of the flashing strobe lights
Or the way he got one point higher on his research paper than me a month ago
(He was excited; I was upset.)
Or the way that he does everything nearly to perfection.
I could go on..
But I don't know.
Maybe I'll get over him in a week and slip back into myself.
Because, like I said, what would a good Christian boy want with a heathen like me?