today i bought a book, bound in leather. i drew a girl's face, hidden by a mass of hair. that's the first time i've drawn in a long time but the first ever in that book. it felt good, pencil in hand.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
she's a ghost, a colorful entity of refracted light. there's no special thing to her, but the curve of her lips and the dip of her back are burned into the brain. she carries shakespeare in her pocket and there's stars on her socks and she sits, curled in the large blue chair watching the television flicker and blur in the dark. she counts her blessings when clear rain hits the roof and makes a wish when the magnolia branch taps her window. in her free time, she sits back in the dark, her laptop light an illumination. the thoughts are too loud, mind jumbled, and she truly wonders if she was real. she blended in, a passive being, now a colorfully pale apparition. her color stained porcelain, now a colorless spirit, draining in the bathtub. no evidence of crimson or indigo or gold, a clean palette. like she believed, she never did exist.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
sometimes when i see the moon
i like to pretend it's you
just sitting there across from me
but you're too far for me to reach
i pretend the deep black holes
are just your eyes
you see me
i can see you
but you don't speak
you haven't
not since half past two
you never speak
why is that?
are you too shy to speak to me?
that darling voice
it hides from me
and then day breaks
red fingers wake
you're gone for good
the moon's sweet face
is no longer yours
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
When I feel silenced I like to scream, scream at the top of my lungs, until I collapse and heave. My ribs are broken, every breath is painful. Why do we keep breathing when we know pain is coming? I wish I could die a sleepless death, without the pills or resorting to something overly drastic. Pills take too long and rot your insides. Bullets are just too messy and loud. But it's the breathtaking silence that gets me, when I want to take my own breath away. To stop the beating entity, I must be silent, but when I feel silent I like to scream. Screaming is not silent. It's the quiet game, let's see who will snap first. I thought I could get out, but getting out is just more of the same. The same bitter tones and sideways glances I despise with all my stretched out soul. I'm worn out from the silence, but I need to be silent to break free. Maybe if I'm quiet enough you'll forget about me and move on to bigger things like curing silence instead of succumbing to it.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC
Tired, tired of dreaming. You see me, standing at the cliffs. I'm watching, calculating. The spray hits rock, sending it everywhere. I move too slow for this world. I am the cold ocean spray that laps the earth and corrodes it's insides. Sometimes I wish they been wrong and the earth truly was flat, and I could drop off the end of the earth, so I could spiral the distance into a deeper and darker abyss. I lift my arms, like a bird, like the black bird. But my wing is broken and it's the dead of night and I fall into the swirling entiety. My body submerged, I cannot breathe, and the cold water consumes. It fills my souls, drowning it. I feel nothing. I can't hear you now, I can't hear your words. It's too late, your lies cannot be redeemed, my lies cannot be redeemed. My anger dissolves, as if waiting, knowing I'll be pulled from the chaos. I wait for never comes. I'm cold, a face in a sea of cherub faces, a face pale and white. A floating soul out of a thousand, sweet cherub faces of peace, accepting the fate they had concieved.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
am i just a bad kid? so bad i have to yelled at and scrutinized? probably, but i can't take the pressure. my dream is to run away, to get out, but i can't even do a simple and small task that could allow this future to be possible. it's dark here, where my demons reside. i broke my streak, cut my ever lasting ribbon as it pours thinly in fraying red out of my side. it doesn't hurt, just makes me empty, hollow. i've stopped hurting, and gone straight to nothing. it's easier this way isn't it? i can hurt you, but you can't hurt me. after all how can you hurt someone that doesn't even feel at all? or really it's more like someone that's been hurt so much in every way, they know what to expect. i hurt so much and cry so much and scream so much and then it goes right back to nothing. no one believes me but i've got the bump and the crack to prove it but that's not enough because i'm a child to be dealt with and that is all. i've distanced myself, i thought i'd leave and i've decided i will. but i'm leaving for good, and that's a promise.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
it's that black hole in the center of your chest, slowly taking away the things that make you different. slowly ripping the things you love most from you. you're no longer someone's somebody, you're just someone who's been camouflaged into the surroundings. the time still moves, but you're no longer seen. when someone you love, chooses something over you it's like a natural disaster. the fabric of everything known is twisted, frayed, burned up in an instant. you thought that couldn't happen, that this would last forever. well listen sweetheart, that's not true anymore. I should know because I am you.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
I am from plaid couches and plastic covers
that squeak and rip.
I am from ***** pool tiles and loud pool cleaners
humming, humming.
I am from the back street littered with fallen leaves
and cracked tar.
I’m from “the Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.”
I’m from “and also with you,” rattling around large stained glass,
like coins in a jar.
(loud rattling, coughing,
crying children, flipping pages)
I’m from long car rides with music blasting,
windows rolled down.
I’m from Tool, Wings, Metallica.
I’m from the Beatles, Foo Fighters,
and that “obscure” Indie band
that Walks the Moon.
I’m from sitting with my Dad,
whistling the X-Files theme song
the title sequence plays
I’m from totally shipping Mulder and Scully
before it was cool.
(actually it still isn’t cool)
I’m from “that’s my girl”, and “you’re my favorite”.
I’m from Joan and Beedee and tall,
bright flowers
and trees from a magic green thumb.
I’m from “Good Old Texas”
and large Texan stars,
and tall cowboy boots.
I’m from a ***** canvas, covered in thick paint
it hangs so somberly.
As if as old as my great grandmother
who placed it on the wall.
I’m from a family spl it in two.
I’m still from that large house down the street.
I’m still from that small apartment,
with the map on the wall.
Bright red pins stuck in that wall,
on cities with names I've memorized.
My family tree expands,
a large oak with strong roots,
and weak branches.
I am from a tree with two branches to fill.
It does not end with me.
I am from the cities far away from here,
Art filled cities that my children will see.
I am from the murals
written and drawn across the town.
These cities will be our newer,
stronger branch upon the family tree.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
I don't know how to write anymore, as if I have absolutely no purpose to use myself for. The time on the wall, concealed in the clock, ticks and chimes at every mistake I've ever made. They've come back to me, but I wish they'd leave to go back to the damning place they had first crawled from. I feel sick, a hole my stomach has ****** itself into. There's nothing special about me, a broken mind alone with it's thoughts. My jealously grows, envious vines that consume my soul and eat away my sanity. Even when I shut myself away, my own self isolation, I still hope to be found, to be pulled out of myself. Hoping for someone to keep me out of myself, but as much as I should hope to be found I cannot only rely on anyone to find me. I wish it could be as easy as falling down a well, my only job to wait for someone to crawl down and bring me out, without myself having to truly help myself. I cannot choose to not be like this, it's almost chemical, hardwired into the makeup of my mind. It's not as simple as flipping a switch, to change a light bulb that can no longer light itself, this is a poison. A poison that is inky and black and fills my veins until my organs give out. I can't be found when I leave. How long I wait until I realize no one will find me or follow me or pull me from myself is up to me. My own silly delusion of being saved. It's just the waiting. The waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting. Maybe the waiting will **** me first.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
the classic story of two, the love connection made from a single touch, look, conversation. a classic misunderstanding, pushing apart, confusion. wondering why. that's all it was, a misunderstanding. it never made the love any less real. tossing sheets, a song playing, rough touches and love bruises. was there really anything else to love?
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 11:57 PM UTC