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Ariana Sweeney Jun 2014
The coal sky
Splatter painted
In cherub white
Emphasizes
And encompasses
That feeling of incompleteness.
How is it even possible
To feel everything
And nothing all at once?

I used to worship a God.
He used to be my savior
Father
Faith.
Now the only prayer I whisper
Is crafted in the sound
Of runny pen
On lined paper.
Ariana Sweeney Jun 2014
Blank mind
Eyes open
Intake everything
Or focus on a
Singular star.
Any number of
Profound and perfect things
Could be murmured right now
And etched into the
Night sky’s infinite existence
To dance with the stars

So I—
With hands cupped over mouth,
Eyes bleary from tears,
And hoarse voiced—
Whisper


“I’m so stupid”

And it was by far
The most insightful,
True,
And honest thing
I’ve ever said.
Rooftop writing
Ariana Sweeney Jun 2014
She’s got a hole on the topside of her right Nike shoe
Pink, black, white patterns ruined by her bony toe
Does she know
She’s not wearing socks?

Hair callously thrown into a disgraceful bun
Wetted from sweat or shower
I’ll never know.

Screensaver sepia toned
And donned in the center
Is a lover, perhaps,
Kissing her laughing cheek.

She’s more organized than me,
Dutifully taking notes
And yearning, craving for the professors
Pleasant spew of factual ****

She records his words
I record my thoughts
Who’s the more selfish one?
This stranger sitting diagonally in front of me
With her pink ears and lightly freckled face,
Or myself
Because I don’t even want to know her name.

Her world will forever remain a place
Untainted by myself
(Lucky her).
She’ll remain a mystery, an enigma
Stories that define who she is
Left for assumption and infinity.

She’ll never know I’m thinking
Only of her
And for absolutely no purpose
Other than practicing
Observing the small glimpses
Of people’s lives they offer you
Unknowingly
Trying something new. Observing my surroundings and people, being more in tune to the world I'm in. It's pretty invigorating
Ariana Sweeney May 2014
And here,
Ladies and gentlemen,
Is my life’s reoccurring theme,
Or motif, per say:
You have certain expectations
And requirements
Waiting to be fulfilled.
You build up a spectacular
Amount of anticipation
And collect quite the quantity
Of anxious awaiting
For simplistic disappointment
And a derailment or detachment
Of dented dreams.
It’s pretty ******* pathetic.
But you become apathetic
And solve your problems
By running away
And discovering
New things
New people
New toys
New distractions
And expectations
And wait for the cracks
To be filled.
But it won’t.
And it’s the sickest
Most cruel cycle of cynicism
I subject myself to.
It's never quite right, he said, the way people look,
the way the music sounds, the way the words are
written.
It's never quite right, he said, all the things we are
taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we
die, all the lives we live,
they are never quite right,
they are hardly close to right,
these lives we live
one after the other,
piled there as history,
the waste of the species,
the crushing of the light and the way,
it's not quite right,
it's hardly right at all
he said.

don't I know it? I
answered.

I walked away from the mirror.
it was morning, it was afternoon, it was
night

nothing changed
it was locked in place.
something flashed, something broke, something
remained.

I walked down the stairway and
into it.
Ariana Sweeney May 2014
Ethereal pieces of myself
float away  
to join
the nostalgia  
and innocence
of a past  
best shrouded in shadows
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