usually im thriving on change
but now change is thriving on me
i used to be buried only in silver linings
but clouds dont have handle bars.

im liquid and mutable,
no solid foundation,
i have daydreams
but they comnstantly **** me dry,
ive had lovers but they never called,
the pretty girls get to go to college with daddys money
well my father doesnt believe in me,
doesnt talk to me,
all i have to offer is art

and he wont trust what he doesnt understand.

a vision thats been so clear lately,
im packing my bags with ocean mist shampoo, a camera, a toothbrush, blank notebooks, shooting star earrings, vanilla incense,
catching the next flight to wonderland.

dissapear.

not that this town,
the only place ill ever call home,
hasnt brought me so much,
it has shown me its many hidden paths,
all the best spots to duck into with the friends that drift in during the summer
but never really stay,
secrets through the sweet potent smell of smoke,
the writing on the wall:
"are you living your dream?"

so im wondering.
is this what my whole life has built up to be,
a skyscraper of long-term memories
encoded then stored to forever be pulled up from file drawers?
lessons learned and regrets thrown in trash bins,
barely scratching the surface of those i thought i knew so well,
hands in the oven
and wading in water,
rainbows over ambulances,
the city in flames,
strawberry fields,
bear tracks in snow,
freezing cold spring in hardly standing tents,
dazed morning afters,
bruises and scars and reckless lucid dreams,
diving headfirst into the shallow end,
over and over again,
chasing the world through a lens,
artificial perspectives;
how i watched so many fall for them,
drinking their life away.

the moment i realized i was lonely, but i would never be that alone.

a series of events of which i still dont know whether or not were unfortunate.
i dont want to be another high school angst heartbreak cliche,
the almost-smiling girl lifted into the dawn, away.

but this head is raging.
"the heart is the weakest ***** in the body"
and the medicine just isnt working.

somehow, i believe, new streets and sunsets,
unfamiliar faces on littered beaches,
every corner a turn i wont hesitate to make,
will bring back the fragments i have dropped along the way.
because i just want to believe.
i want to, finally, be.
i'm starving.
i want something more.
give me anything.
i want to overdose on everything miraculous that there is yet for me to walk on. maybe drown in northern lights.
maybe paint my hopes in passion red and off-turquoise-seafoam-green.
maybe chance a stranger, a kind voice to be exchanged with mine. one i could trust, could crawl into and sleep.

Art is
s e e i n g
Ordinary Things
from
extraordinary
angles | selgna

a scream in the night- or dark early morning- "i am not sleeping another night alone." and it cracks my bones through my ears. i am brought back from my grave, i am a zombie with an intention. aren't we all starving now? it seems like things are more clear when i have less to focus on. now, disobeying the natural function of shutting my eyes. now, as the apartment complex lights are mere trinkles on the stairs. nobody moves but the shadows and the dissapointments on the other side of my door. everybody listens when they shouldn't. these aren't empty conversations filled with empty words. this isn't the simple act of eavesdropping on a bus. this isn't just another dialogue with defense mechanism cavities. there's a million things that these words aren't. funny, i couldn't tell you exactly what they are, what they mean, what they have to offer anybody. it's all so transparent but oh so opaque, and i am caught between the fragmented spectrum, between where i can and can't be seen. when you are on your knees with a gun to your head, that's when you finally catch some attention. crave as you might, but you're never taken seriously until there's nothing left but words versus silence. some scream, throw glasses at the wall. some lay down and cry the same old sob story over and over again. some take their thoughts and put them in jars, filled to the brim with formaldehyde. some break down in all these ways, the jars make the shelves finally collapse. i've watched it happen, i've watched bombs explode in my mother's eyes. it frightened me- how could anyone survive the blast? debri thunders down, litters the earth with shame and rage and those godfrosaken lost hopes. the hopes you pin up like ribbons in a young girl's hair, they are so beautiful and so simple, and they stream in the lights when she dances. you are taunted and you are made to believe. even when the girl passes out on the dance floor and the ambulance comes to rush her away, you remain calm. fixated. ambitious. you count to three and lift her onto the stretcher. you keep telling yourself that she will open her eyes, even when the ribbons come undone and begin to strangle her.

i forget whether it's loss or gain, i can't recall whether or not it's a good thing to be electrocuted when you put your own finger in the socket. it is good to wake up. it is a release to make the world stop spinning once in a while. but we are in motion. we are supposed to be rushed. so many of us are forced to grow fast, and we lose touch. the glue that holds our pieces together slowly dissolve and then we are fluid. we let others contain us in any shape they desire. we adapt, and we manifest more hopes. it's like we have a treasure chest, full of them. under our beds/ from behind our ears, from where magicians pull out coins. i may rest. i may sleep most of these nights. but i am still a river. i will always flow until i flood the land again. and maybe someone someday somehow won't run away when they see the warning flashing on their television screen. instead, they will grab their lifevest and dive in, like i always have. they will forget what fear is. they will forget that they had an ego that usually kept them safe and dry. they will feel surprisingly comfortable in my serene waters. they will realize that risk isn't so bad, that belief powers it, make things happen. but sometimes the pressure builds and the dam does break. it is too much. step back. you've gone too far.

it is a circle. emotions can recycle. the same hopes are used all over again, just in different disguises, colors, voices, names. they will try to build the dam again. they will think they have the perfect blueprint. but weakness always resides in something.

we only live and we learn. we only get rich or die trying. we only get twenty-four hours in a day, and we only have the ability to use them to our full advantage if we are alive and awake enough to see them.

we only see and we only feel. we only have ourselves to blame.

this is what its like. its like holding your breath underwater. its like wandering with no destination. its like a narrow corridor, drink this and you will be small enough to fit through it. its like almost tripping over the unexpected rise in the sidewalk. its like that moment when you catch yourself right before your face collides with the cement. its like the cement itself, gray and watching happiness hanging just above. its like keeping the stare of a stranger. you cant stop but if you look away too soon youll make the silence awkward. its like the hunger of a girl who refuses to eat. progress hurts so good. its like taking a sip of red wine. its like an accidentally-on-purpose confrontation. its like a summer sun shower, it rains when its the brightest. its like the taste of strawberries, and the tiny seeds get stuck in your teeth. its like biting your nails after you've finally grown them out. its like a movie that takes you in its grip and doesnt let you go. its like the rolling credits where youre still intoxicated from it. its like...."yeah im writing a blog." "whats it about?" "i...dont really know. it's like, poetry, or something." its like a subliminal message, its telling you straight to your face, its right in front of you, but you're oblivious. its like the air that pinches your arms in autumn. its like the scarf you tie around your neck. its like the stones you believe will affect you somehow, will lend you their powers. its like finally, looking forward to something, or something like it.

...blame the dreamer, the make-believer, the great play-pretender. blame the girl that picks up every drop of hope off the floor with tweezers. we all want to believe. even if its obvious how dangerous it could be, even when it has dagger-like thorns, and they stab your fingers. we want want want something still even though you will bleed. blame the ambitious one. blame that ******* time that always haunts us. blame the one that tries to defy it. blame loneliness, blame that empty space, that shadow that lingered for so long. blame the encouragement of self-sacrifice. blame basic human instinct, to see, to chase, to conquer. blame the amygdala. but what would it be like, without emotion, memory..it wouldn't hurt to forget to remember. blame energy. blame everything you've ever tried to believe in, wanted with every ounce of passion you had left. blame money, we're all just slaves. blame the unknown course of human life. blame the unpredictability of the circumstances in which you take your last breaths. wherever you would be, would the last scene in your play be a happy one or a tragic ending..or somewhere in between? blame analyzation and rationalized thinking, the fact that things could make perfect sense but your gut tells you differently. blame fear and anxiety, blame what scares you the most in this world. heights, change, being alone. blame the girl that always sees light but is ready for the dark, she is waiting by her windows. shes prepared for the part in the end where the actors bow and you realize, oh, yeah, ****...this was all just imagined.

blame me. the director. the optimist. blame me, because i picked the thorned rose.

but it was just so, tempting, so extremely beautiful...

......i just take life as it comes.

Duct tape my mouth please, censor me, i'm slowly spilling, run run as fast as you can, i drip gasoline, i'm dangerously quiet, and playing with matches, shards between my teeth, cut my tongue, the room burns aglow, and i watch with stitched lips, as the poison that resides seeps through the water of my eyes.

Of a wilted rose, seek beneath, as is love, observe the masked beauty, of a horrid creature, just looking unto the shell, does not define a soul.