Sometimes I feel numb
It's a strange, kind of sad feeling.
I can feel it in my heart.
And I know it's strange to say that I can feel my numbness,
but isn't it also strange to feel the itch of a phantom limb,
or the sorrow that comes with the excitement of something new,
only to realize it won't last forever.
It's really hard for me to control it,
I don't know why I can't.
If I could just rip the pain,
or lack thereof out of my chest I would.
In a heart beat,
no pun intended.
No one told me this could happen,
I thought there was simply happy and sad,
I didn't know there was anything that could fall in between.
All I want to do is to feel everything,
I want to love everyone.
I want to care about everything,
but it's so hard when this numbness keep sneaking back into my veins,
pulsing through my body once again.
Telling me to sleep it off,
or to stay home,
because it's easier to avoid than confront.
That's why I try so hard in conversations,
because trying is all I can do when it comes through.
This doesn't happen everyday,
it sometimes doesn't even happen every week,
but it's still tough.
Some days I am bursting at the seams with my love for the world.
Some days I care so much,
and I try so hard.
Then some days I cry,
for stupid reasons.
Because it's healthy,
because I need to.
Because sometimes the weight of the world is pressing against every bone in my body,
and I need to release it.
But some days I don't feel anything at all,
and it's a scary and foreign feeling.
Because I'm bursting at the seams,
and I only have so much thread to patch the holes,
in this worn, and stretched body.
So please just let me feel for a few more minutes,
I'd rather that than continue in this abyss of numbness.

I've gone through plenty of loss in my life.
And I promise this isn't going to be the poem you think it's going to be.
So anyways as I was saying,
I've lost quite a few people who were important to me,
and I went through the grieving process,
blah, blah, blah you know the routine.
Keep in mind these deaths were not easy deaths to deal with.
I've lost three dogs, a cat, a hamster, countless fish, an aunt, a cousin, a grandma, and a grandpa.
None of these deaths were easy to deal with,
even the animals
but I recovered fairly quickly.
I learned that they were in a better place.
But I never felt I really learned anything about life through these deaths.
They were all long coming,
the animals were old,
and so were the people.
All of the relatives had terminal illness'
so we had time to prepare ourselves.
It wasn't until I was sitting in my basement,
reading a post on Facebook that I realized how short life is.
I came upon a post about a man who I work with,
he is a manager and the head chef at the restaurant.
I read that he had been in a fatal motorcycle accident.
Out of all the people in the world,
he would not have been my pick for "next to die".
He died at a heart-breakingly young 41 years of age.
I had never been close with this man,
he was simply a chef at the restaurant,
who occasionally yelled at me,
and questioned me about my *** use,
and my tattoo.
But hearing about his death,
broke my heart even more than losing my family members did.
I thought of his children,
a 5 year old and a 1 year old,
and I found that I was much sadder than I expected to be.
His wife and children had seen him a day prior,
and then the next thing they know,
he was just gone.
No goodbyes,
no last words.
Now I'm not writing this to make anyone sad.
I'm writing this for myself,
and others who needed help to realize
how beautiful,
and breathtaking this life actually is.
His death has helped me realize that.
I may not love myself everyday,
but I love everyday, that I am blessed enough to open my eyes.
It's become a cliche to say how short life is,
but it truly is.
It's sad,
but it's also beautiful at the same time.
We get one chance,
one.
I think that's amazing.
We're given this one chance to do whatever we want,
knowing that we aren't immortal,
we will die in the end,
not knowing when the end will be,
and we still decide to keep on living.
Hoping everyday will give us something more.
One more little memory to take with us for the rest of our days.
So after I'm done writing this,
I'm going to go to sleep,
and hope that when I wake up tomorrow,
I will still realize how beautiful it is just to be breathing.
RIP Dino.

I want to exist.
I want to be beautiful.
I want to love my self
These goals seem so realistic.
So, possible.
These goals are goals I’ve had since I was 10 years old.
Standing in my bathroom,
Looking in the mirror,
Crying.
After the boy at school told me I was fat
After the ******* the internet told me to get on a treadmill.
I stared at myself in the mirror wondering,
What I had done to deserve this?
Nothing.
That’s the answer.
I was born with these bones,
I was born with this face,
This ***,
This stomach.
Society makes me look at myself
With disgust for the way I came out of my mother’s womb.
Something I had no control over.
I didn’t ask to be who I am.
Every day I stare at myself in the mirror
Like I did when I was 10.
I’m no longer 10 though,
I’ve learned how to correctly apply makeup
I go to a gym.
I’ve grown into my skin
I have straight teeth,
I went through puberty
I’ve lost and gained weight.
I graduated high school.
I’ve dated.
All of these things were things that I longed for when I was younger,
To be older,
Wiser,
Prettier.
Prettier,
It’s a funny word
I thought I knew what it meant.
I don’t.
I accept the compliments I’m given
Yet I return to that reflection
Hoping the face in the mirror will give me something I’ve been dying for.
Acceptance.
I used to want the acceptance of other
Until I got it,
And realized
Staring into that mirror
All I’ve ever really wanted,
was to go back to that 10 year old
And shake her and tell her she’s beautiful
And erase all of those mean words she’d heard from the girls at school
I’d contradict every word they said to her.
“You’re ugly”
“You’re beautiful”
“You’re fat”
“You’re perfect”
“You’ll never get a boyfriend”
“You’ll find someone”.
“I hate you”
“I love you”
I like to make people laugh
Not to cover up my secrets,
But to disguise people from the broken 10 year old that’s still beneath this skin.
I’ve grown up
I’ve learned to come to terms with who I am.
Sometimes though, I feel that tear stricken, bullied 10 year old coming to the surface
I repress it and remind myself
Society is ******.
Don’t listen to it.
All these years, I’ve longed to be someone else.
When all along,
I’ve just longed to learn to love who I am.

I awoke to my conscious talking me today.
She said: "You were talking in your sleep again, when will you learn?"
I apologized.
Then I asked her, what I said.
She refused to tell me.
She said: "Your subconscious is a dangerous being, I'd rather not make them mad."
I left it at that.
I don't think I want to know.
I just wish I could rest when I need to.
Even my sleep seems to come with interruptions
I wish I could tell you all that I think,
but there aren't enough minutes in the day,
to explain.
I wish I didn't have to have these conversations,
constantly having to remind myself who I am,
and why I'm worthy.
Trying to shut out my disappointment in myself,
I carry it like a bag of bricks everywhere I go.
If I could I'd build a house with them instead,
to protect me from my thoughts.
I tip-toe around every word that comes out of my mouth,
trying so hard to make sure it sounds exactly like I need it to sound.
Kicking myself for the stupid things I've said,
the stupid outfits I've worn,
the stupid mistakes that I've made.
I've heard some of the things said about these other people,
the ones who wore their hair wrong,
or made a stupid joke,
but,
when I'm not around I must be "other people" too, right?
My conscious tells me to cut it out.
She tells me:
"Life is worth more than the things you've said, and the way that you've looked.
It's all the sunsets you've watched,
the stars you've gazed at,
the people you've loved,
the people who have loved you.
This life is worth more than the things you say in your sleep.
The things you want are not tangible,
they can't be held.
You want to look in the mirror and smile at your reflection.
You want to wake up to someone who sees the stars in your smile,
especially since you can't see them yourself.
You want to love everything,
beggars can't be choosers and you know this.
You have to love it all,
which is an impossible task I know,
but it's worth a shot.
Maybe if you tried just once,
you could let me sleep without any interruptions."

When I was little.
When I was little.
WHEN I was little.
When did that "I am" become a "When I".
I've lived my whole life,
I've never stopped,
I went straight from one to two,
two to three,
three to four,
no pause,
no breaks,
straight on through to the tender age of 19.
I went from
barbie dolls to polly pockets,
bratz dolls to bicycles,
ipods to computers,
computers to cars,
cars to cigarettes,
cigarettes to alcohol.
When did it happen?
When did the little girl become,
a teenager,
a teenager struggling with herself,
with her life,
trying to decide how she wants to spend the rest of it.
I want to go back to first grade,
sitting up in my bunk bed crying because I couldn't read yet,
to classroom parties,
recess,
staying up late the night before 5th grade practicing my long division because I was afraid of my new teacher.
I don't stay up late worrying about my long division anymore.
I stay up late worrying about the state our world is in.
Scared to death that I'm going to give in to society.
I can't bear the thought that the little girl I see in all of my old pictures,
with all the hope in her eyes,
grows into a tired adult,
faking a smile because she forgot how not to.
Going through the same routine.
If I could go back to a younger me,
I would give her ear plugs.
So she wouldn't be able to hear the boy in her class tell everyone Santa Clause isn't real.
So she could block out the insults thrown her way because being 90 pounds in 4th grade was WAY to fat.
So she could muffle out the reality,
and live in her own world for awhile.
I'm living this life not entirely proud of who I am,
or the choices I make,
but I want to make sure of one thing.
If I ever run into my younger self one day in another reality,
I want to make sure I've made her proud.
Because being a kid is hard,
but so is being an adult.
Life is difficult,
and the truth is harsh.
Because when one turns into two,
two turns into 19,
19 turns into 45,
45 turns into 70,
and 70 turns into a headstone.
And at that point,
we've got to hope we did it right.

I've always loved Alice in Wonderland
Ever since I was little.
I was never quite sure why,
but then I realized,
I was jealous.
Jealous of Alice.
I wanted a Wonderland of my own.
I wanted to have tea with the Madhatter
and my very own Un-birthday party.
I wanted to hold hand with Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum,
and walk through that beautiful place,
While they showed me around.
Now that I've grown up I have different desires.
I want to smoke hookah with the Caterpillar,
and talk about life with the Cheshire Cat.
I want to dethrone the Red Queen
and free all her guards.
I want to escape my world
and go there.
I like this life, at times.
But it's just not for me.
I want to be free.
I want to follow the White Rabbit around,
to see what he does all day.
I want to paint all the red roses my very own blue, and purple.
I want to go to a place where it's always tea time.
I want to explore.
Just like Alice,
I'm a different person today,
than I was yesterday.
And the day before that,
and the day before that.
I want to go mad,
and not receive society's judgments for it.
I want to go to a place,
where I'll be accepted as I am.
Where all it takes to get there is
just a simple seemingly long fall down a rabbit hole.
Where the plants sing,
and the animals talk.
I want to go to that place,
I get scared sometimes
that I'm losing my muchness.
I get scared that my thoughts are making sense,
I don't want them to make sense.
I want to be at that place
where non-sense is accepted.
And they'll all love me for who I am.
I've come to realize what I really want is a Wonderland,
not a reality.

I like to dream.
Everyone does though I suppose.
I don't dream in the sense that you'd probably think.
Not when I sleep.
Lord knows I do enough of that,
but I'm incapable of dreaming at night,
I think that's why I sleep so much.
Each time I lay down I pray that,
Just one single,
lonely dream will come.
It doesn't though.
I keep trying though,
day after day,
and I promise I'm not just giving an excuse for me taking so many naps.
Although I do,
I'll admit that.
But since I don't dream when sleep,
I settle for dreaming when I'm awake,
some call it daydreaming.
I make up these situations in my mind,
where I'm happy beyond belief.
I imagine that I'm in an empty field,
running free.
I imagine I'm up in space,
with the stars.
A place that I've admired for so long,
I imagine I'm there.
Far away from this place,
and the hurt that exists here.
I'm not going to say I hate my life,
because that would be a lie.
I'm simply going to say that I'm not satisfied with my life.
There are so many places I'd rather be than down here,
with gravity pinning me to this
seemingly two dimensional place.
I imagine sitting and conversing,
with all of my idols.
Smoking a joint with Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix,
sitting down to tea with Cass Elliot and John Lennon.
Imagining what it would be like,
to be extraordinary like them.
Then I come back to the present,
as my teacher wraps up his lecture,
and remember where I am.
Then,
I once again accept that fact that I'll have to keep leading this ordinary life,
hoping for the chance one day to escape,
to the stars,
or maybe the moon,
the place that doesn't
hold me down,
and make me keep my feet on the ground.
The place where I can fly,
and dance,
and love,
and sing,
and dream.
Endlessly.

We live.
We hope to love.
We die.
When we die,
will this world end up being what we had hoped it would be?
I want to live.
But I need to figure out what that means first.
I've been taught to believe in God.
I think I do.
I haven't really figured out what God means though.
When I think about it now I suppose I might not.
I don't want to understand everything.
I try not to ask for much.
But there are some things I suppose I would like to understand.
Do I really need to spend my life trying,
so hard to please this unseen entity,
just to get to "eternal happiness"?
I'm tired of hearing the excuse,
"God would be angry with you"
just to get our children to treat each other with care and kindness.
I believe in faith,
I don't believe what it's turning into though.
I don't want to just have to believe in God.
I want to believe in this life.
I want to believe in the earth,
the sun,
the stars,
one another.
And when my time comes,
whenever that may be.
whether he is there or not,
I hope that I was the best person that I could be.
Because in the end,
we only have ourselves,
and I don't want to end up with a "me" that I can't live with,
because if eternal life does come after this.
I don't think I could survive.

I like to paint.
I like to paint stars.
I like to paint cats.
I like to paint words.
I like to paint life.
I suppose,
that's what it all is.
Everything I paint is life.
I'm not good at it.
It just helps me release.
Giving color to the sad,
blank,
lonely sheet of paper.
Painting everything I ever wanted to be.
When I was little,
I wanted to be a dinosaur.
Probably not the dinosaur you're thinking of.
I should be more specific.
I wanted to be Barney's wife.
Then one day I was told it would never happen.
I think that was the day I lost my color.
That was also the year I had heard,
for the first time,
Santa didn't exist.
I was 6.
Not even a decade old,
and here I am starting to learn the ugly truths of life.
I brushed it off,
and convinced myself they were lying.
He had to exist.
I needed him to exist.
To be honest though,
I remember that day.
Very vividly.
I went home and crawled into my bed and cried,
a lot.
I think that was the day I stopped believing in magic.
Then I grew up.
And realized a lot about this life.
If Santa didn't exist,
then how could God?
Was I being fed the same ******* about him,
as I was about the Tooth Fairy,
and Santa Claus,
and the Easter Bunny?
I mean *******,
we tell our kids not to lie,
yet we instill this false hope of magic in their heads.
Hoping one day they find out for themselves,
so we don't have to break it to them.
I wish I had just kept my mouth shut,
I wish I had never told anyone about my dreams
of being a big purple dinosaur.
Maybe then I wouldn't have to paint so much.
Because as much as I don't want to admit it,
the day we learn the truth about life,
is the day we are drained of our color,
and we turn into those,
blank,
lonely,
sad,
pieces of paper.
And there we will remain,
patiently waiting for some good news,
some color,
to fill our plain pages,
knowing deep down,
that happening,
is as likely as me growing up and marrying a big purple dinosaur.

Some one sent me a message
It contained a beautifully written poem
About a blue bird.
A bird who lost his home.
While the people on the ground
gaze up at it
envious of it's freedom.
While he gazes down still looking for his place
I feel for this poor bird,
I thought I knew who I was
What I wanted
Who I wanted
Where I wanted to be
Lately I'm not sure anymore.
I feel the earth caving in.
I'm trying to accept who I am
and what I am becoming.
I try to hold the hands of others
through their storms,
but when it's my turn
and the clouds are surrounding me
I look up
and no one's there.
I feel alone in this storm.
The rain starts to pour
I'm drenched,
with more than water,
I'm soaked with frustration
with fear
with loneliness.
I will be there for you
forever
I was secretly hoping for the same in return
I know I won't get it.
I never will.
I stare at the ground as the rain falls
Alone,
that's what I am,
I'm alone.
Alone with my thoughts
with this prison I've trapped myself in.
Afraid of the judgement of others,
It's like a freezing rain drop
stabbing my skin.
I try to avoid it.
The judgement.
I put up this facade like the blue bird
of happiness
and freedom.
When all I'm trying to do
is free myself from the chains
I've put myself in.
It's no one's fault but my own
I chose my actions
I chose to be everything that I'm not.
Now that I'm trying to free myself of it
I'm get the backhand of judgement thrown my direction.
I don't do it to look cool,
I do it because I like it.
Because I always have.
I try not to let it get to me.
I try to be strong.
I tell myself I'm worth more
I tell myself I deserve to be who I want to be.
Maybe I'm just that blue bird looking for a home
Someplace that will accept me
I hope that I am that home for others.
I'll take you as you are.
Give you the love you deserve,
So I'll be there for you,
but I'll continue to fly
just like that lost bird
looking for my home,
looking for love,
looking for acceptance.

Where do the dreams that aren't remembered go?
You know those dreams,
the ones that you wake up having a vague idea about,
yet you can't seem to remember it in its entirety.
Where do they go?
Do they go to dream purgatory,
because they weren't good enough to be remembered?
I guess the same goes for people.
All of those lost souls,
who never had anyone.
No one to care for them,
and no one to remember them.
It's my biggest fear.
Being forgettable.
The idea of living my entire life,
just to be forgotten when I die,
it terrifies me.
That isn't my only fear though,
I'm afraid of other things too,
like:
rejection,

                   society,

                                 my own reflection.
However,
next time I lay down to sleep,
I will try my hardest to remember those dreams,
because I know someday,
I will be one of them.
Sitting with the worry of
Being forgotten,
lonely,
orphaned.
Waiting patiently for the night to pass
and another opportunity to rise,
so that maybe this time,
I'll be good enough.
Memorable enough.

You are my sun and my moon
In every piece of them I see a piece of you.
You are my dreams.
You occupy them.
You are my light.
You radiate everything you touch.
I met you and you brought your glow to me,
ever since I haven't been able to escape your beams.
But I would never want to.
I love you,
And you love me.
And I think that's all I'll ever need.

A burning cigarette.
Maybe that's all we are.
We are all cigarettes,
burning and burning
in these places that we recognize as home.
Wasting away,
Waiting for something,
anything,
to take us away from this hell
that we disguise as happiness.
When I walk around this place
I see through these facades that we all put up
every one of us has a secret,
our goal is to hide it.
Hide the pain
or the happiness,
refusing to look weak.
We're all walking around this earth
trying to figure out the purpose,
the reason.
For existing?
For continuing in this unhappiness?
I don't know
Maybe
I don't pretend to know everything
I have days where I'm happy
I have days where I'm sad
We all do,
I contemplate this life more than I should
I question this all knowing power that is supposed to exist
Not denying "his" existence but wondering
if he does,
if he's saddened by what he sees.
Not in society,
but in me.
With the paths I've chosen,
I really hope not.
Because as much as I'd like to say I do,
I don't regret a thing.
With that said,
I guess I'll just sit back,
and light my cigarette,
and watch it all pass.
Hoping like everyone else
that the day that the burn reaches the filter,
there's at least one more in the box.

I'm anxious.
I'm anxious.
I'm anxious about,
the way I look,
the way other people look at me,
the way other people think I look at them,
colds,
diseases,
catching a disease,
someone I love catching a disease,
Dying.
DYING.
Everything.
I have anxiety.
It took me far too long to admit it was a problem,
it took me far to long to admit,
that staying awake at night worrying about the health of myself and my family is not something that I should be staying awake worrying about.
It took me far too long to admit that I should not be staying awake worrying about anything.
It took me far too long to write this poem
The problem with this entire equation though,
is that I'm afraid if I don't worry about it nobody will.
And then what will be done about it all?
What will be done about it all??
If I don't stay awake crying about it,
then it'll be forgotten,
and there if there is one thing that I fear more than dying,
that's forgetting.
Every part of the word forget scares me,
makes me anxious.
Forgetting,
being forgotten.
I don't want to be forgotten,
and I don't want to forget anyone.
So I stay awake worrying about it all,
that's the vicious cycle,
and it rips me to shreds.
Anyways,
I'm glad I wrote this poem.
I think it'll help.

Before I left today, I looked in the mirror.
It wasn’t a look of admiration
It was a look of fear
Do I look good enough today?
I asked before I walked out the door.
I don’t what to say
I’ve done this before
I’m saddened that I have to do this.
I’m always afraid there is one flaw that I’ll miss.
Society is so twisted
The problems with it are too numerous to even be listed.
We complain that the skinny girls are too tiny
And that the big girls need to lose some weight
We’ve all been taught that we have to hate.
I despise having to look in the mirror and worry about what to wear
Or how to fix my hair
I’m the same person whether I’m wearing makeup or not.
But without it I worry about all the disgusted glances I’ll be shot.
No one ever worries about what’s within
We only care about judging who’s too thin,
Or who’s got the double chin.
The definition of beauty is up to us.
Before we become a naysayer
We should break through to the inner layer
It’s our decision
We all just need to realize that we need to adjust our vision.

You only live once.
You only live once.
You only live once.
I hear it every ******* day.
As if it’s something that I need to be reminded of.  
I hear it so often that at this point I wonder,
if it means what it used to.
You only live once.
It’s a scary phrase to me.
I dislike hearing it.
It’s this constant reminder that this life is limited.
It’s a constant reminder that this life is fragile.
It’s a constant reminder that I don’t get do overs.
It’s a constant reminder that I won’t get the chance to do everything I need to
It’s not enough time to break,
it’s not enough to heal.
It’s not enough time to inhale
It’s not enough time to exhale.
It’s not enough time to talk.
It’s not enough time to walk.
It’s not enough time to listen.
It’s not enough time to understand.
It’s not enough time to meet.
It’s not enough time to befriend.
It’s not enough time to start.
It’s not enough time to finish.
It’s not enough time to help.
It’s not enough time to be helped.
It’s not enough time to be sad.
It’s not enough to be happy.
It’s not enough time to paint.
It’s not enough time to write this poem.
It’s not enough time to love.
It’s not enough time to be loved.
It’s not enough time.
I don’t know,
maybe it’s just me,
writing this poem at 1:30 in the morning.
Stewing on the fact that this life it too short,
to accomplish anything.
Every night I struggle to sleep with the thoughts of the upcoming day’s events.
With the thoughts of that past day’s events.
I’m kept up at night distracting myself from all the mistakes I’ve made.
All the words I never said.
All the opportunities I didn’t take.
All the times I didn’t "only live once".
I sit here realizing this cliché doesn’t apply to me at this point in the night,
or rather the morning.
I’m realizing all the times I’m kept up like this,
I’m not living,
I’m forgetting how to.

How has time become so lost, where does it all go?
We have days upon weeks with people we love,
but not enough time to go slow.
Time isn’t real.
Its human made.
It has nothing to do with our souls or how we feel
So why do we act as if it’s real?
I remember a childhood of playing outside,
Now all I’ve got is a bank account with not enough money to survive.
Growing up has come
It’s taken 17 years to arrive
But why then am I acting so surprised?
That’s why we make such a fuss.
It’s what society has instilled in us.
I know I won’t want to have to grow up and say;
sorry kid’s mommy doesn’t have enough time for you today.
There’s an easy solution
To our problem of time dilution
Slow down, stay back, be happy
Take a chance to think,
unplug the computer,
turn off the Iphone and,
pour yourself a drink.
Because you’ll never have this hour, this minute, this second again
So smile and say “I guess all I can do is be happy then”.

I had a dream last night,
I never have dreams.
I dreamed of home.
I dreamed of the stars
I dreamed of the future
I dreamed of a time,
when I will dream the dreams
I've been longing to dream.
I dreamed of a time,
when my dreams would come true.
They don't though.
They aren't prophetic
They are few and far between
"Let Us Dream"
Please,
that's all I ask, every night before bed.
It's amazing, how much power a single dream at night can mean,
to a daydreamer.

I wish I could say beautiful things.
I know it seems like all of my thoughts come out in the middle of the night,
but maybe this is the only time I feel brave enough to say them.
I want to say beautiful things,
I want to see beautiful things.
This world is what we make of it,
it will continue rotating on the same axis,
whether we choose to participate or not.
We all want to find love,
so we write these poems hoping the beautiful words will come,
maybe they won't.
Maybe we write as a cry for help.
Maybe I write for a lot of reasons,
but maybe I just can't tell you.
I can say beautiful things,
I need to remind myself everyday,
that this universe is bigger than me,
bigger than my issues,
but it does not make them any smaller.
They are what they are,
and we are what we are.
That's all there is to it,
and I think that's a beautiful thought.
We can change our worlds,
but we cannot change our realities.
We cannot change the beating in our hearts,
without stopping it altogether,
we cannot stop our hair from growing,
or our eye from blinking,
we cannot.
So I'll continue writing my poems at night,
to release these demons from my fingertips.
Hoping the beautiful words will come,
but praying that someone will.

It has taken me nearly 19 years to accept the fact that I am stuck in this body,
a body that I have loved,
and hated.
Although,
more of the latter occurred than I would care to admit.
I'm stuck in this life,
as this person,
and I have to be okay with that.
Because not being okay with that,
doesn't leave me very many options.

So I got this record player for Christmas.
It’s nothing new, I’ve had one before.
I took it up to my room,
Put the record on it
Then placed the needle down.
I stared at it.
Watching it go around
Mesmerized.
Suddenly,
this feeling of fear came over me.
It’s hard to explain.
I was raised Catholic,
to believe in God.
And Jesus
And the saints
And it goes on and on forever and ever
Amen.
Right?
In this one second of staring at the record player
I had a strong urge to stop it,
before it could reach the end.
Afraid of what might happen,
not to the record.
It all of a sudden was no long about this record.
It was about me.
Struggling,
with what I’ve been taught.
God?
God?
I call his name but he isn’t there,
he’s not responding.
I’m spinning around.
Just like the record.
No sense of direction.
Not knowing where to go,
not knowing what’s going to happen,
when it’s all over with.
This life.
What happens if what I thought
isn’t true?
I don’t know
I just pray to this voiceless God,
that I've been told to believe in,
that I want to believe in,
that the record doesn’t stop.
Because I'm too afraid to find out what happens,
when it does.

People come and people go,
Love is the only remainder.

I dreamed of heaven once.
Once.
It was nothing I'd ever seen before.
It was full  of clouds and constellations
It was magnificent.
Everyone was beautiful,
Everything was beautiful.
Then I woke up
and shed a tear,
because I'd realized a truth I've always known.
My dreams, aren't prophetic.
They don't come true,
and that scares me.
A lot.