#rhcp
There are songs that feel like memories.
And then there are songs that are memories.
This one is you.
It’s your truck rattling down back roads
with dust rising behind us
like something trying to follow
but never catching up.
It’s the way your voice filled small spaces —
cab of the truck,
my ribs,
all the quiet places inside me
that were finally starting to feel warm.
You didn’t just sing it.
You lived in it.
Low, soft, a little wild —
like you’d been everywhere
and still chose to be right there
next to me.
And I remember watching you
when you didn’t think I was.
The way your eyes would flick over
just to check if I was still smiling.
Like you needed proof
I was real.
You were so beautiful it almost hurt —
that stupid bright, easy smile,
sun catching in your long blonde hair,
wind pulling pieces of you loose
like the world was trying
to take you back.
I thought I had time.
I thought songs stayed songs.
I thought moments stayed moments.
I thought people stayed.
But I know now —
I was the storm in something
that only needed calm.
I was the sharp word,
the missed feeling,
the moment I chose to be immature
over choosing you.
And I would give anything
to go back to that passenger seat
and just… listen.
The opening of it
feels like someone unlocking a room
I sealed shut.
I hear it echoing in my head
“Scar tissue that I wish you saw
Sarcastic mister know-it-all
Close your eyes and I'll kiss you, 'cause
With the birds I'll share”
And suddenly I’m back there —
seatbelt digging into my shoulder,
air rushing in through open windows,
you drumming the steering wheel,
singing like you didn’t know
you were becoming something
I’d never be able to let go of.
I wish I had been softer.
I wish I had been better at understanding.
I wish I had known
how rare it was
to be looked at like that.
Because now
every note feels like proof
that something beautiful
can exist
and still not stay —
especially when I was the one
who let it slip through my hands.
I want to listen to it again.
I really do.
But I know the truth —
If I ever pressed play,
I wouldn’t just want the song.
I’d want your headlights in my driveway.
I’d want you telling me to get in.
I’d want the road and your music
and your hand reaching across the console
like it used to.
I’d want you to take me back to your place,
like time was something we could rewind,
like I hadn’t broken the quiet
we built around each other.
Because Scar Tissue
isn’t a song I can’t sing alone.
It catches in my throat
without your voice under mine.
It was never mine.
It was ours.
And some songs
don’t survive
the person who taught you
how to hear them.
Feb 7
Feb 7, 2026 at 3:45 PM UTC
Up and down
Left and right
Swinging from
Side to side
Jump, kick
Twirl and spin
Dancing on rooftops
Let the whole world watch
Sing, Scream, Shout
Let it all pour out
Dancing refreshes
The Mind
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 9:29 AM UTC
//I swear I just have the same subconcious pattern every time with just waiting when I'm bordering extinction --
like maybe on someone throwing a lifesaver ?
*I'm literally someone's-accidental-bumping away from
falling off this escarpment,
A selcouth flower-drenched meadow just last week,
now all-of-the-sudden barren and pretty grim plateau*
***On the edge of extinction,
Do you retreat, or put up your last fight?***
*I feel an urge to dismiss all and jump off the edge.
Besides, Extinction is probably the name of our parellel realm.
and they probabaly say* "be careful! you're on the edge of Reality."__//__
But that’s just a lone-sweet picturesque visualization from my esteemed friend, Imagination.
Sadly, yes, everything just mentioned was just daydreams occuring while sparking others’ sangfroid.
***So when this little Miss Cure-Chaser
finally gets a breath-***
n it’s honestly usually more like half;
I realize that I just gave out the last drop
of my spirit’s nature to a stranger
when I realize this,
I also see that
no one paid heed to
the healer in need of healing
bastardized by the Real-Life
Nightmare of Californication
I forget the grace
residing in my survival;
When I’m all dished out,
When healing’s lost my fervor,
Scorching my lovely Fylgja.
Meanwhile my soul’s alongside
taking it’s toll, it’s Californication.
I throw on my once-was, back of the closet
Hot Mess resolution
a Way-Too-Tight black dress
And a shoe-like lace up back.
I turn to the mirror, and as I wink I say **** it.
It’s Californication,
and I’m its ******* Counterrevolution.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 1:09 AM UTC
Don't forget me, I can't hide it.
Come again make me excited.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 5:13 AM UTC
Loft for the weighted memories still stuck to earth by way of highways in mind deciding worth lost to the odds just might light your best and not the worst to leave you burned and make you hurt with a hole left mid breast so the whole heart started at first sight turns wild in flight and down to depths of stress plumbed once per month while you cry out little droplets blessed with time passed and spent at life's expense, listless and bound to recollect proud moments of ownership, passe notions of leadership, the one who leads and was led is nondescript, if it's turbulence or asphalt smooth to speed in sleep in place of days waking, walking two by four recede to dream where you toss and kick fears and pain away under thick rain you'd rather dry with orange rays and haze of heat, one mute mouthed faux biker writer always at the call though no admittance, transmits recognition of what feels like martian love at collision where no rocks were hit but rifts roared and wracked the soaring sky, pyres and stars reflected in moist eyes at night with even gentle wind or slight breeze, these fragments of us chipped off at cycle's start darkness whether live or lie, do not comply to be cautious when the very thought, though heavy, brings loft for the weighted bevy of ties that chain what happiness we weep to celebrate.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
I can't wait to get my tattoos.
I'll get the lyrics of all my favorite songs and poems
on my back
even though they say it's
not cool to get them where I can't see them
but you can admire them and trace them and read them
and kiss them
Will you lick my skin?
How do I taste, late at night
unshowered and covered in the day's breath?
If you promise to kiss every tattoo I get
I will get every inch of me inked
Every inch
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC