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| my best friendbeautiful, that's what most call her. I don't know if I can agree..beautiful is a word used to describe someone's looks, even their personality. but how can y ou call someone who vries every night over broken dreams and lost hope "beautiful"?. I mean, don't get me wrong, she is absolutely lovely. And she walks with a sureness and grace I've rarely seen..
She calls herself an actress (this I do agree with), but she is also an artist. She creates this masterpeice of herself day-to-day; this lovely creation of near perfection: her smile, her laugh, the words she says, even the way her eyes look at you. It's all a product of this artist, as to not show the broken girl lost inside. The hurt, the pain, -- it all goes into the masterpeice she creates of herself. No, I can't call her fake; for her beauty and grace are real. But nor can I call her true, or whole; because her masterpeice has been put together, although carefully, but it is not her real self. She merely exists, letting few see the artist behind the creation. She is real, yet fake; true, yet surrounded by little white lies; open, yet hidden in the shadows. She is...beautifully broken...♥. | | |
| (cigarette poison & perfume dreams)
mama gave birth to a voodoo baby
with silent cries
and gypsey eyes
born into a world of hate
with music in her mind
dancing to life like a song
they all knew her face
of cigarette poison and perfume dreams
she makes them feel ancient
(she's only sixteen)
oh they never thought
no, never fathomed
I could be so lovely...
♥.
(nameless love)
you couldn't really call it
"romance"
or anything
like that.
what they had wasn't really
something you could put a name to.
but everyone knew
what they had
was
perfection. | | |
| It is so quiet, like being in an expensive car with a smoothly running engine; except we aren't going anywhere and this room is cheap. Yet if you look out of the window, you see other people moving, other couples escaping for shits and giggles in the city. And it is like the scenario in which you are in an unmoving train and the train next to yours starts to go to Hoboken and as it does, you find yourself wondering if you're headed to Hoboken too. It is very quiet. I am afraid to move, to wake you. You wake easily. It is only ten o'clock, why are you sleeping? You are tired. Where are we going? Nowhere.
***
A thousand miles apart, a long
stretch of highway divides our schools
and our busy lives. Edge of Seventeen
blasting out of the windows
of my white Toyota. Yellow line,
white line, dotted and spotted and striped lines
are painted slowly down the center
of the road
as I drive, past a lonely billboard
and an occasional telephone pole.
A thousand miles of long distance
relationships and phone bills. I pick up
the phone
after one ring, hoping to hear your voice
each time. We used to drive down I-95
together, listening to Joni and
letting the cool air stretch our
hair out the windows
of your old Ford Escort.
You used to speed,
your voice and your youth in the air
that blew through the windows.
They now lie by the wide of the road,
like a ripped up tire, covered with dust
and dirt and shards of plastic
from a broken mix tape
that I made for you..
***
And in an airport somewhere he is standing, searching for any recognition in the crowd of faces streaming past him. His attention jumps to dark eyes, but no, no it's not him. He shifts in his shoes, the white half cowboy boots with slightly pointed toes and the smeared pen drawing of James Dean's face on the bottom. His shoulder hurts from carrying the bag. He looks at his hands and brings his fingers under the lenses of his glasses to rub his eyes and look at the bag. The bag is a tan canvas sack with rolls of t-shirts and mix taps stuffed in socks thrown hurriedly inside, the bottom skid-marked from being thrown in so many planes. His back hurts and he slumps against the uncomfortable metal row chair, the canned air of airports in his lungs and the sickly sweet smell of fries which he cannot afford from the McDonalds. Outside, planes are blinking, circling, loading and unloading again, and he sits very still with a pen in his hand, resting on a black piece of white notebook paper. Outside the sky is a pink gray haze, which could be very early morning or summer dusk, and he does not know how long he has been awake. He does not remember which city he is in. He does not know who he expects to find him.. | | |
| I honestly believe that some people go out of their way to enhance drama..
Some of us try to steer clear of it; we don't like to be shoulder-deep in bullshit and have half the population angry at us for one reason or another.
But it's always those types of people who get caught up in the midst of confusion and, to be frank, drama. It's as if those of us who hate the feelings it causes, usually get stuck in the middle of it. And that kinda pisses me off. Because we don't deserve it. We don't like the gossip; we don't talk shit about people and feed rumors that are spread. But yet we usually get shit started about us, our friends, etc. And we get stuck fixing everything and end up stressed the fuck out. Damn blood suckers..
'Cause there's always the select few who love to stir shit up. They love the attention they get, and they love to know they've caused all the shit other people are going through.
And I hate them.
I don't use that word very lightly either; not anymore. And I can honestly say that those of you who feed the rumors; those who go out of your way to stir shit up about those you don't like or who are different than you, whatever. I hate you. I'm sorry if it's mean, I know I sound pretty bitchy. But I can't help it, I really can't. I'm tired of the drama that constantly surrounds me or my friends. It's as if I am forever wearing a huge sign that says "I Need Drama in My Life. Please Help".
*Looks on back*
Yup, I'm not. So there's gotta be an explination for why you evil, shit enhancing people, target those who lay low and tend to stay away from the constant flow of the rumor mill.
Crazy, psychotic, insane bullshit.
Tired of it. Shizzzz. | | |
| The bells will rnig in the steeple in the morning.
And I'm just now trying to find myself.
Singing the words to create acceptance were never my good intentions
and now I've only a house full of regrets.
Shatter the glass of my eye.
And I will come to see this blinding darkness.
And I've lost sight of all that is real.
For I sit here alone; I write a novel of my own.
And there are no happy endings in this tradgedy.
The bells will ring in the steeple in the morning.
And I'm just now trying to find myself.
Singing the words to create acceptance were never my good intentions.
And now I've only a house full of regrets.
Sometimes I am almost content in my sorrow.
My ship is sailing to the seas.
So wave and blow your kisses
cause I'm not sure I'll be home anytime soon.
I've set out to fail the world.
I've set out to fail myself.
I will dream the dreamers lie that everything is okay,
when everything isn't okay.
He says my burden is also his but I don't want to put this on him.
Stare up at steeples lost in the night.
I find myself so lost on the inside.
***
I lost all faith today in suicidal featherweights
with broken wrists and weaker fists
this is the last fight I'll give away...
and there's something terrible locked in his attic
so I'm told..
I can feel it on my face
I still feel you everywhere
...operator, I can't hold much longer...
'cause there's a spot by the bathroom door
where I dropped so fast, straight through the floor
when I lost my grip on everything
eight feet underwater is where we dare
our locked lips keep out the water and the liars
full of nthing but air..
so if anybody talks of me, tell them I am never comig home agin
just tell e'm I'm gone..
there's a place that I might fit in, but it reeks of where we've been
perfect footprints from our feet that are haunted just b me
to the man of the hour, I hear liquor love is all the rage
your skin feels way too sour and I've lost my sense of taste...
there's a hole that we all fall in
where we fight for oxygen
that's where I caught my grip and became a queen
eight feet undercover, don't forget I'm here
warm secrets under covers with new friends
an dyour holiday lovers..
so if anybody talks of me
tell them I'll be gone forever without these scars
that are completley invisble
***
There are only a few people in this world I hate, and he is one of them.
Thank you, sir, for tearing my heart out and destroying it in front of me. "Don't cry, baby, I'm not worth crying over. If anyone is, it's you." Yeah, you're right. You're always right. You're not worth crying over. And I cried; I cried more than anyone ever should have had to cry over you and the ideas you gave me. Thanks to you, I have scars on my body and battle wounds on my soul. Those will never fade. I possess permanent reminders of the hell in which I gave love in. Memory is like a photograph; over time the image only becomes faded and outdated, and the cannotation becomes warmer no matter the event. Time doesn't erase a photograph, nor a memory. Unfortunatley for me, the image of you staring up at me is seared into my psyche. It's high time for me to move up and move on. I can do better; I have done better; I am doing better. I hope you lose yourself and can't divine your way back. Goodbye..
But I nkow that this isn't really goodbye; I never got my closure. God knows I need my closure. Maybe one day I'll run into you and then I don't know what I'll do, torn between flying to you and walking away. It's sad how human fears expose themselves to paper and not each other. Sadder still is the fact that I am still not able to cope with this; I still haven't figured out a way to lock these thoughts out of my head. I apologise to anyone who reads this. Other things don't even factor into this. I wish I could let myself hate you with all the fury of Dante's hell. But I can't, so instead I settle for a warmed over angst. Better something than nothing..I hope I neveer have to hear from you again, and it tears me apart to know that I let you walk all over me. For this, I am insane. Live and learn, love and love, forgive and forget. Forgetting is a funny thing, it doesn't always work. And I can't make it work, as badly as I want to erase all of this, I can't. What a failure..
At least I'm trying to get rid of you, to wring you from my fragile mind. I wouldn't forgive myself if I couldn't; I'd never forgive you if I couldn't. Never forgive you for ruining the basis for the rest of my life. Wait; I take that back; You're the reason I'm afraid. You're the reason I need reassurance. You're the reason I have confidence. You're the reason I'm not afraid to feel like I can be beautiful. You're the reason I'm afraid to feel. You're the reason my view of life was shot, fell from the sky to cold hard stone, and shattered.
I wouldn't forgive you if I could, I couldn't if I tried... | | |
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