If my life was a Microsoft Word Document
From this place.
This terrible day.
And start over.
I Still RememberThose late nights
And wanting so badly
To just stop thinking
And stop hurting
And sitting on my bed
And picking up the tiny blade
And holding out my wrist
And running the blade across my skin, barely touching it
And doing it again, pushing harder this time
And doing it again and again
Until I saw a tiny bead of blood form
And feeling the sharp pain
And then feeling the rush of endorphins
And wiping away the blood
And feeling at peace
As I admired
What I had done
Ramblings 1 On Procrastination and the Future
Man, I sure am lucky I'm smart.
I don't care about school. I hardly try at all. I procrastinate. I don't study for tests. I don't do extra credit work. I do the bare minimum, and just that. My goal is only to pass- just get a D, so I can move on to the next grade, and the next, and the next, and so on until I graduate high school.
I don't want to go to college. God knows my parents would kill me if I don't. But I just don't see a reason to. I'm sure I can find some job, some career, some way to make money.
Maybe I won't even need a job to get money. Maybe I'll learn to count cards and win big at Blackjack. Maybe I'll become a master thief. Maybe I'll make a living doing odd jobs for my neighbors.
Maybe I won't even have neighbors- maybe I'll live on the streets and be a drifter, a vagabond. Never sure where my next meal is coming from, just being satisfied if it comes at all.
Maybe I'm being absurd. Maybe while I sit here thinking about what I
BlackMost people think black is scary
But they're wrong.
Black isn't scary;
It's the not knowing that's scary.
The not knowing what's out there
Of your nose.
But that doesn't bother me.
Because although I can't see what's hiding out there,
They can't see me
Fingertips and Working HardAn Essay on Fingertips and Working Hard
Sometimes when I'm feeling sad or worthless, I'll just feel the pads of the fingers of my left hand, tapping their hardened tips with my thumb one at a time, down the line. Index, middle, ring, pinky. Pinky, ring, middle, index. Often I think that they're the only proof that I've worked hard at anything in my life.
I mean, I have my multitude of perfect straight-A report cards, but I've never really tried hard in school. It just comes naturally. And even if I did work for my grades, it wouldn't be because I wanted to do well in school; it would be because I had to do well in school.
The same goes for almost everything else in my life. If I like something, then I'm automatically great at it. If I don't like something, I'm still great at doing it. My whole life, I've never had to work and practice and study to be able to do anything.
But I couldn't always play guitar. The first time I picked up my dad's 20-year-old Fannon, the
MusicIf you're out of the loop,
Music is magic.
But when you're in on the secret,
It's simply a science.
The River of WordsSometimes
When I write,
The words blend together
Into a river of sounds.
The river flows
Like a well worded poem.
The writing is perfection.
If I lose
My train of thought,
The river is reduced
To a trickle.
If I get writer's block,
More Than FriendsI'll hold you in my hands forever
Grasp you tight, make sure I never
Let you go again.
Let's be more than friends.
Beautiful MusicOne day, a man sat down on a bench in the city next to a young woman. The woman had a set of iPod earphones in. When the man sat down, the woman turned and smiled at him kindly.
The man, being a man who enjoys music, spoke to the woman. "I hope you don't mind me asking," he said, "But what is it that you're listening to?"
"Oh, I'm listening to beautiful music," the woman replied.
The man wasn't satisfied by this answer. "Well, generally that's what people like to listen to. I meant more specifically. Is it by an artist I'm likely to know?"
"You may know the artist, but I doubt you've listened to this music. People rarely do," she answered.
Once again, the man wasn't entirely satisfied with her vague reply. "If you don't mind, may I listen to this song? I love to find out about new artists and music, especially if it's someone that isn't popular."
"Of course you can listen to it," the woman said happily.
"Well then, may I have one of your ear buds so I may hear this beautiful music?" Th
Words Are Powerful ThingsYou’re so angry
You let words swarm up inside.
Screaming to get out.
They yell and shout.
They sit there,
Turning into horrid things that should never be even whispered,
In the softest tone.
You get so angry
Cause you’re so afraid.
Like so many other people
You let your fear burst into rage.
The monstrous words inside of you
Refuse to remain in their cages.
You let those words escape your lips,
All of the sudden you feel like your words have killed someone.
As you see their face.
Words are suddenly bullets.
They’ve pierced your victim’s heart.
Fragments of a once pretty, friendship scatter on the floor.
The pieces so broken, I doubt you could find all of the shards to make it whole again.
There’s a slamming of a door.
Whether that be real,
Or just a metaphor.
To say you’ve been locked out,
From this once dear friend of yours.
I hope one day.
You’ll find better words
To form a key.
So you can find your way back to them.
I am LostMy thoughts are orcas
Trapped in bathtubs.
Within microcosms -
Stuck, glued tight,
Melting like Dali's clock,
In a cock fight
With my conscience.
Sometimes I forget
All that regret
Burning through -
A pain so forever
That I hardly ever
Feel it anymore.
A cut so deep and quick
That it stops -
Time is static -
Before it bleeds.
Fluttering in the wind.
So much to see.
My heart is vacant,
My lungs made of lead
And both are my enemies
Because I'd rather be dead.
But no I wouldn't.
I'm fake, made of a paper -
A corporate rock whore -
And I don't know
What I stand for.
But maybe I don't have to
Stand for anything -
A word without a definition
Still leaves a mark
On pure paper.
A meaningless spark
Can still become a fire.
A tickle of love
Can still become desire.
untitledthere are a thousand
unwritten love letters in your eyes
now I keep thinking about
and the color green
all I know is that
my skull's been
warriors traversing well worn paths
boots leaving tracks across
chests and necks
and it's comfortable
it's not like drowning
more like slowly lowering
into hot bathwater
and we are just skin and cosmos
bodies and words
our tongues landlocked
we are adrift in
our own little sea
we've plucked our wings
and now we can't fly
tell me the truth
that the sky's overrated
I'd rather be with you
on the ground
or buried beneath it
skeletons entwined truthfully
I've always thought heaven was
a pretty sort of lie
but I've read a book or two
or people's idea of it
and I disagree with myself
popping thought balloons
on the idea that heaven
is in the way your eyes
fold origami swans when you smile
that shitty laugh
that hollow above your heart
like your chest's caving i
Happy Songs on the RadioI don't write about happy things.
I don't listen to songs about romance.
I can't feel what the artist is singing so passionately about.
The longing to know what it's like makes me want to scream and shout.
The way people write and lace words together,
About how happy and perfect they see the world.
Has always been a stranger to me.
I wish I could see,
The way you did.
I really do.
I wish I could feel the same way as you.
To be able to hear the lyrics,
'I love you'
And picture someone to match those three words.
I wish I could hear these songs,
About how everything is perfect.
Absolutely nothing is wrong.
But I can't.
I hear those songs and I feel empty.
Because I can't feel what they're saying.
And I keep listening,
But I am just wasting my time
Trying but failing to relate.
When I hear the songs on the radio.
They make me squirm in my seat.
I feel happy but sad.
Something so bitter sweet.
Because part of me feels so happy for the person.
Who sings so happily.
But another, darker half.
novelthere’s tea you still need to drink.
you left it on the counter again, because you’re
always forgetting where you put it.
it’s probably cold by now, but
it’s there for whenever you’re ready.
here’s a blanket to lose yourself in.
you don’t have to give it back.
here’s another book i think
will make you cry if i ever find the courage
to give it to you. i’ve underlined every
line that made me want to scream, that made me
want to rip out my hair and destroy everything
beautiful about myself, that made me want to
drive across a desert in the middle of the night,
that made me fall in love with everything wonderful
the universe has left to give me.
i can’t find the words to tell you what it’s about.
i guess it’s about growing up and finding love
but it’s also about figuring out how to exist comfortably
and it’s about people who are good and people who
are not always good and the things they do and the worlds t
remember,when i was your lioness and
we ruled the world with
scattered light and
after all this time, i
still stay up late thinking of you,
pinching myself awake to keep the image of you in my head
until i hear you sing me to sleep.
we all have our demons, i was always yours.
waking up with bruises on my arms in an empty bed,
the devil inside of me whispers that it's not over yet, and
he pumps turbulence from my carved open heart into my saltwater blood
i feel every half-healed scar split op
en to bleed yet again.
wanting you is wanting the safety of the stars
when i'm already in free fall (into the grave).
my siren, i was born to die but you loved me into a phoenix.