coldplay

clutching my backpack
close to my chest
crying while still in the
car listening to
coldplay tell me it's true...
cliche. so fucking cliche.

Roger Rabbit David Bowie

once again, click to make it readable...

GLITTER

click to actually read it...

the good news is: i clearly do not have adhd.

i feel like x and z.
it's 6:41 am.
2 hours of laying and
listening to my
heart beat/stomach rumble.
my face does not feel.
food does not taste like
anything but it slithers
down like slime.
same clothes again.
would I really do this
again? no, I guess not.
it started as a buoy
now it's a hindrance.

i literally cannot sleep.
is this what insomnia is like?
i keep talking but it isn't me.
it's a copy of my voice over and
over saying things to each other.
there is the feeling of visions
of flashing lights, fast moving
objects and shapes just out
of my close-eyed sight.
i try to slow them down.
there's someone in my head
but it's not me.......
when will I crash? come down?
have you ever felt like this?

pretend vanity trumps insecurity

Positioned in front of the mirror
pretending vanity trumps insecurity.
Playing the pretty game.
Perfect each piece of skin.
Partition every strand of hair.
Pluck pull paint powder primp preen.
put this here, that there, no no, there.
Piss off. Hey, I’m busy here.
Pry out that last bit of confidence,
Plaster on a fake smile tight.
Perpetuate your public image.
Persuade yourself it’s fine, you’re fine.
Pause. Take in the plastic:
Pointless chatter, speculations.
Please. I didn’t ask to be average.

she asked me if I liked anyone.
I said occasionally I do.
and on occasion you are
one of those people.

fifteen minutes of hiding like a meek child
perched in a tree filled with boards and nails.
the smoke wrapped around branches, fell down.
I had no choice but to close my eyes
accepting the rapidly descending calmness.
I've stained my fingertips with invisible scents,
picking up bad habits to feel close to you.

a new technique

I watched my skin expand, erasing goosebumps
brought on by a sudden disdain for clothing.
a familiar tingle spreads up my arms begging
the question what are you going to do about it?
I do not try to make these thoughts leave me,
drown them with distractions, or give in to
their sadistic demands. Instead I calmly say:
You are a child of the Universe,
no less than the trees and the stars.
In the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.
Reciting the writing on the wall I carefully
painted and glued in my line of vision.

these are merely bland observations. not insights.

i was never a believer in the power of scent.
the way people claimed it pulled them to the past
eluded me. it seemed to be a made up commonality.
this evening i picked a towel up off of the floor.
my shirt was wet. it smelled like smoke. marlboro.
we had the same brand. that must mean something.
i took it off in the bathroom. brushed my teeth.
note that I said had? mine are all out. they lasted
about a month. i don't know how people can smoke
a pack a day. maybe I'll understand later.
but that smell. it was fake. my laundry has been
done time and time again. it was fake, I know.

...that afternoon I went to your house to nap.
we didn't really. i scratched your back and you
took off your shirt and we got distracted. so I
put us back on track. downstairs, out of your
domain we watched a tarantino film and you mouthed
every word. disappeared for a moment. returned with
that green hat on and a cigarette. you looked cute.
sitting on the couch casually smoking. and a very
comfortable leg rest. I probably could have stayed
later, like every other time. I don't push boundaries.
I'd just like to think I can...

that's what I thought of in my closet. that day.
to be honest I don't really miss you yet. we've gone
longer without seeing each other. there are no titles
that obligate me to miss you. no expectations.
now with technology I can disconnect and pretend I am
in a movie or something like that while I try to find
my voice. anything to separate me from the crowd of
cliches, and really everyone is just the same when you
start talking to them. right? I feel my life changing
in a terribly predictable way, heading towards two years
ago---the summer of solitude. it's elliott smith and
ben folds now. the occasional 80's tune. also I have movies.
but really it's the same. lonely but I don't want to
take action. too lazy to call someone up. too lazy to
make an effort to be original. or be a decent friend.
these are merely bland observations. not insights.

bad dream

I had a dream that
you forgot about me.
the rest of my waking
day was tinged with
hurt and echoes of
imaginary words.

start of a new story?

smoke this, roll that.
suppress this taste,
stand up straight. (sway)
sucker.thought you could?
stay focused:tunnel vision.
send us to the moon!
shock us to the core!
savor this moment.
someday you'll look back&
see if it was the
start of something or
simply a sad ending.

kind of.

"man, I wish I didn't have to leave"
is basically what you said while I
rested my chin on your chest.
"you have to have adventures"
I explained for you
and you smiled in a sad way
because it was true but the
fact that I understood kind of
made you want to stay.

not fair.

the media glamorizes falling asleep
in someone else's arms---it's stifling.
after accepting this fact we parted
to our own edge of the bed and
really did take a nap this time.
I woke up in a puddle of drool and
forgot where I was---the walls were
bare, the sky tinged a stormy colour
and you. that's what really made me
believe it wasn't real--you next to me.
when you opened your eyes you smiled,
said "c'mere" in a sleepy voice
and let me snuggle against you.
we kissed with chapped lips,
laughing at how drowsy and uncoordinated
it all became. so we simply sat.
you held me close and asked,
"what's that serious look for?"
"...it's not fair," I answered childishly.
truthfully. you tightened your grip and
tried to make the world disappear for me.

mostly related but different conversations.

itchy shoulder rash…

grass doesn’t go well with skin.

I told you///You grinned.




“are you going to

get shit for the backyard thing?”

yes. but it’s worth it.

afternoon haikus.

hey, calm down, okay?
have a cigarette. or four.
smoke in the backyard.

sorry there's no gum.
sit down and read in the grass.
listen to the trees.

let the sun warm you.
flick your ashes on the ground.
stub it in the dirt.

you're alone right now.
it's alright. just breathe. shhh, breathe.
don't fidget. stay still.

all better now. see?
I said it would be fine. I
didn't lie this time.

and happy.

after hours of testing I
caught you in the courtyard.
stay? yeah, stay. I'll meet up.
You walked into the room,
sat down quietly and chuckled
at the madness of theatre.
I went out to my car and you
kept smiling. looking at me
like you couldn't be happier
to be standing there holding
me, messing up my hair.
we laid in the shadow of the
scraggled trees kissing,
laughing, questioning.
you kept telling me I should
probably get home all while
pulling me back, doing cute
things, acting like a bear.
what are you doing?
you have to leave don't you?
what am I doing?? I asked
as you continued to keep me
there. even though I should
have left an hour ago, there
was no worry eating me. no
repetition in my head. just...
a feeling of calm, collected
and happy.

L is for Landmark

laying on purplegreenblue striped rug
listening to sufjan stevens create
love & understanding in every
lyric the speaker pours out across
linear and angular paths (but not too
loudly) while I wear only my
lime coloured bra, I note this
landmark night of happiness.

found out?

unmanicured grass prickling my legs
exposed by out of character shorts,
propping myself up with one arm & elbow
staring quizzically at your bluegrey eyes
in the four seconds between you saying
you know,when we first hung out you lied
and you said you were a bad kisser
I worried you found me out

sufjan stevens (for the widows in paradise)

slow connection
breaks&buffers
stop start stop
nearly silent
one two three
softly strumming,
layering sweetly.
whispered vocals

it hits me.
motions ceases.
i freeze.
bow my head.
shivering.
not temperature.
blood moving
arms to face

beautiful.
each word rises
flows caresses
builds builds
building a story
fitting my world
repeat, repeat
it breaks me.

this is not a metaphor

fuck you, I mutter to the birds who
fly past the window as I sit on a
mattress ripped bare by nightmares.
I am trapped in this rectangular
mass of muted shades & ugly flowers,
capable only of eating in small bites.
dear Ben Gibbard, what's your advice?
what am I supposed to do when I leave?
I don't have any skills. I can't fly.
So what do I do? I can't stay...no.
I can't leave. I'm stuck here..
staring though the glass at the
mass exit of feathers off the fence.
make me a bird. I want to be a bird.

Prose as subsitution for talking aloud.

This evening I went biking. A band of kids about my age crowded the bridge I usually cross. My anti-social tendencies kicked in, and I was forced to take the path through the trees. The first time I came here was with you. The last time I came here was with you. We walked barefoot, not worrying if sharp objects lie in wait, or if the path led anywhere. I don't want to go this way anymore. I don't want to think of you. I don't want to think of you because all of the memories are good. You never did anything wrong. Always honest. Sincere. A gentleman.

You have a way of listening to the stories I had forgotten I wanted to tell, not judging or reacting how other people might expect you to. I recall your listening face. And the way your eyes lit up when you chuckled at something. You never really outright laughed. It was always a chuckle or a smirk. As I continue on I pass the field we lay in. It was dark and the stars were out. I used you as a pillow telling you, "If you get uncomfortable, let me know and I'll move." You replied, "I don't think I'll ever be uncomfortable."

It's hard to remember what we talked about. But I remember the feeling. The calmness. How right everything felt. Our thing was walking about each others neighborhoods, showing favourite spots and secret places. You asked deep questions, I gave on the surface answers. But we were comfortable with each other. You peed in the forest we were in. Which is rather funny. We battled on some odd metal workout implements and you let me win. We sat in your room and you showed me your treasures, which truly were treasures since you keep very little. You don't even have a bed.

In my room we used the carpet as a new place to lay. You asked why my ceiling said "Here comes the Sun." In response I made you listen to the Beatles...but the tapes were all wrong. Outtakes and extras. Maybe that was a better introduction to them, though. Walking my streets we saw an armadillo. We walked so far. I grabbed your hand briefly to ensure you followed me as I carefully balanced on the curb.

Before I left for Minnesota. That was when you came over. As you were ready to leave (later than expected since you extended your curfew) we held each other by your car. Your head was able to rest on top of mine, something I usually find annoying, but here it was cute. You asked if you could drive up and visit. I wouldn't let you. But I wrote a letter. Something I've never done for anyone. And drew you pictures. Of the room I was staying in. Of cupcakes and spiders and a leaf. Watercoloured. I may have sent you some random trinkets as well. I don't remember.

On your 18th birthday I went out to dinner with your family. You changed your name to Thomas. Well, really just made that your first name, leaving Christopher to trail behind and become a first middle name. When I first met you at Beach Bash I teased you and polled everyone around asking, "Excuse me, does this boy look like a 'Thomas' to you?" I don't know what you saw in me. I don't know why I was made a group leader when I have such weak faith and leading skills. I do know that I made an effort to know you. Or introduce myself at least.

You saw me at my physical worst:::in a bathing suit covered by shorts and a tanktop for the sake of modesty, hair worn down by the ocean and makeup an atrocity. Really, what was appealing at all? Is it that I introduced myself while we were in the ocean? That we built a sandcastle together? We exchanged numbers and texted all the way home. We exchanged books. You have 100 selected poems by e.e. cummings, I have your Selected Works of Robert Frost and a dark, illustrated childrens book. I wonder if you want them back as much as I want mine back. I wonder if you want to see me.

Tonight I texted you with a simple hello. You said it was a pleasure hearing from me. The last time we actually saw each other you were a caterpillar, and preoccupied with your next show and greeting your family. I pretended it was okay, since I was with friends. I wonder what earring you're wearing right now. If it's your cross, or one of the ones you got for your birthday. The ridiculous, oversized square. One of the drama faces. Or if you have something new. I wonder if you ever did get your tobacco pipe, and if you've added any new treasures to your collection. I wonder how things worked out with the girl you said you ruined things with. I wonder if you will reconsider me, since I have sorted some issues out now.

I have more. But I don't want to think about it. And I feel like I'm using you as a last resort. Since he's taken and he never considered me and she's ironic and she's not interested and she's desperate and he's just a friend and he's obnoxious and she's obnoxious. Mostly I miss your eyes. No, I miss your freckles too. And the way you blush so easily. And your voice. I feel like I know you so well, but at the same time not at all. I want to create a change in my life.

Just so you know.

a new valentines day
a new year.
you don't really
know me anymore.
I pierced my ear twice
and sang in a play
and kissed more girls
and kissed more boys
and did my hair different
and changed my clothes
and got new makeup
and slept less
and cared less
and talked to you less
so you don't really
know me anymore.
you weren't there for
any of those changes.

a new valentines day
a new year.
I read nothing today.
I did not sit in my closet.
I cried. But not much.
I sat on the computer.
I started five TV shows
three movies, one video game.
I finished none of them.
I put on a new dress.
I parted my hair differently.
I used nice make up.
It's not because today is
special. I don't really
care about today. But most
everyone else does. So I'm
forced to care just a bit.
Just a bit.

a new valentines day
a new year.
I really do not like
being left alone. Not when
I thought I had other options.
I want someone to care but
not out of pity or because
I asked them to. I need
something. Something to do.
I do not get bored. Why am
I getting bored with myself.
I do not get bored. But I am.
I'm pacing again. all around
the house. down the hallways.
room to room to room. no
direction or purpose. room
to room to room. just lost.
You don't know me anymore.

Pretentious.

I started to write
in the odd extra
time of after-test
environment typically
filled with naps and
glazed stares.
flipping through pages
looking for a blank
back to serve as
my canvas........
pen poised, eyes
focused and......
there are no words.
nothing. nothing.
My thoughts have
become too personal
for even me.

Suddenly I feel the
room staring and
judging and I am
pretentious for
writing in class and
pretentious for
having my angsty
neon painting in
open view through
the clear binder slip.
stop looking at me
(((if you are)))
I'm now too anxious
to glance around
and confirm my
suspicious of judgement.

so I sit and stare
and stare at nothing
and at the desk and
at the wall and the
ceiling and my hand
and Mr. Tabor cleaning
the white board and
the blank sheet of
paper in front of me.
I feel pretentious
for staring. I bury
my face in my arms
and pretend to sleep.
(((which is also
highly pretentious)))

Just taste it, not breathe it in.

you bought a tobacco pipe
so you could smoke
without getting lung cancer.
you just taste it,
not breathe it in, you said.

I imagine you sitting in a
high backed chair,
legs crossed and smoking with
the pipe jauntily hanging
from your soft fingers that I
never had the chance to hold,
golden eyes gleaming.
laughing and talking in your
typical hushed tones that
hold heavy ideas.

while I lay on a bed
in a house that's not mine,
silently passing far less
elegant activities around
the room. You seem to
have life figured out.
I am still childishly grasping
for my reasons and beliefs.
I wish I was bold enough
to get you back into
my world so you could
steady me like before.

-------*

eight days without any
physical destruction
to document.
not because of a pact
or resolution or even
new decisions.
not because I feel
better. maybe because
I don't feel worse.

I don't know what I'm saying.

(note:::this is just a lot of me talking to myself. I need to word purge because I feel as if that is why my writing is suffering. read it if you please. but it's kind of just a lot of shit. okay.)


Before I move on with my life I think I need to just write. Prose. Yeah, strange. It feels wrong to let my words decide for themselves when they jump a line. But maybe I need this. Lately I have been writing about the same incidents many times over. Things that happened months, even years ago. Okay, last year. Regardless. I realized that part of the reason I keep using the same material is because I haven't had a satisfactory poem out of the entire bunch yet.

This is possibly because I haven't discussed so many things with my friends that all of the words are just bottled up inside, and before they become poetry they have to find freedom from my mind. But I can't talk to anyone. Not yet. It feels strange to not know what my friends are doing. My best friend called me the other day while he was at a gas station. We (he) talked for about three minutes and updated me on his great weekend and his almost girlfriend and other details he thought I should know. Although the conversation was cut short, I realized that I didn't have the capacity to make small talk with him. We don't share the same life anymore. He doesn't know what is happening with me. There are months of information that we haven't shared.

As disconcerting as this disconnect is, I'm finding that I don't even know the people I technically consider myself close to. It's as if we don't want to bother each other with our issues, our minor or major infractions that occur daily. I feel like the internet has ruined us. It gave us a place to scream and cry behind a facade of screen and pixels. It gave us a place to be more open, but in doing so reserve ourselves. Because posting something replaces talking about. Liking something replaces responding to someone else. These actions have replaced talking to the point that when we're together, all we do is say "I like what you posted __insert date____". Rather than talk about the content of what it was.

Part of this is that we recognize how personal, raw, and even fleeting some of these things are. They are not really to be discussed, only shared. But others of us are begging to be talked to. To have someone pay attention to us. I don't understand when this started, or if it's always been this way and I'm just now noticing.

I think that I have taken myself away from many people that could have been good for me. I push them away believing that I will corrupt their goodness with my darkness that is disguised and interesting yet misled teen girl. These people wander back into my life occasionally, but only long enough to briefly remind me how I made them leave. How even though when asked I will say "It didn't work" or "I messed it up" I know that it actually worked out just they way I knew it would, which in essence means that I did not mess up. I followed through with a pattern that I have been perpetuating since about 7th grade.

my past few days have been holding on to happiness if possible. three days straight I holed up in a room and watched movies via netflix. St. Elmo's Fire, Smart People, Were the World Mine... if I didn't have school I would do it for the rest of this week. But I need to be devoted to Into the Woods. Which is kicking my ass because, oh hey I have to sing and I just keep screwing that up despite my half-ass attempts to practice. When I'm with choir people and they bemoan those who cannot sing and just pick random notes that everyone else around them is singing all I can think is "Oh fuck, that's what I do..." But that's not really the biggest of my issues.

Mostly I need to not let other peoples emotions influence me so much. It's absurd. I have just realized that at present I have nothing else to say. And despite the fact that it is... I do not consider this a rant. It's just directionless thoughts that postponed my psych homework. Which is another topic of waning motivation for anything that takes any sort of effort. Alas.

I was never going to.

I understand each and every word of your
bad idea that says I should shut my mouth,
but the only dark alley I see is the hall I am
traveling through to get to the garage.
In search of a fix I hope to find in the
refrigerator. Walking through the door,
I freeze as a voice streaming through the radio
mounted to the wall suddenly asks me:::
When did you stop being happy?
When did your anxiety and nervousness
and depression start to get the best of you?
When did you stop being able to
"snap out of it"? You deserve to be happy.
My hand is clutching the door handle
as I just stare, tearing up a bit.
It tells me to call. Now. I don't call.

stream of consciousness.

I think and I think and I try to
make myself be quiet I try to
make myself quit and in my head
I am screaming NO, shut the FUCK UP
to myself but it doesn't work
it never works and I can't lie
to myself if I know that I'm lying.
can I?

and I thought this was special
I thought I was maybe special,
just this once. Once.
No. I hold nothing sacred.
but even that is a lie.
I live off of music and words,
the very things that bring me
to tears and tear me to pieces
because they're too true
they're too real they understand
and they don't even know me
like I want everyone else
to know me, like I want to
know me.

I have held back so much,
kept so many things in a
box of constraints, letting
through only the words that
fit into 160 characters,
words that fit only into
5:::7:::5, words that fit only
into what I think someone
will read and care and
maybe just maybe care
enough to make me
care enough.

but I am letting this out
but I am not really letting
this out because there are
so many things to say
that I can't say partly
because I'm afraid and
partly because I don't
know how to say them
and partly because I don't
even know what I am
feeling or if I feel at
all anymore and I am
just lost.

it was an accident that I found that picture.
and you, a random stranger said it was
"beautiful and eye opening and kinda depressing"
and all I could think was:::you have no fucking idea.
I cringed but didn't turn away, didn't navigate
elsewhere for a while because more thoughts started
dripping into my mind:::like:::
this is too familiar. why did you even capture this?
why is this on the internet? why is this being
passed around and talked about so openly with
everyone saying how sad it is when they really
don't know? but mostly I was thinking about how
I would do that. If I didn't have to hide,
I would do that.

two weeks of silence

and you return with

your typical torture:::

hello love.

two words that used

to fill me up tear me

apart make me blush:::

hello love.

too many times I tried

and lost and gave up

I am done with you, but

hello love.

to understand how I

feel you have to be here

you have to talk to me.

hello love.

to play these games again

is cruel. we're not running

away together, I know:::

hello love.

too much. this is too much

contact for my taste. you

are an annoyance now...but

hello love.

on the floor.
eating Christmas
Captain Crunch
wishing my
legs weren't
speckled with
hate.

there is
nothing I can
read or do
or listen to
that is
neutral.

each piece of
my world is
a reminder of
someone
somewhere
that I have
let down
somehow.

Drops of Jupiter.

I laughed because
it's part of my
don't freak out
playlist.

I laughed because
it seemed so
out of place
in my calmness.

I laughed because
I guess I was
happy to be
driving around.

I laughed because
I am awkward
and can't always
find words.

I laughed because
I wondered when
the next time I'll
need this song will be.

Coward.
I hate that word.
It sounds so ugly.
So brash and it
doesn't flow with
anything.

But it's what I am
when I type words
asking or telling
and then watch them
disappear as I
delete them off
of the screen.

Would I hate myself
less if I just let
all of my words
flow out instead of
holding them back?
Or would that be worse?
To have everything
said, everything told.
Maybe not understood,
but out there.

a sunday afternoon:::
bare blue bulb
coloured cloth&a
desk above me.
everything eerily lit.
forts make me happy.
good:::this is good.
hello kitty pjs on.
in this place
january is suspended.
karma and
lust don't live here.
my safe place.
no cuts, bruises
or wounds here.
pandora playing
quietly through the
rest of the room.
sushi eaten, in the
trash bag now.
under paper&plastic.
very carelessly I perched
water on a
xerox knock off box.
yes. I could live here.
zero years have passed.

I am alone
in the house.
I could do it.
if I really
wanted to.
but I don't
know if it
will be worth
the effort or
if it will just
be another
feeble attempt
to dispell
these mixed
up so fucking
messed up
things that I
feel all the time.

Situational Irony.

I wish these weren't ripped

I said as I tore off small

pieces of my jeans.

I can't vocalize these things.

As we were sitting there,
I fell back into my Old Habit
of pointing out everything
around me and then
explaining why I am
looking at it.

I hate it when I do this.
I wonder if I will
always do this and
if I am boring you
but not in a sad
"woe is my life way"
but just an analytical way.

and also I wonder why
some people can tolerate
being around me doing
not a lot for a long time
but other people just
have to keepmoving
keepgoingfindsomethingelse
todo or somewhere else
to be that isn't me.

day two.

a glitch in the seat belt is
what caused the
Inevitable Meltdown
to begin.

I've been quiet lately.

I don't want to talk to anyone
but I want people to talk to me.
I'm done believing that
people want to listen
even though I have never
tried to make anyone listen.
In my moments of silence
people do not wonder
what I have to say.
Mostly because in my
moments of silence I
do not have anything to say.
If I'm going to speak
I want to make it
worthwhile, meaningful.
There is nothing I can say
that is close to being
worthwhile or meaningful.
...I've been quiet lately.

Today ended strangely.

I ate a brief meal with people I never

would have pictured myself with just

a few years ago, and held my own.

I was one of two, maybe three

in an unaltered state of being.

I wonder if they even know

how to be with each other

and just be with each other.

I never want to be like

any of you. Not ever.

"Don't lose yourself, don't let yourself be lost"

Sometimes I feel so empty
the only thing that can make me
feel better is adding a little number
next to the days date.
My little system of records.
No, I am not getting better.
In a sick way I hate the days
that get a slash through them.
When I ask what's wrong with me?
Everyone answers nothing, you're fine.
But I am lost. In what
other people make me feel
with words they don't say to me
out loud or specifically.
Please stop pacifying me.
Only say what you mean
so I will be less confused.
so I will be less lost.

the trip there haikus.

so close it's not that
much of a difference to drive
through Oklahoma.

grey sky. muted plains.
frozen water leaks from hills.
I'm in Kansas now.

we only passed through
the corner this time. see you
later, Missouri.

eight inches of snow.
twenty six degrees outside.
hello, Iowa.

A dream before Christmas.

I had a dream that I was dead.
But not in a sad way.
I was not being shown how
miserable or happy anyone would be
without me, or what I could change.
Mostly it was a chance to
look in at everyone elses lives.
I just watched my friends
go about their daily activities.

kansas city.

beat down buildings:::
brick worn off
barely there paint.
barren, cleared out.
big vast expanse.
Broadway St. up the road.
broken doors lead
below...a crash, a fall:::
bang. you'd hit the ground.
buried in the street
beneath the rubble
by whoever found you.

When we were at her house, months ago.

under a blacklight
you smoked a glowing cigarette.
poised&proper even with
all your makeup washed clean.
wearing clothes that weren't yours.
you aren't much different from them,
so why did I hold you in such high esteem?
because you gave me reason to
believe that I was worth something.

5:4:3:2:1

Right now my hair is a mess.
Right now I am not wearing makeup.
Right now my clothes do not fit.
Right now I am alone.
Right now I am happy
:::Smiling for no reason.
:::Laughing for no reason,
:::Jumping around as I move.
:::Dancing for no reason.
Maybe because of you.
Maybe because of the movie I watched.
Maybe because of new music.
I don't know why.
I don't know how long this will last.
But it's okay.