A New End

http://atticatay.blogspot.com/

Continue to live on as you like.

Just Breathe

It's like breathing. Breathing which keeps you alive, and when you inhale deeply you feel alive, you feel strong, like you can hold on for so long you can die old holding your breath. You close your lips, figuratively close your nostrils and you wait, you hold it, you stand still waiting with your cheeks puffed out, looking ridiculous to boot. For a moment it's peaceful, things are quiet as you wait without air. But then your face turns red and frustration begins as you continue waiting. You try harder to hold it, to keep it just a little longer, you keep waiting, trying to hold on, to keep waiting but you know you can't. You know you can only hold on so long and your time is almost up. Your chest gives in and your lungs hurt. You feel like a rock sits on you to squish all the air out. Your arms are week, your knees begin to shake, tears push out from your eyes like diamonds but you keep holding on and fighting it all. You shake your head telling yourself you won't give in and up, you can't because you need it. But then your throat heaves, hoe, heaves hoe, and suddenly your down on the floor out cold. Your lids are like blankets, easily moved in whatever position you're thrown in by a seizure. You stop, frozen on the floor, limp as a sack doll, and your heart stops. You can hear it, pure silence as everyone else waits for you to live again. And there you go, breathing once more until you see it and decide to hold your breath again.

That is what it's like when you wait for love, that is what it's like to be heartbroken, and that is what it's like to live after a broken heart.

I sat on the couch thinking about the week I wasted in bed and in my room. "Stay here. Rot with me." Thats all I could think. This drowsiness is a murderer. I need to wake up, get up, fight it. It's like a new unbeatable cancer in my system bringing me down. Like peer pressure. I've got to live while I live. Sleep is a wonderful experience but it only goes so far. I need more, I might not always want it, but I need it.

Taylor Pan

I was thinking on the plane. Thinking about harsh words spat the night before. About growing up since I'm so old now. Whats so great about growing up? If you have reason behind what you do, and you think of others sometimes and yourself other times, and if you're able to succeed in what you do then what more do you really need? What growing do you need? You can't always think of others, thats unrealistic and it'll get you no where, not always. Selfishness isn't always bad. I think that maybe when they call you immature, or when they get angry at you and you beat yourself, you have to remember it was all said out of anger. The world as a whole is childish, being spitting bulls whenever something goes wrong. Embrace the mistakes that are made rather than punishing them. Teach rather than punish.

It's like in psychology when instead of teaching they used meds, shock therapy, lobotomies and naps to care for their patients. It was wrong but thats human life. We're wrong.

Needle In A Hay Stack

Looking for an expectation? Petty. "Despicable". I write for memory more so than relief, so in memory I write a solid unlatching. Chest pain, nothing like those 7 months. Stomach furies, nothing like the those for mom. A reach forward means absolutely nothing but it's for safe measure, coincidentally at the same moment they tell me safe measurements are good to take but still refusal is inevitable at my end. Quick and u-turn to return but what crushing of my soap box might that cause? Hurt every teens and tweens high horse and leave it for dead, smartass. Try to tend to the horse they shot, they try, the horse is fine, the horse kicks, knocks an eye, both eyes, is on its feet and begins to trot off. Leave you gnarly beast, and never return.

Salem Footprints They Say

My footsteps feel lighter against the ground compared to how they feel against my chest. Heavy thumping as if I stomp on my own lungs while I walk. My brain refuses to flush and my walking is slow, long and feeling purposeless. I continue on giving myself check points, keeping in checking, checking surrounding, check check check. I reach asphalt, I reach the glass, barefooted, raggedy I step on glass and asphalt still wandering. I reach the opposite corner, and island in my journey, and I stop. I stop concluding my decision, I stop knowing my own words. The direction switches, I begin retracing, I begin formulating. I no longer feel a heave of weight anywhere but under me as I walk in a more determined fashion,... as I know my footprints.

Daily, Expected, Guarenteed Frustrations

It's the same routine every day. It's the same lack of common sense that I have to deal with. The same complaints. The same explanations. The same reaction. I feel like the mom asking the kid to pick up the toys so I don't hurt my feet, but they never do it. I'm going to break my neck one day, then we'll see if you pick up your toys.

Chinese Dinner

Two heads bent away like chopsticks, thats how it looked there last night. Bent away in sorrow and frustration almost, or even in disappointment and regret. Tough decisions unmade in fear of taking chances, in fear or losing money. Like gambling, when you lose it all the hardest part is developing a strategy to win it all back, or you take the easy way out and give it all up to fly home empty handed. Like chopsticks, once broken you cannot melt them back together, they are parted for good, feeding the world with experience.

Here it comes again. My "deception" has brought on another flood of guilt. I don't feel like I deserve to feel good, to do things that should make me feel good. Maybe that explains it? Why I've practically stomped all over the grave and packed in the dirt on top of this pampering. It's a fish bone in the throat for some, a couple of doubts throughout our minds thrown in with cowardice. I say stop it all but it's like resisting the experience of life. It all comes down to being selfish or going with it. I don't feel good doing anything. Sometimes theres a hint, a moment where I've truly entranced myself into dealing with it but shortly it comes back. 

(Like sleep, I'll fall into slumber, awake to fall asleep again, and awake with frustration in my lack of success only to end with a headache.)

Now my only question is how to keep it at a level that won't leave me covered in salt.

Sleep Addicts Anonymous

My face, still very swollen from sleep, is the epitome of an unwilled longing. Day in and day out my eyelids stress downward for sleep, my arms lay anywhere cradling my head and my legs feel nonexistent unless curled into me. I crave sleep like someone might crave a stall to hide in after embarrassment. I am a sleep addict. Sleep to me is the candy to my tongue. It is the water on my lips. It is the lover to my eyes. Sleep is my closing and my opening to every day and sleep is how I get through. Sleep cures my sicknesses and helps me to breathe again in traumatic events. I now.. I am exhausted.... and will.....

....

sleep.

School House

We sit here every day looking at the same people watching each other do the same things in the same building, same spot, same seats. Same sames. It's an exhausting setting as you drozily make your way into this building every weekday morning, and even on the weekends it's the same sometimes. It's so controlled, so organized, robotic like and almost an over grip of what is needed. Spontanity is missing in everyday lives, creativity and even individuals become to seem similar in all one way. Sleep and dreams seems to be the only reality of originality. Sleep is all I want to do, and dreams are all I want to see. Dreams of real life events and dreams of impossible heights. I want to imagine an electricfying shock of mystery solving and then fantasize of a soothing symphony of caressments.

And then I wake up and find it's time for school.

A Plan of Time

It's starting anew. The pull is slight, but a pull none the less. A former thought nudges and I'm left with a roll of string to communicate. Like in History Of Love they unroll the string and begin to depart speaking words of vibrating love. I looked in the magazine and saw my piece, saw my love and what I also saw was what it was, what it still is, and what I was doing to make it seem so false. I felt ashamed but kind, merciful, and noosed down. I've formulated my plan for time, when where and how, why and who, and I'm ready to begin waiting. What I really wonder is if my plan with conclude sooner or if it will never conclude at all.

Self Rape

Filthy. My skin is a rough dirt and my insides are rotted eggs. The voice of Braddah Iz aka Israel Kamakawiwo'ole have soothed what bubbling yellow concoction has developed. I've forced myself into doing things and in return get no general kindness or feelings of affection. I don't feel it the same like I'm meant to feel it but instead what is in place is a gas. Not necessarily empty but not entirely there. I want to see them do things that make them happy that don't involve me. My influence will hopefully become nonexistent.  

Thats The Way The Cookie Crumbles

I feel jerky, my head twisting around, popping and locking in different ways, uncomfortable in an effort, a plea to understand or even to make them understand. That doesn't sound right, it's not exactly what I want to say but I can't find the letters, I can't put them together. I can't understand. Arguments pop up left and right, unreasonable efforts to make me feel misery to feel longing for her are thrown and I just don't respond the way she wants me to. I doubt her accusations and I doubt her sanity anymore. I doubt everyone's state of mind and all I want to do is the impossible, impossible. How relieving it would be to let go and let someone else take my hand. To be covered by guidance with someone else's choices and to be flowing with every groove that someone set for me. How to find a guider might be hard, but to let go of all beliefs, individuality, and morals and just free fall.

Cuttlefish Love

I've come to the conclusion that it is not you that I will miss, but being touched. With how uncomfortable I am with being held, hugged, kissed, fondled or even bumped into, I will miss it from then on from just you and some others. A whore I might become in this conclusion but a whore in need of caress over sex. Never will I need sex more than a session of cuddling. Never.

Slippers

Flip flop. Flip flop. It was nice to feel more important. I feel cheated, ironically. Back and forth, another tug of war with opposite thinkers. Tight clothes brings men, they say, but why would I want to suffocate myself only to be suffocated more? I want a comfortable man to myself. A fresh but warm silk love. It's gone now, bringing it all back down to the wet sand. All I can think is imagery. A cloud of sediment rises up in the water as I drown and then begins to settle, just like in snow globes. I was a ship, I was a woman, but I've been brought back down to unfound treasure. 

It's lonesome at the bottom of the sea.

Another Day

I'm a month closer to turning 18 as the fights break out. Arguments here, disagreements there. I want to have friends, to live a life where I can laugh and be comfortable but my mom's mind prevents that. Her distrust and closed-minded way of thinking interfere and all I can hope for is a box of solitude. My room is not longer a place to hide, or sit comfortably at a computer bored for the rest of my life. I know she wants me safe, but that isn't all she wants. I leave no trace of having friends but the echos that ring through the empty house I live in. Empty, unlike other homes. Erika's home is empty too, vacant in the rooms and the walls show no family past, is her life like mine?

Everyday I used to walk into my home and clean what I can before retreating into my room for alone time. Time spent always with an aging face and a sickening screen where my friends weren't real or tangible. I try to break free but she reels me back in a clawed grip. She says move out, she screams and yells, is unreasonable, throws tantrums but then throws on not a mask but an entire cloak whenever someone is over. She has no dignity, to sense of manners, and it ruins me. She learns from that stupid spick. That piece of shit she married over marrying the wonderful person who I came to call dad for so long, but so suddenly left my life.

I search for my home and at the same time I suppose my heart, since home is where the heart is. Where is it when your comfort levels have dropped to your skin feeling like a grating sand paper coat? Where is it when your eyes twitch with a sting and your throat vomits things that don't fit? Where is it when insides feel like dust and the rest of you seems more like plastic? Where is it when your own family doesn't act like a family, but a group of uncivilized maroons.

Homeless; Dadless

It's a question. Whenever I ask myself whats wrong I answer it but today my answer was "I want to go home". I was standing in my kitchen asking myself that question, asking myself what was wrong and why I was feeling the way I was. Then I looked down at the box of batteries in my hand and thought of my step dad. I thought of how he'd been there since I was 2 and how so suddenly he left my life at 14. I thought about why he left and where I was now, why I hadn't talked to him more about it.

Even now as I walk out of my room and practically become crippled with pain I consider if I should talk to him or not. So many people in my life influence the way I think and act and never have I found a man who obeyed the law or was honest in his actions. 

After going downstairs and hiding my face away from my friends and into the crest of my mothers neck I've lost what I wanted to truly say. The urge to bawl still lingers but as my friends remain in my room I keep my throat shut tight and my eyes hidden with the back of my head.

Man Nerds

It's always a competition, a game to one-up but not as fun as Mario. A manner-less, selfish game to make the other down, down the other, it's life. To get money, to get power, credits, and to get a reputation that proceeds what you actually are. Rudeness brings rudeness, but niceness brings shame. A life to live with an urge of guilt or a fall of shame, to your knees you go.

I went out for a bit, got distracted, and lost my mojo.  

Sun Yellow

The intensity of things makes them easier to identify, correct. The intensity of colors. An intense, bright yellow is obviously yellow, the same goes for blue, red, magenta, macaroni and cheese, whatever. Is it the same for feelings? The more intense the easier to know what it is you are feeling? I like to think so. So there is an explanation for outrageous actions and pursuing an issue, to know. To identify the feeling! All a better reason to understand adrenaline junkies, to know. To get the fuel and to be the understander.

aghhh if my head didn't hurt, I'd be able to focus. Forget this.

Highschool Angst

It's another place to be pretend maturity but the real test is when you've been thrown down into the pit of confliction. When you're angry is when you show your true colors. Whether flinging chairs around the room or sitting quietly and thinking to yourself, maturity is a test of anger. I'll justify myself, sure, but when I'm angry I might not be so mature as I've been complimented to be so.

Pants of a Relationship

It was the wrong thing with the wrong person. And it wouldn't have been the right thing with the right person had the situation been any different. But it would have been the right thing with the right person had the person been different. I'm the wrong person for any "right thing", right for someone else, wrong for me. It'll be right for me when I'm ready, but I'll still end up being the wrong person.

Couples. I've never liked being around them. Even when I was a couple, or he was a couple with me, once even she. I still don't like being around them. You'll see things you wish you were, wish you could do with someone else you with they were. You'll see things that might make you uncomfortable, that are a higher level, or things you are glad you don't do with another. You'll see contrasts and conflicting sayings, conflicting desires. It's always those couples that I am irrate most around, the ones who say one thing, mean another, but underlying mean what they say, but their urge for sin is so strong that you know they want it. But.... couples, I never liked being around them.

There Was A ____ _____ In This Building

I've been mixed in with a bundle of affairs. Oh so punny, Taylor! No. Truly. Affairs here, promises there, expectations here, and then a dare. Dare he that, dare her that, dare the hare to win the race but he loses. A dare is a promise, so is a truth. What do you pick as to not bind yourself to any misinterpretations or regrets? Either way, I'm not bound to anything, not you or he or her or myself. I'm bound to no principals or morals, or even regrets. I'm boundless.

My Face

My face, an illusion of sorts, looks and watches and waits so such anticipating events. The event of recognition. Another event of beauty. Again another event of desire. But as I said "my face, an illusion of sorts" is a true statement. An illusion where one person may see one thing, another will see something different. One might see female qualities another will see male, boyish type qualities. Even in my voice and name I am not justified into womanism. To find my parents so perfectly fit and able to represent their genders in perfectioning ways is frustrating. The balance finds it's way once again, making beauty's replacement ugliness.

but in such ugliness I can be hopeful of one thing; beautiful replacements.

May 8th, 2010 Dream

Veronica wished me sweet dreams last night, how wrong to admit that I did not have one. It was terrifying, intense and infuriating.

It began in my room with my mom up here talking to me. My step dad enters and spots the plastic sword on my bookcase and goes to take it. "What're you doing?" I ask, no response. He walks out of my room with it, but I will not be ignored, nor have my things stolen. I follow him down the stairs and to the front living room where the Christmas tree was, it was still there in the dream. I shove him, hard, and he rolls and tumbles into the wall, I run after him. I begin pulling ornaments off the tree and throwing them at him hoping they'll shatter on his face but they don't, I am too weak. Somehow a pair of barber scissors ends up in my hand and I stab him in the chest and stomach three times. I am frightened of what he'll do when he gets up, so I run. I run up to my room, bolting, trying my hardest not to fall, once reaching the boundaries of my rooms walls I lock and shut my door but it will not close, I slam it over and over again until the bolt goes into the hole and finally it does, I am safe, relieved. But my brother is downstairs and I hear him call. "Taylor.. Taylor I have something!" Instantly I am filled with grief and I open my door to him, taking the steps down quietly. Gun shots are heard as I reach the bottom and I bolt grabbing my brothers arm. "He has a gun! He has a gun!" my brother screams. Once again the same procedure is made when shutting and locking my door. Nervousness and intensity fill every crevice of my skin as I search for my phone. "911, 911, please I need to call". I find it, I dial, no answer but music. I dial again, an answer on the third beat. "Hello?" "Please.. I need help. My step dad has a gun, hes trying to kill me, us, please! I need help!" "We'll send someone down.

It all becomes jumbled from there, but a cop comes, then leaves, refusing to get involved. I call again, another cop comes and he is shot. I give up on cops and call Samuel L. Jackson and explain to him my situation. He attempts to break into my house and kill my step dad for me, a hero, but he is shot once my step dad notices him. I call a cop again, he comes and is sneakier, more helpful but fails. I take his gun and suddenly my step dad and I are dueling outside, I'm tucking, rolling, jumping, dodging, gun shots firing aimlessly, but mine are directed at him. 

And I awake.

Modern Teenagers

Literally. Today I had my own exploration in a forest Veronica showed me at a park. I was trespassing, sure but I was feeding my human sense to explore, to discovery, my sense of childish curiosity that I've kept for so long and cherished so deeply. Anyways, back on track, it was almost personal, eye opening in a way that is metaphorical to me in my way. Where my friends stopped and went to play on modern playground equipment I continued on my own, fearless, curious, and daringly. I found loads of spots that I enjoyed, one being a sort of dragonfly haven where multiple dragonflies gathered to rest on leaves. I disturbed the area when passing through and found that it was almost like that scene from Peter Pan when the fairies were dancing. I also encountered a snake on my way, but the strange part was that he stopped for me. It was like he was waiting for my to cross so he could continue on his way, and it stunned me, maybe he was stunned too, however as soon as I came to my senses half a second later I bolted back a few yards and waited to pursue the trail. I met him multiple times, each time I let him continue just as he let me. When I came to the "end", or intersection of all the trails it ended at the crossing of all the water trails, the lakes, or rivers or whatever they call those man-made sewers. There was a turtle there, motionless but not dead. He acknowledged me and I him as I simply stared out at the view. The sound of cars was something I had to block out to enjoy it, but I couldn't. I took what I could in and left to return to my friends. Explaining the sensation of exploring that forest was like explaining why a man likes to dance, it's hard and sounds stupid all together. 

Metaphorically, it told me how I might deal with life, always striving through past what scares me, taking a step back, but continuing to realize the golden end.

Goodbye.

No More Sweet Dreams

I was right and I'm sure you know it. No more good luck, no more good night, no more sweet dreams, no more good morning kisses. You've lost your touch, I've lost my trust. You don't care to find your way through the maze, I don't think how do I know? It's like reading the book of an untrusted narrator, his opinion, his words, are useless. My paranoia if I can call it that, my self-consciousness, my doubts and all my worries are collapsing on my shoulders, I can feel them press against my ribs, my chest.

I couldn't sigh today. After days and days of sighing, or work, or worry, I couldn't do it, I couldn't sigh. It built up as always and when I did sigh it was like coming alive again, like coming up from drowning or the couple seconds after almost dying.

Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. It was the same with another, a mirror image in a fun house, warped, yet I stand the same. Upset, hurt, breathless. Tired as always. Exhausted, so tired, so drained from my eye sockets to my knee sockets. 

Got distracted. Bye.

Silly Suicide

Just a question, you ever been joyous as a bee but still been curious about death? I have more questions. Who is to say death is so morbid? Those who are left behind, right? What about those facing the mystery. The glorious, mass mystery of life other than religion, but technically this ties into religion. Death, it's seen as a dark, depressing "whole" of life, why not look at it as a beginning of a new story or questions answered? Those who cherish knowledge will surely cherish dying. To know what is there, to know how it feels and how to be. 

Death, to me, is not scary, but instead rather inciting. It's evil you say, they say, I say not! Why is suicide such a wrong way to be curious? It does not leave those behind happy, no, but neither does moving, or breaking up, or such a thing as that. I know there are flaws in my fascination, in my interests, in dying, but when you have no memory or no desire for yourself then whats the matter with a little questioning? A little death?

Flauntimity

On my nose, in my eyes, no shame. What shame do you have? What manners? Societal rules have left your fingertips, flow right into the cracks of the cement, unreachable, ungraspable. No longer seen by the world and they continue to soak into the soil. You have no rules, again no manners, no shame again. Rude. Where are my authoritative stances? Where are my no's and my get out's? Is this a test to learn to stand up, to tell you off, to kick you out? Yes. You'll not set foot in my home like this, so rude, so inconsiderate, so thoughtless of what you say. I once thought of you, your people, as nothing but manners but now I see the difference. Like between the French and British... nono, not good enough, between the Americans and Canadians. 

Good job, I may be writing about you and your people, but you specifically have caught me off guard, have ruined this post. You make me uneasy, I consider you a thief though I'm not sure, but... I have a bad bad feeling about you and I'll stick to it.

Sunbathed Rubber Bands

I can hear them. In my head, between my ears, snapping, like chapped rubber bands, like unmoisterized latex, snapping away against the side of my head, every memory gone with it. Every slip of confidence slipping, cracking, snapping, just like old rubber bands. It hurts both in my head and in my gut. I'm tired but not exhausted, restless in the empty part of the glass. 

Bluntly, let me state this, out there and open. Have you ever sat there in the car and thought "open the door, tuck and roll out, head squashed by on coming wheel and POOF." or even just "a little swerve there, here, lose some control, head on hit." It's simple, it's fast, it's comforting some how, it's scary. I'm not always sad, not always uninterested, not always tired, just curious. You think it's wrong to wonder, to wonder about that, to think about that, I think it's normal, I think that I'm fine, nothing is wrong with me, but something is wrong with us. 

I'm exhausted now. Night.

What it is.

It's more than sunflowers against your cheeks, more than velvet carpet against barefeet, more than silk hamocks and fleece in the winter. It's much more than the movement of slowly swirling hot water, much more than the soft voice of your favorite musician, much more than laying in your own bed after a week from home. It's a little more than hugs that fit, a little more than the happy ending of a dream, a little more than getting the food you crave, a little more than a sunny day of 75 degrees with slow winds and 3 puffs of clouds total. It's daily morning kisses with the closing smile, it's small jokes and playful roleplay during the dull parts of work, it's walking in on a spot on the couch ready for you to relax in, it's spending the night tucked cozily into the arms of another and knowing you'll be able to sleep there until you feel like waking up.

It's love.

Dancing

Fox trot. Tango. Waltz. Bboy. Salsa. Hell, even the hokey pokey. Dancing isn't waving around, it isn't just moving smoothly and with rhythm, it's telling a story. It's like poetry without the iambic pentameter or the end rhyme, a story. Dancing, music, poetry, stories, they've all brought me to tears of observance and understanding. It's like having your body drained of water, or contents, of insides, and being refilled and stuffed packed with music or movements of smooth dancing. Like thick cotton candy, or a good hot plate of pasta when thats all you're in the mood for, smooth four cheese tomato sauce spread on top of some well cooked manicotti noodles.

My urge, my desire more so to dance is so overwhelming that my knees have been dirty for year as I've prayed. To be able to move with grace and be gazed at as if you were floating or a well oiled machine moving with ease against the wind.... I just want to dance.

Hot Hot Potato Water

My skin; pink and in liquid flames. I make underwater cyclones in droning. They fascinate me more than current life. Under the water, spinning, elegant and smooth. Glossy like lollipops at amusement parks, or circuses, or entertainment places period. Flip it upside down, the cyclone, and it hardens, it becomes colorful and tasteless besides the pure nova cane sugar. Life, flip it upside down and I reach a score of 999 instead. My day was good, my braces are weightless, my test was perfect, my detention was extra credit, everything smells good and he responds with "I love you" instead of silence.

But life isn't lollipops, it's underwater cyclones. My score wasn't 999, my day wasn't good, my braces are like cars hanging off my teeth, my test was whatever it is I guessed, my detention was for sleeping, things don't smell at all and he didn't respond at all. 

I am weighed down, I am eyeless, earless, mouthless save for the tear holes on my face. My nose is scrunched together to block out smell. The inside of my characterless face is cut up and I am waiting. My skin like heavy velvet, and I wait, motionless, weighed down. The only thing I feel is my heart, still pounding, still strong, still waiting like me.

Full To Puke

"Eat more." "Eat this." Eat that." "Oh eat my blah blahllbkjaslkdj. You'll gain weight in seconds!"

You know what, SHUSH. Some people praise anorexia, some pray to be thin, some beg and plead and wish to lose five pounds so they can fit through the door. You know what skinny people pray for? I have no idea, but I pray to be a little fatter. I wish that maybe my hip bones wouldn't jut out and stab everyone. I wish you couldn't see the veins in my arms from miles away. I wish my elbows didn't represent crossbows. I wish my ribs didn't stick out more than my boobs did. I don't have a sickness, I'm not bulimic, I'm not anorexic, I do eat, I was just "gifted" with a metabolism that works like it's got a life long dose of speed. I could probably enjoy it better if not for all those people piling around me trying to shove biscuits, gravy, and only god knows what else down my throat only so I can be like them. Is it because I make you feel bad with the way I look? Well deal with it and leave me alone. I'll deal with MY own weight, I know how to handle it, I know how to change, thanks. 

On a lighter note however, I was stretched out in the tub and I noticed that.... my hip bones, AKA hip daggers, are no longer hip daggers. More like hip swiss army knives. I feel accomplished.

And fin.

I Know Sense Reaper

I feel like a mangy thief. A thief of happiness, goods, innocence, youth... A bringer of regret and remorse. My soul purpose is to take the first of many things and leave you with a dirty, filthy feeling. Like mud under your nails, thats where I lay. Every thick brown grain crunching and grinding against your skin and under your nails until it reaches that sensitive spot where you hate to be touched. Or even worse, chalk under your nails. It makes my teeth tingle.

But anyways, onto the reason I'm writing this. I've been taking firsts of this and that and firsts over here and there. I offer to take your first of the big thing and you agree instantly, you love me. A lot of you do. I could take all your firsts, play you all and make you feel horrible. I'll feel horrible. I wish I was Russian but then would you love me? No. So I will pretend just like you did, and maybe the rest of you did, and be okay with it. I'll pretend I want you, pretend I like you, love you, am cool with you and cool with them all, you'll love me, and I'll snatch it from you and leave in a fit of guilt and anger. You'll die I hope. But my hopes are never answered, wishes always resigned. I can still wish a type of death on you, or that I left an impression, a killer sting in your arm. But I didn't. I am a murderer underwater, fingerprint-less and DNA a drift all along the planet.

Coooooooooool

Alright here it is. I hate it all. Not sickeningly, but enough to want to shout a good "fuck you" at you at some point when you crawl. Which you won't, because I want it. Oh wait, but you do what I want don't you? Tell me what I want to hear? Obviously you don't know too well, for as smart as you are. You're frustrating, aren't you all. I can hear myself swallow hard and I'll still keep my fingers clenched tight to my palm, only to release in a shriek of remorse. The roof of my mouth scraped, raw, throbbing and all I can truly think about is how messy I can be. How sloppy. How you'll never even see this. Come July, it'll be forgotten, and if not I'll be jelly elbowed and jelly kneed, and jelly brained. But hey, c'mon, tell me you're fine, you'll suck it up, tell me you're a man because thats ALL I ever wanted to hear, or so you thought. It's not. I wanted to hear what you actually felt you robot. You tall tower of metal. Of computer insides and outs. I used to kick computers and now all I do is depend on them. But enough of that, I kind of hate you. I kind of hate what it's all done, and what I can know and see now. I kind of hate you all.

Well I lost it even though I'm still in that brooding mood, I lost it.

Vomity Turmoil

Everytime you talk, every syllable you speak of him and every ounce of energy you throw into working under him brings my stomach to it's knees. The thing that holds communion, that holds meals and food that we've shared is brought into raw anger. It's been close to seven years now, if not more, that I've had to endure his mannerisms of life. Seven years of ignorance, seven years of visualizations of your demeanor. Seven years of humiliation. Physical fuckety has taken place in me. Physically ill will. Ill actions. Not even a thirst for torture, but more to flex the muscles of my fingers into his eyes. To surpass my strength limits and snap him into a contortion of illusions. My teeth clench in insanity to break bones, to hear them crack and grind inside his body. I have lost communication skills in such turmoil. In such vexation. I've lost th----.....

What Are You At Me

I'll know, I'll know he won't read this. He'll "know" I'm fine, but I'll know I'm struggling. I have no true freedom of speech, mentally, or anywhere, anyhow or who. With any person, place or thing. Even without a government, without a brain, it is all controlled and maintained in some way. The hidden OCD of nature. 

I lost it.

Peas

The first night I spend in your bed my skin will crawl. My body will ache through to the bone from exhaustion and my eyes will be set aflame as blinking does not exist. Breathing will be easy but it will be voluntary and all too soon every minute. My hair will flail across my face and deceive you that I am sleeping. As you glide down the side of the hole into a deeper sleep I will turn my legs, my knees creaking from misuse, and I will sit at the edge of the bed. My sandpaper hands will come to my face and drag my lids down as I sit there for minutes, hours, all until you wake up. "Whats wrong, you alright?" No no, thats all wrong. More like "***, come back to be-- " no no, thats not right either. What would you say? Would you say anything at all? Is this too many questions? That was bitter. Sleep draws back in fear from the hours of night and I am left posting.

Antsy - All The While A Smile

I forgot what real butterflies felt like. They weren't flapping, instead.. resting on the inside along my stomach and what have you. At this moment I didn't think "ants", I thought "butterflies". No longer ants, no longer creepy crawlies or centipedes. But butterflies. My head lolled as did everyone else's limbs. Breathing calm. Hands warm and nervous. Eyes happily glazed as doughnuts. I have potential, as do they. In my head odds are no factor, odds do not exist. It is solely what I like and what I can try for all the while a smile.

I'm in no real mood to write, but I'm in a mood for back-rubs, late night conversations, intense blushes and uncontrollable giggles, forehead kisses, and then drifting into unconscious bliss. Waking before dawn, keeping the rooms dark and warm, watching as pixels move across the TV in kung-fu action. It's all been waiting, as have I.

Love Is Energy

I was naive to it. To truth. I was naive to the thing I cherished most. Patted down with a shovel I thought it was hidden, away, but like energy it cannot be destroyed, only transfered. And thats what it was, transfered. I felt good, I felt fresh and healthy and now I'm thrown back into the muck I burried it in. A shovel thrown on top of my shoulders as a finger points and tells me to dig. Secretly, when hes not looking I scoop more dirt on top but then he turns and I continue, grain by grain. A ton or three of dirt to remove just to be half way there and already my shoulders ache, my back cracks, my bones are brittle and I starve as I work. I sleep in the dirt, I work in the dirt, I bathe in the dirt. It stains my clothes, my skin, it gets into my ears and my bloodstream carries the dirt all throughout my body. I can feel the dirt crumbs running through my veins and through my heart but still I work in the dirt.

I Lick Butter Off My Fingers

I sit. I wait. I watch what I can without being caught. This morning as I woke up things hit me like steam in the face. What if my manipulation is their manipulation. What if we all are naturally built with the gift to mold things the way we want or plan, but while we are all manipulating things we mess each other up. Like cats fumbling and tripping over each other in greeting the owner, the old woman in a small cute, or not so cute, house that smells of cat piss but she doesn't notice.

I had a dream about a girl who never left his headlights and he fell in love. It was almost the flattering feeling of being stalked for him and for me like watching a movie until I came to consciousness. My eyes clicked and focused in as my phone buzzed and played drums and guitars until a shock was inflicted. What they were dragged by who knows, but my limbs came together like magnets. Quickly I came into action tapping this, typing that, turning this on, this off, stuff this in there, and take this off put this on. I stopped. And it hit me. There is someone else. I'm getting smacked in the face with a baketball and it's coming from him. It could be that, it couldn't. What do I know from silence?

Inflict is generally used with inanimate object. Inflict "takes on"; afflict "takes with".

I'm done. This post is shit. I'm in school so it's not in me to write like I want to. Why? Because society influences me, makes me scared, cower. But it makes me stronger.

Hope For The Worst For The Best

Today I learned how strong my mind really was. As I read status messages searching for information I found it. I found more than what I wanted to find, like finding the treasure box but the gold is mud. The roommate is a girl. It's been four days since the question was posed on his screen and I've been, not eagerly, but curiously waiting. Days don't necessarily drag as they do walk. A simply walk. No hops, no skips, no dancing, just walking. I've considered intervening in the time hidden behind "I'll think about it" but I've lost all confidence. I still presume that it is indeed a matter of his pride in answering but I'll not say much until I know for sure... Which will be never. Josh is indeed correct, I'll never get the answers I'm asking for and even if I do they won't be the ones I want. But what I want isn't nice, what I want is to get the answers to kill it off, finish it all for good. The grand, bloody, drop dead finale. I actually have hope for the worst.

Feather Nujabes

I woke up last night and my skin felt prickly. It was tight like a balloon, tense, all around my bones and what muscle I have. It seemed my entire body was filled with tension and an immense longing, but for what I couldn't be sure. To be a feather? My breathing ceased and as my eye lids were flung back inside my head the monster's grip released and disappeared. Slowly the balloon melted and my skin returned to it's sand and bug state. It was more comfortable than sand and bugs actually. It felt weightless, soft, like I may have been floating. Soft breezes brushed against my skin and I was thrown into a typhoon of my own, higher and higher into the air watching everything below me. I was a feather as I woke up.

Couldn't They Be Butterflies?

Geezeus christ. Theres no escaping. It's like iron bars so close together air can't even get through and as you suffocate you rely on paranoia for answers. Your arms are weak from starvation, your head heavy from exhaustion, but still you troop on fueled by anxiety. Eyes here, eyes there, here and there and here again. Excaping is sleeping, even in sleep theres dream. Visions caused by maximum arousal, paranoia. It's all there. Paranoia is sleep and in dream. Screaming, shouting, all into the pillow in which you dream on. Your eyes are being pulled closer together by tension, by salt like slugs. You yawn and for a moment your body seems to relax until you realize theres eyes. Once again alert you rise, your skin crawling with bumps, your hair on end sending little signals up and down along your back.

Once thought as flattery is know thought as obsession. Still, flattering, still, seclusion is nice. Give it to me. Make them all leave me or set my mind at setpoint. My head feels as if it rotates back and forth like it might be malfunctioning. Even now the computer screen turns in my vision and words grow farther away. I grow sleepier yet but frantic, hectic to find a plan. Hectic. Frantic. Hectic. Frantic. Let those words die in their meaning. Frectic, is what it is. Desperate and impulse are my new companions as I try to find a way to please them and myself, and to get it all off of me. All the spiders. Get them off!

Killing Irony

You'll smack your knee at this one. I ask for a way to relieve stress and I find it in killing mice. Mice. Plentiful, bountiful amounts of mice that inhabit our pantry. Mice that my dog can catch. Mice that Charlie can catch. But more importantly, mice that I can catch that have been eating and messing up our pantry for a while now. Even after washing my hands, or dusting off my clothes, I can feel the mice relatives staring me down, crawling on my back, gnawing through my skin and crawling under my flesh. Even after sanitizing my fingers of rabies, dirt, and mouse blood I find I can't even touch my face without feeling infected.

Infected is what I am, infected my hands will stay until the spree is over, and I can concentrate on once again building my life up, over, organized, under, and where ever need be.

Strain My Body

First mistake, judgment. It's a rule, an impossible one. It's in nature, or human nature. Maybe not the primates.

So potassium, you've relieved what? A twitch? A lack in my system which reveals a little more than an unhealthy diet. My eyes are fixed again and I no longer need a stronger focus but in fact I suffer from a hazier view. Hazy from both my end of the day class and from irony I guess. As I'm bombarded by paper cuts I'll rebel a little more, wanting and needing to sit comfortably in pink, purple, gray, and... whats that, blue? It's almost the shape of a box.

My arms are overcooked noodles as of late.

Slap The Computer

Why I feel to compelled to peel bits of your cheek off and eat them I'm not sure, but I really cannot stand you sometimes and the things you do or say, thinking you're right or that you are justified in anything. I can't let you know because once again you'll interrupt, or never take it. You say men never change but I think it's more women, or no one. Why I'm so choked up over the canceling of these events is not because I wanted to go but because he did, and it would have been a first rather than a never, but what am I to do? A mistake like this, with a time limit, cannot be undone. I can't express to you much of anything not out of fear of your reaction but more my response to your reaction. I'm hoping that some day my plans will work out as they never have.

By god punch me in the throat, it'd go away.

Make It Smooth With PME

Exhaustion will begin to run deep within the creases under my eyes and upon my forehead. Those creases mingle with possibilities and these ones chat about solutions. I could take an iron to my face and they'd still stick around to pester me as I did with plenty much else. My jaw will crack and scrap against everything in my head each time she opens wide to inhale and exhale and hale. When is the last time I felt fresh skin without goosebumps, or a neck without hair on end, or bones that didn't shake and rattle as I slept and walked? When is the last time I felt comfortably cozy within my flesh and meat, so easily chopped. When is the last time I heaved and hoed against crashing waves? And when is the last time I sailed merrily along the silk of an ocean?

When is the last time I slept thoroughly throughout the night dreaming wonderful things of plenty much else?

Willow

"The pour soul sat sighing

By a sycamore tree

Sing willow willow willow willow

Her hand hand on her bosom

Her head on her knee

Singing willow willow willow willow

Her salt tears fell from her

And softened the stones

Sing willow willow willow willow"

More Than Just A Stop Sign

It's obvious I've no idea what I'm doing. Times been racing as I kept my silence and my head begins to spin as I try to get it to stop, to set straight, so I can think, so I can keep you and you and you and you. Theres no avoiding a mess, never has been with me and myself. I try to make you see, to make you understand, so I don't have to discard you but you'll never crack. Not even love helped you bloom. I've tried what I could to keep you around, to do what I wanted since I was clueless to what you wanted, naturally. 

If I could I would grab your face, tell you what I could, tell you that I still needed you, but refrain from any such further intimate touches. I want to be able to comfort you, and you the same for me. I feel a need to, a purposeful like in doing so. It's an unstopped goal but I'm halted. 

Rid Of My Rot

It's been nothing but nightmares this year, nothing but. Before then I had never had but one nightmare and it was fear I felt. Now I get a pang here pang there, pangiddty pang pang panger! I feel my stomach ready to come up, bubbling as it does and forming newly against the inside of my belly skin, red, and sensitive. My arms are like loose springs and my legs only strong enough to drag along. Even when I don't see them they are there as I sleep playing within the wrinkles of my brain and making even the heaviest sleep kill any chance of energy in the morning. I grow exhausted earlier in the nights and I grow exhausted during day, these nightmares constantly tugging, pulling, my hair my stomach, constantly trying and teasing for more bile. I've returned some sleep nothing but a shell of nutrientless, stringy flesh. 

The Nightmare: It was filled with sneakiness but kindness. A smirk, maybe not kind. I snuck through windows, clattering and heaving myself around in attempts to escape a "home". I placed myself comfortably at an unfamiliar computer, but I knew who's it was. As I occupied myself playing various PC games I heard footsteps above me, he was awake. So were others. The group game smoothly down the stairs, his arm around her waist and those two puppy women following in adornment giggling and sighing. I turn in the chair, my side facing him, no eye contact made at all in effort. My eyes like magnets, they want to, but I know better, I know safer. "Hey.." Theres that smirk. I glance, I can't help it. But only for a second to find his eyes down at his shoes as he slips them on, his other hand still holding hers. I nod as he leaves. "Oh shes so into him! Shes going to try something! Isn't she so cute?!" I come to the window and in a flash the two of them are on top of his car going at it like apes. Is he trying? I don't care to find out because I've been hit hard. My entire upper body begins to ache and I heave deeply for any air, all air, but get no air. My stomach is twisting, turning, aching. My left side in absolute pain but trying to get numb, so slowly. I'm having a heart-attack. I float backwards until I'm on my back, everything looking down on me as if I'm in a grave, but I'm simple on the floor writhing around and gripping at my chest, or trying to because those small breasts are in my way. Wheres my heart, wheres that damned thing, throw it out! I want it out! It seems like hours as my heart-attack continues, and probably is because when he returns with her I'm still on the floor. I might as well have been squirming in my own vomit if not for the fact that it hadn't come yet. Waiting was what I was doing, waiting is all I've ever been doing. Waiting with nausea was all I did for him. Let me puke out all I can, puke out all my past and puke out all of his entrails and not mine. Let be puke out his kidney, his liver, his stomach, and let me puke out his heart.

Weight Training

I bring it on myself. I make it an effort too. I want it. I'm tired. I'm outraged. I want more. I can feel it all boiling, all white. I don't want anyone here, or around, or near. You don't want to either, but you won't do anything to prevent me. 

Without the cotton cover, I cry. I cause it all to go away, and I cry. I want it to all go away and then I want it all to rush back but what impression have I left on anything to deserve it? My plan, my plan to make it all go away and then I can go away but something always comes back because I try to make it. I want to stop wanting it, to stop trying to get it back, to be able to keep it away. 

Sammy is all there really, really is. Sammy. But dogs can't love, right asshole? Dogs can't love. Why love someone who doesn't love you, right asshole? Why love someone who doesn't love you. I can't even remember what I just wrote. I can't remember time. If it all went away it would be super easy knowing I don't know how to be. I don't know how to be. Or what I already am being.

It's so close. I can feel it. It makes my stomach tingle and my chest heavy. I need another push, pushes. Many.

Water Off My Shoulders

It's rolls right off like rain down my cheeks. It feels like breathing for the first time. What I'm describing I do not feel. But it's out. How old are my friends? How old are my enemies? When are their birthdays and how have they grown? I couldn't tell you any of that at any moment. Age has slipped the wrinkles of my mind and experience is only remembered in my dreams. When I think about what I have I can only think of what I've thrown out. My exhaustion caused by my retirements so early in the day because I don't desire to contemplate. My mind feels like a yarn ball, some how it is organized but to get to the core, the essence that I need to know, I have to dig through a constant mess. Time is no long part of my life, time has no importance to me as I am. I shovel to find something to hold me, to catch me, but I'm left with only dirt. My mom is grateful, but I'm in a type of despair without my knowledge. I am unaware of myself, and will remain so. I am not grateful. Individual loss is of no weight, but the general term and process with result carries all the mass. Impressions are the tie. The benefit of knowledge. 

I cannot be nice without being who I am not. I suppose my dilemma is I'm not entirely sure of my qualities. In my eyes they are the truth, in others unexplained happenstances. I can only continue. 

Won the War

Connection lost, plug pulled. I've finally won, shes finally given up. I can't believe it took so long. Those small arrogances, the optimism, the narrow-mindedness, it's off the plate. Another freedom for myself to enjoy. 

In Maslow's eyes I'd never reached anything past physiological needs, and hes right. Maslow, you cunning man. Safety has caused me to stop abruptly resulting in the wonderful "gift" of not needing self-actualization, or esteem, or belongingness and love needs. Call it unlucky, I prefer it. It's given me the freedom, the ability to win the war. Maslow as my leading general. And even in this one war that I've succeeded in reaping the award, I've still got plenty of other wars that I'll surely win with time, with the right amount, or should I say lack, of appropriate/positive response. Because we can all point out the weak minded, the low motivation, and the lack of facts. 

If I past safety needs, if I carry on to belongingness and love, and I find my "gift" ceases, then I will know this. Why would you want someone who so readily opposes you? Who so often annoys you? Who so naturally is of no value to you? Someone who in order to make happy you have to lie to about feelings? As I heard some place, some where, why love someone who does not love you back? What is to keep you pulling and pushing in such a situation?

I do know when to give up, only it's not giving up, it's letting go my choice, by force for happiness. It's tossing what does not benefit you, and what you do not benefit, into the trash bin which people try so eagerly to keep clean, so they do not learn. Mine, however, is messy as all can get, but not full, no. 

As I said previously, it's only a deck of cards. I can buy another.

Even Now I Do Not

I was sleeping until I awoke with heartache. She was home and still not a word silked it's way over my lips, no "I love you" no "How was your day". The silent protest brings nothing but salt water drops when you realize how silent the reaction is. Even now it will all calmly wash over my face at it pales and my nose cringes with disappointment. Even now it will all caress my lids and whisper sweet, wrinkled memories of youth and comfort. All the days spent out of home, out of heart, but knowing at any time I can return. But now knowing that I am struck out of home without choice only to watch my home be demolished, burned and never rebuilt, I feel the sudden need both physiologically and psychologically for that home and once rebuilt I feel I won't ever leave, stuck in a mental youth with my thumb in my mouth.

I hear the rush in my ears and bring my face together, inhale deeply and blink until I can see again. My temples hurt as my sleeves are dampened. I beg, I hope, I wish to be caught by her. To wail in her face or at her back and hope some motherly instinct takes over to console. 

Even now she does not.

Hammer To The Cheek Bone

It's been two nights now that my bedtime has been postponed due to sleep running away from me. I'm exhausted and furious at small things. My rats making noise cause me to throw things at their cage just to frighten them into stillness. The smallest urge to find me out causes me to spill like a sliced pool side or sack of jelly. I feel uneasy leaving home. I wake up feeling I ate bad food. I wake up shaky, tired, upset, as if I've slept on rock in winter. 

Even as Jack continues his strumming I am found still yet in a merciless distress. My mind is no where I can detect. Thoughts leave me as they come, quickly and without introduction. 

Stay or leave, either will kill. And in this chair I'll sit till they die and I am rendered safe, alone, and free.

As I anticipate calmly, waiting calmly, planning calmly, I prepare myself for the onrush of that feeling yet to come. As I wait I will degrade my body till it is as weak and frail as reality has led me to be, till I am prepared to build it up again.

Jammed

It's that time of the season again and it's all rushing back at full throttle like a bull with turbojets. Up down up down up down. Tiny things. Sam messed up my bed, I hate him. But in the morning I'll love him. Up down up down up down. A conversation was interrupted and theres a warm spot where I sat in the hallway to moan, groan, and shriek. Up down up down up down. My throat is clogged, my chest covered in goosebumps but boiling on the inside but in the morning I'll be fine. Side to side, left right left right. Knowing you're on the other side of those walls and all I can think is we aren't even related. I'm a roommate with spoils. Now all I do is sway as I wipe my eyes. I'm dizzy with sickness, with fumes and smoke. My stomach heaves ho! Heaves ho! I try not to I try so hard but there it is like puke all over my face! My hair is tied back but am I? Oh no oh no, of course not of course not. I'll run and ramp and scream and shout and stomp my feet and I'll bust my way out! 

But the silly part is is thats just the inside. Exterior-wise you'd never guess a thing.

Outdone

Alright. I had something written before this but now.. I'm just absolutely livid. You don't answer your phone even though your a business woman and will answer it for everyone else even you stupid hick fuck husband. You lie to me about calling a Realtor so we can move away from said hick fuck husband. Then you don't give me the simple favors that I ask, those being a- please pour your coffee into your cup over the sink so it doesn't stain the counters and b- tell me 30 minutes before we go somewhere that we're going somewhere to I can get ready.

You know what, I don't actually give to shits that your my mom, or that you share my blood, or that we're related, I hope you get into some massive car accident and maybe learn something, because it's obvious to me the reason you don't listen is because I'm younger and apparently don't know shit. You're the dumbfuck who married a violent-bi-polar shithead and THEN FUCKING HAD A KID WITH HIM TOO. 

Infact, screw the accident, leave the teaching to me. When I move out, I won't answer your calls, you won't be invited to any wedding that I ever have, you won't hear about your grandchild and won't speak to him/her until you fucking get some common sense. You also will not be coming near me until you divorce your ONCE AGAIN hick fuck husband. 

Grow a brain you fucking cunt.

Omegle

So I've been on Omegle for the past day just talking to random strangers and I noticed something. "Asl" "m or f" "from??". And so I started wondering why people wanted to know and I came to the conclusion that it all came down to two things. A relationship or sex. Why else would age, sex, or location matter? When you have a preference for wanting to know what someone is so you can accept them and move to the next level or deny them and move on to another contestant.

If it doesn't matter, then why when I ask "why does it matter" do you go all irrational and flipshit? Because you're spoiled.

Four Aces

Spades - Travis. Hearts - Ash. Clubs - Justin. Diamonds - Johnny. I've lost my four aces . The four keys to winning solitaire, my game of life. Four people who meant more than pennies to me. Their places are, and will be symbolic in my deck of cards. Spades I always like best, but a spade does what a spade does. It digs. Getting rid of the spade gave me time to fill that hole, and I filled that hole with a heart. I filled a lot of holes with a heart, but even hearts break. Clubs, he certainly knew how to club my head. Club me to death with criticism until I clubbed back with his own club. And diamonds, I certainly liked Johnny more than diamonds. What diamonds are to a woman, Johnny was to me. A woman admired diamonds, kept them close, but diamonds are only shiny rocks. Diamonds are made to show off. Diamonds are made to be loved as an accessory.

All aces that I've sacrificed and will continue to. After all, their only cards. I can just buy a new deck.

Horizontal Dream

Jackie needs to get laid. Period.

Be quiet, Judge!

I'm either getting more irate or Ash is becoming a bigger, more prideful Lion in which I want to beat. It's become incredibly difficult for me to deal with Ash whenever she is either unkempt or excited and I show a different attitude. I'm beginning to feel as if she doesn't respect my qualities as a person and I'll become angrier and more defensive if things continue on. Sometimes I feel as though she takes but when I want to borrow then all I get is a distortion of the face and a no with a pursing of the lips and instantly I feel as if I'm at fault, but I'm growing to know better. I'm growing, period. Growing, period. I feel less apt to hang out with her and have conversations with her because I they generally end in discomfort or fluster.

As Rachel plays guitar though I feel the turmoil dying and I feel like closing my eyes to relax and spend my life in imagination. Still, the thoughts of judgement run through my head as I look at Ash more and more outside of what I've learned about her on the inside and more of the irony of how her exterior is taking over, the expected. I can't remember how I thought of her before our friendship, and maybe I didn't think anything to save it for now because it is all typical of people in general.

I'm going to hop off before wasting too much time.

God Given

I feel a little closer to desperation for life. I horde what people I can and cherish relationships but it almost seems no matter how nicely honest I try to be I still come off as a toying jerk.

I can't write. All I know, is that all I wanted was to stick to being friends but you're self-righteous ass can't take it. It's hurting me and you're acting like you care about my feelings when all you bring up it how much it's hurting you. So in you're own words, "Fuck off."

FisherPrice

It isn't just me, but my brother too, it might as well be the entire country. The breaks we receive in this word of the US are but minimal, tiny, distractions in doing tasks we love, whether it be video games, cleaning, baking, etc. Even young children are thrusted into a world of unfair problems and situations they can't control, conscious or unconscious, aware or unaware. Even at the age of eight I didn't know what options I had to fight back, how can my 6 year old brother know? How can he remember the phrases I tell him? I feel like the ghostly standby for him.Any action I decide to take against flesh is but a step away from clinking metal bracelets.

Lies. Money. Wrath with anger. Laws. It's all part of an unfair system of justice. Those heroes we read about are scarcer than unicorns because real heroes will save you without reaping the reward. Pride shouldn't seep into their ego, just simply kindness.

I don't feel like writing anymore.

A Lightbulb In A Dark Room

I have little work, and no motivation. This must be the norm of others, but not on a Sunday night, the night before school. I feel I have an enemy out there working my strings, making today impossible in my life to cope. I'm being stubborn against myself as it planned. Theres music, but it's the music I listened to when I was sick. Sick in the machine, sick in the core. Music brings up more than just chunks. It brings waves. Is this why I've hardly been eating all weekend? For clear bile? It doesn't burn. I almost want to convulse. I want to jerk in which ever direction. I feel out of order myself, sick. Sick in the machine. Sick in the core.

My Itchy Nose

I find again that my legs are tired. Is it ironic that I am physically exhausted? I think so. At this point you'll find I have a sick love for life irony, and I admit I do. The best irony I find is physically I am not athletic. I do not run very fast and when I try I can feel my lungs on the verge of bursting like a hollow caramel candy under the force of a hammer. However, emotionally I chase. Emotionally, I could run around the world, I could run to the moon and back. I could skip Saturn's rings until they've turned to dust under my feet. My sense of choice is good except on one aspect, who might you think does all the running? Another irony in that I am giving the ride as well. I have the emotional stamina to run like a cheetah however, however, I do not have the pride to let myself do that. I cannot succumb to a pathetic stance on my knees, which perhaps I have already done. It is in times like these that I feel the need to run in the opposite direction, in any other direction, to flee. In fear but not seen to any naked eye, but more so in dignity. Here I am, being again, or trying again, to be the man.

Irony Trumpet

"It's for the best, it's for me." I'll always tell myself that when I do something that purposely inflicts a little pain, or a little of any negative emotion. It is for me, but I have to ask. Where are your words? I see mine. Ironic that my throat hurts.

I Understand Those Five Minutes Now, Mother.

I now better understand the phrase "Time spent alone is time best had." It might not be an official quote, but it should be, for mothers, for teenagers, mostly for women. Every moment I spend doing something it is usually spent doing it for someone else. Homework for teachers, chores for my mom, presents for friends, relaxing for my dog, thinking for bosses. The only real time, I believe, that I have to myself is reading and these minuscule blog posts.

I've attempted being selfish, I just did, and I probably lost a friend. I'm seventeen and I don't yearn for anything. It's the best feeling I've had in years and I'm trying to make the best of it by taking some time for myself to smile, but when I try to explain it or why I'm doing the things I'm doing to someone else I don't feel that they understand. In fact, I know they don't understand because they become frustrated, they become a mirror of my selfishness but to an intense extent.

I'm simply exhausted to the point of tears when I go to the kitchen to clean. I'm exhausted to the point of sleep and rebellion for days spent out of the building that I love learning in. I'm exhausted to the point of being pushed by the smallest winds. I feel like the dead resting in peace as I'm flown in multiple directions by whispers that I care and dare not listen to.

I want mental, emotional, and physical freedom for five minutes.

Sorry for not having a DICK

So disappointment isn't easily hidden. I can practically feel the regret. It showed in court seventeen years ago when you lied to protect your son over your daughter, it showed when you fought years and years to see your son rather than appreciating that you had a daughter that you could see whenever you wished. It shows now when you finally have a son thats all your's and.. well, forget it. I don't want to explain something that can be understood simply by watching and waiting for the emotional result. Maybe it's just me living with my eyes open bigger than my head but I feel some sort of blind side here.

Or maybe it's just another one of those moods..