| Turmoil. |
[Jul. 13th, 2009|10:53 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  anxious | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Where's My Head - Copeland | ] |
Last night, did you go to sleep happy?
I'm fairly sure that I did.
Is it because I spent the evening with you, or because I layed down alone?
I left empty-hearted and full-headed. Worry creasing every inch of my juvenile features.
Funny I should mention my baby face... |
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| Constellation. |
[Oct. 17th, 2008|03:17 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  bouncy | ] |
what's it like up there after dark,
dancing around with your fire ablaze in their eyes?
can you read what they're writing?
a story of hands, and ink-smudged paper;
of feet, and the wearing down of thin rubber soles.
up there burning bright with your sisters in a spoon,
and your brothers in the bow,
can you see the tiny sparks beneath you? |
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| Through the looking glass |
[Aug. 31st, 2008|12:51 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | predatory | ] |
How long has it been since you've been with me?
Or, have you ever?
The winds are sweeping in and taking you away again,
stealing the birds and the sun away too.
I can read about you all I want,
but it will never make you real for me.
I suppose I always knew you were a dream.
My best efforts weren't enough to reign you in.
I ran against the wind, and I kicked down every door in the hallway.
But you're too elusive for doors,
and walls are too thick for me to collapse. |
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| One day. |
[Aug. 8th, 2008|09:45 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | busy | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Skyway Avenue - We The Kings | ] |
Occasionally, I wish the roles were reversed; you listening to my messes instead of me cleaning up yours. Sometimes my ears get tired of cleaning out the trash you leave behind. My mouth gets sick of spitting out all the bullshit you feed me.
I can't forever be your mosquito net. When I'm gone, I hope you get stung. |
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| Eventually. |
[Aug. 5th, 2008|02:53 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | determined | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Head On A Plate - Bayside | ] |
Tear down your towers or let me climb the bricks.
Either way, I'm coming in. |
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| But I'm getting closer. |
[Jul. 28th, 2008|10:15 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  contemplative | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | New Slang - The Shins | ] |
"Give me a boost!" I pleaded, my eyes saturated with false hope. You just shook your head, cracked a smirk, and held out your hands.
But even standing atop your locked arms, I couldn't see high enough. Just an inch further...
"Higher! Please, lift me higher!" I squirmed and tried to make my back as straight as I could so that I could see over the metal barrier.
"I can't lift you any higher, sweetie. You've got to do it for yourself."
And so I slumped against your chest, defeated by the flimsy metal wall between me and the object of my interest.
My hands have always grasped at air; just an inch away from success. |
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| 2AM paranoia. |
[Jul. 28th, 2008|01:29 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | indescribable | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Lua - Bright Eyes | ] |
I used to feel so strong... Does my story measure up?
I wish I had something to show for my sixteen years other than scar tissue and tucked away memories.
I ramble, and I vent, and I never meet a means to end.
I may never understand myself.
But right now, I feel ... infinite. |
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| Full circle. |
[Jul. 10th, 2008|04:33 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  complacent | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | I've Been Dying to Reach You - Anthony Green | ] |
I have a cardboard box. A box full of polaroids, snarled ribbons, and the frayed remains of letters sent in feigned affection. I keep this box to remind me to keep my hands out in front of me; to save myself before my face hits the pavement again.
But I think I might burn this box. And as soon as the last drops of silver halide are engulfed in the flame, my hands will snap back to my sides like the soldier I've always pretended to be.
Except I know that this time when I stumble, I will be ready to dust off the pain and start again. I may bleed, or bruise, or bend. But I will never break.
I'm ready to scrape my knees. |
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| Hand in heart. |
[Jul. 9th, 2008|05:33 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  apathetic | ] |
Sometimes you just can't scrub hard enough.
I want to see your scarf billowing in the wind behind you,
and your hair whipping wildly at your rosy, chafed cheeks.
Fasten that last button, tie the sash tight.
Nothing can break that fort. |
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| The nightlife. |
[Jul. 2nd, 2008|11:31 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | accomplished | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Nineteen - Tegan & Sara | ] |
"Cha-chunk...cha-chunk...cha-chunk..." the gears on my aging wall clock shift menacingly. I'm not quite sure what or who it aims to terrorize on a normal day, but on this particular night that clock has targeted me and has excellent aim.
As I sat scrawling in my marble composition notebook by the flickering light of late night television, the only thing I can hear is that incessant, monotonous ticking. The man with the large chin is introducing an indifferent indie band behind me, but I can't hear their tambourines or tom-toms. My sister is warbling loudly on her cell phone, to yet another "old friend" obsessed with homicidal clown music, about how she "just can't take it anymore", but I can't hear that either. All I can hear is the ticking.
Some time passes and my favorite nighttime personality, the Irish one with the blue styrofoam backdrop, begins his monologue. But I can't appreciate his lesbian jokes because all I can hear is the ticking.
The noise flies against my eardrums and rings nonstop in my cerebellum.
"The only thing to end it will be sleep," I suppose. But I can't slip into that so easily. And I'm stuck with that relentless ticking and my insomnia.
My eyes are straining from searching for the wide-ruled blue lines in the low 12" television glow. They're straining and they're tired, but they won't give in to slumber. In the back of my head, I recall that I haven't taken my medication tonight. But I can't bring myself right now to extend my arms and take two puffs of life in the form of compressed air.
Morgan Freeman's voice seeps momentarily into the pauses between the clock's ticking, and I vaguely hear the page of my notebook flip over to the next. I can see there's a commercial on the glowing blue screen for the newest, and surprisingly heartwarming, Disney/Pixar film, but I can't focus long enough to recognize the robot's futuristic wailing. I can't sleep, I can't hear, and I can't puff the steroids that may add an extra thirty seconds to my life when I'm 76 and my husband is passing away of heart disease. I don't mind the latter two, but the insomnia is just damning.
The book I finished reading just this morning slips off the nightstand and startles me. This is a result of my feet kicking madly in an attempt to rid myself of my confining bedsheets. My notebook is filled with comma-less run-ons, and I really need to rest.
So I stand on my navy blue bedspread, reach towards the ceiling, and pluck down the source of my sole and relentless irritant. I fumble with the battery pack, but eventually emerge victorious with two double A's resting in my palm.
As the house band butchers the Clash's "Rock the Casbah", I surrender to my eyelids' plea for sleep. And all sound ceases; the gears shift no more. |
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