A little bit ago, a friend of mine sat me down and had a talk with me about what I’m doing with my life. I needed the talk, but what came out of it was a realization that I have far to many contingency plans and I kinda don’t like that. Any-who, I’ve been left with deciding a lot things, and writing kinda helps, so here we go.
Sue me, but I’m still looking for my something to celebrate. The shivered space between fingertips pushed some sort of button that made it possible for me to say “I don’t know,” and I’m kinda okay with that. I’m through threading needles to sew up more of my loose-ended, self-prescribed, definitions of success. I’m done peering through these button holes to try to look at my impending after teenage years. I’ve done enough running from what I love in my life. And to tell you the truth, I stutter when ever I start to care to much. I place the wrong accents on syllables when I become passionate. I use to tell myself when I was little, the reason my hand writing is so bad is because my mind had so much love for thinking, that my hands couldn’t keep up with the excitement. I thought, one day I’ll be able to make the hats on the tops of my ‘fives’ like my father does, with one clean finite slash that trails off into grainy space. The air in the room has matured, but my mind still loves to run faster than my heart can keep up. Over the years, I’ve gotten really good at confusing indifference and sadness, which is why it looks like I stop caring when my most important things leave me. I’ve started shutting the windows to stop my baggage from fleeting away from me. I’ve searched for something to celebrate for to long and I need to stop. I already know what I love.
I’m freaking out a little bit because some of my work is going to be PUBLISHED.
I SHIT YOU NOT!!!!!
I just got the Email and I am freaking the fuck out and I’m crying with happiness hardcore in the school library at 3 AM, people around me are getting a little concerned, but I don’t give a
chainsaw! I’M JUST SO HAPPY!!!!!!
Thanks guys for the support and the outlet.
I need a better heater in my room because I just wrote this strictly because my heater sucks. Also I hope someone sees the symbolism I wrote into it and its not just a free write about me freezing my balls off
Lower the music with a soft bass, where the treble will never rise and overpower. This is where my mind will be. Send me my someone to hold in the night, someplace where the chill won’t get to us. Sketch in my bough the sounds of the radiator that mummers in the corner. The dull tapping that keeps me up in the night, this is always how the house will settle. Wrap the quilt round the window sills to make the den warmer because comfort will thaw the home faster than any heater could. I do not want the artificial warmth, I desire the coals from after the fire. Keep out the mist but let the drizzle come to the window to make the vision from those on the inside blur. Rust any regrets from the pipes because now is so warm, and I like it that way. Make this flat into my summer home, tan my skin so I can feel warmth envelop me. Let it keep me warm, the way I thought flannels would. And let me go to bed because this is how I want to go out. Warm.
I wrote this one for me. I had a rough night and I needed to remind myself what I believe in.
There will come a time, you’ll see, with no more anxieties. We were all made to begin something. Don’t get distracted on the ignorant, but still take advise because no one likes/is a know-it-all. Strive for a change when you get tired of something and become fascinated with your new hobby. Always notice what is done well, and give complements when they are due. Do not stop and pat yourself on the back just yet, for me at least that’s when when I say good job the work gets sloppy. We are all allowed our opinion and allowed to ask questions and if someone says otherwise tell them to fuck off. Critiques are always meant in your best favor, but if the intent is ill, that’s when you get to shake it off and call in as much salt as we want. I am always placed where I need to be. There has never been I time where I fooled someone into a better rank, I earned that spot. For a good reason. If I do feel as if I lied my way to gain my position, I will lie to myself until perception becomes my reality. I’m a good person. But if I’m not, I’m still a hell of a liar. I will make things good, I’m not going for perfection, but still something good.
So an old friend of mine found out I was writing and it kinda pissed me off. She said I shouldn’t be writing because I will not be good at it. This seems to be said about most things, particularly whatever is new. ”Writing is for the strong of mind,” she said, “the dedicated, and proud, and educated, and symbolic, and hopeful, and not you.” I have the same amount of experience as those who came before me at the same moment they started. We are all equal at our preface. Let me have my mistakes, trials, symbolism, malapropism, poetic license, time, and success. Let me have my beginning. I need a new escape and hopefully this one won’t try to kill me like last time. I would like a little less condemnation, please. It could just be my spitefulness, but I promise I will keep writing as long as the pretentious attitude holds fast. So don’t worry guys, I will be here for a while.
My Love, I do not understand how you are wary of God’s existence because I don’t know who else could build the sculpture before me. My messiah complex might be going a little wild, but I will say ‘Love’ to you every time you don’t want to hear it. Every time you see the glare of the world, I need you to read this as loud as your mind will let you. I will love you. That is not a deceleration, it is a promise. You see Love, they say that when we cannot express our ourselves past speech, we sing. And I am telling you Love, my world can’t help but to dance because of the amount of music framing your aura. You intoxicate me into using those silly terms of endearment because I enjoy letting the world hear the lullabies spring from my lips and claiming you as mine. But when I lose you, as men have promised me I will, I need you to keep dancing. It doesn’t have to be with me, but you need to dance. The melody may begin to lack in intonation or become a painful staccato, but I need you to hear it. I need you to sway with it, and keep your eyes open to the experiences, arms open and ready to sing. I need you to dance with the melody you expel even when your fingernails tire from playing the same keys over and over. I will promise you Love, we will return to the dance as long as you accept the world. You have to keep your eyes open, my Love, because you will always see someone dancing around you, asking for a partner.
I wrote this and took a lot longer to write than I am willing to admit. Not really sure what happened with one. It was originally suppose to be about how I stayed up late because I drank to much coffee, but this happened instead. Well whatever, happy Fall.
When I think of claustrophobia, I press my hand to my chest, so I can feel my accelerated heart beat. I like to know when my subconscious is panicked because I normally cannot single out what causes my discontent. I will go out of my way to overdose of caffeine, so my heart will spur and my mind will become flush with new interpretations of the quilt I wrap myself in. As of late, my caffeinated clarity has forced me to notice which of the flower print cherubs waltzes among the first class. She was the silhouette that cut the string around my finger and allowed me to forget why the lungs shouldn’t try new intoxicants. She shepherds my thoughts and capsizes my anxieties when painted into the room. Even Freud would argue that she Is the reason why memory is constructive because I clearly recall the carol that shot from her aura as she took off her veil at the masquerade. It sounded like the tension released from a dissonant chord. She emulates the purity of the first snow, My God, how her eyes opened to force my composure to wavier, she became a guardian of the heroines who died from broken hearts. A hallucinations of love with each curve bound in crimson silk. She became the new drug I took to demand a buzz from my nervous system. And when my high transpires, my OCD takes hold I begin to notice how we always maintain a distance of five intimate secrets, stare for no less than four awkward moments, and I’m beginning to pick up on how three of the five men she flirts with is not me. There will come a time when she will ask why I pull my hand to my chest when we speak, and I will allow my pride to yield and Inform her. When my mind grows anxious I place my hand on my heart, so I will learn what I need to fear. You see, my discontent flourishes when my panic attack pinpoints thoughts of losing you.
I needed a release, so here I am writing for me. I normally write for someone else, but this one is for me.
My liquor will not put the writings on the walls to bed. Her jurisdiction harbors the unease that makes the pen move in ugly cursive. This is what causes the branch like axon terminals to misfire. Over consumption of desire and over indulgence on stimulation. This is what causes the tree to fall scratching unprotected arm. The preterit is not far enough away for me to forgive the gravity for letting it fall, but we do not live in the preterit. The preterit is finished, but we are a habit who lives on repeated transgressions. We dance in the imperfect. This is a beautiful form of pres-que-vu. The purest thought that never lasted long enough for the nerves to finish transmitting. We understand the complexity of cinnamon and chocolate, but we will still ask why all dreams can’t come true. I normally don’t end on negativity, but I had a bad day and could use a hug.