floop

the point is

now i can't find him anymore

because i don't know

where i am

sorry for the discontinuity

Sweats. Sore throat. Hair tie gone. Ponytail crimp. Tissues. Trash on the desk. Dry hands.

Cold, cold, so cold.

Surely this is how dying feels like.

boombox

the kind of love you could only get from a guy who'll sing for you even if he sucks.

courtesy of xkcd

ugly souls

Sometimes, I dislike being the standout point.

What happened to her?

I don't know how to answer you. I have long since wanted the veracity of acrylic paint, but watercolors fail me. There are those that know how to color in the blanks exceptionally well -- I was never one of them. I pick at the pages like a mindless child, one who knows not the reach of her dirty hands that speak so proudly of being, of existing. I'm sure, there is a hint of should have in every success, and I do not deny it. It's only with the most pretentious of denials that I fall under the list of victims who go through a sort of schizophrenia, metaphorically, of course, on a daily basis. When it has become this easy to blur my eyesight as to make the world fall under a bokeh lighting system, I tend not to care. A sense of peculiar fascination has taken over the multifaceted features of tears that wet the lashes, the kind that clumps under singularity because suddenly, believing is seeing. Period. Period. Comma. And these conventions I'm in love with, what am I to them? It has become so painstaking to realize that I can only excavate the droplets of ecstasy in intangibility, and I can't say for sure since when I've had this birthmark on my heart. I have been known to walk with her head higher than what should be above all else, when in fact the soul's laments are seeping into the cracks at my feet. I don't need the attention of paramedics for me to discover the invention suppressed beneath the illnesses. I don't know what it is, but don't fix me. I'm not broken. I'm broken. I'm something of the mediocrity that never has its say. But what is to matter? Everyone only wants, a sympathetic sort of cynicism, and the pressures are too demanding for me. It wrecks the reason for my I, but it's not a union I seek. 

It's exciting, not because the thrill of death is a step and a pebble away, but because I know how conspicuously fear can repel the assonances of my journey with a particularly contemptuous gravity.

diversion

 a little funny for the day.

"baby, you have 243 bones in your body, want another one?"

thank you kathy for your wonderful input.

i'd rather

taming a wild cat

has never been this difficult.

i've chased it down

a thousand miles and back,

but sometimes,

i'd rather wait.

impatience has long lived its virtue

and it couldn't matter less

what faulty lines i've had to cross,

because it's a wild thing, 

i've noted.

and a wild thing does,

what a wild thing will.

it's taken a while to realize, 

granted,

but the reminiscences

that have long left their trails behind,

are ones of fields that coaxed infinitely tall grasses

and the obstinate lovers

that basked in the bareness of such

honeysuckle-phased earth.

lime shine

some things are going to make sense, others aren't.

regress

Really? Lil' Wayne, Justin Beiber, Jonas Brothers, Miley Cyrus? Autotuning?

Please.
Mind you, I am a huge fan of some of the artists in here.

But what's happened to this?

This, is music.
I am appalled at how much music has degraded.


On a side note, I have donated to Haiti, even if it was only a few dollars. Skip that sugar cookie for a week, and you got yourself some spare change for some change.

potato, tomato

what have we done?

when words die

Dear 571 *** ****,


I wish you knew the kind of warmth you placed in my heart tonight.
"Today is the tomorrow we worried about yesterday."




The other me is still here.
Tugging, impatiently at the sleeves of a child not yet mature, begging, imploring. When the heart slips off the loose folds of my sweater and cracks onto the concrete below, I will not fear. Because I once loved, and my intentions, there were none; pure as it was, I find it a fortunate accident that the cardiovascular muscle thu-thumps, beating to a tune I never heard, because I was so deaf. So blind. So immune, for the moment.


And that's alright with me.

the show must go on

The End

the book declared.

"But not for us" 

he had written.
Lightly, but surely.

A thousand more days couldn't ease the pain.

red

It's an endless cycle of shit.

transfers

i wondered what it'd be like to swallow a sneeze,

so i did.

my belly did a little flip,

and there stayed a bubble of air.

pop!

i wish it had said.

but it remained quiet,

content with mr. esophagus and mrs. carrot.

numerous, mrs. carrot's, may i add.

what holds me to my words

But of course, it's 2 already.  Enjoy.


You wrote me a letter.


It's beautiful, of course. Every word, has its scent of rawness, and I forget, for a while, the point you're trying to make. You never meant for me to see. I never meant for myself to see, either. So why do I keep reading? Why am I shifting through the pages of your HB leaded handwriting? I don't know. I don't know.


Five minutes later, it hits me.


It's ugly, of course. Reality is always far cruder, far more haphazard, far more hateful. Diffident, but, hateful. I hear myself laugh, and I wonder why. I really have gone mad.


It used to be, that you wrote to me on scented paper. Flower petals laced the bottoms of those envelopes, and you Sealed With A Kiss every single one of them. Your lines were endearingly crooked, and you dotted your i's with smiley faces. Every single one of them. I hardly knew how to contain the sort of bubbly, fantastic cage of butterflies you unleashed in my heart.


But they're all dead now, no doubt about that.


Except for one! It still lives. It flutters, weakly, forcefully. But it's trying to adjust to the cadavers of its former lovers, the yellow tiger patterns that had glowed with such intense fervor. 'It's trying to escape,' I try to tell you. 'It wants to be with you.' 


And one day, it did. It found its way through a web of capillaries and arteries and all those other things that I care not for, and found its niche on the tip of your finger. I remember, you didn't know what to do with it. It was so battered. So hideous. So lonely, lost. I thought you might shoo it away, put it on a nearby daisy, something. But instead, you told it, 


'You're lovely.'


Since then, I haven't been able to let go of you.

so

why
do i
still
feel
this


way
.

eeny meeny miney moe

who is this, that we see?

our dreams tread, mercilessly, upon the shadows

whose faults we have seen, not,

and the grungy sidewalks, their velour faith

escaping the dentures of the creases in our foreheads.

and reticence, jettisons, manifestation

of all the lexicons irregardless in their manner;

a conduct, deportation,

so what of it?

if it be the paroxysm that fill the lungs,

there is every right in the soul to seek out its sword.

rsvp

ceaseless,
ceaseless.
the precision along the lines,
the contours, the ballads, heaving, leaving,
maybe,
maybe. and up the bridge of her nose,
over the articulated
hairline and black, gossamer lashes
in a syncopated flutter. flutter
   and another argumentary shrill.

shameless

I am so tired of having to turn to a page and scream like the cynic I am. Is this pride? Too much confidence in my own ability to be, as a being, as an embodiment of to be? Is that it? 

Or perhaps I have my reasons to be accusatory.

Stop it. Stop copying my words. Stop plastering your fake, thesaurus-ed words over mine. Do you not know, that a purple headband and pink ruffles can never go together? What is it that gives you the right to claim your aspirations, inspirations, whatever-the-fuck-spirations, as, well, yours? My vehemence does not reflect, truly the sort of emotions you must hold. So stop it. For my sake and yours. There is enough brain power in your diseased, cloned head to generate more than revisions of what I have produced, of my heart, from the zeal in my typist fingers and the lone body dwelling in my head.

STOP.

If at any point, you questioned yourself of my blame, then you are very well to be blamed. There is no reason to your sentences. What you cannot achieve from my words, I have. I am the sole owner of whatever it be that allows me to crush upon these tiny letterings of a language. You? Save the world? 

Since when did Robin weave himself a red cape out of such pathetic desperation?