Art isn't dead, it's endangered.

art is something dreamed up with

passion,

created and cultivated with

talent,

and sent into the world with enough

opinion

to be
thought-provoking

this is what loneliness sounds like

the pulse of my heart
is the
beat
in the wordless song
of
silence

My mind is infected - so I make my thoughts my focus instead of ignoring them

Silence beats out a steady, drumming tattoo,

pulsing.

Two hearts keeping time

a disjointed rhythm of

intaking gasps.

the pressure of skin on skin

(seductive,

enticing)

the taste pervades deep enough to linger

(inebriating and

erotic)

His fingertips trace patters on her back,

her waist,

her shoulders,

leaving fiery trails burned into her flesh in their wake.

(sensual,

breathtaking)

Eyes meet and slip into a red darkness,

lips connect slightly tilted, off-center, leaving flaming teasing imprints, leaving delirious.

Bodies align in the glow of desire,

where attraction

meets passion.

(addicting,

consuming.)

11/11/11

Still, emotionless
before a background of blank buzzing
unexpectedly,
the pen feels compelled to move.

its motion betrays thought.

Somewhere, long ago, a boy sat in a room and sung the words "I've never felt so alone in my whole life."

Here, now, I can feel those words swimming around my skull.
Flecks of white apathy shiver downward from a grey sky of ice to cover an earth frozen over with eternal longing.

Not caring is better,
but it isn't any easier.

I sit with a heavy heart
and stare at the sun
willing it to descend.

Danny and Mikey at work said they want to dive into my eyes and swim in them because they look like the ocean apparently.

take me
take me
take me back

take me back to the night

when you pressed against me,
moving me in time with you

when your lips on mine
and your hands on my hips
were all that mattered

when time was frozen for a few hours

when one night lasted a lifetime

when the music played so strongly
I could feel it pulsing through my body
and it wove the soundtrack of my happiness

I can tell things are bad when he says Whatever

formula for figuring out the probability that a girl has given a blow job: (according to Ben)
her attractiveness from 1-100, times how many boyfriends she's had, factor in her age and how long each of these boyfriends lasted, and do some other dividing type stuff, and you get the percentage.
Cool story bro.

formula for poetry:
what you're actually feeling + pretty words to dress it up and make it feel beautiful + some nice metaphors and possibly imagery divided by the the chance that someone will actually give a fuck.

if only I knew the words to use
to tell him...

a bright splash of color in his hands
a smile plays his mouth
as he hands the color to me.
The best part before and since, in a day of blank unobtrusiveness.
of grey.

my heart reaches out to it
yearning to feel some of the color itself

but finds
only cold and unyielding.

I wish I knew
the words
to use
for
this
feeling.

A sick spinning sinking,
falling out of the time I cling to
desperately, futilely.
Lost.

Please don't let me.

Green shirt, green hat, green nails, green pencil.

why is it always so goddamn hard for me to find a pencil in my backpack? (excuse my language)
Last year I had a pencil stuck in my hair every day. Now my hair is down.
Cheese and rice, I'm supposed to be a writer!
Supposed to be.

Tongue face
=P

it's not cold exactly but too dark and windy and rainy to make biking any fun.
I have a book to pick up and fines to pay but I find myself like always drawn to the young adult room, libraries are places far too distracting. I wander between the shelves, fingering the books with the glossy covers with wide-eyed girls and titles that scream I AM UNIQUE AND DIFFERENT and pretending to be books unlike any you've ever read that will change your life!
when the truth is most of them are badly written and they're all the same.
I shouldn't be lingering here but I can't help myself.

Hiding in a place that's always promised safety and seclusion and salvation from the scary outside world of reality. The world of things to do and decisions to make and dreams to strive for? I prefer it in here. The words are close and warm, and dreams sit already waiting for you on a shelf, nestled in with their brothers and anticipating the moment when you will reach up with expectant fingers and pluck one from its place and hold it close and breathe it in and bite into it and let the juice run down your chin.

Dreams are within arm's reach in this quiet, muffled, green-carpeted world, and making them come true is as simple as choosing one and finding a comfortable place in which to devour it.
I could live in a library.
Specifically this one.

I had an idea,
I was going to write something.

but I got distracted and I forgot...

Priority

spread your fledgling wings wide, raise your head to the sun.
the sky is an immeasurable, unbroken azure.
there is a favorable wind today,
let it ruffle your feathers, feeling the breeze.
it's warm.

feel secure and safe, although you
perch precariously on the edge of the world.

today's the day.
today you fly.

Below you, an
endless abyss stretches,
promising pain.

fear not the fall, darling,
for security is all around you

curl your toes in anticipation.
let the comforting warm wind lift you from the face of the earth, that you might be liberated of its confinements.
The wind will bear you safely aloft.
the wind will set you free

-

but you must believe. have faith.

it's all around you now, little one
fear not.
your wings are spread,

take flight.

I Wish I was Home with Harley

The world
is much too big.

Falling into eternal shifting grey,

red blood on white snow.

Everything depends on the perspective.

Spinning gently out of reality,

everything is false in this slow, morpheus world.
everything is bright.

There is no music here.

Hearts and Hands and Mouths and Minds

bitten

raw

unkempt

glowing

"She dropped her shyness like a nightgown, and in the liquid glare of sunlight on old boards she held up her hands - as if, in the terror of the unknown, she had at last understood that she was beautiful. In her way."

-Wicked by Gregory Macguire

endlessly varied

the calm twilight shines falteringly
on the serenity of a night spent stargazing,
feeling the bites of mosquitoes,
and pretending the grass isn't as itchy as it is.

Drink the soothing draft of drowsiness,
drift off into a world unclouded,
shrouded,
with the vapors of reality
while a heart-shaped moon shivers
in a sky of ink.

it's nothing,
escape.

The chill of dark corners,
roads not taken,
and lingering night.


it is not what it seems to make you believe,
but an opposite,
a mirror,
a reflection.

A hazy purple sky shields my sun, coating the world in grey and black.
I wish it would return.

1) A winter of endless Wednesday afternoons, a different, snow-covered world around us, somehow warmer than any other February day I've ever known.

2) A spring of endless Tuesday mornings, where meaning falls in to place with a weightless sense of gravity.

3) A summer of endless dark nighttimes, when the world is small and dimly lit and brightly colored, full of sound and music and motion and smiles, when the world is bodies moving to a beat, when the world is spun of love.

4) An autumn of endless Friday evenings, with so much before, spent discovering and exploring in a city of lights and in the corners of young hearts, always finding something new, never losing track of place.

It's not as though the sun goes out, but hidden in clouds of solitude, it's not quite as warm a day.

I've Given Up On Being Poetic Tonight, I'll Just Be Honest.

(I love you)

Shh...
pretend I didn't say it.

let me tell you instead
some other things
I love...

I love your voice.
I love your smell.
I love the way you hug me.
I love the things we talk about.
I love when we just sit with each other

just sit silently

I love when you make me laugh,
I love when I can make you laugh.
I love when you talk about your music.
I love that you understand. I love that you care.
I love the way you say my name, like it's something special and sacred and yours.
I even love how you drive.
I love how you speak, how you think, I love what you do, I love who you are.
I love that you're the only one

who ever makes me feel like I matter

to them, more than anyone else.

So now you know.
Everything I love.

Post 200 from This Account

9/1

Time passes slowly in a desolate place
but freedom from its constraints promises nothing.

what is the purpose of living?
To seek out what meager substantiality we can find,
secure a place in moderate comfort and security
until the time comes when we are uprooted
sprinkled periodically with the waters of pain,
only to shake it off like an animal and search for a new place
and on and on

years passing
in monotony

until our skies turn a perpetual
black

and we learn the answer
to the
greatest
secret.

I was told I don't write anymore.
the truth is I have no thoughts left worth writing.
This place drains the mind of consciousness, awareness,
until I am left with barely a grey stripe of perfect paint
where my thoughts used to
be scrawled,
unending.

I sit
and stare at this grey.
Waiting for someone to give me a pen.
My hand is empty.
there are no words on the walls of my mind.
No more writing;
just grey.

I find libraries far too distracting, I can never ever say the right thing

Don't speak little girl.
Swallow the words rising up in the back of your throat -
feel them travel back down into your body where they will sink
and dissolve
and not be recovered.
Whatever you do,
don't let them leave your mouth,
pass your lips,
nestle into waiting ears,
burrow into a mind.

Anything and everything you say
can and will be used against you later.


Are we friends?
I wish -

I can tell my friends anything without fear of them
having a mood swing mid-conversation
or,
begin thinking bad thoughts.

You think enough of those already
I dont need to give you more.

Don't speak, Macy.

And it's hard to say how I feel today...

If you're ever feeling empty...

or lost without meaning...

or trapped in darkness...

or scared of the future...

or alone in this life...

I'll do my absolute best,
but I can't promise I'll always know how to
fill you up
or find you again
or set you free to the light
or comfort you right
or show you that you're not...

but I can promise
that no matter what
just look to the left
and I'll be there

feeling just as
empty
lost
trapped
scared
alone

with you.

And we loved a love that was more than love

I want you to write me something.

I'm a writer,
you're a writer.

Difference, darling; I'm an author. You're a poet.

teacher.
lover.
friend.
partner.
fellow artist
soulmate.

I don't write about myself,

why would I?

I'm not that
interesting
original
unique
opinionated
important

You make me feel like I am sometimes,
though

"But our love was stronger by far from the love
of those who were older than than we-
of many far wiser than we-
and neither angels in heaven above
nor the demons down under the sea
can ever dissever my soul from the soul
of the beautiful Annabell Lee."

Your mouth empties its words into my all too willing ears.
Your arms become a cage I am all too willing to be trapped by.
Your lips, a gift that mine are far too willing to accept.

Eyes

hands

mouths

Love is a connection.

Love is a mental illness,
but that's just proof
that it's real.

Time ticks on
and no one knows better than me how quickly things can change especially with you

But change applies to people too.
and neither of us are the same person we were when we first met.
in several extremely important ways.

It's not surprising people spend their lives waiting for this.
And I'm incredibly lucky I didn't have to.
We're perfect

don't disagree

we're perfect darling
just for the fact that
we're beautifully imperfect.

I reach out in the darkness
knowing I'll feel you there
beside me.
forever.
never leave.

Art Is Dead

There's something out there that no one can name but everyone can feel.
The sensation of losing and being lost.

Happiness is a choice, moron, go ahead and make it.

She think she's struggling but she's doing fine.
He thinks he's in pain but it's self-induced.

Not every word you write is golden you stupid bitch, not everything you say is art.

All art comes from pain - untrue.
the best art comes from pain - arguable.

I don't write when I'm happy.
Happiness doesn't need expression, you can just feel it.
I'm not an idiot -
not blind -

I can see as much as you, I just can't talk as intelligently.
Doesn't mean I don't think.
Oh that's right, I forgot.
You say I don't.
95%

My boyfriend thinks the world is dying
He thinks he has to be miserable.
He thinks he's so much older and seen so much more.
He thinks he's so wise and and I'm so naive.

He's not always right.
But don't tell him I said that -
he doesn't listen to me anyway.

I write when I'm upset or thinking.
Negative emotions and thoughts need to be let out -

swallow them and you'll end up like me, searching for meaning in a world that's been drained of it for me.

Fuck you.
I smile because there's not a reason not to.
I dance in the rain.
I write my own meaning and enjoy both day and night, ice and fire, company and solitude.

June 19th

If you were a colour, what colour would you be?
Not what's your favorite colour, not what colour would you want to be,

what colour would you be?
I think Cece would be blue.
David would be red.
Kevin, grey.
Babydoll would be silver glitter.
Me, I'd be green.

There's reasons behind all of these.

Blue is a colour that does not occur in nature very often. It's rare. There's no naturally blue food; the occasional blue flower, blue butterfly, blue fish; all exceedingly precious because they're rare. it's a hard colour to find in the natural world. You don't come across it very often. There's always the sky, of course - but that's way out of reach for most people. The sky can be many shades of blue, all of them gorgeous. People lay on the grass and dream about someday flying in the sky - the ratio of people who ever reach that beautiful blue is much less than the people who stare up at it wishing and dreaming about it.

Green on the other hand is everywhere. It's the most natural and common colour on the earth. Stare at the world from space; besides clouds, all you'll see is water and green. Green is common. It's a mixture of blue and yellow and often ends up getting stuck with gross labels, like green with envy or green as sin. It's not hard to find and although it plays a big part for the planet (Go Green and all that shit!) it's replaceable, it's ordinary, it's definitely a surplus. Anyone can go outside and get something green. It's average.

Red has its own measures of labels. It's versatile. It represents so much across so many stories, fictional and otherwise. The majority of the world's flags include the colour red. It's a symbol for, among other things, power. It can represent courage, valiance and intelligence and honesty, but it can also represent evil. Voldemort's eyes, Darth Vader's light saber. Cunning and craft. The colour of blood; such a twisted symbol. A good thing but often connected with death and pain in the common mind. The colour of communism; the colour of the universal medical symbol, the red cross; the colour related with fire and hell and most forms of Satan; the colour most associated with love, and warmth, and cherry twizzlers. The colour of hope; the colour of doom. A mixed message. No matter what, though, if something's red, it usually stands out.

Grey is a naturally unoffensive colour. When something's got to be outwardly neutral, you paint it grey. Grey is often mistaken to be a depressing colour, like grey skies, or a boring colour, like describing the world in shades of grey to infer the feeling of monotony. Hell people can't even decide if it's grey or gray, both are in the dictionary and neither contradict spellcheck. And why? Because it's neutral. People often don't take the time needed to appreciate the beauty of the colour grey, in my opinion. It's a colour that maybe has more richness to it than it seems. Maybe that all other tones of it are really deep, or at least stimulating at a further observation. Grey is more meaningful than people understand. And if used correctly, in the proper dosage, grey can be the most extraordinary colour.

Silver glitter is something unusual. I don't know if it officially qualifies as a colour because there's no colour option for it on blogspot font, but for the designated party it's all that fits. I'm sure said designated party would have preferred orange or purple, but neither are quite as accurate as silver glitter. The thing about glitter is when you have something silver and glittery, you've taken something pretty and made it gorgeous and eyecatching and in the right light, filled with every colour you can think of. Paint it with glitter and it will stand out. Paint it with glitter and no one can take their eyes off of it. Paint something with silver glitter and you've got something almost too beautiful and delicate to touch, for fear it might shatter under your hands. The problem with things sliver and glittery is that they have to be taken care of, because of not, that coating of sparkle and shine might chip off. Might get damaged. And there's nothing quite as heartbreaking.

If you were a colour,
what would you be?


(Hey Babydoll, I didn't forget like your dumb boyfrannnn - Happy Birthday gorgeous :) I love you infinity on high)

Fingertips Playing The Sidewalk Melody as I Confidently Hide From Myself :)

Today I turned 16 years old.
And I feel no different from the way I felt yesterday.
The thing about birthdays is
they don't change anything.
They're just a way of marking the years.
Just a measurement.

It's what happens between birthdays that really counts for something.



The day itself?
Irrelevant.
It's really not any different from any other day.
Who goes all the way downtown to see a movie and then comes home?
Me that's who, because it's my birthday I do what I want.

Well not really.
but that's my excuse.

So,
expectations - were they lived up to?

Do you know what album I got yesterday?
The Enema of the State.

Do you know what song I heard for the first time today?
Going Away to College

change or growth -
should I be scared or excited?
How will things be different and why
am I thinking about it now?




Birthday 2011:
The one thing
I didn't know I wanted
but find myself
not missing, but regretting,

"Happy Birthday, Ninja of Thunderrrrrrrrrrrr,"
sings the brown-eyed boy over
the glow of candles
stuck in the green frosting
of the cake he made me.


I'm not ninja of thunder
red haired wonder,
brilliant mind,
one of a kind,
writer's heart,
and that's just the start -

anymore.

Happy birthday Macy.
Things are being hidden from you.
And you know what they are.










Hey slut,
I love you beans, cheese, lamebrain, co-captain of our little failboat.
and in a month and two days,
you'll get a blog and an epic letter on your wall (:
My pocket is full of sour skittles,
ya want some?
I'll see you soon ma cheri.
Muah <3

Health Class 2010

Inked-over stars and painted-on moons,
white tears of life the storm clouds will cry.
Endings bring joy to those who can see,
time is the only one never to die.

You don't belong with your head in the sky,
I don't belong with my feet on the ground.
He doesn't believe in happy endings;
she'll wait forever, not making a sound.

Dream beyond dream, the stars will untie
and the colors run down to pool in the sky.
The witch sings the hourglass trapped in his eye,
time is the only one never to die.

The Irony of Being Hit

the pain only last for a second or two before the world spins upside down
and then somehow I'm on the grass

and the realization of what just happened sinks in.

there's faces bending over me -

my elbows are bleeding and my ankle really hurts but I just keep saying I'm okay, I'm okay, DONT call anyone, until they let me stand up.

It's a little bit ironic.
because nothing has ever happened to me before when I walked alone at night.
except for the one night that I had to assure someone who was worried that I would be fine.

so I won't tell you not to worry anymore, I guess.
but your red butterfly is fine,
and she loves you.



my ankle hurts (>.<)

The Third Best Friday

Your gorgeous brown eyes are the last thing I see
before they disappear.

Then I know you're close
but I'm alone.

I

exit

the normal sphere
of time.

my vision is blurring.
my whole body
is

t i n g l i n g

and I want to ask
how are you doing that?

how are you doing that?
how are you doing that?

but at the moment
I can't bring my mouth to speak.

it's all I can do
to make sure it keeps breathing.

inhale oxygen
exhale sparks.

For My Babydoll

If you're ever talking and my eyes start to wander,
it's not because I don't care.
Its just, I've found another angle to your beauty
and it's really hard not to stare.

Stop it.
Just fucking stop it okay?
You're beautiful.
And not gonna lie,
when you say you're not you just sound like an idiot.
Stop it love.
You're gorgeous.

Like siriusly.
I'm gonna punch you ever time you say you're not
so that you STOP
because you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen
INCLUDING Blair Childers and Karen Santos and Anna Demes XD

Yeah, Stephanie Duncan is pretty.
GUESS WHAT BABYDOLL
You're far prettier.

Everything about you is beautiful and adorable and it's the kind of cute where you literally want to put it into your mouth so your cheeks puff up

So you,
stfu ^-^ You're gorgeous.

PS: No one loves anything more than I love Darren Criss

Filled With Imperfect

The pen itches for movement. I know the feeling. A ghost version of the pen glides on the writable surface. The bright paper, creamy and smooth under my fingers, pale and white and beautiful with its faint blue lines, is an irresistible invitation. The feeling of blank paper, wide open and screaming to be filled with anything and everything; split open your soul and let it pour down to form on the page through the lovely medium of the pen, the world's deadliest weapon held calmly in your secure hand. The pen and paper plead to be united, and you long to silence the loudness of the screaming empty page with wordwordswords.

But the words won't come.
The pen is twitching and restless but still.
The screaming paper goes on screaming, heard but unheeded.
And the words you wish you had curl like smoke and vanish into the aqua atmosphere.

Stop and wait. Listen to music and start again.

My fingers search in my binder for anything to take my mind off nothing. They find The Calendar Page, from November 2010. The one with the prettiest picture on the back. The only one I didn't put up on my wall, I carry with me instead. The one recording all my thoughts during The Month It Started.

I trace the fading green letters.

November 1: Sub in Gannon. Ortho. No rehearsal. Ben hates me
November 2: No school. Gary's house. Grease rehearsal 12:30. David :)
November 3: Lunch = tampon on the ceiling :D Kevin :/ Dress rehearsal. David kissed me.
November 4: Blank.

I'm perfectly okay with different.
K.

Lucky

I think we are who we are.
and lotteries are stupid.

"He may be a naive idiot, but he'll always be hopeful. So he'll always be happy."

She has a point.
he's always hoping for something better, believing that one day his princess will walk through the door again, no matter how many times he gets let down. And every time a girl does make an appearance, whether she's the one or not, he always acts like she is. Because he believes that they all are.

The fewer partners you have, the happier you are with your ultimate partner.
Is that true?
than you're going to be miserable.

I don't think it's true.

but her point questions the one thing I thought I believed in; happiness is a choice.

Unfortunately it's not always a choice that's ours to make.
for example, what I was told this morning.
everything sucks now, because of what's on my mind.
and I can't choose to forget it. I can choose to act like it's not bothering me, but that would just be an act, wouldn't it?

We are perpetually who we are, and nothing is going to change that.
The thing is, I love you for being who you are.
and nothing is going to change that either.
The green cover with the turtle and the polar bear never fails to make me smile -
was it on sale?
Don't say anything unless you mean it - I know you don't.
Honesty > romantic bullshit any day.

Sometimes a common enemy is all it takes to bring two people together, but it takes much more than that to make them stay that way.

Woulda coulda shoulda. Hun, 90% of the people who meet you will imagine themselves in love with you at one point or another. Some won't be imagining. Was I? Did I ever stop? Define "in love" for me. No, we're not in that place anymore. It doesn't hurt anymore, but it did the entire time I was still with him. Why? I could say it's because I didn't love him. I could say it's because I thought you'd make me happier. Or I could not say anything at all. Whatever reason I give it doesn't matter, it's an undeniable fact - it doesn't hurt anymore.

I don't forgive. Like ever.

J'taime :) you know how many McDonalds there are in the world for us to break? Tons.

Will Not

I will not sit so high and pretend that my life has been thrown in the dirt.
I will not allow single misfortunes to push me into a pool of self-pity in which to swim,
wallowing in my sorry story.
when life deals me a bad hand I will not let it ruin the game.
fold and try again next round - I don't know how to play cards anyway.
I'm dancing my way through on luck and instinct, nobody taught me the rules.

I will allow life to teach me but I will not use the knowledge I gain to put myself on some higher level.

I will not use my awareness of the world's pain and hardship to prevent them for myself, nor my awareness of its beauty and joy to seek them for myself. I will experience what fate has planned for me fully. I won't enjoy everything but I'll try. I will make the most of whatever destiny has in store for me.

Not everything happens for a reason, but you can give reason to everything that happens

everything depends on the circumstances

and in the end, the meaning of life is what you make of it.

those are my philosophies and I will live by them.

surfing the sea of life.
you're welcome to join me,
please do.

it probably won't be amazing all the time,
but if we don't let the bad stuff get to us
it might be, enough.

are you happy?
will you tell me honestly?

Faster Than 3.00x10^8 m/s

Imagine that every morning
with your breakfast
you consume a small portion of poison
in your orange juice.

{gross, who even drinks
orange juice? or has breakfast?}

not enough to kill you, of course,
but enough that you feel it.
You feel the effects all day.
You do this every morning
until the daily feeling that it gives you in your gut
has become all you know
You grow used to it.
You can't remember being without
the dull aching pain.
it becomes your way of life.

And then one morning
you skip the poison part of breakfast.
And all day
you feel better than you ever remember feeling.
you feel amazing.
You feel out of this world.
and yet you also feel
as though
you are
missing something...
missing a part of you.

that is what it feels like
waking up without you.

[I'm moving faster
than the speed of light
defying physics
slowing down time.
by the time you see me,
I'm already long gone]

Star-Struck

What would you say if I told you I wanted a star?
If I wanted someone to climb up into the sky,
and pick out a star, nice and bright and ripe,
and pluck it from the heavens,
and polish it with love,
and give it to me?

I'd keep it safe.

I'd keep it in a jar like a firefly,
hidden away from the world.
At night I would take it from its hiding place
and hold the jar close to me
and whisper all my secrets to it
as I fell asleep, bathed in its brightness.
maybe sometimes I would stay awake just to look at it
shining so brightly with love
and melt in its beauty.

Or maybe I would wear it on a necklace
or as a ring,
to keep it on me at all times.
During the day it would be an ordinary glass sphere,
but at night you'd be able to tell what it was.
I could sneak out to see you at 3 in the morning
wearing your star,
and light up the streets as it waved and winked at all its companions in the sky,
and I could glow with its fiery beauty and brightness,
and be star myself.
A little earth-bound sun, just for you.
I'd be your star. Your sun.

or maybe
I'd swallow it.
Take all of that light and beauty and fire and brightness and swallow it.
do you know what would happen then?
Do you know what happens when you swallow a star?
I do.

You
lose
your
heart.
The star consumes it.
and in place of a heart
you have a miniature sun
glowing in your chest.
Fueling you
keeping you alive
but
you'll have no heart.

What would you say if I told you I wanted a star?
What would you say if I told you
I already have one?

A Trio of Sonnets about Death... or Things Getting Eaten

The sparkling scales will catch the sun’s bright rays,
They glint and glimmer, flashing blue and green.
He hides his color in the seaweed maze,
But one so vibrant can’t remain unseen.
There is no current to move him along,
He darts around the water as he will.
And at first glance you’d think there nothing wrong;
He’s just a fish, all scale and fin and gill.
But no, this fish will meet a sorry fate.
His imminent demise is drawing near
Without a second thought he took the bait.
He didn’t know it was a thing to fear.
With one strong yank, the fish had met his match.
And now he’s nothing but the day’s prize catch.


The dazzling yellow of the flower field
Is not as empty as what meets the eye.
The bugs below with petals are concealed.
They hide from scanning looks of passersby
They click and hop and chirp and fly and crawl,
They come with color, pigment, tint, and hue
But one bright insect stands out best of all,
A butterfly with wings of sapphire blue.
Her flashing wings propel her through the sky,
But death can spring from one turn badly angled
her flashing wings did lead her path awry,
And in a web she found herself entangled.
Alas this insect met a sticky end,
A butterfly is not a spider’s friend.


Two wide black eyes reflecting starry light.
Two huge round ears that wont stop quivering.
A long bald tail that twitches in his fright.
One downy body, soft and shivering.
A small wet nose, four tiny padded feet
Equipped with claws that scratch the ground below
His fanglike teeth can pierce through human meat,
His small white body hides him in the snow.
But now the mouse emits a frightened sound,
He is aware his death is soon to come.
He trembles on the dark and leafy ground,
His heart is pounding louder than a drum.
A flash of silent wing, the mouse is dead.
And one large owl flies on fully fed.

:D not deep and beautiful and about eyes or anything like that, but... I iz proud

2/9/11

I'm not allowed a mourning period for the ending of us this time,
although the times before weren't very substantial anyway.
if it's a good thing or a bad thing, I can't tell.
No time alone means no time for being hurt,
but no time being hurt also means no chance for recovery.
You can't recover if you're not hurt.
But I was -
just not given the time to be so.
this is my chance - to talk right to you.

I've been walking through our memories for hours,
and when it finally began to rain,
the drops reminded me of your pain.
so now, I guess it's come to this.
I'll miss our little victories,
of everything we've overcome,
all that was said and done.
but the walls that you and me tore down
are rebuilding themselves now.
And I'm starting to forget how
you tasted on those summer days I treasured.
Every battle fought and won,
was done with us together, as a team.
but now that the team is broken,
I'm finding something out.
so I'm here to tell you,
I'm leaving our war behind.
life can go on without you.

Smile, darling.
Lächeln, schatzi.

My Fault

and mine alone.
we all know it.

my fault.
I swore I'd never leave him,
never love anyone else,
but I allowed you to creep up

into my heart

and make it your home.

I'm the one who let it happen;
who let it get to the point where
I'm standing at a crossroads.
Going right means hurting him.
going left means hurting you.
going either way means hurting me.
going back is not an option.

do what makes me happy?
darling,

it's not my happiness that matters now.

what it's boiling down to, at its essence,
is who would be more hurt without me.
I've been too selfish up until now -
it's time to choose a path.

there is no right thing to do anymore.
so which mistake am I making tonight?

Make Me

Turn off the lights.
Close my eyes.
Take my hand in the darkness,
and lead me away.
off the waves of this life,
onto the shores of the next,
and then, who knows?
Your dragon will take us there,
to the ends of the universe.
Just close my eyes and make me forget him.
Give me the solution that I want so badly.
I lied when I said I had no conscience.
but you're more important.
I want to give you everything you've asked me for -
so let me.
Do whatever you have to do to make me forget him.
Give me amnesia until all I know is your face,
and I'll be happy for the rest of my life.
love potions - I don't think I need one,
but pour one down my throat if you have to.
Kiss me in the snow, hold me close,
get inside my head and burn all the memories of him.
I want to forget him.
Do whatever you have to to make me forget him.
So we can sleep when we're dead together,
and be in love while we're alive together,
without having to remember him ever again.
cure this plague.
heal this wound.
make me forget him.

Sky Swimming

the night is warm, and a cool breeze is blowing. clear and cloudless, only a faint sliver that's supposed to be what we call the moon. It's perfect weather for sky swimming. I'm standing at my wide-open window, breathing in the nighttime. The earth pushes me away as the stars cry out to my soul, join us, join us, join us. They await me impatiently. I will not irritate them - I itch for their comforting nightlight, smooth and calming, like a warm bubble bath. I long for sky.
join us.
I do.
Carefully, I peel off all the layers of color in my body, demask my self, strip down, step out of my skin, to my very essence until I am nothing more than a ghost girl. lacking pigment. without identity. faceless. a white blur in the background of a photograph, a smudge on the mirror, a smoky wisp, drifting. Free. Liberated from the weight of being a person. Becoming nobody has made me weightless.

I climb onto my windowsill,

and kick off, leaving myself behind.

as I shoot through the air,

meaning loses itself. There is no up or down, there is only me falling toward the sky. I hold my breath in anticipation, knowing,
you're here.
In perfect form, I swan dive into the sky, breaking the surface, and scream in exhilaration; the air forms bubbles that float to nowhere. I push through the sky, diving under, resurfacing - the stars move around me, make space for me, sing to me. I swim through the blackness, feeling their shining edges tickle me gently when they brush my skin. I can shoot across the milky way, backstroke through a galaxy or two, freestyle my way around my favorite constellations.
We love you.
My only friends.
The earth has ceased to exist, there is nothing but sky. I dive deep for as long as I can hold my breath, push back to the surface when I'm about to burst for lack of air. I can travel at incredible speeds, until the pinpoints of light and reason become blinding white blurs, and I myself and glowing blue and red, fiery and explosive. I streak across the night, a miniature moving sun. If anyone on the planet somewhere hidden in the stars can see me, I'm nothing but a blazing comet, shooting across their sky.
Untouchable. Unstoppable. Unbelievable.
headed for self-destruction.
Mindless and free and going way too fast, I know that I'm going to crash, but the speed is too wonderful for me to will myself to slow down. when the collision is made, it's going to hurt, it's going to be painful, but right now my intergalactic journey is much more important, and I continue to shoot across the sky, awaiting the moment of impact with gritted teeth, I couldn't be happier.
It's not flying.
it's sky swimming.

Don't Fight It, Forever After

Life happens.
as does everything that goes with it.
you can fight the current, or you can ride it,
life doesn't care. It goes ahead and happens anyway. and you know once it does, it won't do so again.
So why resist the inevitable?
it really is a gorgeous day -
we could catch some great waves if we'd let the current carry us.
We could stay this way forever,
surfing the sea of life together,
stopping a minute after never.
your hand in mine as we ride the waves with the sun on our faces, letting life happen to us.

and if we're ever done in life's ocean,
the warm sandy shore looks just as inviting;
and we'll lay forever, as whatever we'll be after we're done being alive.
on this beach, night and winter never come -
that's where I'll be with you for eternity,
enjoying our happy ending.

[get it?
do you get it?
it's a metaphor.
this is me,
telling you
that I want to spend this life
holding your hand
and the next life
laying in your arms;
asleep.
we'll sleep when we're dead]

Scars

Such an ugly word.
Scars.
it brings to mind sharp things; it means
cutting, slicing, slashing, hacking, biting.
It means pain.
scars are bad memories.
scars are constant reminders.
scars mean anger.
It's not enough to go through the agony itself - you
have to life with the reminder of it every day.
Where everyone can see
what happened to you.
Scars mean hate.
so is it still a scar
if it was put there
by someone you love?

Teach Me

I had a dream the other night.
Not the dream where me and Cece were going to be forced to fight to the death in an underwater tank and I got hit on the head with a hammer and they paralyzed me and injected something into my stomach so I could breathe underwater and then I couldn't drown myself before she killed me.
Not that dream.
A different dream.

In my dream, I'm alone with you. But I
don't know who you are.
Your arms are wrapped tightly around me, but I can't feel them.
Your face is inches from mine, but I don't know it.
Our breath intermingles in the cold frosty air, but I taste nothing.
I am staring into your eyes, melting, swimming, drowning in them, but I can't tell what color they are.
"I missed you," slips easily from your soft-looking lips, and your voice is low and sweet, but I don't recognize it.
Your smile is unbelievably adorable, genuine, but unfamiliar to me.
I don't know who you are.
But that doesn't seem to matter.
My heart is fluttering like a caged hummingbird; there are butterflies in my stomach flying around madly with you so close to me. And it would be so easy, to tilt my head slightly and press my lips to yours. I want to. So badly. But I can't move.
Kiss me, I beg silently. Kiss me in the snow. Let me taste your lips. Let the butterflies go crazy. Kiss me. Please.
But you pull back and walk away.
and then I am alone with myself.

You are trapped in my heart. You won't leave. You've made yourself comfortable there.
But you never stop moving.
Teach me,
teach me that dance you do in my heart. I want to learn.
I'll try my hardest not to step on your toes.
Please, teach me that dance,
every step, and every turn,
so we can dance it together.
You make me want to learn how you move. Teach me.
Teach me how to keep you around.
I want to tell you how much I love you;
teach yourself to let me show you.
I never want to forget you;
teach me to remember you, your arms, your smile, your eyes, your lips, your voice.
Come on, little butterfly, darling, beautiful,
teach me.

Maybe. Don't Say It

What color are you today?
Taste,
touch,
smile,
kiss.

{[inhale the sunshine]}

Dissolve into a muddy puddle, gassy rainbows swirling on the oily, scummy surface, when you're swimming in that liquid gaze.

[(i can't)]

Snow, ice, wind.
Think cold,
so you dont catch fire in
those smoldering brown eyes.

(|thats right, i swallowed it|)
(|sorry|)

Hey you,
little girl, can you take the heat?
don't singe anything.

I'm basically an artist,
in more than one aspect.

You're not - just a chasm,
I'm walking precariously on the edge.
Being careful not to fall in.

|{are you always, darling?}|


Every second I'm without you, I'm a mess.
It's harder, every day,
to paint it all on.
Do I complete you, love?
can you taste me now?
Feel the warm white and blue around your neck, reminding you who you belong to,
who has your heart wrapped up and safe. Don't open the paper bag.

I feel as though everything that's going to happen me is going to happen later, and I have to wait for it - but I don't want to wait, I want it to happen now, while I know I can enjoy it, but then... maybe it is happening, and I'm so focused on enjoying it that.... I'm not really experiencing it, I'm missing it?

{[maybe]}

Well just be careful, careful careful careful, don't make anything
out to be shinier than it is.
Warm guitar fingers
don't link with piano hands,
or so I've learned the hard way.

Let him burn himself
feeding the fire
on the day
I needed him.

*don't say it*

Hehe...
my shower was bubbly and
smelled like apples.
when can I smell that?

Just a Rush

Wake up. Wake up, my love.
Hurry, before the zombies arrive!

she sleeps.

Tick tock. Tock tick.
slowly creep around the clock,
waiting for your in.
your few seconds of being mine.

rushhhhh...

Rush: By David Moran.

Moran. Moron. Idiot. Numbskull.

What?

Are you talking to me,
synonym? Morales?
Cervenka?

I'm curling myself around you like smoke,
begging that you'll breathe me into you.
I'm dancing on a mountain, flickering fire,
praying that you'll singe some eyebrows in my flames.

Lisigakis?

I'm flying on a toothless dragon, my head in the clouds, your feet on the ground,
wishing you ever took your gaze off your own shoes.

Are you trying to break me?

I'm soaking you with water and breathing a frost from my lips,
freezing you solid, a glass version of yourself.
I'm taking one last look at your face.
I'm dropping the bomb.
Ticking. Tocking. Boom.
and you shatter into a thousand million pieces.

Sorry.
You're like an egg,
like a Christmas ornament,
like... um... something else that breaks easily;
you won't be put back together again.

haha. Was that my fault?
Maybe.
But breaking things is something you would know about.

Dive into my eyes,
as I melt in yours.
maybe you'll find the words of the story that's hidden there

[or so someone once told me]
I'm sorry they can't be the same color as hers,
turquoise mixed with sapphire dust.
you'll have to settle for a shifting bluegrey.

as the colors of the world around me run and blur,
I'm staring into the mirror that won't fade,
and the reflection holding holding a paper bag.

what's inside?
I'm wishing you knew.
I'm wishing harder than anything that your heart was as easy to wrap up and freeze solid and blow apart.

zombieman?

haha.
no...
it's just a rush.

I hate clocks.

Tasting Sky

Over and over again, light with a sharpened edge breaks through the back empty space we call sky,

shattering the air into transparent shards of n o t h i n g,

which CRASH to our earth,

slicing like razors
anything
between themselves
and the path
gravity
has planned for them.

W
A
T
C
H

O
U
T

- They'll cut you to ribbons if you stand underneath. But, from a distance you can catch them, in your mouth

open it wide, and let the slivers of sky fall in to melt into drops on your tongue.
Close your eyes and taste the liquid sky.
What's it like, today?

Is it the cold blanket of off-white that coats your throat solid, making it numb?

Is it wavering in shades of grey, pretending that it's tissue paper?
(crinkly) {crackly} [crunchy]

Is it the bright,blinding blue,warm and runny and sweet and easy to swallow?

Is it perhaps the rare smokey orange of a deep winter night, all
burnt out - slightly bitter, and rich going down?

Is it the superextradelicious explosion of all the flavors combined,that you can
taste as the sun dissolves into every color the sky can be?

or just maybe, it's your very favorite - the savory, satisfying
sweet darkdarkdark of the blue-black midnight. Bright stars
bubble on your tongue; they make your nose burn and your
stomach gurgle and your mouth smile.

It could be any of these - you know them, you love them. It's a hobby of your, tasting the sky when it splinters like that. You love to watch the sharp light crack the surface of the sky at any time of day or night, love to see the sky break into a thousand pieces and rain down, razor-sharp. You love to open your mouth as they fall, and catch the extra slivers in your mouth, and feel them liquefy into mouthwatering droplets and slide down your throat. You've tasted every kind of sky -

but be careful, be extra careful of the rainbows.
Yeah, they're pretty. Up in the sky.
But when they shatter, be careful of that rainbow glass;
it'll cut through you,
and make your soul bleed every color
you wished
you never were.

Stolen

The green.
The green of the eyes that can swallow you whole.
Careful, stranger, careful.

DO NOT APPROACH

is written all over this girl.

The wide staring green
ringed with the smudges of black.
Try, if you can, to tear your own eyes from hers.

(she's not looking back)
((she can't see you))

trace your eyes down the aquiline edge of her nose,
down the perfect white smoothness of her shimmering cheeks,
sculpted as though from stone.
It's like you have super-vision or something; everywhere your eyes alight on this girl's face, she lights up like a glowing sign

just her face, though.
you know that.

a shiver ripples invisibly on the girl -
a cloud in the cold air in front of her ripe lips.
it's funny - it's almost like she can feel you X-raying her with your eyes.
like she can feel your staring.

there!
that green, you're back in it.
don't fall in.
This girl can't see you.
and you don't need to look past her face to know she's the most beautiful girl you'll ever lay eyes on.

your eyes - her green ones - and the space between them.

dont fill it up.

Her lips part -
with a gentle breath, she pushes from them the color of your dreams,
the ones she stole from you.
the colors swirl like neon lights in the air in front of you.
your hands do nothing to catch them -
like the girl, they're not yours.
not anymore at least.
You are helpless and can only watch as this girl breathes out your stolen dreams

no, she can't see you.
but it doesn't mean you can't fall victim.
as you tumble into the green of her eyes,
swallowed whole,
and gentle, soft fingers extend,
and reach deep into you,
and pull out your heart.

then the green of her eyes is gone.
spit you back out.
gross - who would want you?
she has your dreams.
she has your heart.
and you no longer remember who you are.
the black gossamer of her wings unfold themselves,
and she evaporates with the last wisps of your dreams trickling into the cracks of time.

what will become of you?
it's hard to say.
she'll carry on with your insides aglow in a cloud somewhere.

you should have stopped plucking the wings off of angels, son.
you should have stopped trapping faeries in jars.
you should have stopped stabbing hearts,

tearing out eyes,

scratching until the blood ran.

you know, I'd say sorry.
but you deserve it.
you've been stolen.

klepto.