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...