come on, baby.

the world is only falling as fast as you will let it and the darkness in these eyes is only one step away from truth. it all changes in your breath when the wind sifts through all the good ideas, airing them out to be shown to the world, full, unafraid. these are our full hearts, our words of glory. How many times can one say they have done what they have failed to do? Never is a word we are slowly avoiding and attempting to recreate into something valuable. Please, hold my hand while i turn this world into what i want it to be. I am slowly learning to live again, taking the dust and building statues. Eyes open with sunlight and fear, and everything is conquered in a single hiccup's time. Maybe we are shaking, sure, but we are living in the everything of nothing. come on, baby, sing me a song. The trees are only so young and your voice looks so fine close up. Believe me when i tell you it is sunshine, it is warmth. I want you to know of my thoughts and i would like to climb into yours, explore, share. We are going to live. Come on, baby, play me a song, and I will sing, too. Come on, come on, come on, baby. i just want some music

[writing just to write and not worrying about what i'm saying is a great release.]



some days aren't yours at all
they come and go as if they're someone else's days
they come and leave behind someone else's face

and it's harsher than yours

and colder than yours

well, that's that.
prom was cool, and not cool, and whatever it was.
i'm proud of myself and incredibly ashamed.
i love people, and they love me, and i want to curl up in a ball and hide.
i am happy i went but altogether perplexed as to what prom is about anyways.
i overanalyze.
but so many good things happened to other people, and i am excited for all of them.
and prom-dram stayed lowkey. yay.

and i have learned this: i adore showers more than almost anything else in the world.



i'm wearing the sweater you were wearing the morning i was born. it's too big, sure, and i feel sort of silly...but i like it, the way i am enveloped in this illusion of home.

weren't you so excited, holding me in your arms for the first time, the first of what you thought would be many that never came to be...

i want to know what happened to that. what happened between those pictures i've seen of you, cradling me in your arms, until this moment. this sweater smells like home, but it does not smell like you. maybe it would if you were still a part of home. it doesn't even smell like my house here - but it smells like home, like "ah," like comfort. and where are you?

i want you to come see me sing, because you haven't. because you haven't seen anything. and i know that you're hours away, but you're years away. years away, a lifetime away. you missed so many things that most would consider so important...and you can't make that up. you complain that i do not make time for you, but have you made time for me, sir? i don't know. maybe you tried. i can't tell.

you've seperated into an idea and a person. there is the you that is you, and the you that i have imagined you to be. if only they could be combined, and i could be at peace with everything that has happened. but as long as i own this sweater, as long as i wear it when i get cold, there will be no peace for me.

i smell like home but i can't find it.

please come to see me sing.



"and you've got to admit it's getting better,
a little better all the time
you've got to admit it's getting better,
a little better
since you've been mine

getting so much better all the time"

the little holes will be filled with happiness
and songs
(whichever songs i choose)

[and i am so sorry. i am not insensitive - i am consistently at a loss.]


all baby birds

Look, there are a milion things to say, maybe even more, one never knows with my mind and the way it works (functions, operates, synonyms). It's a compliment and a blessing and a curse to be constantly confused. Always wondering (wandering) (lost) and there is no escape from it. There is light, windows, there is sunshine. Love begets love and all begets all, everything splattered in the sidewalk like a body thrown from a tower. The sun is spilling itself, commiting suicide from the top of every building to be covering the streets. We can smell it, feel it in the air, us and our magical prowess. We can feel everything in the air, now. Everything is soft and fragile when it flies, and I must be particularly careful of all baby birds. There is nothing more on that subject but there are more subjects than there are words which makes all this living business rather difficult. Let's just swim in the confusion to maybe balance everything out. Maybe we should just take really long naps every night because, as we know, I cannot cross my t's all the time, and when I remember I am happy. And when the letters can't match up, the words refuse to, too, and maybe we all just need a little more dreaming sleep to clear our heads like the sand. All images make one beauty.

(there is some crap in there, but also some cool stuff.
just me writing down all my thoughts for a minute or two-ish)


i will move you

i have been many, many things in my life
but one thing i have never been is fake.

i am truthful; i am just inhibited.

i hope my inhibitions never seemed like they were covering something.
there is nothing to cover, really.
i am just afraid too much.

but it is time to live.
i promise.



"happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing i know"

- ernest hemingway.





i am broken.
their faces break me.

i don't know what to do.


a young girl an an old man

she sang to my round belly
i did not enjoy it; i am so self-conscious
lately about its state of roundness
but she was young and didn’t really notice.

besides, it was the only place of me
that would make a good audience
what with her height and reluctance to strain her neck
and nonchalant manner.

she sang nonsense and giggly words about
what happened yesterday, and water,
and the way ants tickle her nose
and everything fine and beautiful like that.

i began to feel that although it was my belly she was singing to
at least she was singing to some part of me
and yes,
the ants tickle my nose, too.


his accent was thick
but his eyes were thicker.
i didn’t understand a single word he said,
no, i didn’t, but i knew what he was saying.

i am reading a book
openly, in the deepest brown,
in the furrowed brow and curved lips,
that is so very beautiful and well-written.

the wrinkles fall fast,
canyons that are so telling
of everything his eyes have seen
all those years, all that time, that wisdom.

his portrait is a story.
his eyes are an emotion.
his face is an idea,
captured forever
in your photograph.


nostalgia and such.

i wonder what the use is of thinking about the past.

it's gone, right? gone, gone, gone. and yet so many people are just stuck to it like flies.
i'm one of them sometimes, i'll admit. a song comes up or a picture flashes and suddenly i am brought back to people and feelings and ideas and everythings and nothings from the past. some of them are nice, some of them are not. i don't know what i want to say about this subject, honestly. other than that nostalgia is such a weird feeling, getting stuck in the back of your throat and staying there until you can find yourself unarguably in the present.

i've lost a lot of me, a lot of me that lives in the past. and when i get nostalgic for those ideas, i feel like i am somehow betraying myself and what i've worked for. well, i really haven't...no, i've worked for some of it. i don't know, i don't know.

i want the past and i also want to lose it.
like baggage.
like being a pack rat.
i want to keep it because i like it, but it's old and dirty and...not who i am anymore.

i don't know anything.
about anything.

i need to meet some new people.