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I'll Be Missing You, Paris.

Happy Tuesday.

Real Talk- Dusty Windows

I've always have had a problem with public speaking.
It's not stage fright by any means, just public speaking.
I've performed on stages many times, and I never got the least bit nervous.
But right now, I'm having difficulties breathing, and right now, it's because I have to look at you.

When I'm on stage my fear is blinded by bright lights or distracted by a guitar.
I don't have to look at you when I'm on stage.

But when it comes to public speaking, it's always said you should make eye-contact with your audience.
I hate eye-contact.
They say that they eyes are the windows to the soul,
and, I don't think I'm ready for that kind of commitment just yet.

So don't look at me while I read these nervous words because,
I don't want to meet your soul right now.
I don't want it to take me out for coffee or tell me that I look pretty tonight.
Because I'm just not ready to look into your eyes.

And besides, I hate being called beautiful, and I hate going out on dates.
I have this messed-up mind set that, I want to love someone,
but I don't want someone to love me.

They might ask me out on a date or something.
They might try to make eye-contact with me or something.
And something, is making me feel like clockwork.
And who even knows if that's a good thing or not anymore.

I'm always trying to hurt myself, and break myself, because, pain feels pretty nice sometimes.
And I know recently I've been dark and gloomy.
I've just been drowning in the sea of heartbreak, deceit, and loss.
But really, I do think the world is beautiful,
and really, I'm being sincere when I say that the stars look beautiful tonight,
and I'm not just quoting that one book, or that one movie or that one guy.
The stars just look really nice tonight.
There's nothing cliche about beauty.

But there is something wrong with you, and there is something wrong with me,
and I can't stand the fact that we are looking at each other,
and the fact that we secretly hate each other,
and the fact that we judge and x-ray eachothers' souls by what shoes we're wearing today.

I'm wearing sneakers, so that makes me a Fascist.
You're wearing sandals, so that makes you a musician.
She's wearing boots, so that obviously makes her a dreamer.
Boot hurt my feet, but I still want to dream.
And, I don't like the sound sandals make, but I still want to play music.
And, honestly, I have nothing against the government right now,
I just like wearing sneakers.

So, you can pack up that x-ray, because, if you look through these windows,
you can see that my soul wants a break,
and it wants to walk in the hallways without being looked at, analyzed, diagnosed, and treated.
And my soul is going to wear whatever the hell it wants to today,
because today, I'm not going to look at anyone.

I'm not going to hear anything.

I'm not going to breathe.

Because today, I'm going to take my own eyes out for coffee,
and I'm going to tell my own eyes how pretty they look tonight,
because in all honesty, it's really about time that I got to know my soul a little bit better.
Because from what I know, I hear she's a great person.
It's just that, she's a little shy when it comes to making eye-contact with people,
and picking out her shoes for the day.


Happy Tuesday.

Ordinary World, A Delcious World

Reginald Delicious was a young woman living in Piqua, Ohio. She liked to go by Reggie and her favorite word was cactus. Every now and then, she like to stop at the local taco truck and get a breakfast burrito on her way to to work at J.C. Penny. After a nine hour shift at the store, Reggie would make her way home along the freeway and watch the sunset as she would drive. She didn't really have time or energy to go out during the evening on her workdays, so she stayed home at night.

For dinner she would make a different miniature lasagna for herself. You see, Reggie lived alone and she would have simply too much lasagna if she made a full pan. Monday was original recipe. Tuesday was vegetarian. Wednesday was triple cheese. Thursday was made with white sauce. And since she was dieting, Friday was also vegetarian.

On Saturdays Reggie would begin her morning with three cups of coffee and a banana. She would then spend two hours tending to her garden and then get ready for the day. She would always clean out her closet on Saturdays, even though she cleaned it the Saturday before. It seemed that Reggie's closet always needed a good cleaning on Saturdays.

Saturday evenings was girls night out for Reggie. Every Saturday, Reggie and her friends would try out different bars around the city. They loved a variety, you see. They would order martinis, find the most secluded and distant table, and eat the pizza they snuck in under their shirts. They would sit at their table and glance at attractive men, but would simply remain with their martinis and pizza.

Sunday were dedicated to family and God. Reggie would got to the local Lutheran church in the morning and afterward, would to visit her aging father and at a nearby retirement home. Reggie and Mr. Delicious played Scrabble on Sundays. Around five o'clock, Reggie would retire for the evening and busy herself with household chores and errands.

Reggie did this every week. She didn't complain and she never strayed from this routine. She also didn't realize that he hated her life.


Monday: Reggie wakes up, taco-truck, J.C. Penny, sunset, original recipe.

Tuesday: Reggie wakes up, no taco-truck today-- she eats toast instead, J.C. Penny, sunset, vegetarian.

Wednesday: Reggie wakes up, taco-truck, J.C. Penny, sunset, triple cheese.

Thursday: Reggie wakes up, stubs her toe, taco truck was out of burritos, no breakfast, J.C. Penny, Reggie is really hungry, Reggie really fatigued from this hunger, Reggie briefly passes out while driving towards the sunset and crashes her car into a wall at 75 mph.

Friday: Reggie wakes up, she's in a hospital, she's naked, she can't move, Reggie screams for help, no one come, Reggie goes to sleep.

Saturday: Reggie wakes up, eyes are all around her, she's still naked so she blushes, so many eyes looking at her, Reggie is lifted up and put into a wheel chair, Reggie's friends will be missing her tonight, the eyes wheel her across the room, Reggie passes mirror and sees that her face is made of metal, Reggie is now a cyborg, Reggie faints.

Sunday: Reggie find out she is now property of the U.S. government, Mr. Delicious signed her broken body over to them for enough money to get him out of the retirement home, Mr. Delicious only misses Reggie a little today, Reggie is both soldier and weapon and must do whatever he superiors order, Reggie now realizes that she hated her old life and she still hates her life now.

Will Reggie be eternally a slave to the government?
Will she ever get to taste a breakfast burrito again?
What is it that her superiors are going to force her to do?


This was weird---Happy Sunday.

Pond Day

My butt is cold.

I'm sitting on a slab of Nature, and my butt is cold. And I'm getting a headache because there is a noisy, not-nature like man across the pond. He's roaring and biting Nature's flesh with his metallic teeth. He says he's trying, no helping make Nature more beautiful.

I look into Nature's eyes, which is the pond you see. I can't tell what color it is though. It's a rainbow of sludge. That makes me sad, because Nature's eyes should be blue and not the color of that noisy thing across the pond.

My own eyes don't necessarily look at the shambles of Nature around me, but rather, they look off way into the distance. Near the mountains, and the trees, and the untouchable sky. I like to think that place is quiet. I like to think I would see an ocean of blue eyes there. I like to think that's what Nature is like.

We're at the pond but all I see is soot and filth. Even the ducks look like they want to leave. They're crying for those blue-eyes, they're crying for silence. Too bad the noisy man can't speak duck and too bad he loves the color sludge. But I hear you little duck, and I'm sure your mother, who is Nature, is worried. But you say it is okay because Nature needs to worry about herself for once and stop giving her blue eyes away for free.

Maybe Nature should start taxing for her murder.


Happy Sunday.

The World Had Stopped.

The entire world had stopped.
The entire universe came to a slow.
The noises around me silenced, and nothing moved.
 Except everything moved. Everything made noise.
 Nobody else's world had stopped. Only mine.

Fear snakes in, twisting around my throat until I can no longer breathe.
 His fangs tease against my flesh, sending shivers through my entire body.
My eyes wildly search around for any source of help.
Anything to make Fear stop, anything to make the world start up again.

 Fear then matured into a terrific anxiety.
 My breaths now come out in gasps and tremors shake my body.
Tears sting my eyes and my heart now weighs a thousand pounds.
 He's clawing inside my chest, begging to get out.
The world had stopped but I didn't.

 "Why don't you run?" Pain asked.  

"Because I know you'll just follow me. Or just wait for me."

 Now she's in my stomach. She's gnawing at my liver and kicking at my ribs.
I want to keel over but I can't.
Because the World had stopped.

 "Why won't you help me?" I ask the World.

  "Because I've had a very long day and I just want some time to myself."
 The World turns around and walks away.

 Fear slips out of my ears and smokes a cigarette.
Pain crawls up to my shoulder and sits down next to him.

 "It's just us three now."  

"When will the World come home again?"

 "Only when you want her to." they tease.


Happy Sunday.

A Personal Onslaught

I need to get a grip on things.
I need to scratch and shred this itch that is reddening from all this hate and disgust.
I can't just run away from it until it goes away.

Maybe I can.

Even if I know it is the wrong thing to do.
What else can I do?
I have no reasons, no excuses.

Well, maybe that's not true either.

I just can't voice them, those reasons, those excuses.
Not unless they need to be a last resort.
Instead, I write what I guess you would call poems.
To me they're mostly complaints on paper.
Emotions shredded away from my skin and their blood used as ink in this pen.
This tool, as well as this paper, help me. Help me feel better.

I named this entry part way through. "A Personal Onslaught"
Keyword: personal.
As in A: I wrote this personally, and mostly B: this is really personal.
Real issues, real fears, real desperations.
I can't let this, let you, hold me back.
But it seems that this time, this first time too, I've gotten my mind in too deep.
And it's drowning.
Maybe in the idea of my twisted-positive future, I'll be more ready then.
I'm not ready now.
Now, I thought I was. I wanted too be 'cuz.
It's all I strive to be for.
Will I ever be. Sure.
Who knows, who cares.

I need a good, long break first.
One with a beach, a book, a time-out from reality.
A real, well though out distraction.
But, now all I can do is wait and see.
I'm stuck in a vacuum-pit of remorse.
Will I ever climb out and escape?
The real question is, do I want to?

 For now, what I have is such a good excuse and reason to comfort myself in.
Blanket and swaddle my rambling mind in "becauses" and "this is why(s)"
Maybe I've just adapted to having it there.
That constant shadow of thought that has me shackled from my potential.
From discovery. From flight.

I don't care. Do I want to?
Maybe.
Yes.
No.
No, that would mean I would have to face those shackles.
Stop arguing with myself.
But it's so nice.
No, need to be real about this.
But will it make anything better?
Stop.
Who knows, who cares.
You and I, I'm talking about me, you. We, just gotta be patient.
Wait, hide, run, sprint, leap, fall, flight.
It worked in the past.
Why change things now?
Everything just started getting interesting...


Happy Sunday.