Happy Tuesday.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Still Don't Know what Love Is...
Love is a child scraping their hands on the asphalt from tripping while playing hopscotch.
Love is a man getting hit by a car on his way to buy flowers for his mother.
Love is a gazelle getting caught in a beaver trap. (Now a gazelle trap)
Love is when you take a bite out of an apple only to find that it's bruised.
Love is spitting that bite out and washing the taste away with something else.
Love is when you are too lazy to brush your teeth at night, so you stay disgusting and just go to sleep.
Then you're rushing to school so you skip your morning brush routine and now there's a colony of Nasty taking residency inside your most exposed and used orifice.
Love is me giving you a tic-tac so you can better yourself.
Love is when you look down and realize your shoe lace is untied and when you look down and realize your foot is so far away so you ask someone else to tie it for you. That is love.
Love is a drunk deciding he can drive.
Love is a child sneezing.
God bless you, you little snot nosed menace. Have a tic-tac.
Love is looking around in a crowd for no one in particular, only so you look like you're doing something.
Love is saying you agree with someone when you actually want to slap them in their stupid face.
I'm talking to you Mr. Tic-Tac. It's not the same as brushing your teeth.
Blow your nose.
Love is the sun clocking out and heading home for the night.
Love is when you cut yourself on something with no edges.
Love is deciding that you should grow a mustache.
Love is winding down for the night but then getting a phone call to go water-skiing.
Love is water-skiing.
And falling off.
Love is getting that rush of water up your nostrils.
Love is tripping, and falling.
On your butt and face at the same time.
I still don't know what love is.
Happy Sunday.
Love is a man getting hit by a car on his way to buy flowers for his mother.
Love is a gazelle getting caught in a beaver trap. (Now a gazelle trap)
Love is when you take a bite out of an apple only to find that it's bruised.
Love is spitting that bite out and washing the taste away with something else.
Love is when you are too lazy to brush your teeth at night, so you stay disgusting and just go to sleep.
Then you're rushing to school so you skip your morning brush routine and now there's a colony of Nasty taking residency inside your most exposed and used orifice.
Love is me giving you a tic-tac so you can better yourself.
Love is when you look down and realize your shoe lace is untied and when you look down and realize your foot is so far away so you ask someone else to tie it for you. That is love.
Love is a drunk deciding he can drive.
Love is a child sneezing.
God bless you, you little snot nosed menace. Have a tic-tac.
Love is looking around in a crowd for no one in particular, only so you look like you're doing something.
Love is saying you agree with someone when you actually want to slap them in their stupid face.
I'm talking to you Mr. Tic-Tac. It's not the same as brushing your teeth.
Blow your nose.
Love is the sun clocking out and heading home for the night.
Love is when you cut yourself on something with no edges.
Love is deciding that you should grow a mustache.
Love is winding down for the night but then getting a phone call to go water-skiing.
Love is water-skiing.
And falling off.
Love is getting that rush of water up your nostrils.
Love is tripping, and falling.
On your butt and face at the same time.
I still don't know what love is.
Happy Sunday.
Newspaper Blackouts
I made two that I would like to put together. Mostly because they didn't seem finished without one another.
"Some yell, is Faith alone or exact? Think of fame. His pieces entered the pretty idea of his favorite hour."
Happy Sunday.
"Some yell, is Faith alone or exact? Think of fame. His pieces entered the pretty idea of his favorite hour."
Happy Sunday.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
I Like Noodles.
I want a red dress.
But only if it's from D.I. and only if I myself ripped it off the back of a homeless woman.
Or I knew somebody that did.
I was in love with this boy but he said he couldn't love me back because my sweater wasn't ugly enough. I saw a girl wearing a beaver-skinned bag, so the next day I wore a baby kitten.
Nobody talked to me that day.
Mustaches are on the rage this year, so I wore a fake one to school. All the guys laughed at me and all the girls thought me weird. All of you mumbled mean words about me, saying I"m trying to hard to stand out.
Because I probably am.
Stand out so I can fit in better. So I can sit with you guys at lunch and talk about hiking and talk about concerts and talk about how good we look and talk about poetry and talk about mustaches and talk about sex.
But I think I'm done.
This sweater is to itchy and these winged shoes are too tight.
This red lipstick stains my teeth and these feathered earrings get stuck in my hair.
I think I'm done fitting in.
I'm done standing out.
I'm just done.
I'll just be me and eat some cake and I'll wear my damn kitten if I want to.
And that boy doesn't have to love me if he doesn't want to.
He can keep my ugly clothes and give them to a girl who can play the ukulele better than me.
But that bitch don't have cake.
Happy Sunday.
But only if it's from D.I. and only if I myself ripped it off the back of a homeless woman.
Or I knew somebody that did.
I was in love with this boy but he said he couldn't love me back because my sweater wasn't ugly enough. I saw a girl wearing a beaver-skinned bag, so the next day I wore a baby kitten.
Nobody talked to me that day.
Mustaches are on the rage this year, so I wore a fake one to school. All the guys laughed at me and all the girls thought me weird. All of you mumbled mean words about me, saying I"m trying to hard to stand out.
Because I probably am.
Stand out so I can fit in better. So I can sit with you guys at lunch and talk about hiking and talk about concerts and talk about how good we look and talk about poetry and talk about mustaches and talk about sex.
But I think I'm done.
This sweater is to itchy and these winged shoes are too tight.
This red lipstick stains my teeth and these feathered earrings get stuck in my hair.
I think I'm done fitting in.
I'm done standing out.
I'm just done.
I'll just be me and eat some cake and I'll wear my damn kitten if I want to.
And that boy doesn't have to love me if he doesn't want to.
He can keep my ugly clothes and give them to a girl who can play the ukulele better than me.
But that bitch don't have cake.
Happy Sunday.
My Romantic Late Night With a Zombie.
No Effing way can I pick a favorite movie.
Impossible.
Effort Inducing.
Problematic.
So I'll talk about last night.
Basically because of my work schedule this weekend, my sleep patterns have been all sorts of screwed up.
Yesterday I went to bed at 4:00pm and woke up at 11:30pm. I had work at 6:00am that next morning and I had to do something until then.
So I watched zombies.
Resident Evil Marathon to be exact.
It was wondrous.
It was gory.
It was beautiful.
It made me want to be a super hot bad-ass who wears a dress with combat boots. If I was a lesbian, my first two choices would be Alice and Valentine. My third would be that girl from Underworld.
I guess I got a thing for bad-asses.
Incidentally at work today I was being a ninja. Slapping my co-workers in the stomachs when they stretched their backs, throwing trash into cans from impossible distances, and singing my own theme song all the while.
Awe yeah.
Reginald Delicious.
Professional Bad-Ass.
Bring it on zombies, I'm obviously ready for whatever Apocalypse you're throwing my way.
Happy Sunday.
Impossible.
Effort Inducing.
Problematic.
So I'll talk about last night.
Basically because of my work schedule this weekend, my sleep patterns have been all sorts of screwed up.
Yesterday I went to bed at 4:00pm and woke up at 11:30pm. I had work at 6:00am that next morning and I had to do something until then.
So I watched zombies.
Resident Evil Marathon to be exact.
It was wondrous.
It was gory.
It was beautiful.
It made me want to be a super hot bad-ass who wears a dress with combat boots. If I was a lesbian, my first two choices would be Alice and Valentine. My third would be that girl from Underworld.
I guess I got a thing for bad-asses.
Incidentally at work today I was being a ninja. Slapping my co-workers in the stomachs when they stretched their backs, throwing trash into cans from impossible distances, and singing my own theme song all the while.
Awe yeah.
Reginald Delicious.
Professional Bad-Ass.
Bring it on zombies, I'm obviously ready for whatever Apocalypse you're throwing my way.
Happy Sunday.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
A Night on the Corner
I'm thinking about crack. (Is that cocaine?)
Not as a substance but just crack.
The word crack.
The C and the R make a tasty CRRRRR noise that involves me pursing my lips,
that involves me jutting my jaw out slightly,
that involves the closing of my throat.
The soft A makes a refreshing note as I reopen my throat and release the AHHHHH sound.
Finally, it's brought all together with a whip-like noise that the C and the K bring home from a long day of work. A guttural sound that brings the whole mesmerizing word together.
I'm thinking about Crack.
And Fishnets.
Because that's what I picture Crack-Whores in.
Fishnets, chipped nail-polish, and crack.
Fishnets to catch those flopping ivory legs.
To contain them and make sure they don't escape from those threaded bonds.
Scaly and slimy, those swimming calves containing skin, the gastrocemius, the tibia.
Now I'm thinking of Fish Prostitutes.
And it's not a pretty picture...
And for some reason those Halibut Hookers are making me think of Mr. Peanut because he looks like the type of fellow who would hire a Fish Prostitute.
He looks like the type who would take them to a cheap motel with a flickering sign and he would pay them in saltines and used cigarettes.
Then after they make sweet, Peanut, Fish love, they would sweat colors and eat crack cakes.
They would talk about each others mothers and how Mr. Peanut secretly hates top-hats and wishes for a head of hair.
The Fish, named Cinnamon, would tell of her aspirations to become a singer and how her daddy promised that he does love her.
The word mouth is fun to say as well.
Mouths are disgusting. Vessels for bacteria to grow and spawn. A place for them to start a rebellion and turn that orifice into home base for infection.
We kiss with our mouths.
Happy Sunday
Not as a substance but just crack.
The word crack.
The C and the R make a tasty CRRRRR noise that involves me pursing my lips,
that involves me jutting my jaw out slightly,
that involves the closing of my throat.
The soft A makes a refreshing note as I reopen my throat and release the AHHHHH sound.
Finally, it's brought all together with a whip-like noise that the C and the K bring home from a long day of work. A guttural sound that brings the whole mesmerizing word together.
I'm thinking about Crack.
And Fishnets.
Because that's what I picture Crack-Whores in.
Fishnets, chipped nail-polish, and crack.
Fishnets to catch those flopping ivory legs.
To contain them and make sure they don't escape from those threaded bonds.
Scaly and slimy, those swimming calves containing skin, the gastrocemius, the tibia.
Now I'm thinking of Fish Prostitutes.
And it's not a pretty picture...
And for some reason those Halibut Hookers are making me think of Mr. Peanut because he looks like the type of fellow who would hire a Fish Prostitute.
He looks like the type who would take them to a cheap motel with a flickering sign and he would pay them in saltines and used cigarettes.
Then after they make sweet, Peanut, Fish love, they would sweat colors and eat crack cakes.
They would talk about each others mothers and how Mr. Peanut secretly hates top-hats and wishes for a head of hair.
The Fish, named Cinnamon, would tell of her aspirations to become a singer and how her daddy promised that he does love her.
The word mouth is fun to say as well.
Mouths are disgusting. Vessels for bacteria to grow and spawn. A place for them to start a rebellion and turn that orifice into home base for infection.
We kiss with our mouths.
Happy Sunday
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Whoa. That's a Good Poem...Feeling Jelly.
Stop. Read this poem. The Road Not Taken
It's also the first freaking poem in the Bracket Book. Now I promise you, I didn't pick this poem because it was the first one and I was too lazy to read any others. I actually read about a third of the poems. I just happened to like this poem with an exceptional amount.
Now then, let's get to honesty.
When I first read this poem...I thought it sucked.
I thought this was the dreaded boring poetry from an "old, dead, white guy" that was just some superficial bull poopie.
Then I read it one more time.
With FEELING my friends.
The Road Not Taken.
I suppose I need to be in the mood for poetry to truly enjoy it. The first time I read the poem I was in class and I was so brain-dead from school I couldn't even count to zero. The second time I read it I was at work and my mind was waaay to jittery from all the coffee I had right before that I couldn't stop counting to zero.
The third time, I was bored.
I was waiting for my friend outside his house (yup, stalking him) and he was taking forever so I pulled out my handy-dandy notebook and got too it.
I even read it out loud in a fancy accent.
After finishing this thought-provoking poem, I knew right away that this was going to be the Chosen One for the Jealousy prompt. Together we had a baby and it was called Whoa. That's a Good Poem. And so far he is growing up so fast and so far he is 278 words and so far he is 1,131 characters and so far he's still a little shy and won't tell you why he's jealous of his Daddy.
Come on sweetie, let's be honest.
"And sorry I could not travel both."
That's why I had a baby with Robert Frost.
He gets me man. Groovy man. Get me another coffee man. Babies all around...Man.
Okay, let's get honest. He speaks of decisions, of choices, and how we never know how the other one would have led us and how we are constantly being strangled with WHAT IF'S.
What if I took the other road. "Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back."
What happens, happened.
I doubt I'll go back and choose differently.
I'm scared of the unknown.
I'm scared of the other path.
"I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost my darling, I'm jealous of you because you know how to make a poem that makes me think and that makes me relate and that makes me wish I could write like a fancy, old, dead, white guy.
Instead I just had a baby with you.
I'm still waiting for my child support check.
Happy Sunday.
It's also the first freaking poem in the Bracket Book. Now I promise you, I didn't pick this poem because it was the first one and I was too lazy to read any others. I actually read about a third of the poems. I just happened to like this poem with an exceptional amount.
Now then, let's get to honesty.
When I first read this poem...I thought it sucked.
I thought this was the dreaded boring poetry from an "old, dead, white guy" that was just some superficial bull poopie.
Then I read it one more time.
With FEELING my friends.
The Road Not Taken.
I suppose I need to be in the mood for poetry to truly enjoy it. The first time I read the poem I was in class and I was so brain-dead from school I couldn't even count to zero. The second time I read it I was at work and my mind was waaay to jittery from all the coffee I had right before that I couldn't stop counting to zero.
The third time, I was bored.
I was waiting for my friend outside his house (yup, stalking him) and he was taking forever so I pulled out my handy-dandy notebook and got too it.
I even read it out loud in a fancy accent.
After finishing this thought-provoking poem, I knew right away that this was going to be the Chosen One for the Jealousy prompt. Together we had a baby and it was called Whoa. That's a Good Poem. And so far he is growing up so fast and so far he is 278 words and so far he is 1,131 characters and so far he's still a little shy and won't tell you why he's jealous of his Daddy.
Come on sweetie, let's be honest.
"And sorry I could not travel both."
That's why I had a baby with Robert Frost.
He gets me man. Groovy man. Get me another coffee man. Babies all around...Man.
Okay, let's get honest. He speaks of decisions, of choices, and how we never know how the other one would have led us and how we are constantly being strangled with WHAT IF'S.
What if I took the other road. "Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back."
What happens, happened.
I doubt I'll go back and choose differently.
I'm scared of the unknown.
I'm scared of the other path.
"I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost my darling, I'm jealous of you because you know how to make a poem that makes me think and that makes me relate and that makes me wish I could write like a fancy, old, dead, white guy.
Instead I just had a baby with you.
I'm still waiting for my child support check.
Happy Sunday.
Rambles.
Sleep.
Holy corn chips I love sleep. I love to dream. It's like a movie but not. Not rhymes with snot.
I hate when people say their favorite color is green because I assume they mean the color snot.
Last year my favorite color was green.
Wait, sorry, we're talking about sleep. What was the question Nelson? Nice sweater vest.
I really appreciate a good sweater vest.
I would wear one but I think it would make my face look fat.
Fat rhymes with cat.
My cat sleeps a lot.
One time, when I was sleeping, I woke up and she was laying on my face.
I'm allergic to cats.
I'm also allergic to grass which sucks because one of my favorite places to sleep is outside, on the grass, under a tree, in the Summer, but wait, I can't do that.
Because now I have hives on my lower back where my shirt lifted up just a crack and now I look like The Thing from Fantastic Four.
How lame was it that The Torch is the same actor as Captain America?
Granted, he did a wonderful job in both rolls and he is hella attractive but you can't be two super heroes.
It's kinda like how Liam Nelson is only in action flicks and Taylor Swift only sings about her childhood romances which she makes it sound like it was forever ago but in reality it was last year.
Stop singing about the good ol' days when you were fifteen, try again in a couple of decades.
Maybe then I'll listen to your country crap.
Question: Where do you go when you sleep?
I sleep in my bed.
But wait, I want to talk about my cat again. Her name is Starchild like from the band Kiss.
I got her in the third grade and I didn't sneeze when I touched her.
Happy Sunday.
Holy corn chips I love sleep. I love to dream. It's like a movie but not. Not rhymes with snot.
I hate when people say their favorite color is green because I assume they mean the color snot.
Last year my favorite color was green.
Wait, sorry, we're talking about sleep. What was the question Nelson? Nice sweater vest.
I really appreciate a good sweater vest.
I would wear one but I think it would make my face look fat.
Fat rhymes with cat.
My cat sleeps a lot.
One time, when I was sleeping, I woke up and she was laying on my face.
I'm allergic to cats.
I'm also allergic to grass which sucks because one of my favorite places to sleep is outside, on the grass, under a tree, in the Summer, but wait, I can't do that.
Because now I have hives on my lower back where my shirt lifted up just a crack and now I look like The Thing from Fantastic Four.
How lame was it that The Torch is the same actor as Captain America?
Granted, he did a wonderful job in both rolls and he is hella attractive but you can't be two super heroes.
It's kinda like how Liam Nelson is only in action flicks and Taylor Swift only sings about her childhood romances which she makes it sound like it was forever ago but in reality it was last year.
Stop singing about the good ol' days when you were fifteen, try again in a couple of decades.
Maybe then I'll listen to your country crap.
Question: Where do you go when you sleep?
I sleep in my bed.
But wait, I want to talk about my cat again. Her name is Starchild like from the band Kiss.
I got her in the third grade and I didn't sneeze when I touched her.
Happy Sunday.
Friday, March 9, 2012
I Hate My Dreams.
Where do I go when I sleep?
I go to a place I hate.
Because I go to a place where everything went right.
I go to a place where we can't stop smiling.
I go to a place where I'm happy.
I hate that place.
Because eventually my bleary eyes have to open.
Because eventually paradise needs to disappear again.
Because I need to wake up again.
I need to wake up to a world where idealism isn't true and hope runs dry.
I'm forced to be torn away from happiness, my glorious paradise, my own utopia.
The utopia I hate because it vanishes right when I remember how to smile again.
My heaven disappears and is replaced with filth and lies.
Lies.
But I'm addicted.
That world is my nicotine and I can't seem to function without it.
So I rush back.
I become a hero, I fall in love, I learn to laugh again, and I wake up.
I wake up and Sadness, she creeps in like a poison.
Starting at my stomach and slowly clawing her way up to my throat and through my eyelids.
The dream lingers on the fringes of my mind, but along with that previous and brief elation,
The paradise vanishes and I'm left grasping the air for a shard of memory.
A small friendly piece of what I had.
My dragons and unicorns slowly melt away.
My true Love's face is smeared to a blur and I forget their name.
My kingdom crumbles to pieces and I'm left with the familiar dim glow of my alarm clock.
I'm left with an unbelievable disappointment and rage.
A rage at the place that makes me happy.
A place I hate.
Happy Friday.
I go to a place I hate.
Because I go to a place where everything went right.
I go to a place where we can't stop smiling.
I go to a place where I'm happy.
I hate that place.
Because eventually my bleary eyes have to open.
Because eventually paradise needs to disappear again.
Because I need to wake up again.
I need to wake up to a world where idealism isn't true and hope runs dry.
I'm forced to be torn away from happiness, my glorious paradise, my own utopia.
The utopia I hate because it vanishes right when I remember how to smile again.
My heaven disappears and is replaced with filth and lies.
Lies.
But I'm addicted.
That world is my nicotine and I can't seem to function without it.
So I rush back.
I become a hero, I fall in love, I learn to laugh again, and I wake up.
I wake up and Sadness, she creeps in like a poison.
Starting at my stomach and slowly clawing her way up to my throat and through my eyelids.
The dream lingers on the fringes of my mind, but along with that previous and brief elation,
The paradise vanishes and I'm left grasping the air for a shard of memory.
A small friendly piece of what I had.
My dragons and unicorns slowly melt away.
My true Love's face is smeared to a blur and I forget their name.
My kingdom crumbles to pieces and I'm left with the familiar dim glow of my alarm clock.
I'm left with an unbelievable disappointment and rage.
A rage at the place that makes me happy.
A place I hate.
Happy Friday.
Am NOT, roBOT
I know I'm human because I'm selfish.
Robots, machines and computers serve. They have a purpose from creation and I did not.
I know I'm human because no one had to buy me, put me together, and push the "on" switch.
I know I'm human, but I might be robotic.
I have an instruction manual for how I work and how to fix my fraying fuses.
Sometimes I don't feel.
Sometimes I don't eat.
Sometimes I don't sleep.
Sometimes I don't breathe.
I know I'm human, but I might be malfunctioning.
I have a routine and a constant flow of how I'm supposed to work.
I have duties and I grew into that purpose I wasn't born with.
I'm now a piece of this clockwork world and help make it run smoothly.
Sometimes I cry.
Sometimes I bleed.
Sometimes I laugh.
Sometimes I hate.
I know I'm human, but I might be outdated.
A newer generation of me is constantly being created.
A newer, better version of this vintage model.
It seems like I just came out but there's always something better coming after me.
I know I'm human because that's what other humans told me, that's what my instruction manual told me, and that's what my programming told me.
I'm a functioning human.
Because that's what I told me.
Happy Friday.
Robots, machines and computers serve. They have a purpose from creation and I did not.
I know I'm human because no one had to buy me, put me together, and push the "on" switch.
I know I'm human, but I might be robotic.
I have an instruction manual for how I work and how to fix my fraying fuses.
Sometimes I don't feel.
Sometimes I don't eat.
Sometimes I don't sleep.
Sometimes I don't breathe.
I know I'm human, but I might be malfunctioning.
I have a routine and a constant flow of how I'm supposed to work.
I have duties and I grew into that purpose I wasn't born with.
I'm now a piece of this clockwork world and help make it run smoothly.
Sometimes I cry.
Sometimes I bleed.
Sometimes I laugh.
Sometimes I hate.
I know I'm human, but I might be outdated.
A newer generation of me is constantly being created.
A newer, better version of this vintage model.
It seems like I just came out but there's always something better coming after me.
I know I'm human because that's what other humans told me, that's what my instruction manual told me, and that's what my programming told me.
I'm a functioning human.
Because that's what I told me.
Happy Friday.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Stop Smiling at Me.
The idea poisoned my mind.
A relentless toxin, violating all that I am.
You want to talk about courage?
How about we talk about strength.
I was always the last one picked in gym class.
I was never strong enough for dodgeball.
What makes you think I'm strong enough for inevitable disappointment?
Courage? Yeah, sure I got courage.
I'm brave enough to get hit by those laughing dodgeballs. I'm brave enough to talk to you.
But I'm not strong enough to take the hit.
I'm not strong enough to be disappointed.
So I ditch class and imagine leading my team to victory.
I ditch class and imagine you skipping it with me.
I ditch class so I can imagine you.
Imagine? No, your real.
You have skin and eyes and veins. You walk, you sing, you smile.
That smile...
Here I am imagining again. Imagining you smiling. Smiling at me.
Smiling at the hilarious joke I just told.
That smile...
That toxic smile that shreds my heart into scattered tears.
That despicable smile that makes me hate myself. Hate you, for doing this to me.
I skipped class for you and now I have an F and now I'm Fat because I didn't get the usual exercise P.E. provides me.
I'm scared of dodgeballs and I'm scared of disappointment and I'm scared of your smile.
You love her and you love your smile and you love dodgeballs.
Don't even try to smile at me because if you do I'll have to start all over again and talk myself out of this once more.
I was the last one picked in gym class. What makes you think this won't be the same.
Think? I don't think. I think too much!
Much as in an un-healthy amount of much.
The amount that makes me want to Supersize that and get Fat all over again.
Much as in, oh wait, I can't finish that sentence because I'm thinking of your smile again.
Okay, I'll go to class.
I'll get beat up and pummeled and disappointed and get picked last again.
Just so I can see you smiling while you throw those dodgeballs at me.
That Smile...
Happy Thursday. Or whatever.
A relentless toxin, violating all that I am.
You want to talk about courage?
How about we talk about strength.
I was always the last one picked in gym class.
I was never strong enough for dodgeball.
What makes you think I'm strong enough for inevitable disappointment?
Courage? Yeah, sure I got courage.
I'm brave enough to get hit by those laughing dodgeballs. I'm brave enough to talk to you.
But I'm not strong enough to take the hit.
I'm not strong enough to be disappointed.
So I ditch class and imagine leading my team to victory.
I ditch class and imagine you skipping it with me.
I ditch class so I can imagine you.
Imagine? No, your real.
You have skin and eyes and veins. You walk, you sing, you smile.
That smile...
Here I am imagining again. Imagining you smiling. Smiling at me.
Smiling at the hilarious joke I just told.
That smile...
That toxic smile that shreds my heart into scattered tears.
That despicable smile that makes me hate myself. Hate you, for doing this to me.
I skipped class for you and now I have an F and now I'm Fat because I didn't get the usual exercise P.E. provides me.
I'm scared of dodgeballs and I'm scared of disappointment and I'm scared of your smile.
You love her and you love your smile and you love dodgeballs.
Don't even try to smile at me because if you do I'll have to start all over again and talk myself out of this once more.
I was the last one picked in gym class. What makes you think this won't be the same.
Think? I don't think. I think too much!
Much as in an un-healthy amount of much.
The amount that makes me want to Supersize that and get Fat all over again.
Much as in, oh wait, I can't finish that sentence because I'm thinking of your smile again.
Okay, I'll go to class.
I'll get beat up and pummeled and disappointed and get picked last again.
Just so I can see you smiling while you throw those dodgeballs at me.
That Smile...
Happy Thursday. Or whatever.
Aching Bones
My bones said to try.
They told me to man-up and get over it.
My bones transitioned from cartilage, to marrow, to melted wax, to steel.
My bones screamed to try harder.
Giving up is for muscles and skin, bones are eternal. Steel is everlasting.
What's to cry about?
We're steel and immortal, we're selfish and arrogant.
What's to be worried about?
I have a few ideas.
Arthritis. Osteoporosis. Leukemia.
Things that can kill your bones and turn them into mush.
Turn your steel into rust.
I'm worried now.
Mush is unstable. Mush can cry.
But can't I be steel and mush at the same time?
My bones tell me to try while my mush says it's fine to cry.
Balance is irrelevant.
It all depends which one makes me more giddy.
What makes my mush talk and my bones walk.
You turn me into steel. You make me melt.
Do what you want with this sticky metal. I'm yours to create.
My bones say don't touch me. My mush says I'm all yours.
That I love you and that your all I think about and that your the reason why I walk.
My bones say to stop it.
I listen to my bones because I need them to walk.
But it's my mush that makes me want to in the first place.
Happy Thursday.
They told me to man-up and get over it.
My bones transitioned from cartilage, to marrow, to melted wax, to steel.
My bones screamed to try harder.
Giving up is for muscles and skin, bones are eternal. Steel is everlasting.
What's to cry about?
We're steel and immortal, we're selfish and arrogant.
What's to be worried about?
I have a few ideas.
Arthritis. Osteoporosis. Leukemia.
Things that can kill your bones and turn them into mush.
Turn your steel into rust.
I'm worried now.
Mush is unstable. Mush can cry.
But can't I be steel and mush at the same time?
My bones tell me to try while my mush says it's fine to cry.
Balance is irrelevant.
It all depends which one makes me more giddy.
What makes my mush talk and my bones walk.
You turn me into steel. You make me melt.
Do what you want with this sticky metal. I'm yours to create.
My bones say don't touch me. My mush says I'm all yours.
That I love you and that your all I think about and that your the reason why I walk.
My bones say to stop it.
I listen to my bones because I need them to walk.
But it's my mush that makes me want to in the first place.
Happy Thursday.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Curtains. A Letter to God.
Hi God.
Sorry I haven't talked to you in a while.
Sorry for all the doubt, hate and opposition the world throws your way.
I shouldn't feel tentative and scared while I say this to you.
And I'm sorry that I am.
Why is it that we fear you? Why I fear you?
I believe it is human nature to fear the unknown.
That being said, you don't cause fear. It's our cowardly human minds that do.
I doubt someone as giving as you would created such terror among men.
To cause fear is such a human thing to do.
Which is why we fear you.
We're human. We fear. It's what we do.
When we're not in control, we go against those who are, or we simply worship them.
It's become tough to tell who worships you out of love or out of fear.
Yes, it can be both.
We tend to fear losing the things we love.
Humans are selfish that way.
Selfish and fearful. So human, so flawed.
But how could you make something so flawed?
You, being so un-flawed, obviously didn't make a mistake.
So that means you did it on purpose.
Not because you are selfish and spiteful. Those are human excuses.
But because you love us.
You made us selfish and fearful, because you. love. us.
Because you give us free will...and a choice.
The choice of whether to be selfish and fearful. Or to choose to be like you.
Wonderful. Perfect. God-like.
But just saying that feels wrong. Impossible. Just odd.
Us, mere humans, insects and whores don't deserve such a glorifying title.
Not unless you, who are so loving and giving pull that Curtain of doubt away and bless us with such an honor.
The honor of being named God-like.
Good luck finding such people.
People who are in fact, wonderful, perfect, and God-like.
People who we should praise for being so incredible and wonderful.
Not for their money, looks, or silver-tongued words.
But for their uncorrupted and honest success.
For making the right choice.
The inhuman choice.
The God-like choice.
If you do find such people, I'd like you to ask yourself,
"Do they want the Curtain of doubt pulled away? SHOULD I pull that Curtain of doubt away?
Because, if I do, will they continue being loving, giving, and God-like?
Or will they fall into arrogance and self-righteousness?"
Well, we are humans after all.
Thank you though, for our choice. Now it's time to make yours.
Do you trust our unwavering loyalty?
Or will we succumb to our disgusting human instincts?
But what do I know? I am just a human after all.
I'm sorry if our choice is wrong.
And I applaud you for creating those who choose right.
Make sure they don't trip on the Curtain on their way to humbleness.
It's a very rocky path that not many make.
Because falling off, tends to be our instinct.
Happy Saturday.
Sorry I haven't talked to you in a while.
Sorry for all the doubt, hate and opposition the world throws your way.
I shouldn't feel tentative and scared while I say this to you.
And I'm sorry that I am.
Why is it that we fear you? Why I fear you?
I believe it is human nature to fear the unknown.
That being said, you don't cause fear. It's our cowardly human minds that do.
I doubt someone as giving as you would created such terror among men.
To cause fear is such a human thing to do.
Which is why we fear you.
We're human. We fear. It's what we do.
When we're not in control, we go against those who are, or we simply worship them.
It's become tough to tell who worships you out of love or out of fear.
Yes, it can be both.
We tend to fear losing the things we love.
Humans are selfish that way.
Selfish and fearful. So human, so flawed.
But how could you make something so flawed?
You, being so un-flawed, obviously didn't make a mistake.
So that means you did it on purpose.
Not because you are selfish and spiteful. Those are human excuses.
But because you love us.
You made us selfish and fearful, because you. love. us.
Because you give us free will...and a choice.
The choice of whether to be selfish and fearful. Or to choose to be like you.
Wonderful. Perfect. God-like.
But just saying that feels wrong. Impossible. Just odd.
Us, mere humans, insects and whores don't deserve such a glorifying title.
Not unless you, who are so loving and giving pull that Curtain of doubt away and bless us with such an honor.
The honor of being named God-like.
Good luck finding such people.
People who are in fact, wonderful, perfect, and God-like.
People who we should praise for being so incredible and wonderful.
Not for their money, looks, or silver-tongued words.
But for their uncorrupted and honest success.
For making the right choice.
The inhuman choice.
The God-like choice.
If you do find such people, I'd like you to ask yourself,
"Do they want the Curtain of doubt pulled away? SHOULD I pull that Curtain of doubt away?
Because, if I do, will they continue being loving, giving, and God-like?
Or will they fall into arrogance and self-righteousness?"
Well, we are humans after all.
Thank you though, for our choice. Now it's time to make yours.
Do you trust our unwavering loyalty?
Or will we succumb to our disgusting human instincts?
But what do I know? I am just a human after all.
I'm sorry if our choice is wrong.
And I applaud you for creating those who choose right.
Make sure they don't trip on the Curtain on their way to humbleness.
It's a very rocky path that not many make.
Because falling off, tends to be our instinct.
Happy Saturday.
Bleeding Pennies
We made it to one too many times.
We made it to revulsion.
We made it to hell.
We laughed on our way.
We laughed at the blood.
We laughed at each other.
We laughed at those disgusting tears.
We perfected hate.
We perfected causing shame.
We perfected our bitterness.
We perfected making those lies into living creatures.
We danced to the screams
We danced for those burning dreams.
We danced for those bite-marks.
We danced for failing.
We were awarded for our predictability.
We were awarded for oil stains.
We were awarded for turning birds into handcuffs.
We were awarded for doubt
We made it. We did it.
Lock and load it. Finish this meal. Your destructive Dessert awaits.
I'm smiling as we gulp down mayhem.
You're smiling as you pull the trigger.
The sweets drip down your face just like the blood falls down on mine.
You scrub it away, delighted with your grief.
I shrug you off, disgusted with my dessert.
My dessert. You got a bigger piece than I did.
I'm more hungry then you ever were.
My tongue snakes out. But all I get is vegetables.
We smiled at the Pain.
We smiled at the screaming.
We smiled at each other.
One too many times won't happen again.
Our plates are cleared away. Nothing is left.
We failed, but we laughed while doing it.
Happy Saturday.
We made it to revulsion.
We made it to hell.
We laughed on our way.
We laughed at the blood.
We laughed at each other.
We laughed at those disgusting tears.
We perfected hate.
We perfected causing shame.
We perfected our bitterness.
We perfected making those lies into living creatures.
We danced to the screams
We danced for those burning dreams.
We danced for those bite-marks.
We danced for failing.
We were awarded for our predictability.
We were awarded for oil stains.
We were awarded for turning birds into handcuffs.
We were awarded for doubt
We made it. We did it.
Lock and load it. Finish this meal. Your destructive Dessert awaits.
I'm smiling as we gulp down mayhem.
You're smiling as you pull the trigger.
The sweets drip down your face just like the blood falls down on mine.
You scrub it away, delighted with your grief.
I shrug you off, disgusted with my dessert.
My dessert. You got a bigger piece than I did.
I'm more hungry then you ever were.
My tongue snakes out. But all I get is vegetables.
We smiled at the Pain.
We smiled at the screaming.
We smiled at each other.
One too many times won't happen again.
Our plates are cleared away. Nothing is left.
We failed, but we laughed while doing it.
Happy Saturday.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Scattered Second Thoughts
Who would have thought I'd fallen in love?
Who would have though I'd fallen in love again?
Love is supposed to be that glorious light that seems to wash all that sticky darkness and dread away. If that's the case, I have fallen in love many a time. I love Chinese food. I love music. I love my slippers, my television, my cheetah-printed snuggie. All these things make my day better.
But that's not quite love, is it?
I love these things but I don't, you know, looooove them. That would be worrisome in a messed-up, kinky way.
What is love anymore, anyways? Words that used to have the most meaning and the most honesty have been scorched and mutilated into emotionless cliche's, bleeding away their purpose into second thoughts and meaningless phrases. Phrases like: I love you, Thank you, God Bless, I'm sorry, Please.
What do these words mean anymore, anyways?
Nothing.
They're...expected. Obligatory. Meaningless.
So why do we use them so much if they're nothing but bland and un-heartfelt words? Words that are supposed to make a difference. Words that, are supposed to make you feel.
Could really say these words to someone you care about? Someone who you want to share your true feelings to?
So, now I ask you to take a breath. Take a chance. Take a while...to say these words for real.
I love you.
Thank you.
God bless.
I'M SORRY.
Please.
Please...try.
And please, for my sake, for God's sake, for your sake, don't turn honesty into another cliche. Being heartfelt is all we have left.
Who would have thought I could have fallen in love?
Who would have thought I'd fallen in love again.
Just another cliche....
Just another word.
Happy Tuesday.
Who would have though I'd fallen in love again?
Love is supposed to be that glorious light that seems to wash all that sticky darkness and dread away. If that's the case, I have fallen in love many a time. I love Chinese food. I love music. I love my slippers, my television, my cheetah-printed snuggie. All these things make my day better.
But that's not quite love, is it?
I love these things but I don't, you know, looooove them. That would be worrisome in a messed-up, kinky way.
What is love anymore, anyways? Words that used to have the most meaning and the most honesty have been scorched and mutilated into emotionless cliche's, bleeding away their purpose into second thoughts and meaningless phrases. Phrases like: I love you, Thank you, God Bless, I'm sorry, Please.
What do these words mean anymore, anyways?
Nothing.
They're...expected. Obligatory. Meaningless.
So why do we use them so much if they're nothing but bland and un-heartfelt words? Words that are supposed to make a difference. Words that, are supposed to make you feel.
Could really say these words to someone you care about? Someone who you want to share your true feelings to?
So, now I ask you to take a breath. Take a chance. Take a while...to say these words for real.
I love you.
Thank you.
God bless.
I'M SORRY.
Please.
Please...try.
And please, for my sake, for God's sake, for your sake, don't turn honesty into another cliche. Being heartfelt is all we have left.
Who would have thought I could have fallen in love?
Who would have thought I'd fallen in love again.
Just another cliche....
Just another word.
Happy Tuesday.
Listen To My Terror
I'm afaid of normality.
I'm afraid of change.
I'm afraid people will find out who my Pen Name belongs to and be disappointed.
That I'm just that one kid that sits in the front.
The one that is only really noticed when they say something completely nonsensical or irrelevant.
I'M AFRAID I'M IRRELEVANT.
I'm afraid I'm doing it right wrong.
I'm afraid if I finally do it correct, no one will notice.
....I'm afraid of getting noticed.
I'm afraid of the word drizzle. And moist. And pus. And bodies. And drizzle.
I'm...wondering.
I'm afraid of speed rather than heights. I'm afraid of ouches.
I'm afraid to lose everything. For I will give everything to keep my Everythings.
I'm afraid of birds. Stay away from my sandwich.
I'm afraid I won't have my dreams come true. I'm even more afraid I won't have dreams.
I'm afraid of failure.
I'm afraid of worthless success.
I'm afraid of shackles.
I'm afraid of leaving my cell.
I'm afraid my ribbons will come loose and no one will tell me.
I'm afraid I wasn't good enough for heaven, but not bad enough for hell.
I'm afraid apologies will lose their effect.
I'm afraid of expiration dates. Both on foods and on chances.
I'm afraid I won't get out of Utah.
I'm terrified to leave this suffocating State.
To leave this suffocating state.
I'm afraid I'll be forgotten...
I'm afraid of you and I'm afraid of myself.
I'm afraid of my potential.
I'm afraid to depend on people.
I'm afraid when people depend on me.
I'm afraid I never did enough.
I'm afraid of disappointing.
And even more, disappointment
I'm afraid of regret.
I'm afraid I won't feel regret.
Aren't you listening?
I'm afraid.
Happy Tuesday
Happy Tuesday
Saturday, February 11, 2012
My Love Songs to No One
I was waiting for forever. Forever didn't come.
I was waiting for a gunshot to the heart.
I was waiting for clarification. For the truth.
To see if this whole sloppy and seducing mess was as predictable as I imagined.
I wasn’t waiting for love. I was waiting for my cold, mechanical heart to start beating again.
I was waiting for my hair to ignite into self-absorbed flames,
burning away all others who dared to look upon my smoldering pride.
I was waiting for something. You didn’t come.
Understanding didn’t come. Self-pity didn’t even come.
Just the constant Tick-Tocking of my clockwork soul.
I was waiting for someone to thaw my face,
but all I got was the usual tune-up and oil fill for my rusting gears.
I was waiting for a moment. The answers didn’t come.
The world slept in and I was the only one who went to school Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock.
I wasn’t waiting for liberation. I was waiting for awareness.
I was waiting for my warm-blooded teacher to choose me as a volunteer,
so I could mess up and people would realize my fuses are fraying.
Nobody’s here.
The world slept in.
I wasn’t waiting for sympathy. I was waiting for the slap in the face,
so that the fading red mark would be a reminder of what Pain feels like Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock
I was waiting for inspiration. Paris didn’t come.
I wasn’t waiting for anything specific. I was waiting to be caught off guard.
Cannot compute.
At least something interesting is happening.
That gunshot you left isn’t bleeding,
only leaking small bits of fuel that keep my programming running.
I wasn’t waiting to be fixed, I was waiting to be broken from this shadow of a person.
To be with you and the storm clouds forever.
The sky would not cry.
I was waiting for forever. Forever didn’t come.
Only the rust.
And the Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock.
Happy Saturday.
I was waiting for a gunshot to the heart.
I was waiting for clarification. For the truth.
To see if this whole sloppy and seducing mess was as predictable as I imagined.
I wasn’t waiting for love. I was waiting for my cold, mechanical heart to start beating again.
I was waiting for my hair to ignite into self-absorbed flames,
burning away all others who dared to look upon my smoldering pride.
I was waiting for something. You didn’t come.
Understanding didn’t come. Self-pity didn’t even come.
Just the constant Tick-Tocking of my clockwork soul.
I was waiting for someone to thaw my face,
but all I got was the usual tune-up and oil fill for my rusting gears.
I was waiting for a moment. The answers didn’t come.
The world slept in and I was the only one who went to school Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock.
I wasn’t waiting for liberation. I was waiting for awareness.
I was waiting for my warm-blooded teacher to choose me as a volunteer,
so I could mess up and people would realize my fuses are fraying.
Nobody’s here.
The world slept in.
I wasn’t waiting for sympathy. I was waiting for the slap in the face,
so that the fading red mark would be a reminder of what Pain feels like Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock
I was waiting for inspiration. Paris didn’t come.
I wasn’t waiting for anything specific. I was waiting to be caught off guard.
Cannot compute.
At least something interesting is happening.
That gunshot you left isn’t bleeding,
only leaking small bits of fuel that keep my programming running.
I wasn’t waiting to be fixed, I was waiting to be broken from this shadow of a person.
To be with you and the storm clouds forever.
The sky would not cry.
I was waiting for forever. Forever didn’t come.
Only the rust.
And the Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock.
Happy Saturday.
I'm Thinking About You...
During those moments where you get easily distracted, I often find myself easily thinking about you.
Right now, I’m thinking about you.
I’m thinking about you like small town girls think about cities.
I’m thinking about you like balloons think about air.
I’m thinking about you like cats don’t think about dogs,
but they think about mice.
Like burns think about ice.
Like white people think that Asians only think about rice.
I’m thinking about you like facial hair thinks about 5 o’clock.
I’m thinking about you like angels think about their family.
Like Van Helsing thinks about Edward.
I’m thinking about you like women think about babies.
Like rats think about rabies.
Like studs think about ladies.
I’m thinking about you like books think about eyes.
Like eyes think about color.
Like color thinks about contrasting and complementing and complimenting other colors.
I’m thinking about you like heroes think about damsels.
I’m thinking about you like nerds think about their future.
I'm thinking about you like love thinks about getting hurt.
Like hurt thinks about getting better.
Like butter thinks about toast.
Like fatties think about roast.
Like sailors think about the coast.
I’m thinking about you like journals think about feelings.
I’m thinking about you like pillows think about drool.
Like drop-outs think about school.
I'm thinking about you like waves think about the moon.
Like stars think about the moon.
Like the sun thinks about the moon.
I’m thinking about you like words think about being spoken.
Like hearts think about being broken,
and then being fixed,
by chocolate binges and pixie sticks.
I’m thinking about you like how I hope you’re thinking about me.
Because baby, what’s the point in Thinking if you aren’t.
Happy Saturday.
Right now, I’m thinking about you.
I’m thinking about you like small town girls think about cities.
I’m thinking about you like balloons think about air.
I’m thinking about you like cats don’t think about dogs,
but they think about mice.
Like burns think about ice.
Like white people think that Asians only think about rice.
I’m thinking about you like facial hair thinks about 5 o’clock.
I’m thinking about you like angels think about their family.
Like Van Helsing thinks about Edward.
I’m thinking about you like women think about babies.
Like rats think about rabies.
Like studs think about ladies.
I’m thinking about you like books think about eyes.
Like eyes think about color.
Like color thinks about contrasting and complementing and complimenting other colors.
I’m thinking about you like heroes think about damsels.
I’m thinking about you like nerds think about their future.
I'm thinking about you like love thinks about getting hurt.
Like hurt thinks about getting better.
Like butter thinks about toast.
Like fatties think about roast.
Like sailors think about the coast.
I’m thinking about you like journals think about feelings.
I’m thinking about you like pillows think about drool.
Like drop-outs think about school.
I'm thinking about you like waves think about the moon.
Like stars think about the moon.
Like the sun thinks about the moon.
I’m thinking about you like words think about being spoken.
Like hearts think about being broken,
and then being fixed,
by chocolate binges and pixie sticks.
I’m thinking about you like how I hope you’re thinking about me.
Because baby, what’s the point in Thinking if you aren’t.
Happy Saturday.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Cycles
What is it like to be broken? Sad, angry, and hurt? Am I broken? Damaged? What do I want? Normality I suppose. Normality. Look where it has gotten me. I say that both with sarcasm and literalness. Look where it has gotten me.
Normality.
What we all strive to be. Normal. But wait, the latest trend is to stand out from the crowd, be different. But it seems that doing this has become such a common occurrence that being different is now the normal thing to do. Kind of an ironic contradiction, right? It's normal to be different. It's okay to be strange. It's acceptable to be a freak. Because it's cool. You are so cool you freak, weirdo, slut, abnormality, geek, mutant, oddity, monster. You did it. You're cool now.
It seems that originality has been sucked away. Being different has lost its preciousness and is now no longer special. Since people are trying so hard to stand out, they just end up being shaped into this mold of a person that is somehow considered to be cool. Slowly, they become normal. You're not different. You're just like everyone else. That's what you wanted, isn't it?
We're all broken in some way. But you shouldn't try to be broken. That's unnatural. That's freaky, weird, psychotic, and abnormal. Trying to break yourself so other broken people will allow you to join their effed-up club of broken miscreants. Congratulations, you are part of the "it" crowd. You just had to break yourself, your uniqueness, and your identity to do so. To become one of the masses. To conform to normality.
What's it like to be cool? What's it like, to be broken...?
Happy Wednesday.
Normality.
What we all strive to be. Normal. But wait, the latest trend is to stand out from the crowd, be different. But it seems that doing this has become such a common occurrence that being different is now the normal thing to do. Kind of an ironic contradiction, right? It's normal to be different. It's okay to be strange. It's acceptable to be a freak. Because it's cool. You are so cool you freak, weirdo, slut, abnormality, geek, mutant, oddity, monster. You did it. You're cool now.
It seems that originality has been sucked away. Being different has lost its preciousness and is now no longer special. Since people are trying so hard to stand out, they just end up being shaped into this mold of a person that is somehow considered to be cool. Slowly, they become normal. You're not different. You're just like everyone else. That's what you wanted, isn't it?
We're all broken in some way. But you shouldn't try to be broken. That's unnatural. That's freaky, weird, psychotic, and abnormal. Trying to break yourself so other broken people will allow you to join their effed-up club of broken miscreants. Congratulations, you are part of the "it" crowd. You just had to break yourself, your uniqueness, and your identity to do so. To become one of the masses. To conform to normality.
What's it like to be cool? What's it like, to be broken...?
Happy Wednesday.
Love is....
Love is a hot cup of coffee to wake you up in the morning. Love is a sweet lullaby that helps you fall asleep at night.Love is that breath-taking sunset that reminds you how truly beautiful life is. Love is that hug and comfort you yearn for when your world feels like it is going to fall apart. Love is the thing that makes your world fall apart. Love is ductape and superglue. Love is the ocean, the sky, and the field. Love is inspiration. Love is distraction. Love is peace. Love is war. Love is obligation. Love is contradiction. Love is the sound that makes you turn your head in whatever direction that sweet noise came from. Love is hot. Love is cold. Love is luke-warm. Love is a double-take. Love is what makes you hate yourself. Love is what makes you forgive yourself.
What we have learned form Love is that it can destroy everything into sobbing ashes. Yet, somehow, at the same time, Love can create the most glorious and genuine masterpiece the world has ever seen. Love is meant to be. Love is to break, shred, and scar those things that were once so pure. Love is blooming. Love is the food,water, sunshine, and air a flower needs to be able to become more perfect.
Love in an indefinite amount of things. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is sorrowful. Love is ruthless. Love is everywhere to some, yet nowhere for others. Love is blind. Love is calculating. On and on Love can go, in whatever way you see fit. But whether you see it as warm and friendly or cold and bitter, one thing stands:
Love, is necessary.
Happy Wednesday.
What we have learned form Love is that it can destroy everything into sobbing ashes. Yet, somehow, at the same time, Love can create the most glorious and genuine masterpiece the world has ever seen. Love is meant to be. Love is to break, shred, and scar those things that were once so pure. Love is blooming. Love is the food,water, sunshine, and air a flower needs to be able to become more perfect.
Love in an indefinite amount of things. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is sorrowful. Love is ruthless. Love is everywhere to some, yet nowhere for others. Love is blind. Love is calculating. On and on Love can go, in whatever way you see fit. But whether you see it as warm and friendly or cold and bitter, one thing stands:
Love, is necessary.
Happy Wednesday.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Introducing...
Welcome, sit back a relax for yet another blog among millions. How will mine stand out you may say? Well I can't promise you anything. It doesn't depend on the the words I write, the opinions I have, or the fonts I use. It's about you. The reader. I could write the most awe-inspiring publication in all the universe that contains all the answers to life, but it would mean absolutely nothing to a two-year old. That being said, to whomever reads this, I apologize if you don't find my writing witty, inspirational, or useful at all. And all those of you who do think that, I wish to give you a high-five. Go ahead, high-five the screen. I already did so it will, you know, transfer over. Do it.
Thanks.
I like high-fives.
Now allow me to introduce myself. Oh wait, I'm not allowed to...
For now you shall know me as Reginald Delicious. This name came about when an idea of a sketch book was born. I was having a most tastefully waxy school lunch outside with my friends when I pulled out an extra composition notebook I owned. We decided that this would be our Friendship Book and that all of us would draw or write something frequently in it. But what to write or draw on those days when inspiration seemed to run dry? That is when my companions and I decided that the book needed a rightful title. It would be known as "THE TALE OF....". We soon became stuck on what the name of our hero should be. It was decided it needed to be something epic, courageous, classy, and just a little ridiculous. And so , "THE TALE OF REGINALD DELICIOUS" was born! The name was well enough, but the title seemed to lack something more. So we decided to throw in another character and it was revised to "THE TALE OF REGINALD DELICIOUS AND THE HELMETED MASOCHIST".
After that was decided, we all drew our own interpretation of Reginald and the Masochist. To this day the Friendship Book is passed around among us, strangers, even celebrities. I am the main owner of the book and Reginald has become quite close to me. I have yet to find my Helmeted Masochist, whether it be my sidekick or arch-nemesis. When I do find them, I shall write earnestly about it. It will give something you rude people who didn't give me high-fives to read about...
Happy Tuesday.
Thanks.
I like high-fives.
Now allow me to introduce myself. Oh wait, I'm not allowed to...
For now you shall know me as Reginald Delicious. This name came about when an idea of a sketch book was born. I was having a most tastefully waxy school lunch outside with my friends when I pulled out an extra composition notebook I owned. We decided that this would be our Friendship Book and that all of us would draw or write something frequently in it. But what to write or draw on those days when inspiration seemed to run dry? That is when my companions and I decided that the book needed a rightful title. It would be known as "THE TALE OF....". We soon became stuck on what the name of our hero should be. It was decided it needed to be something epic, courageous, classy, and just a little ridiculous. And so , "THE TALE OF REGINALD DELICIOUS" was born! The name was well enough, but the title seemed to lack something more. So we decided to throw in another character and it was revised to "THE TALE OF REGINALD DELICIOUS AND THE HELMETED MASOCHIST".
After that was decided, we all drew our own interpretation of Reginald and the Masochist. To this day the Friendship Book is passed around among us, strangers, even celebrities. I am the main owner of the book and Reginald has become quite close to me. I have yet to find my Helmeted Masochist, whether it be my sidekick or arch-nemesis. When I do find them, I shall write earnestly about it. It will give something you rude people who didn't give me high-fives to read about...
Happy Tuesday.
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