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.

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.

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.

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.

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.