fifty three

I can't seem to write anything that's not cliché. If I could free myself from this bondage of being excellent, I would say that everything is changing, and it makes me so uncomfortable. I would mention again the fact that my mom is dying, and leave out the fact that my Dad loses hope every day. I would write about how Rion is leaving Starbucks and wish I could tell him thank you for things like calling me ma'am and having great music taste. I would pen stories about how true love isn't dead [just dying slowly] and I would sing songs with predictable rhyme schemes without wanting to shoot myself in the process. I guess you could call it perfectionism, but with me, I don't care to be perfect, just a bit better than mediocre.

I wish I could make good grades these days and ace the SAT in two weeks, but you know, these things don't matter as much to me in comparance to the artistic things in life. (True love and poetry and paint and wanderlust of sorts.) That's the thing with law school, I'd love to go but I'd much rather settle down and have a family in the mountains somewhere. Or become a lonely artist in NYC with a bachelor's in something completely obscure.

But there I go again with obscurity.

I'm going to say something cliché, and it's going to bother me, but it will mean something all the same.

I long for better days.

fifty two

Tomorrow is Friday.
Friday will hurt the same as today.
Yesterday's hurt or the present tears,
I must take my pick.
Choosing one will eliminate the other,
Until I start to feel it all at once.
And all at once tomorrow is Friday,
And another Saturday things aren't better

fifty one

Things aren't like they used to be.
I thought in that moment,
Maybe things will be like that again,
Maybe I won't feel that same ache again,
Because amid the laughter, I didn't.
But there is always disappointment
Snuggled up against me in the restaurant booth,
There is always that one picture of her
Taped to a nearby wall,
There is always a question he doesn't ask
And a tear I fail to cry.
I won't ever be as close to them as I was,
As much as I'd like that to change.

Some things still
Never stop
Making me sad.
There are still
Songs
I can't listen to
Without breaking.
Part of me
Wants to stop living
Like she's already died,
Part of me
Wants to stop breathing
Like love is a stupid lie,
But I have an organ that beats
When it still shouldn't be
Part of me
Is hospitalized right now,
I'm sorry I can't fix
The way I play with my ring
And my other nervous ticks
The way I write
Is painful for me
Because some of these notes
I should not be playing,
She told me it shouldn't happen,
That she would like to take my place,
But it should be
That certain things
Won't cease to make me break
For it's still hard to sing
He's perfect in all His ways

I'm holding up my half empty glass--
A toast--
Until it's easy.

fifty

Caught in a landslide
No escape from reality

fourty nine

Are you feeling all the hurt I hide?
My heart could lie a thousand times
But I swear to you this time I'm right
It's okay, It's okay, its's okay, it's alright
It's okay
It's okay
It's okay
It's alright

July 28, 2016

You're my default mode
I think of you when I'm not even trying to.
Maybe it shouldn't be that way.
Maybe the color of your eyes or
The look on your face that night
Or whatever is on your mind
Shouldn't occur to me as miracles,
But they do.
And while I am supposed to be paying attention in this large room right now,
I'm drifting in and out of focus
Like a shaky camera lens,
I miss you for reasons I cannot pinpoint,
The mental pictures I took don't suffice
For five days awat from seeinf you that night,
And my default mode is being sad
So I'm sorry if envisioning you hurts kind of bad

I won't address the fears forming
In the alphabet soup of my brain,
Because the longer I stare at the floor,
The more it starts to resemble the bumps on the ceiling,
But I can't quite forget the feeling of your gaze
So that's difficult too.
I used to think missing someone was having the emptiness inside where they should be;
Today I realize it is also having too many full memories of someone to haunt you late at night or in the morning.

One last thing--
Your ghost smells like chlorine and stares at me when I pretend not to see.
You see?

fourty eight

Who would've seen it coming?
Who would've seen it coming?
I'm collapsing from my fervor,
I'm falling from the sky
If you'd look up at the buildings,
Would you see my death wish?

fourty seven

"The shame of it was that they loved each other, but they were both too young to know how to love."

Someday, my rose, we'll figure it out.

Perhaps in the span of fourty four sunsets.

My migrating birds will lead to you, I know it.

Don't forget;

fourty six

"Swallow a drop of gravel and blacktop
Cuz the road tastes like wintergreen"

Owl City

fourty five

Next time I'll let it kill me
Next time I'll stay silent

fourty four

I am at the chinese restaurant that somehow stands a part of every kid's childhood. My siblings are waiting at home for the enormous amounts of fried rice I've been tasked with buying, and it probably won't take as long to drive home as I want it to.

Mom and Dad are on a date somewhere in Dallas, and we are going to rent a movie like we usually do, except tonight ot won't be the same. Mom will return just as sick as before and Dad will walk in the door with that tired look on his face.

I am contemplating this on the "spinny chairs" at the bar where you can watch the chefs fry up some rice and lo mein. 

I guess I like being out of the house and alone a little too much these days. With everything going on in my head... well... maybe it's easier to think about the tough stuff with a constant change of scenery. Either way it hurts. My head is a broken window and my face has become the duct tape attempting to keep out the wind. It's scattering the scraps of paper I hurriedly write songs on, it's picking up dust and pulling it back down, creating chaos where I haven't broken things already.

I'm rolling down the windows of the car, I'm letting my hair get tangled.

Only in my dreams.

fourty three

"Why is it I need a thousand lives?"

Local Natives

forty three

you have a beautiful thought process.
even the most depressing ideas have meaning
when you write them.
i can't help but be sad knowing that you are sad,
although your words are oh so lovely.

forty two

I guess I paint pictures now
Because the words don't form easy in my brain.
Maybe it's lack of sleep.
Maybe it's lack of love.
Maybe it's lack of heat,
The house is so cold these days
It almost emphasizes the fact that you're dying.
Don't act all surprised,
We all know it's coming one day or another.
Every MRI says the same thing, and there's nothing they can do.
The medicine at least slows it down, Dad said.
I didn't know how to reply,
But today I painted the way our hallway looks
Now that I can't play piano
And the clock in my head chimes too often.

And now I'm feeling nostalgic,
Because the words don't form easy in my brain,
I'm not saying all the things that hurt the most.
I can't help but wonder how you're doing
I can't help but miss your smile
I can't help but think about you every waking moment,
I can't stop it.
I can't stop the pain from forming into pictures,
Landscapes of you.