one hundred and two

I guess the reason
I always wanted to write books
Is that I just wanted to do something meaningful,
Change the way people think,
Make something beautiful,
Or some shit along those lines.
But I can't accomplish anything
When I feel so inadequate
And my brain cant focus long enough
To throw myself into anything.
Plus
Stories aren't my forte anymore
Since i'm constantly having to deal with my own

one hundred and one

the struggle of being sick
is i can't sing my lungs out of breath
when my heart's beating itself out of blood
and i'm feeling my bangs on my forehead
a style i'm not sure i like
and between my Louisiana nose
and my blankets pulled close
i'm not sure i'm okay with who i'm becoming
amid this insanity

one hundred

i walked into an empty room
wearing a shirt that you would like
i knew
at once that you weren't there
and so i talked to this guy
who was nice
but he wasn't you

and last year on a wednesday
we put our love away
for a later time,
for a later time

but now, palms to the sky,
we'd give it all away
for another life,
for another life

the room sat in my hands
as i asked myself why
i was wearing a shirt
i knew
you'd notice, and maybe let me know
but it slipped through my fingers
like my words with this yahoo
who liked art
who wasn't you

palms to the sky
we'd give it all away
feet to the floor
our paths are separating
separating

and all that i wanted
was something called happy
and you changed the way that i was thinking
you changed the way that i was thinking

ninety nine

i want my attention span back
i wish i could read books again and let my eyes scan the page a million miles an hour,
i want to skip meals for engrossment rather than sadness,
there's a twitching in my fingertips again--
too much energy.

i want to play music without being insecure about my voice.
i want to drive with the windows rolled down and listen to songs no one else likes,
i want to be free and wild and happy,
but there's a pounding in my heart again,
a pausing of my speech again,
i'm too irritated to live in my own skin these days.

but then again the rush of bleeding madness sighs for a torrent of crop-pounding rain--
i'm deeply sad inside, i'm crying then i'm not,
the world is a painted sphere of black and white
and i just want to sleep, i just want to
lay in my bed
and not get up
till it's raining and
the weather
can match
my fingerprints.

the sun rises tomorrow and i will be ecstatic again,
the next dawn i will drown.
either way,
what does it matter?
i can't find the middle ground.

ninety eight

I'm thinking that today it's okay
That tomorrow it'll be eleven days
Because tomorrow I might possibly
See you again

And I guess I don't mind
The silence this whole time
So long as I get to see your face
Again

But if I think too much, I'll start to believe
All the lies that are thrust upon me
Until I have a dream that I can't shake from my head
And think of all the stupid things I've said
And how you didn't care

I hope I lose count of these eleven days
So you can rain on my parade someday
It's hard to hope without expecting things
But I expect you'll follow through
And then I'll see you again