| burnt |
[04 Jan 2009|02:56pm] |
"All the butterflies have died and the fireflies have gone away," she said. And I was inclined to believe her. Her eyes wide and unblinking, her innocence so plainly lit upon her face; it was difficult not to. She reached blindly up with two delicate alabaster hands, and I placed my face where it was she was reaching and smiled slightly at the look of accomplishment that graced her countenance. "Do you think that, when I am gone, anyone will notice?" It took me several seconds of hard swallowing and fierce blinking before I could answer.
"Yes," I lied, "of course. Everyone will remember you." She ran her slight fingers casually over my bangs, simpering a bit as she did so. I noticed, then, that she was far more perceptive than anyone gave her credit for. Her sad smile told me that she knew I was lying. How could I lie to her? I suppose because I knew, just as well as she did, that the truth can sometimes hurt much more than a lie.
"If no one even notices that the beautiful things have left, then why would they notice me being gone?" She queried, her fingers sliding from my face. I straightened up and looked silently upon the little girl in the bed before me. She was small and sickly, pale and blonde, with greyish eyes that did not blink as often as they ought to. After all, what was the need? Her skin was scarred and uneven, her face a horror to look upon for the faint of heart or stomach. She was a crude imitation of what a little girl should look like.
"But you're beautiful to me. And I will notice when you are gone. And I will miss you terribly, just as you miss the lightning bugs and the butterflies," I said. I felt very warm inside because this was not a lie. For once, I was telling her the truth.
She twiddled her fingers in her lap and smiled sadly again. Tears shone in her eyes as she asked, "Do you think they'll let me be beautiful when I get there?" I didn't need to ask where she was talking about, nor of whom.
"Of course they will," I answered. After a moment, I added, "You are beautiful, you know," she shook her head fiercely at this and stared straight ahead, I could tell, trying to keep herself from crying. I sat down on the edge of her bed and put my arms around her, "It's okay to be afraid," I whispered, "and you are most certainly allowed to be sad."
"I'm not beautiful, though. Even I can see that," I laughed very softly into her hair, and kissed the top of her head.
"Well, that doesn't count for much, does it?"
|
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| the myth that you and i have become; |
[17 Feb 2006|10:17am] |
My truths have always been different than yours. There have been a million and two stories told about her, and when I recollect them from the labyrinths of my memory; her stories feel like I am reading about myself in a book. She is not a reflection of me, no, she is the myth and I am the fact. And myths don’t have reflections in mirrors, no matter how beautiful that would be.
Something’s too much and I don’t know what
Something’s lacking and I don’t know how
It was the August rain with its dampness of the spirits and coldness of the hearts that she brought along. The candles burned with their ugly flames, until they ran out of oxygen and couldn’t breathe anymore. Now the room is dark and dull and damp and empty, just like my heart. And then nothing remains of her but a fading picture on the damp walls of my lost mind on a cold August morning.
Darkness, deafness, insensitivity and chasm,
They all become important at some point or another
It broke my heart to know that the threads that bonded the both of us together were the threads of grief and despair. Her stories that are printed in celluloid and burned on my skin, leaving the scars that make me look prettier, make me feel exquisite;
These stories that make me feel heard without hushing my thoughts.
She flows through my veins, dissolved in the black oxygen that I breathe. Every single moment I give myself in to a little more of her, eventually I will be my own myth.
Like a long lost friend I remember you often,
If it wasn’t for the scars, I would have forgotten.
|
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| and all that could have been |
[20 Jan 2006|05:41pm] |
It’s the first month of the year and I am still to get out of the 2005 mode.
I am bored, I am tired and I am ill.
I am depressed, I am sleepless and I am broke.
I am craving for love,
I am craving for warmth
and I am craving to be someone else.
I want this place to feel like home, I want my journal back, and I want to be a writer.
I am afraid that things are going to be the same.
I am afraid that my sister's gonna read my journal
and I am afraid I don’t have enough time left.
I am too old to be a child prodigy.
I am too old to cry in front of others.
I am too old to fall in love for the first time.
I am too young to get married.
I am too young to feel this outdated
and I am too young to be left alone in this world.
I am not comfortable showing off my body.
I am not comfortable listening to dirty jokes.
I am not comfortable being touched by anyone.
I have too many black clothes.
I have too many unsaid emotions.
I have too many unreasonable dreams.
I don’t have many friends.
I don’t have many shoes.
I don’t have many secrets to share.
I don’t care when I am going to die.
I don’t care what you think about me.
I don’t care if I am not someone’s idea of perfection.
I can’t tell the difference between my reality and day dreaming.
I can’t tell the difference between Pepsi and Coke.
I can’t tell the difference between war on terror and terrorism itself.
I wish I could keep in touch with myself.
I wish I could keep in touch with my friends.
I wish I had never promised to keep in touch.
I don’t believe in myself.
I don’t believe in pre-marital sex.
I don’t believe in soul mates.
Why is that I worry too much abt things that I dont want? It runs in my blood. For some reason I couldnt have lived without this defect.
I believe what goes around comes around.
I believe that opportunity comes once in a lifetime.
I believe in Jesus Christ.
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| rewrite |
[13 Jan 2006|07:14pm] |
I feel trapped and there’s nothing else I can do. I am a real person trapped in a very unreal dream, someone who cannot differentiate between the fantasy world and this world.
I do want to begin a new life, so that I can mess it up all over again.
|
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| face it: |
[09 Jan 2006|04:24pm] |
every day is a compromise.
|
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| social distrortion; |
[28 Dec 2005|09:00am] |
I'm one of those girls.
You know the kind that suddenly looks around
and feels trapped
and you can't tell from looking at her,
just from the way she starts to breathe differently.
|
|
| here's to the year; |
[25 Dec 2005|11:59pm] |
(ooc: the following beautiful anime boy has nothing to do with the entry. he's just my muse of the moment)
Inn Keeper Fred. Driver's Training. Trips in the Snow. Absence of being medicated. Late nights. Saved. Bus trips. Youth group. Mochas. The Community. Trips to 7-11. Fights with my mother. Disorders (everybody's got one). Speeches. Broken friendships. Re-medicated. Jesus parties. Therapy. Anniversaries. Roller blading. Car accident. Finally 16. Run in with the cops. Depression. Haircuts. ER runs. Unforgiving dreams. Reunited with OD. Understanding. Confusion. Serious 3am talks with a certain friend of mine. Colds. Channy. Butterflies. Purity promises. Boyfriend. First kisses. Fights with my mom, again. Spring fever. Daydreams. Escaping this town. Sandy Server and the Loud Rock Cafe. Dissections of the truth. Leavenworth. Broadway Lion King. Indigo. Cab rides. Colds, again. Best friend reunited. Easter heart aches. Best friend talks. Band promo pics. Every 15 minutes. Depression, again. Marcus calls. The Young and the Hairless. Bright Eyes. State testing. Rain. MAP tests. TPing. Teacher kidnapping. Wedding photographer. Bonnie/Clyde. Dramadramadrama. ITED. Kicking the habit. His ending. Greatestjournal. The Lack There Ofs. Hobo Adam. Ice cube eating. Nail Biting. Folsom lake. Questioning. Doubting. Canoeing. Fritz obsession. Goodbye phone calls. Feral Giggles. Piercings. End of the year obligatory pictures. Yearbook signatures. Baptism. Berry #14. Sweet sixteen. Kat and Whitney. Denny's. Drunk on Fourth of July. German 2. Dirty word Scrabble. Drunken phone calls to ex-boys. Fights with my mother, third time. Rejection. Packing. Possibly qualified. Movies with Ariel. National 'No Pants Day'. Neid. John Mayer. Nine Inch Nails. Trips to Starbucks. Bus rides. The Screamer. Elephant Butte. Tubing. Waterskiing. Natural Springs. Bus rides, again. Reacclaimation with America. Sophomore year. Homework. 3 am phone calls. "I Love Yous." Melissa Etheridge. Lack of church. Public display of affection. Fights with my mother, what else. Long-distance relationships. Breaking up. A cold, again. Rumors. Palm readings. Tarot Cards. Random pictures. The Odd Couple. Gaia. Spirit Week. The election. Scary movies. Random phone calls. Therapy. Breaking down at the mall. Introspectives. Anonymous phone call. Loneliness. Poetry. Incompositionismyo. Cutting. Sketches. Vincent Van Gogh poster. Ipod. MPEG Level 1 Layer 3. New found faiths. DYC '05. Livejournal. Shiftey Moods . Touchy-feely people. Stacey. Fights with the sister. New found love for the sister. Crush on a boy. Sappy poetry. Pain. Breaking down. Building up. Getting kicked out of my bedroom. BBcoding. Maddy. Html learning. Learning in general. Painting. Sketching. Volunteering. Pet Over Population Prevention. Total rebellion. Nostalgia. Not knowing. The Fight Club. 'Sad girls for life'. Changes. Anti-social. Chances. Writing on Napkins. "We are the Mormon." Sneaking out to Hills West park. Feeling Oppressive. Feeling Dejected. Grapefruit. Hot cheetos and sherbert. Walking on Eggsells. Saving face. Losing soul. Persuasion. Bands that scream at me D; . Rain. Losing touch. Poker poker poker < 3. Billiards. allpoetry.com . Grammar. Crazy Liberal on Friday. Silly Conservative on Sunday. JayKays. Magic. Snowfall. Completion.
Well guys, it's finally over. Happy 2oo6.
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| "you need friends" |
[25 Dec 2005|03:01pm] |
Blurred vision and the lack of depth in my perception makes it harder for me to realize that its only creativity, a figment of imagination. One’s entire life created in my mind. Each minute like a portrait of that elusive girl. An array of visuals, visual after visual assails my mind. The Alchemy between the words and the images put together create a new fairytale.
Lips on the fingertips, touch like butterfly wings. Is there any higher form of love than a creative endeavor? My muse has left me. She is the one with fake black hair who speaks German and sells old perfume in cheap plastic bottles on the dark and dirty streets of Seattle. I miss her terrible.
In a matter of microseconds the world has changed. The dimensions have all disappeared and now everything just swims in a cosmic soup. Orange, Beige and Cherry. If descriptive it is then descriptive is what you are going to get. But this description lacks sense. No, it just doesn’t make sense to you.
I need a refill for life.
I can almost smell you in my room, though you never came into my life and never will. The journey has started but with each step I am going further away from the end. Introspection is what I am trying to find.
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|
| there's a muddy field where our garden was |
[11 Dec 2005|11:55am] |
Sometimes I reach for you, out of my dreams and there’s nothing. Only crumpled sheets and question marks. You leave your pillow where you had been, a marker of your space, a comforter for the anguish you think you are inflicting on me. I don’t, I want to but I won’t hurt you. I think of ways I can bring you down. Shame the façade of middle class respectability you wear so well. You come back and reach me again, hands all over me.
Cold disapproval. Silent screams. I sit silently on the edge of the mattress, holding onto the cold vestige of my real world, not this. Daylight hits me like cold water, we are okay only in the dark. The cold light of day exposes the wrinkles around your cornflower coloured eyes, and prickly hairs on your chin. She doesn’t have the monopoly on pain in this situation. I feel toxic, shamed. What am I doing to myself? Why am I hurting myself?
“I know, I know.”
Squeezing out the last days of summer as I sit on my front step and look at the wreck that used to be my garden. Flowerbeds tumble full of weeds and the lawn has become the metaphor of neglect I have been practising. My eyes still hurt from last night’s monumental crying session. My phone rings. I hesitate; I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t answer your rails or your text messages and you grow ore frantic in your attention seeking. I want out.
How did I get here? I have landed in a place I promised myself I would never revisit. Betrayal, lies, emotional spaghetti. All the things I must avoid, At least I could justify it then, all those years ago. But you, you are about control. You cannibalise, my time and I let you. The endless messages, gifts of books that build us to another continent, the hours of instant messaging. I am falling out of the boundaries of my world into another space, which I know is temporary as it is dangerous and I feel something slip. The ground beneath my feet gives way and I’ve crossed a post. I am liar.
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| eternity; |
[08 Dec 2005|04:16pm] |
(Today I write this entry in blue, because yesterday I bled in red.)
Sometimes I wish I could live forever, every other time I want to die that moment. I want to break to all barriers and take that plunge in to eternal peace. But what is peace? Never knew her. Never wanted to. Did you?
Life is the lyrics, the heart of my song. (Come on, girl sing).
Death is the rhythm that plays in the background. (Dance like the wind).
Sometimes I wish memories would come with a delete button.
Sometimes I relate to you as I would relate to the stars. Coming out night after night, when I could watch you through my insomnia. So far yet so near. There were special times when I wished upon you to make my dreams come true. That twinkle of yours always used to make me smile. But I guess its time you burnt out (you have been burning since so long).
Sometimes I regret my past, wish I could go back, and make it all right.
Sometimes I like to have fewer choices. It's so easy to scoff at what isn’t being offered, how can one know that they wouldn’t take it if given the chance? I hate making decisions, especially if they are concerning me. I never listen to anybody. “Would you excuse, I have my life to screw up”. Once those choices are made I have myself to blame. “now look what have you done, I told you so but you would never listen”. Stop pretending that you care.
Sometimes I look myself in the mirror and there is a stranger in my reflection.
Sometimes I don’t want to wake up. Just lie there in my bed, with all my blankets covering my face. My head is killing me and I can’t open my eyes. They cannot tolerate any light. They hurt so badly but I haven’t been crying. No not crying, just imagining, thinking too hard. About you, about me, about the rest of the eternity. All of last night I was lying awake, trying to sleep, trying to dream, trying to escape. …just trying.
Sometimes I am not what I look to be. Far from it.
Sometimes I just want to be left alone.
But everywhere I see there is everybody. Where were you when I needed you? Where were you when I was all-alone? So alone. So alone for so long. You were nowhere to be found.
I searched through my mind and I searched through my soul.
I searched for the parts and I searched through the whole.
I searched you in my present and I searched you in my past.
I searched during the pain and I searched for you in my heart
But you were never found. Now when I don’t want you, you are everywhere, everywhere at once.
Sometimes I want to be free, for this moment I want to be me.
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| & you can tell |
[07 Dec 2005|04:01pm] |
from the back of her neck
his dirty hands left stains
all black and blue she wears
the flag of her uncertainty
and her devotion has her
tossed from a flight of stairs
oh she believes she can fly
leaves her hanging from the wall
and she just can't run away
though covered in drapes of reasons to leave
no wings nor ring can fly her now
oh dripping red, she's broken (ribs)
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| my whole existence is flawed, you get me closer to god |
[30 Nov 2005|04:16pm] |
Alright, a rhyming poem. after such a long time. I am rhyming. what timing.
Too close and near, my heart sings
Wait is eternity, time has wings
Many miles away,when awaits silence
Not distance aches but lonely sense
That prettiest face fell upon my eyes
Very instant my realm claimed the skies
Pledged heart alone not pieces but whole
Shall submit at feet,humble of my soul
Where trust stands proof ever you test
No trace that betrays in blood shall rest
That love I possess , mere a silent sound
If measured , you loved infinite abound
Hands of time though clean, wipes past
To forget forever then it always last
Million times I try to forget , in vain
Twice times million you recur again
For a moment absence, ripens into ages
That next meet again, awhile love rages
No heart holds , try for length ever
Futile is efforts big as love ends never.
....but once in a while,a few lonely moments can take you to strange,undiscovered, virgin empires of
your mindscape and remind you of all the small,sweet moments whose
colors havs dissolved to make life so Big and Beautiful today.and i
find no better place to fulfill such secret pleasures than here.
Dry.Arid.Angry.Unchecked.Unhindered.
I am here to listen to your stories and then wallow in their beauty.
Share your secrets with me .
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| voids |
[29 Nov 2005|05:49pm] |
My mind is void of all the colours these days. My thoughts are oscillating between the lucidity of someone’s deepest blue sapphire eyes and the moonlight (reeling away to the pink flames).
I have been collecting answers, for myself (and I find most of my answers from books). I want to believe that I am really a strong young woman; just been oblivious of the fact all my life. Maybe some day I may find out a purpose for this life. A more fulfilling existence perhaps???
Individuality or conformity? The body or the soul???
Maybe if you weren't so superficial I would have wanted to search through you. Or maybe if I wasn't so tormented I wouldn't need pills to separate illusions from reality. I thought I changed the equations but it was only my little dream world that I could see. I am ugly but I am the truth. I see hidden meanings in things and know the secrets that others will never know. I am not going to tell you what I mean, you will have to search the meaning yourself.
Blue sapphire thoughts, I want them to stay
Yesterday were roses, but are thorns today
The crystalline blue of the oblivion
The sheen that dazzles, will destroy all
Colouring outside the designs of god
Immune to the plans of destiny
A desperate performance of a lifetime
A dance performed, just to be in the spotlight
Trying to be heard, when I have nothing to say
Trying so hard, that I almost made it
I forgot your curse is going to make me fall
And forgot that today was my last chance
The violins have changed, but the music remains
Your beauty has changed, but the curse remains
"There are no choices. Nothing but a straight line. The illusion comes afterwards, when you ask 'why me?' and 'what if?' when you look back, see the braches, like a pruned bonsai tree, or a forked lightning. If you had done something differently, it wouldn't be you, it would be someone else looking back, asking a different set of questions."
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| beauty in thruth holds little worth; |
[27 Nov 2005|10:30am] |
I am entranced by the world and its cumulative beauty.
I ache for attractiveness not concealed by perception
A few thousand winter nights ago I was told the little story
About the ugly duckling which transformed into a beautiful swan.
Why is it so important to be a "beautiful" swan?
Why can't I remain am "ugly" duckling and be happy??
I've metamorphosed not into a beautiful swan … far from it. I have changed into something that nobody expected. From my diminutive life in my diminutive cocoon, I have now become flowing water. Flowing is almost as good as flying because she doesn't need any wings to flow.
"My words are a personification of me, they are undecipherable and ugly."
Seeing, Perception, Believing and Feeling, is there a place that I can lock up these faculties and pretend that I am invisible. I no longer have the energy to do anything other than breathing. We live in a world where seeing is believing … make sure you have something to flaunt.
My true fears have come alive and my insides are shivering. Maybe if I stare at them, unblinking and long enough, they will turn me blind. Death seems beautiful as it entwines with the frailty of life and finally glares up at me. I am still staring in those fluorescent eyes and I see my reflection taking form. Its my curse that I find her everywhere. Sometimes darkness is what it seems (a reflection of yourself).
Don't tell me I am beautiful, I know that's not true.
I am never going to be anything beautiful, because beauty doesn't deserve me.
"All this time we got the fable of sleeping beauty wrong. The prince doesn't kiss her to wake her up. No one who has slept for a hundred years is likely to wake up. It was the other way around. He kisses her to wake himself up; from the nightmare that has brought him there."
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| all powerful, like her hate |
[26 Nov 2005|10:30am] |
( a note to the reader: picture is of my sister, and poem is about time i've speant with her, and things i observed. she's a complicated study, you know. )
This is for one... this is for her, this is my expression, my feeling when I awaken and my room is cold.
We walked together only moments ago in our ridged cold town. You all did not exist. You still don’t.
We sat in our ruins and lived spirits that still reside.
A light from a sun snuffed out before a thought. There is no place but one. There is no one but God.
The valleys where she sleeps I watch over in quiet protection.
But her mind became tangled in her wicked webs of dream and she wished for another place; again not yet seen. She only knew how alone she felt when her wishes made it obvious. She should have been careful for what she wished. She never dreamt she'd get it.
No harm will touch her dreams. Ours is a night that plays our energies like a concerto in a dead score. The pages fall from the stand as I awaken.
Our conversations run deep, even though we as people do not. Her thoughts burn through me like a cigarette burnt through my hand. I'll tell her that I'd burn myself just to feel another pain, and she'll tell me that she never liked to hurt. Her words, they're all powerful, Like her hate.
She twisted in the dark and somehow found herself to be on unknown ground. The silence that held her was as still as her mind. Safe in the knowledge of the angels she left behind.
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| just try and understand |
[25 Nov 2005|04:59pm] |
Tender thoughts manifest,
as the clock flashes its last attempt at salvation.
3 am, I should rest my eyes now,
but refrain in fear of drifting from this place.
A floating soul no longer in control of its destiny
Pushed and pulled to its own uncharted edge of madness.
Faced with uncertain hope, cringing in its imaginary skin.
I know its tortured soul is longing...
Hearts render, beating as one,
as slowly your breathing lulls me to sleep.
I hold the notion I'll see you come dawn,
but sleep with my eyes half open
just in case.
Longing to be free of the drowning tides of false promises.
Longing to capture the fresh mist of lasting patience.
With its open arms reaching for its power in an uncertain way.
Having illusions of peace & love seen through eyes of others falsifing its truth.
She is bewildered at the ease
with which she glides past the throng,
leaving the hunger to grow into insatiability.
Morons all,
they never saw her pass,
never felt her presence,
missed the smell of a woman.
This soul floats on to make sense of its reasoning.
Watching for signs and symbols,
hanges in shapes and forms.
Confiding in nothing and no one…searching for its power.
Relying on the truth of a fallacy no longer meant to measure up to its meaning.
|
|
| ..&& cue the happy endinggg.. |
[23 Nov 2005|04:56pm] |
I want to live in an apartment. Alone. I will live far away from my family. Maybe I’ll go east, where it rains. I will get out of this town. I’ll live in the city and not own a car. Instead, I’ll walk, ride bikes, or take public transportation to get wherever I need to go. But I’ll find happiness. I will love my family, and enjoy their quirks that have bothered me through most of my childhood. We will have weekly phone calls and laugh. I’ll visit them on the holidays. And I’ll never clean like a maniac to impress them when they come to visit my apartment. However, I will allow myself to sneak out onto my terrace in the middle of the night and the eat ben & jerry’s ice cream that I have hidden under the frozen vegetables in the freezer.
I want a dog, which is at least ten pounds overweight. He will have a name like Mr. Yum-my or Mephisto or something no one but me will get and laugh at. He will greet me at the door sit on my lap even though he is way too big for that. I’ll seductively walk across my apartment with my long thin blonde hair swaying. I’ll have no air conditioning, just fans. I’ll go out on the fire escape to flee from the heat. I’ll do my laundry at the local Laundromat. And I will always lose at least one pair of socks. I will be barefoot as much as possible.
I will wear short skirts and fishnet stockings when I feel like it. People will wonder whether or not they see a tattoo on my inner thigh. Those who are brave enough to ask will only get the answer of, “Mm, so anyways”
I’ll live in a small apartment with a view of the streets. So I can see people. Watch them and notice that life is beautiful. I want a terrace with windows that allow the sun to shine on my living room. There will be no doors or walls dividing my place. I want a small kitchen with old appliances that barely work and put off too much heat. There will be furniture that is soft and worn in. With holes and tears. None of it will match. There will be no TV; only books. Walls and walls of books. Books of truth, beauty, and love. Inspirational stories, quotes, poems. I want them all. I want a wall full of CDs and vinyl records. I want to dance in my apartment. I want to run around half naked and sing at the top of my lungs. I want to be able to play my stereo as loud as I want it, as late as I want to. I want just a mattress. No sheets. Only a comforter, tons of blankets, and lots and lots of pillows. Mostly, I want nothing. Just a pen and paper so I can write all this down. But I want hardwood floors. And a street with character.
I want to work in a small coffee shop. Independent. A barista who does ballerina moves while making coffee. I will not get angry when people assume that just because I am young that means that I am unable to understand that they want a tall dark coffee. We will play the classics and the customers will be able to burst out and sing along with the record. And everyone will know each other’s names. It will be like our own little urban family.
I’ll live by a downtown area with art supply stores, coffee shops, CD stores, hair salons, and small grocery stores. Everyone will know me. I will be the nice blonde girl who lives in that apartment. To boys passing me on the street, I want to be the mysterious, artsy blonde girl.
I want to be happy. I want to learn to love and be loved in return. I want a neighborhood family of old ladies who talk about the good old days and give me guy advice, guy friends who are protective of me, and a gay guy best friend. I want it all. I want to know people. See their history; know their stories. More importantly, I want to be a part of their stories. I want to be apart of their history.
I’ll have girlfriends too; wonderful girlfriends. We will go out on the learn to dance and be okay with ourselves. We will meet for breakfast in a small diner and order a sundae to share. We will go for afternoon shopping sprees and sit around and eat Chinese food from the carton with chopsticks. We’ll get sloppy drunk and play games like Scrabble using only dirty words and ex-boyfriend’s names. We’ll go to concerts and befriend all the different bands. So no matter what concert we go to, we will have to jump on stage and sing along with the band.
I’ll be a photographer. Just for me. I will observe people. My bathroom will be my darkroom. And I will have walls and walls covered in pictures. I’ll always at least have one role of film with me and a camera. I will go and see old black and white movies at a revival theater. I will ignore all the teenagers making out.
I will wake up on Sunday mornings, watch the sunrise, go out onto my stoop in my boy briefs, an ex-bestfriend’s t-shirt that I have stolen, and hair in a messy bun and grab the Sunday paper. I will lie in bed and do the crossword puzzles after I catch up on my current events while Mr. Yum-my curls up next to me.
Sometimes I will go running. Most of the time I’ll spend my free time wandering the street, wearing clothes only to be described as boho style and have a cup of coffee in my hand. I’ll wear as little make up as possible. I’ll hardly ever worry about my hair and my huge sunglasses will be worn everywhere.
I’ll travel. One day just pack up and leave at the spur of the moment. Destination unknown, no return date in sight. Beaches, campsites, cities, buildings, museums… I’ll be a citizen of the world.
But at the end of the day, when I come home, I will have that one special someone who will support me. Someone who will sleep over at my house and cuddle up with me in my bed when I need it. Somebody who understands that the key to my heart is caffeine. A person who’s intelligent, intellectual, and creative. Just as sweet as they are caring. I want them to welcome me into their arms and just hug me when I am hurting. They’ll there with me and be ready for that moment when I might want to talk. I want comfort. I want trust. I want love. I want intimacy. Those touches of affection. Those kisses on the forehead. That finding my hand in a crowd. Those looks of affection.
More importantly, I want that happily ever after.
|
|
| ..fallen city..; |
[15 Nov 2005|02:52pm] |
Wake Me in The Morning ,
Laying Next To the same Bottle I fell Asleep With;
I felt As If I Fell Apart Last Night
Each Piece Of Me Shattered Across An Empty Floor,
As I Cut My toes - On Broken Glass ,
I Dont Feel I deserve to Be Bleeding.
Tear Drops Roll Off A silken Feather;
they Lay on the Window Ledge,
Fallen From a tarnished Angel,
Eyes Hidden From A destruction Of;
Smudged Mascara.
I Dont Feel I deserve To Be Crying.
DisinFectant Fills My Lungs ,
I Push Needles Through my skin;
Sitting In An empty Park at Quarter Past midnight.
StreetLamps Light the Sky,
Hiding The Stars;
Smoke like ribbons Roll Through The heavens,
I Dont Feel I deserve To Be here.
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fragile_smiles's journal