Thievery

Came into your little house and caused a scene
I didn't intend to make you cry
in your florescent lit haze
they're gonna rip me from your arms.

While I was stealing the moon and kidnapping some stars
I didn't notice you take piece of my heart.
I've told myself you're not going far
but you're still getting to me.
It's thievery.

I've always liked my drink a little straight
I never planned to go off the edge
with all the strength that I can shed
I'm gonna fight them off with my life.

Your temple creases in ways that I can't read
my pen is trying to understand.
Despite my rudimentary phrasing
you still say it's expertise.

While I was stealing the moon and kidnapping some stars
I didn't notice you take piece of my heart.
I've told myself you're not going far
but you're still getting to me.
It's thievery.

I've been trying all along.
To publish my decree
that says there's something to be seen
in that dark corner of your home.
They're coming for us,
they're coming for us.
They're coming for us,
they're coming for you and me.

While I was stealing the moon and kidnapping some stars
I didn't notice you take piece of my heart.
I've told myself you're not going far
but you're still getting to me.
It's thievery.

Fight of Your Life

Hit me once and I won't be fine
hit me twice and you'll get a piece of my mind,
I know that you'd prefer me passive
but frankly I can't grasp it.
I can understand you're under pressure
but it doesn't compare to what you're gonna get after,
after tonight after this last shot
it'll be over soon, I'll pull it off.

How would you react if I did as you say and shut my mouth,
didn't write a single line,
but only let you know that I'm hell bent on giving you
the fight of your life.

If you're what's right then I'd rather be wrong,
You didn't need a warning this was coming all along.
Please don't pretend you think of me as an asset,
If you don't see it now you're never gonna have it.
There's a time and there's a place for compromising,
but it sure as hell aint now and I don't see it coming.
I mean to swear, I aim to offend you,
you deserve to know what I think of you.

How would you react if I did as you say and shut my mouth,
didn't write a single line,
but only let you know that I'm hell bent on giving you
the fight of your life.

Relax,
take it easy sir.
I'm sure,
it's in the interest of character.
rest assured,
I'll do as you taught me,
be a person of integrity,
of course.
So when I find that truth excuse me if I'm jaded
in your general direction.
I'm trying to communicate as clearly as I can
that I don't think you really give a damn.

How would you react if I did as you say and shut my mouth,
didn't write a single line,
but only let you know that I'm hell bent on giving you
the fight of your life.

November Playlist

Answering Machine- Matt Nathanson
24-25- Kings of Convenience
8- Lovedrug
Ever the Same- Rob Thomas
The Verb- The Swell Season
Led to the Sea- Jenny Owen Youngs
Half of My Heart- John Mayer
The Man Who Can't Be Moved- The Script
War of my Life- John Mayer
Small Blue Thing- Suzanne Vega
Swans- Unkle Bob
I'm About to Come Alive- Train
Men of Snow- Ingrid Michaelson
Falling Away with You- Muse
Kathleen- David Gray
All We Ever Do is Say Goodbye- John Mayer
Marchin On- OneRepublic
Shine- David Gray
Be Here Now- Ray LaMontagne

Panic

My heartbeat pounding in my ears is far too loud for my own personal taste. Despite the assurance that it's keeping the blood pumping through my limbs, more than anything the beating seems to have hollow resonance. My nerve endings are blunted and as I blindly search within my mind for something to hold on to to steady myself I come up empty handed. And drowning. Despite all attempt to keep my head above water the ridiculous weight of air presses down, down, down until I'm so deep underwater, all I hear is my heartbeat.

Dirty Cinderella

Dirty Cindy,
with her ringlets greased by motor oil
her fingers adorned with nuts and bolts.
The layers of tulle get caught under the heels
of her motorcycle boots
and they fly in the wind behind
making this odd crackling sound.
Dirty Cindy is tired of being monotonous.
But you can't put expensive shades
and a nice face
on a crime.
Dirty Cindy,
ain't so pretty anymore.

Drum Time

Ya da ba bum it's drum time with my dizzy feet and toes
dancing circles in mustard drenched linoleum that you neglected
to mop the other day.
Your hands to occupied with the sappy ends of pussy willows
you know the part towards the end of the stick?

Ya da ba bum it's drum time, it's fall time, it's heart time, hard time.
Your ex lover died at drum time.
You should have seen it coming
but you were too distracted by the chemistry equations
you found hidden in the creases of your magazine.
You thought they were an equation for that perfect shade
of lipstick.

Ya da ba bum go the pal bearers steel tipped boots
crashing through stained glass leaves and pipes filled with wine
intended to induce global relaxation.
A terrorist attack.
It's drum time.
Don't you hear the drums?
Ya da ba bum?

The Art of Growing Up

The breeze tickles her androgyny as she stands on top of a mountain, overlooking the grass scattered with picnic blankets, occupied with people who have forgotten their ham sandwiches half way to their mouths as they look to the crazy girl with boy hair standing on top of the hill. Her clothes smell like crisp fall and deep smoke and they see her take a whiff of her sleeve. They watch, as her peculiarity increases. She surveys her kingdom before declaring disdain and running back down the slope, a drapey black sweater and large silver earrings following in her wake like a tail.

She clambers into a car, disappointed at the deceiving mountain. She's offended by it's minimality. However, she's quickly distracted by the lightness of her limbs. She rambles about metaphors to private school and the government as she lets a lonely finger float out the window. Stunned by it's freedom, the top half of her body follows. From the waist up she lolls out the window like some kind of rebellious flag.

She is a contradiction. Always striving to be more that she should be, she declares "Youth! It's youth I've found! It is wind and smoke and sugar!" Maybe in time she will coat herself in Crisco and pure cocoa powder, declare herself a confection for life to feast upon. There is an art to growing up.

"Look! Raise your arms! See how light you feel?"

settling

For a while now, I've been trying to forgive. With all my efforts in vain, my frustrations rose. My incapability to let it go was an insult to my character. But recently, I've dawned upon a new thought. Not only must I forgive the one who scorned me, but more importantly, I have to forgive myself. This is not a get out of jail free card for him, he will never be a jail bird, one with wings. God knows I clipped his wings long ago. But it does buy him time to come to terms with transgressions, it does give him time to realize that maybe he did do something wrong.

I've always considered myself strong, steadfast, a force. So therefore, when our end came and I reflected upon those eleven months anger rose not only for that man but at myself. In the end, it wasn't just the way we ended that was torturous. It was the entire journey. The things I let myself be subjected to were actions I said I would never endure. I always thought I was a strong woman, that no man could beat me down. But love truly is completely blind.

So, as I walked my way through tragic day blending into tragic song, I sank into denial. I denied the fact that I had failed myself. I had not been strong enough to put an end to my own suffering. The scars I wore externally were a metaphor for what was happening inside my mind. At the time I thought them more superfluous than that, but now as I've come to know myself, and my addictions, and my weaknesses, I realize that for the second time in my life, I chose to hurt myself in an attempt to protect a man.

Like I said, it's not an excuse for his behavior. There are things I look back on that really were horrible. Screaming matches, jealousy, teary phone calls, seeking revenge when it wasn't meant to be sought. I never intended to fall in love with him, it was never the plan. At the time when he first approached me, my heart was with another. That he never knew. It would've killed him. It wasn't until three months in that I let the other one go and gave myself fully to him.

That was the mistake; the complete and utter surrender of myself. I was so infatuated with golden light and poetry that I let myself live a life accompanied by someone who in essence, wasn't what I needed. I needed confidence and security. I needed to be nurtured.

My resentment towards him was immeasurable. This man, no this boy, had caused me to completely contradict everything I stood for. Strength, will, feminism, it all took a backseat to trying to hold onto something I should have let free such a long time ago. But I never would have. No matter how many times I threatened, no matter how many times I almost did, no matter how many times I told myself you have to end this, and be assured there were plenty of moments, and they existed not only in the end of our story, but the middle and beginning as well. But I never would. The ignorant love held me moored to his dock, fighting the waves pounding against my helm.

The reason we fell in love and the reason we fell apart are one in the same. There is a difference between similarity of interest and similarity of soul. On the exterior, we seemed perfect for each other. The way our mouths and hands moved, both on paper and over each other, the things we held important, the way we both always fell so hard. But the integral things, the things that define personality, those were always opposing. Religion, politics, marriage, family, religion, friendship, loyalty, religion, religion, religion, our values were different. We were both so stubborn that neither one would change and why should we? It's much to great a sacrifice to change the very construction of yourself in order to appease another. I knew this from the start, really, truly, I did. But once again. Love. Is. Blind. I think he knew it to. We both always knew that our promises to each other were tempting the God he worshiped and I denied. His simplistic approach to conflict and my dramatic rashness were never going to meet on common ground. But we were in love with the poetry of each other. Not the idea of each other, because it was not an idea, it was reality, but it was the exterior. We fell in love with what, in our books we fell such victim to, would have been an ideal match. But this is not a story nor can it be manipulated by pen and paper. There are no edits and rewrites. It is truth. It is reality. Every poem has an end. And by the transitive property, so did ours.

I awoke this morning in tangled linen, realizing that I could never belong to him. I could never belong to anybody if I did not belong to myself. In order to give myself to anybody, I have to pay myself the same courtesy. In order to fall in love, I must fall in love with myself. Every flaw, every curve, every word, every scar.

I awoke this morning in tangled linen, my skin still smelling of the one that had left just hours before. I reflected on those moments. How as he left from my doorstep just before the sun, his kiss lingered on my lips long after he had driven away. The words of "I love you" echoed through my ears as I drifted into slumber. I awakened still basking in the rosy glow, my skin salty with dried salt, my muscles aching, but blissfully happy.

It's a different kind of happy. It's a different kind of love. Everything is in reverse from last time. He doesn't speak eloquently and it's taken time for me to adjust to his simplicity instead of the world of verbal royalty I came from. But what he doesn't say with his words he says with his heart. He knows me- the small, the superfluous, the random, the profound. Whether bringing me vintage books when I've had a rough week, holding me when I'm sick, or sitting talking with me till the early hours of the morning, our heads clouded by smoke and weariness, he cares for me. He nurtures. There's such a simplicity in it. He adores me, but not for my talents or quirks, but for who I am. The talents and quirks don't go unnoticed however. He said something to me a few weeks ago that stole my heart. He said "I'm proud of you. I'm always proud of you. You blow me away." He's proud of me. I had never thought about it before, but it's something I had never heard before. It's that simplicity that makes me love him. It's the simplicity that makes me look at our relationship with realistic eyes as opposed to the tinted ones I had before.

As to you my blue eyed wonder, I do not forgive you. Not yet. I don't think I can ever fully forgive you because I don't fully understand. I understand why you were the one to finally end us. I understand that. What I don't understand is why you did what you did, the way that you did. I will never understand your cruelty. I know you're not evil and therefore, I know you feel the intensity of the pain you've caused me, but still you are silent. No remorse passes from your lips. That is what I cannot forgive as of now. But alas I am trying. Everyday I am trying to forgive you. And I'm growing closer every moment. With every day that I forgive myself a little bit more, I move closer to forgiving you. Every time I tell myself that I am not weak, that I am not a fool for allowing love to trump abuse, I move closer to being at rest with you. You are not a bad man. You are wonderful, but not wonderful for me, nor am I for you. In essence, you had the strength to do what I always said I would. Maybe you loved me enough to see you were not what I needed. You loved me enough to let me go, maybe you knew what I needed before I did. That image of you is what I try to cling to.

I will never forget. I will someday forgive. And I will always love you. Once you fall in love you never really fall out of it. The love may change color, shape, form, it may rearrange itself to fit a different tune, but it will always be there. And that is not a sin. That is a gift. So for now, my love for you lays deep and thick in the bottom of my heart. Dormant and at rest, it is on it's way to contentment and acceptance. It is merely out of sorts from it's recent relocation. All will be well in time. For today, I love another, and I love him deeply. Today, the storm begins to calm. The furnishings thrown about the room have found new residence, the cracked glass panes reflect new life, and the dust, begins to settle.

Generation Z- Scott Kulicke

I've never put up a piece by anybody other than myself, but Scott's definitely worthy of being the first. I loveeeeee you Scottimus Prime.

Generation Z
Scott Kulicke

I’m scared of the world I’m going to have to live in, because I know it won’t know me. Go to any airport, and take a minute to think about how long your life has been. The world inside your head, the endless road of memories and emotions that have comprised every minute you’ve been awake, is too much. Perniciously it starts to eat away at your senses, until you’re forced by the complexity of your own experience to turn your thoughts elsewhere (weirdly enough, away from your own thoughts). Then look around you. There are people everywhere. Blank eyed, quiet people. You never noticed any of them until now, because they were just the people walking past you. But the minute you stop walking and you start looking, it becomes clear that they are also people. Most of them older than you, they’ve all had lives too. Every little memory of everything you’ve done, they’ve done too. They’ve all had feelings, and they’ve all had experiences. They are all as complicated as you are.
And none of them look happy.

It may just be the natural expression of their faces, faces that look tired in the corners of their eyes, faces attached to bodies that lean in on themselves like they’re lonely. At what point did everyone become so unhappy?
I then ask myself what constitutes happy. Maybe everyone just hates travel. You get up earlier than you’d like to take off more clothing than you’d like to get through security (and you really don’t look like you have a bomb anyway). But it seems like more. You walk through the city, and everyone has that look. You sit on the train, and you look out at the gray world outside, at the boarded up houses that are flaking away into abandoned lots. Every adult I see looks unfulfilled, and dying.
What am I supposed to think of the world I’m going into? No one anywhere looks happy. How hard can I try to break out of this? I’m going to run away from the place I’ve grown up in, and the people that have watched me grow. I’m going to shun everything I’ve done so far, and try it all over again. But if I haven’t already, when am I going to?
My parent’s parents were, having emerged from the great depression and World War II, hard working, strong people. Their children, my parents, grew up listening to their parents talk about how hard they had worked so my parents would never have to face such hardships again. But they didn’t recognize that my parents would then turn around and look at the racism and sexism that pervaded their lives, and decide that my grandparents were hypocrites and liars. They shunned the lessons they had been taught; they had been raised under the cold rules of liars, and needed to break out of them. The hippies emerged. They preached freedom, and understanding. But they didn’t preach responsibility, or hard work. My parent’s generation became a generation of excesses, both physical and emotional. This left them fundamentally unequipped to be adults, and run the world that was handed to them.
We are the first generation to be left with a world worse off than it was for our parents. We’ve been raised by people who have had so much trouble raising themselves, and we’ve thus been left with the responsibility of teaching ourselves moderation, responsibility, and the ability to change the world into what it needs to be. No matter how hard I concentrate on piecing together the world around me, and figuring out why every person does everything they do, I can’t put it all together for myself. I, like everyone else that I’m growing up with, faces tremendously low odds of making ourselves happy. We’ve defined happy as the ability to be satisfied and free doing what we’re doing, but we never accounted for the work that had to go into it, and were never taught how to work that hard without killing the beauty of the process.
The most I’ve been able to do is look at all those people walking through the airport and growing increasingly paranoid of ending up that way. I won’t let myself walk from one unhappy place to another. I won’t be my parents, unable to raise their children into adults because they’re still learning how to do it themselves. By the time I enter the world, by the time I leave the nest my parents have put me in, I will be able to move freely, making myself into what I need to be. I won’t be that man who had his chance.

The Finch and the Daisy (A Riddle)

Caught me with hook of your melody's lines but I'm no punchline,
crack me up see what you find.
Anthropology mixes with insanity resulting in philanthropy
it's comedic to say the least.
There's a buttonhole to my soul made of a typewriter's ink, boy, what do you think are you an. Author can you make the best of me, best of, best of me.

I'll write you another riddle concerning the finch and the daisy.
We'll live in a house of glass walls that shatter when the light falls from room to room.
And despite it all a finch is gonna sing and a daisy's gonna bloom.

What would you say to living deliberately, or like blind poetry would you rather know or rather seek.
Hear the stars sing of old spars, how they fought great wars amongst themselves lofted above the rolling sea.

I'll write you another riddle concerning the finch and the daisy.
We'll live in a house of glass walls that shatter when the light falls from room to room.
And despite it all a finch is gonna sing and a daisy's gonna bloom.

Find me on the rails with mosquito bites leaking lust into my veins,
and as the influences change, I'll accept that I have failed.
This is an admirals ghost and he's holding my will,
all hands on deck it's just a shriveled eye and a soul.

I'll write you another riddle concerning the finch and the daisy.
We'll live in a house of glass walls that shatter when the light falls from room to room.
And despite it all a finch is gonna sing and a daisy's gonna bloom.

Blind Poetry

"Leader By Destiny"

We all know
personality is
fictionalized skill
authentic
research a vivid
kind of man.
Naturally irritable but
firm and habitual.
Good control
judgment.

"Madame Curie"

Incredulous chemists existed.
At night they had hid the fortifications
behind eyes, suburbs, woods.
Old Marie bathed with our substitute
light.
Breathing in spite of
thinking freely.
Marie received a reproach so comic.
Marie sat down.

"The Admiral's Ghost"

I tell you
hear the stars.
Old spars singing old song.
He froze the things on deck.
He pointed my will.
That shriveled eye
and a soul.

October playlist

Maybe- Ingrid Michaelson
In My Place- Coldplay
Ocean Breathes Salty- Modest Mouse
Canal Song- Iain Archer
Detroit- Black Gold
Hold On To Me- Sugarplum Fairies
Cowboy Dan- Modest Mouse
California Justice- Five for Fighting
Day Old Blues- Kings of Leon
Ain't No Reason- Brett Dennen
I Look So Good Without You- Jessie James
My Boy Builds Coffins- Florence and the Machine
Locked Up- Ingrid Michaelson
Spotlight (Son Lux Remix)- MuteMath

Preach

We think we're talking but we're just moving our mouths
the words don't come out fast enough to cover up
what we did before what we said before
when we hurt the other one a little more.
You persuade me to your lord and your silver spoons
saying you can explain who made you, me, and the moon.
You know why boats float down the river nile
why there's a starving child
sitting on the corner of your street
you throw one penny at his feet.

Say the words go ahead and preach.
Say what you think I deserve,
go ahead and preach.

You say that you love but you really meant to say
that you just love loving on me I draw the line in the sand at this talk of your hands
what they can do, how they can move,
with all compassion removed.
You only write in permanent ink and on the most elegant scrolls
writing repetitive lines that seem poetic to the bone.
You have a way with words and phrase
that leaves me quaking on my knees for days
Your pillow talk has taken so much space
I have no room for thoughts.

Say the words go ahead and preach.
Say what you think I deserve,
go ahead and preach.

Staring into headlights
driving like hell.
Lacking symmetry in double yellow lines
flying to a place where I can get well.
Oh I need to get well.

Say the words go ahead and preach.
Say what you think I deserve,
go ahead and preach.
go ahead and preach.
go ahead and preach.
go ahead and preach.

Carnivore

The look in your eyes, says you know something I don't know.
The look in your eyes, says you've got wheels and nowhere to go.
The look in your eyes, says you're a heart eater, you're a carnivore

Speak to me boy of what it's like on broken limbs when you should stand.
Tell me boy what it's like to be with just the palm of your hand.
Do you feel, like a man?

The sway in your smile, tells me there's something you need to correct.
But the sway in your smile, says I'm something you'd rather forget.
The sway in your smile, is the marching drum of a million dead, a million dead.

Speak to me boy of what it's like on broken limbs when you should stand.
Tell me boy what it's like to be with just the palm of your hand.
Do you feel, like a man?

You're calling on saints on their iron wings,
while maintaining that you don't believe, no you don't believe.
I found my lord in smoke rings and by crashing through floors,
but still I don't believe, I don't believe.

Speak to me boy of what it's like on broken limbs when you should stand.
Tell me boy what it's like to be with just the palm of your hand.
Do you feel, like a man?

Throwing Colors

I ask of you
not flawlessness
not excellence,
nor precision or a sturdy mind.
I will not request of you
perfection
or aptitude in matters of the world.
Politics and the meanderings
of urban centipedes
are not relevant in my rough sketch.
I do not ask you
to follow bread crumbs in search of something greater than you are.
In fact dear,
I’ll never request more than you can achieve.
My standards are not held in such lofty rafters
that I expect you to sweep the cobwebs from them.
I do not expect you to clean the streets
or fix the faulty plumbing in my laundry room.
I do not wish for you to speak with civil tongue
or touch with gentle hand.
Heaven knows I have been handled too gently.
Treated as porcelain,
despite my fortitude in the matter of screaming matches.
So I do not fancy
that you treat me fairly.
I do not desire
you defer to me.

All I ask of you
you drought ridden soul
is that you will allow me to throw my colors upon you.
An experimentation if you will.
I’ll pop balloons filled with spicy Chinese orange sauce in your face,
and push your head into the bucket in that fish market
in the little village I found on that trip to some Oriental place.
All I ask of you is that you allow me to be rambunctious.
Please for the love of the lords
do not call fault on my tom foolery.
Call it vivacious if you must call it anything at all.
Call my leaps and spontaneous jigs
variations in this masterpiece we’re dancing in.
Don’t call me insane.
there’s no point in redundancies,
they only muddle all the colors I’m throwing on you.

Blood on Snow

Rest your head this could take the whole night.
Do you see what I meant by this could take some time.
My dear what's possessing you, what darkness is caressing you,
all your flaw are coming through,

It sounds like blood on snow, on snow, on snow.
Like blood on snow, snow, on snow.

Light a candle to me see if I still set you on fire.
You always said we were tiptoeing on the thinnest electrical wire.
I'm looking at old tapestries to understand symbology,
but clarity's evading me,

It sounds like blood on snow, on snow, on snow.
Like blood on snow, snow, on snow.

A True Story by Katie Keyser

"I had a cat named Fluffy. It was mean and tried to eat you when you tried to give her a bath. She had a litter box that wouldn't move when the cat was in it, but the cleaner would move back and forth to clean it. She got cancer and as so skinny that the machine didn't detect her. She was so weak that the machine pushed her down and she couldn't get back up and my mommy found A DEAD KITTY OH NO!"

true life. my name is katie keyser.

Ugly Sound

From once upon a time love how's your life,
do you recall the situation.
I sat on the radiator you held the knife,
we looked at what we'd killed together.

It was cold in the naked Virginia sun,
when my tears mixed with your laughter.
Bathed in light and coca cola mixed with rum,
you seemed so out of character.

You said Oh, your heart it weighs me down.
Gravity's in love with me and the collision is such an ugly sound.
It's such an ugly sound.

From a fact not fiction what's your score,
are you up on all the players.
Don't forget your lucky socks tucked in your drawer,
you and fluorescent green look so good together.

I was wrong when I peeked into your room,
to see if that corkboard still had my picture.
Your God didn't understand my doom,
and I never did understand forever.

You said Oh, your heart it weighs me down.
Gravity's in love with me and the collision is such an ugly sound.
It's such an ugly sound.

Wake up honey time to find out what you did wrong.
There's weight in your words but I have faith in commerce,
even gold loses it's worth.


You said Oh, your heart it weighs me down.
Gravity's in love with me and the collision is such an ugly sound.
It's such an ugly sound.

September Playlist

New Shoes- Beyonce
The Apl Song- The Black Eyed Peas
The General- Dispatch
The Longest Time- Ensworth Singers/ Billy Joel
Sweet Love for Planet Earth- Fuck Buttons
Smash Into You- Beyonce
Closer- Kings of Leon
She's Got You High- Mumm- Ra
Come Home- OneRepublic
Unintended- Muse
Hummingbird- Cocoon
Cliffhanger- Cocoon
Lesson Learned- Brendan Benson
Beijing- Patrick Watson
Abbie Martin- Joshua James
Flaws and All- Beyonce
Cry to Me- Solomon Burke
Green Eyes- Coldplay
It's a Sight to Behold- Devendra Banhart
Open Your Eyes- Snow Patrol
The Story I Heard- Blind Pilot
Full Stream- David Gray
The Dutch Courage- The Spill Canvas
Straight Lines- Silver Chair
Turn to Stone- Ingrid Michaelson
Something Coming Over- O.A.R.

munch on THAT

you can't have anymore goldfish with your finger in your nose like that.
don't you know?

hah.

Paper: for adelaide

Dear Adelaide I must confess I've seen the colors of that man and they're darker than the ones in his hands.
Oh Adelaide I do implore, please don't cry anymore he's not worth crying for.
It looked so good on paper yes it looked so good with words.
But child you must learn even the best damn poetry crashes and burns

Oh Adelaide, what good is a loaded gun, when you're just shooting at paper, you're just shooting at paper.

My Adelaide it's dawned on me there's nothing left to define you have to improvise all your lines.
Oh Adelaide my soliloquies couldn't bring that man to his knees and they did nothing good for me, they did nothing good for me.
It seemed vile, it seemed so unkind, the end to a once poignant story.
But on the paper it lies, a straight black line through glory glory glory.

I wanna save you, save you from the heart that he beats you on.
Save you, save you from the heart that he beats you on.
You know he blessed your name, he blessed your name,
I've got the whole thing down on paper.

No good comes of a loaded gun when you're just shooting at paper,
you can't change what he wrote, you can't change what he's done unless you're good and gone.
so put down your gun.
What good is a loaded gun when your just shooting at paper, you're just shooting at paper.
Oh Adelaide, what good is a loaded gun, when you're just shooting at paper, you're just shooting at paper.
You're just shooting at paper.

The Universal Plot

I've never been good with directions I'm just looking for protection
of some kind.
So I'll try to be less intense and maybe less confident
and defiant.
My laces are tied so tight I can't feel the words cutting into my feet
like independence and belief.

Oh, how you torment my heart with your talk of stars
and how they fill the space between my end and start.
I don't know what we fit in the universal plot I only know
it's not worth it if I'm in it and you're not.

I'll give you words of fortitude, expect them with an attitude
of caution.
I'll try to open up my doors and forget what was done before
by a heavy hand.
I've been walking on my stilts so long I forgot what it's like to walk safe and sound on solid ground,
on pavement where love can be found.

Oh, how you torment my heart with your talk of stars
and how they fill the space between my end and start.
I don't know what we fit in the universal plot I only know
it's not worth it if I'm in it and you're not.

Forget what I said about not caring for the what ifs, buts, and what nots.
I'm a liar I'm a cheater, I'm a bit of a scene stealer
but I'll give you all I've got if you can come get it while it's hot.

Oh, how you torment my heart with your talk of stars
and how they fill the space between my end and start.
I don't know what we fit in the universal plot I only know
it's not worth it if I'm in it and you're not.

Simplicity

In case you have forgotten dear, you are simplicity.
Claim to be a complex creature as long as you like
but in the grand elaborate scheme
you're a mere player.
We both are.
You speak of universe's and their infinity
your wild streak surging under your porcelain sheath
gleaming with your flash of inspiration.
You say there are black holes in my pupils
and entire civilizations in my right iris
but that each little universe is but a toy of another
much larger macrocosm
always dilated and swelling.
The swell of the universe's and the music
and the rhythm of my hips are all you have to cling to I suppose.
But remember as I said you are simplicity
you're simple
you really are.
So if you see entire universe's in my eyes
then that is enough complexity for us both.
So shush my ramblings with your lips
and move me tracing my cries with the pads of your thumbs.
I'll lay in this land with you until the brink of four years from now
marveling in how simply complicated you are
and how I have come
to love you.

August Playlist.... a little late

I just realized I never posted my August Playlist... oops

Goldfish- Joe Purdy
Brand New Sun- Jason Lytle
Be OK- Ingrid Michaelson
Let It Happen- Jimmy Eat World
I'd Be Lying- Greg Laswell
I'll Take Rain- Shirock
One Sweet Love- Sara Bareilles
No One in the World- Anita Baker
What If- Meg and Dia
Nothing Better- The Postal Service
Sea Within a Sea- The Horrors
9 Crimes- Damien Rice
Into Dust- Mazzy Star
Hey Jude- Joe Anderson
Saeglopur- Sigur Ros
Cry- Faith Hill
Lullaby- The Dixie Chicks
Callous- Ani DiFranco
The Sounds of Silence- Simon and Garfunkel
Talulah Gosh- Talulah Gosh
She Talks to Angels- Black Crows
How It Started- Discover America
Sewn- The Feeling
Maps- Rogue Wave
All I Want From You Is Love- Let's Go Sailing
Gravity- John Mayer
The Hardest Part- Coldplay
The Beauty of Falling Down- Alpha Rev
Use Somebody- Kings of Leon
Black and Gold- Katy Perry
C.I.A.- American Sneakers
D'Artangan's Theme- Citizen Cope
Plane- Jason Mraz
Space Between- Dave Matthews Band
Favorite Pair of Eyes- Steve Moakler
Dear Life- Anthony Hamilton
Damage- Chris Brown

(((( - :

You Will Fight Me in Virginia

Brambles know little of thorns.
they’re neighbors
but they don’t really know each other.
That’s what you said as I flew down the state line
between Tennessee and Virginia.
Your seemingly poignant terms were backlit
by the blistering shades of cornflower and blood red
that splatter painted the sky through the little roof window
of that big white truck.
I counted the fibers in my pillowcase creating a rudimentary lean to
against the impenetrable aperture in the wall of the vehicle.
I examined their complicated community of networking.
Social and diverse in nature
they did not divert from their calculated path.
The blue threads knew much of the white threads
and the white went on being blinding
ignoring the blue threads cry
“Take me for crying out loud,
I am beautiful too.”
It’s a bit like our situation
don’t you think?
I wish you had tried to be a little less blinding
and poignant in your coercion.
Your flawlessness detracts from this journey I’m taking.
This world of rusty air conditioners and squeaking faucets
it’s a beautiful oasis of musings.
The stone pendulum that swings in time
with the in and out breath of a miniature universe’s president
is the prodigious metronome of my heartbeat.
The sounds of my own piteous soliloquies
mix and mingle with disturbing simplicity
with the echoes of the powder men on their ghostly horses.
Galloping up and down the lawn
their hooves stamping in the places
where small coins are buried.
I feel them under my feet and in between my toes
the tin, copper, and bronze
something solid in an all too ghostly world.
I pick one up and rub it in between my fingers
letting particles of dirt drift back down to their origin.
Maybe, maybe if I swallow the coins
just eat them like sugar drops
my insides will be composed of something more substantial
than mere tissue.
Then maybe I will have enough fortitude to handle you
you and your haunting nature.
You have followed me here to this place
not on ghostly horseback or in a big white truck
but you have ridden in on the limbs of torment
in an effort to make sure
that no matter how far I go
the essence of your immortality will stay with me.
You will fight me in Virginia
with your leaden limbs of regret bearing arms.
I will taste of you with the metal in my mouth.
I will hear you calling “On!”
to those founders in their tasseled caps.
You will certainly thrive marvelously
in your attempts to be the thorn to my bramble.
But you are incorrect in your initial remark.
If I am a bramble and you are my thorn
you must reassess your meditation.
Because I know you all to well.

Man vs. Creature

Right down that street there
the one on which you’re about to run
to get away from me,
well, a couple years ago a salamander ran that way.
He was trying to get away from me as well.
The salamander ended up with a blue belly.
So when you run down the street
and pass a Billy goat neighing his laments
you’ll know you’re there.
If you start to feel a little nauseated
don’t fret.
You’re much bigger than the salamander.
That’s what happens when you run from my door
with it’s glistening claw knocker
and glassy canopy of atmosphere.
You get a little queasy inside
a sick down there feeling
like you might have done something wrong.
But I’m sure you can handle ice much better
than the salamander.
Although you are slimy
you’re not a amphibian
so really,
you don’t have an excuse for not surviving
the run to the end of my street.
In fact
you don’t have many excuses at all
for leaving in the first place.
So come back to the door
with the glistening claw knocker
and glassy canopy of atmosphere
and knock.
I’ll take you downstairs into the man cave
where the tools are.
I’ll drill a tiny hole into your head
with that medium sized bit
the one slightly larger than the one we used
on the pillow fort.
I’ll drill a tiny hole into your head
and blow some more hot air into it
so that you can leave again
knowing that your head
is far more buoyant than your heart.

Crucifix

I may think of you softly from time to time
But I’ll cut off my hands before I reach for you again.
We never touched we never really touched.
And even if we did I don't think you're capable of feeling much.

I’m your crucifix.
You pin all your sins on me,
And I’ve been struck so many times that I don’t even bleed.

You can claim I'm guilty but I'm not the wicked type.
I'm just using black magic so I have a lighter way to look at it.
I never knew, I never knew the cost,
but if I did I don't think I would've paid this much.

To be your crucifix.
You pin all your sins on me,
And I’ve been struck so many times that I don’t even bleed.


Well this has become quite the political affair.
And as for my hearts defense I'm beginning to wear.
So keep breaking me down
just call the whole damn town
they'll bring their stones.

I'm just your crucifix.
you pin all your sins on me,
And I’ve been struck so many times I don’t even,
I don't wanna be your crucifix,
please just claim your sins, pull the pins out of my hands,
I want this out of my hands.

I propose You play a More Grown Up song

I propose you play a more grown up song
one that will remind you that I defy the bounds
of your dexterous prosperity.

I am not your right hand gal
or wing man.
by go the extremities
reduce to the core of your senility's immature findings.

As This Ain’t a Love Song echoes
through the cylinders of your harsh made
boom box.
Ba boom!

The collision is such an ugly sound.
it is not one made without consequence
but in fact it is the result of consequence.
It is the consequence I face
as a result
of your childish despondency.

So I propose that you play a more grown up song.
So you will remember
that the world is not yours for the taking.
Despite what you mother tells you.
I suggest you play a more grown up song.
Child.

This Burning Home

There is a space under my battlements
that I am sure I have shown you.
Where a spring drip drops drips.
Its’ stream cool and refreshing.
I used to like the sound.
There is a space under my heart
that I let you inhabit.
You and your friends rumor and mystique
paid little rent.
There is a space under my bed
where I told you to go at night
to kick at the monsters
so that I could sleep in peace
in peace.
There are spaces wide and gaping
that funnel into other spaces
minute and fragile.
I trusted you with lock and key and passcode
I let you know
the secret word.
You said you would use your lantern to light up the dark
in my spaces
because you were afraid of the dark.
Now like the blood dripping from an adder
I’m covered in drops of your kerosene fuel
scratching at the burn marks.
There was a space under my battlements
but love
you have burned the battlements.
Now where you once found spaces
for you to play
there are holes.
Now where you used to drink
there’s mud in the water
contaminated.
In the space previously under my heart
but right above hell
there is strict taxation.
Now there is no bed to hold back the monsters
and their evil jelly eyes.
I’m glad you enjoy pyrotechnics child.
I hope you enjoy the incoming implosion
just as much.

Saved

I may have your bootstraps and your dignity but you still get to tell your friends she's coming home with me.
Just don't take off your shoes when you come in late, I wanna know I wanna know I wanna know, that you're home.
I could shut my eyes and sleep and see that dream overplayed but I'd wake up tired anyway,
so stay awake with me and ask me questions that I can't face.

But you make me wanna, you make me wanna be saved.
Oh you make me wanna, you make me wanna be saved.

Burn your cigarette a little longer for me so I can aim for the same air that you've been breathing.
There are lines of poetry on my pillowcase writing things on my face so our words are all I see in me.
These bad habits will be gone in a few days with new ones in their place, if I'm addicted to your love then I don't wanna recover,
so give me proof 75 and just take care of me.

But you make me wanna, you make me wanna be saved.
Oh you make me wanna, you make me wanna be saved.

It's not a leap of faith if jumping was your only choice.
Don't climb so high that I can't hear your voice.

Because I'm gonna need somebody to keep saving me.
I'm gonna need somebody to keep saving me.
You look like you could save, I feel like you could save me.

As You Wish

As we dripped into the tides of early morning, I understood time standing still. I understood what it's like to spend time like pennies, like it's endless. When I look at your face, I see simplicity. I see myself talking about anything, uncensored and lovely in my crudeness. And I see how you simply want to be mine. You don't speak in metaphors, you don't try to sway me. You are black and white. You are simple.

You say "I hope I never make you cry", with a look on your face as if it's the worst thing you could imagine.

And then you said this, "I think I can fix you. I want to fix you."

I've always been looking to be fixed. I've always known that I can't sew up the seams on my own and in my desperation to find my fellow seamstress, I've lost.

I've lost loves, and friendships, I've lost my heart.

So recently I decided to take the fixing onto me and myself,
and just as I realize that I can put myself back together, you come along.

And unlike the others, you actually want to put me back together.
You want to fix me.
You don't care if I take care of you.
You just want to care for me.
You asked if I would allow you to fix me.

As You Wish.

From Yours Truly and Departed

Riddle can you put me back together again,
I'm afraid that I've been dropped a few times.
I'm fully aware that I'm a sight for sore eyes,
so I'll excuse you if you choose to be blind.

You'd be wise, you'd be wise to be blind to me,
I've heard I have a heartbreak of epic proportions.
You'd be wise you'd be wise to be blind to me,
but I'll kiss you if you're still here in the morning.

I was never his sweetheart he was a swinger all along,
but I fell in love with similar acoustic songs.
So forgive me if I ramble, if I stumble, I will fall,
but every black band is another month strong.

You'd be wise, you'd be wise to be blind to me,
I've heard I have a heartbreak of epic proportions.
You'd be wise you'd be wise to be blind to me,
but I'll kiss you if you're still here in the morning.

I'm singin la la la la la, la la la la la, la la la la
this is a song from yours truly and departed.
la la la la la, la la la la la,
I'm truly yours and also I'm departed.

You'd be wise you'd be wise to be blind to me love,
you'd be wise.
But I'll kiss you if you're still here in the morning,
if you're still here in the morning,
please be here in the morning.

Merlot

I could feel the circling tendrils of smoke on his tongue as it traced the road map of my lips. The bitter taste of tobacco mixed with a sweet smell of his skin, and for once, I didn't mind the dirt.

I can't say I love you dear because I don't know if I can love two at once, but maybe I could learn to? Maybe I could love you, if you make me feel like something worth loving. You've already shown me what I've been missing out on, but can you bring me back from the dead? Can you remind me what it's like to be adored? Can you hold my head?

Right now I'm happy to sit on your couch and kiss you. I'm happy to hold your hand as you tell me that as twisted as it is you're glad he dumped me because you had been waiting for me for too long. I'm happy to do that right now.

If I've learned anything about myself through all this, it's that I'm a survivor. I am a fighter. But I can't survive all the time or fight every battle. I'm going to lose a few, and I hope you can lick my wounds better than he could. I hope you think I'm worth it.

I think about all that and try to push it out of my head and live in the moment. Right now, I'm just gonna focus on those smoke rings on your tongue and the pounding rhythm of rain and music that reverberates through my little sports car.

Right now, just pass the damn merlot darling.

Anniversaire

I should be over the moon,
the moon glinting in the corner of my chipped wooden window frame.
I'm surrounded by everything I want.
Except you love.
Except you.
It's the one thing I wished for that I didn't get.

happy birthday to me.

Go Tell Mary....

Go tell Mary she's gonna hurt tonight.
Go tell her that as soon as the wind starts to whip the dust up under the wheels of her car, hell is beginning to roll.
Go tell Mary that she's nothing immaculate.
Go tell Mary that she might as well turn off the radio because nothing will be able to drown out her scream once she starts.

Go warn Mary.
Go warn her not to fall in love.
Warn her that once you fall you're rooted, seeded into the ground.
Once you fall, you're down for the count.
When that wind starts to whip the dust around she'll be chained to the ground exposed to all the horrific elements.

Go tell Mary that when that storm comes she wont be ready.
When it starts to feel ominous, when the lightning backlights the train racing hellbent beside her, she's in for it.
Go tell Mary that there's nothing she can do.
Go tell Mary that when she's chained to that ground she better not hope it just rains,
she better hope it pours.
Let. It. Pour.

Criminal (in progress. didnt have my notebook on me)

I got a bright pair of shoes and knee high socks to cover bruises,
don't you know that you should've died with the monsters that walk the earth.
I’m not a martyr but I’m not doing myself a favor,
writing down in persisting ink the anecdote of your mirth.
Maybe I’ll write a story instead,
about how we left stacks of coins amidst the pedestrians
somewhere between 10 and 13 at the station
to see if they'd be worth something again.

I apologize for all the glass I’m going to break.
Being criminal is better than being still.
Arrest me only if it’s for your sake.

I have a rat a tat scarf so I look like a terrorist,
I've never planted a bomb, but I know I'm capable.
You don't idealize but maybe you'll i.d. this for me,
why am I backlit by all your scarlet poetry.
Perhaps I'll join the 31st rank,
just to see why those victory bells rang.
They signify the look in your eyes when you lied,
and said I'm why you sing.

I apologize for all the glass I’m going to break.
Being criminal is better than being still.
Arrest me only if it’s for your sake.

You know that I'll sign, so let me sign,
let me sign.
You know that I'll sign so let me sign,
let me sign.

And I'll apologize for all the glass I'm gonna break,
being criminal is better than being still.
Arrest me at your will if it's for you sake.

An Average Day

I love you even when I hate you.
Like right now, right now I hate you.
Right now, I would like nothing better than to slap you across your face.
But I won't do that because I wouldn't get the full satisfaction out of it.
I can't feel anything fully anymore because of you.
Everything that I do, every little joy that I have, you steal a little bit of it.
Because you made me love you.
I hate you.
I hate you so much.
And I hate that I can't hate you all the way because I love you so fucking much.
I cut off all my hair, and bought five inch heels, and drive a hot car, and have men lining up to be with me,
and I can't be fully happy with any of it because of you.
I should be happier than I've been in my whole life but I'm not because I can't be,
because of you.
So I'm gonna give up on trying to be all whole and happy again because that's not gonna happen,
because every day you take something else from me.
So why don't you just take all of me John.
Just take it fucking all.
Stop writing about how you've been tainted by love, and you don't want to love again.
Stop acting like you're the one that's being robbed.
You say you fell in love with the sound and that you want to sing along.
Well the sound is right here, and I love you more than anything.
I love you so much that I can't hate you.
So take me.
Take me for all of it.
Because today wouldn't be a normal day if you didn't take another piece of me.

New Mindset

You know what,
fuck you.
Fuck you you despicable bastard.

For the past month,
I have been the victim,
I've been the hurt one.

It's time for you to hurt.
Fuck you.
Fuck you, you asshole.

You're not a man.
You're not a boy.
You're not even a person.

So go to hell.
Go. to. hell.

clock

God knows I've been in dark places.
I have the scars to prove it.
But right now those seem superficial.
Right now to take that damn knife to my forearm
would be a total mockery of where I am.

I've been close to suicide before.
That was so long ago though.
Two years ago.
or was it two seconds?

I've stopped counting

Other

Other just left my house.
My whole face smells like other.
My whole mouth tastes like other.

When other first walked in the door I already had a sinking feeling in my stomach,
I already didn't want to do what I was about to do.
At first, when other brushed my hair back from my face and kissed me,
I felt good.
Not happy, but good.
I had second thoughts a little bit when his hands made friends with the pockets on the back of my shorts.
But I ignored it.
And when he pulled me down on the couch into his lap, I went along with it.
Other really is a gifted kisser.
But other doesn't know how to kiss my neck like he did.
Not once did the breath get knocked out of me.

When other grabbed my hand and laced his fingers with mine, I thought it was a sweet gesture,
but when he guided my hand between his legs, I understood the message.
When I let my fingers glide back up to his chest, ignoring the message, he kissed me harder.
Other picked me up and rearranged me in his lap.
When his fingers edged under my tank top,
I let them.
When his hand slipped under the well placed lace, I let it.
But his fingers were like clunky pieces of clay.
Fumbling and uneducated.
When others' head tried to follow his fingers,
I placed a finger under his chin to redirect his path.

He kissed me some more.
When I surfaced for air and looked at his face,
pushing the dusty brown hair here and there,
the only thing I could think of was
"blonde is more fun to play with"
He smiled that goofy smile at me.
The smile of a man thinking with the lesser of his two brains.

I asked other, "What you so smiley about?"
Other's reply, "nothing."

He would have never said nothing.

Other kissed me some more.
But it didn't feel as nice this time.
His spit wasn't so much sweet as it was just slobbery.
And his whiskers hurt.
He tried to guide my hand again.
I refused.
Again.

The next time I pulled away he said he needed to check his phone.
Then he said he had to leave.
Then he kissed me and pinched my ass and walked out the door.

I shut the door.
And let tears flow for the first time in two weeks.

The collision is such an ugly sound

The collision is such an ugly sound. I can still hear him talking in my mind. His words, woven in the same pattern as Italian cashmere, are more coarse than ever. Their abrasive tendencies have become overwhelming. Where the strings have rubbed repeatedly up and down, there are pulsating welts on my cerebral cortex. I sit on the floor trying to find a rhythm in the pulsations, but to no avail. Without him there is no rhythm. No, that's not right, without him the rhythm is to complicated. Cymbals crash while a pipe flute sings a sweet tune of free jubilation. My piano pounds pound a refusal while his guitar drags me by my heels back into submission. A violin wails upon cascading triads, a cello cries. A bass plucks out a bouncy, ethereal melody. It all attempts to integrate in my mind but the result is a horrible clash of music on silence.
The collision is such an ugly sound. With him gone there is a resonating silence. The nooks, crannies, and spaces that he kept so forcefully occupied with his will are now cavernous. But now they are free, they are free for me to do with them what I wish. I could fill them with new wills, of my own or of others. I could store things away in them. His old sweaters and photographs and pictures, I could hide all those in the nooks and crannies. Something must be done about them though. Currently, their vacancy offends me. Currently, the vacant spaces are offended. They are offended by the symphony that threatens to break over my parapet at any time. I'm fighting however, I am fighting.
In the tumultuous symphony of repulsion, I can find a tune or two. Those help. As long as I can ride the high of something transcending my own pathetic pain, something more mournful than the look on my own face, I can find momentary solace. As long as I keep pen to paper, finger to key, I am momentarily sedated.
And then there's the other, the other "him". He is trying his best to kiss away my worries, and I can say his efforts are not in vain. When his lips meet mine and the grass bends underneath my elbows, quaking from his weight, I am appeased. It's in those moments that I remember what it is like to be adored and appreciated. Not loved, I don't want to feel loved again. But maybe the correct term is lusted for.
I can't depend on the other to keep my hell at bay. For one, you can't depend on what you don't have for sure. And if I've learned anything, it's that nothing is for sure. So in short, you can't really depend on anything. I like other. I lust for other. But then again, other, is just that, the other.
The collision is such an ugly sound. When he tries to reach me, in his pathetic way, it's offensive. It makes me want to rip eyes from sockets and hair from scalp. It turns me primal. No I'm not happy but I'm certainly better than I was aren't I? I'm certainly having more fun.
I'm certainly finding my place in the disruption of the universe.
Then why am I not jubilant.
Why am I not filling the spaces.
Why am I resisting the cacophony of instrumentation.
Why is the collision of happy on him such an ugly, revolting, hideous, sound?

Playlist: July 2009

My friend Enya at ydubs got me on this kick of making a playlist for every day, then every week, then eventually the whole month. so here's July's.

The Illusionist- Volair
All Cried Out- Fink
White Picket Fence- Joe Purdy
Second Chance- Liam Finn
Last Night I Dreamed that Somebody Loved Me- Grant Lee Phillips
Stormy Weather- Little Dragon
Rootless Tree- Damien Rice
Ungodly Hour- The Fray
Never Say Never- The Fray
Fix You- Coldplay
Heartless (Kanye West Cover)- The Fray
Marionette- Meredith Nnoka (ydubs)
Contact- As Cities Burn
Tourniquet- Thomas Reid (ydubs)
Battlefield- Jordin Sparks
It's a Sight to Behold- Devandra Banhart
The Guy that Says Goodbye to You is out of his mind- Griffin House
Choices- Xavier Rudd
Be Here Now- Ray LaMontagne
Straight Away- Mat Kearney
Delicate- Damien Rice
Almost Honest- Josh Kelley
Funny (But I Still Love You)- Ray Charles
It's Not True- William Fitzsimmons
Keep Breathing- Ingrid Michaelson
I Really Want You- James Blunt
Hide and Seek- Imogen Heap
Jolene (cover)- The White Stripes
Fight Outta You- Ben Harper
I Will Not Let You In- Sara Schiralli

emancipated

I wanna kiss a boy.
I get to kiss a boy tonight.
A boy who's wanted to kiss me for a very very long time, or so I've heard.
I'm as excited as hell.
I forgot what it feels like to be kissed by anybody but him.
But I don't know if I want to be reminded.
I still miss him after all.

But I wanna kiss a boy.
and I'm going to damn it.

Jeff

First get out of my car so I can start understanding you.
Take your ratty sweatshirts and boxers and oxfords I never had a taste for J Crew.
I guess I should've known,
that when all a man's best friends are girls,
it's time to hit the road.

The ugly truth is I never did much for you did I?
Your hair always looked better than mine and it sure as hell took more time.
Baby you're gorgeous I swear you look fine.
I don't think you're petty, of course you're not vain.

You said it hurt your feelings when they called you a fag but suck it up why are you crying?
I loved how you were sensitive to all my feminine feelings, like you weren't even trying.
I should've trusted that old intuition,
that any man who's that submissive,
cannot be straight.

The ugly truth is I never did much for you did I?
Your hair always looked better than mine and it sure as hell took more time.
Baby you're gorgeous I swear you look fine.
I don't think you're petty, of course you're not vain.

If there's one thing that hurts even more than the fact that you left.
It's that it wasn't for Marissa, or Alyssa, or Christie, or Gertrude, or Samantha, or Chloe, or Molly, or Claire,
You left me for Jeff.

So thanks a million Jeff,
you stole my boyfriend.
Thanks a shitload Jeff,
you stole my boyfriend.

The ugly truth is I never did much for you did I?
Your hair always looked better than mine and it sure as hell took more time.
Baby you're gorgeous I swear you look fine.
I don't think you're petty, of course you're not vain.
But I do think you're gay.

A Reflection

I've never been much for journals. I find them cliche and uninspired. I've always thought of them as excuses for people who can't express their feelings in more creative ways. But maybe tonight I need that simplicity.

I forgot what it was like to be desired. Not in just a physical way, but an all out I just want to see your name in my inbox kind of way. I hadn't had that feeling in a long time.

But as it turns out, he has. He has wanted me for a long time. Before I even started dating John, he wanted me. And he still does. And now he calls me his favorite. He says he can't wait another day to see my pretty face.

It's not elaborate. It's not romantic. It's not poetry. It's simple.
It is so simple and so refreshing
I can hardly contain my excitement.

So what if he throws a football instead of swinging a racket.
So what if he parties with his actual guy friends instead of writing music to play for all his chick friends.
So what if he's not the male copy of me.
So what if he's the red blooded American male.
Maybe he'll treat me like a fucking lady.
That would be so incredible.

He did say I was his favorite after all.

Dear Journal,
Today I was emancipated.
-Abby

Big Black Train

Bang, bang, bang goes the big black train
behind the house where you live, your asylum.
The couch where you scrawled my name in cobalt ink
got taken away with the gravel on that big black train,
that big black train.

It's hell or high water for us.
Neither one's a fortune but it's what we've got.
You're all I've got

Round, round, like a damn carousel
go the marionettes I have for thought.
Chalked faces that I see on the pillow where your head
ought to be but it's gone on the big black train,
oh the big black train.

It's hell or high water for us.
Neither one's a fortune but it's what we've go.
You're all I've got.

Let me tell you why you're faulting with my honor.
Let me tell you why you're teasing with my mind.
It's these people, oh all these people,
they all seemed so nice,
they all seemed so nice.

Until bang bang bang goes the big black train
and they're vagabonds with their malicious thoughts.
Bang, bang, bang go your heartstrings
I would know
when the train rolls in
I swear to God I won't go.

If It Kills Me.

Baby don't give, baby don't give this up.
We've been fighting it for too long, for you to throw your hands up and say we're done.
Does she love you like I did, does she run in circles to define it,
does she know the exact color of your eyes at three in the morning,
by the way,
it's the most perfect shade of gray I've ever seen.

Oooo,
Ooooo.

Baby don't give, baby don't give me up.
I've been in you lines so many times, I think I'm more than just a verse.
Do you know why you loved me, why you held nothing else above me,
do you know why your skin always felt cold under my fingers.
Goes to show, I'm anything but cold when I'm with you.

Oooo,
Ooooo.

Tell me love, tell me love what's wrong.
You've been hitting up the forget me nots like you don't plan on coming down at all.
Does the smoke hold you like I can, does it call you in the morning,
does it whisper your name like it's a prayer.
And by the way, I still don't believe in God today.

Oooo,
Ooooo.

Baby don't give baby don't give this up.
Baby don't give, baby don't give me up.
Come on love, come on love lets get up.
Baby don't give, Baby don't give up.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Ll9xhRZ5W4

Home

I walked into the room smelling of lavender and uninhabited musk and saw that framed picture of us, me with my virgin smile and you with your homeless hair. Without thinking I dropped the bag loping from my shoulder strode across the carpeted floor and hurled the picture at a wall. It landed with a satisfying crunch, the wooden frame splintering and the glass cracking. I sunk to the floor and wept. I reached for the guitar you always hated and strummed it's heart chords and wept.

I haven't cried in a week. I haven't been able to. But being here in this room is more than I could ever have imagined. The last time you were here you were holding me, loving me, declaring me yours. I have to change my sheets now. I can't sleep on something like that.

Maybe if I sit here and I don't stop writing and playing this old guitar I will not have to face the fact that you are within minutes of me. At any moment your car could roll up my street like it always use to, the windows down and acoustic rock pouring out of the old creaky speakers. I wish you would roll up my street. You won't though. You won't.

Now I'm cleaning up the glass where the picture fell. And now there's blood on my hands from where the shards sliced into my fingertips. I haven't felt blood flow like that in almost a month. I think I might throw up.

I don't want to be home.

success, penance, and reparations

Now it's 7 36, and I haven't slept a wink all night. around 5 30 as the sun rose I looked around me. All my favorite people were splayed out in varying degrees of dreaming. The concrete balcony that we adopted as our communal bed was littered with 5 hour energy shots, empty red bull cans, and pringles packages. With my guitar idling beside me, having already served it's purpose in composing my sunrise lullaby for all my friends, I was left to be my own companion.
As I watch the sky shift from navy, to periwinkle, and then to dusty blue, a wave of warmth fell over my face. Rubbing the grit from my eyes, I soaked it in, pure, untainted, natural. As my fingers laced themselves through Lo's hair, her head resting on my knee. I felt momentarily at peace. For the first time in a very long time. It won't last long. It's already fading. The moment I cross that border from Virginia to Tennessee I know the anxiety will kick in. I'm not going home. Or it's not the home I used to know. I'm scared. I'm scared out of my mind. Maybe there will be some sunlight there too though. Maybe.

My Endeavor

I have set out on the favorite of all my endeavors. It's five a.m. and I haven't slept in over a day. I sit on the balcony of the place I've come to call home, and I have set a mission for myself. I will write until the day starts. I will not stop typing, strumming, writing, or singing. Even if I am writing about nothing I will write a sonnet, about nothing. I won't stop. I need to know that I have the strength to persevere through something. That I can set a goal for myself and achieve it. The word independence is scrawled across my foot in borrowed ink, but I want to own it... I will not stop writing.

Clarity

What if I called, if I called to say I'm sorry,
would you listen to me.
What if I laid, if I laid in the middle of the interstate,
would you listen to me then.

Just tell me what I gotta, tell me what I gotta do,
tell me what I gotta, tell me what I gotta do,
to make it clear to you.

What if I stood, if I stood under your window for three weeks,
screaming I love you.
What if I tied, if I tied myself to your big oak tree,
so you could throw things at me.
What if I wore, if i wore your favorite red plaid shirt,
every day for you.
What if I climbed, if I climbed to the tip of your chimney,
so I could throw the stars down on you.

Just tell me what I gotta, tell me what I gotta do,
tell me what I gotta, tell me what I gotta do,
to make it clear to you.

Maybe you broke my heart,
but maybe I played a part,
in tearing us down.
And maybe I lost my way,
maybe you lost your faith,
but I'll do anything.

Just tell me what I gotta, tell me what I gotta do,
tell me what I gotta, tell me what I gotta do,
to make it clear I'll take care of you.
To make it clear, I'm here for you.
To make it clear, that I love you.

I cannot stop this pen.

I cannot stop this pen.
I cannot stop this pen because stopping this pen would mean to bring the constant ebb of morphine
that drip drop drips into my veins
to a standstill.
If I stop this pen I will be forced to acknowledge my surroundings.
I cannot stop this pen at five in the morning
perched upon a concrete parapet
dangling above the thriving crossroads and smoldering street lamps.
I cannot stop this pen.
I would have to acknowledge the shivers running down my limbs from the poison I've ingested,
the drug I have claimed.
I would have to consider the man who's head rest in my lap.
The head of a man
who I do not love.
How I wish he was you.
How I wish you were all these things.
The consistency of your absence has made me weary
and in your leaving I have fallen asleep.
But now I am awake and wishing I was dead.
Now that I am no longer slumbering I am fully aware of the space that is bare without your presence.
And so I cannot stop this pen.
I cannot stop the words that are dreary and mediocre substitutes for your kisses
and good night phone calls.
Damn it.
I cannot stop this pen.

My rambling guarantees to you love

Last night, I romped the streets with the word "independence" tattooed onto the arch of my right foot. As I padded along clumsily on my stilts, I felt the jets of ink stab into my skin, mocking their own irony. As the Irish piano man warbled in my ear I removed the stilts and allowed my bloody foundations to rest upon the marble and I reclined. Spread out above me like godly vomit, the smattering of satellites and stars and angels. Their consistency was interrupted by the branches of trees and the glare of smoldering street lamps. The couple seated behind me giggled behind hands as they shared secret glances, I tried my best not to look.
All the while I felt the word burning on my foot and my thoughts turned to you. You are the irony of this situation. In being apart from you I am more dependent than ever before. But in a new light. I depend upon you not as a caretaker, that can no longer be. But as something to care for. It's been ages since I cast my eyes upon your live face, but I can picture your stare vividly in my mind; frenzied, confused, scared, angry. I know love that right now you do not know who or what you are. And I know that whoever this creature is that inhabits your form does not want me. But I've seen inside your soul before and I know what's tucked away in all the nooks, crannies, and tight places. But you cast your nooks, crannies, and tight places in shadows and somehow along the way they had slipped from my mind. But in your absence I remember them now. I remember that you are only a man. You are only a human.
Being wiser than I, you always seemed to remember this about me. And for that I can't thank you enough. You always took care of me, a personality quality I took for granted. Now that I'm alone I don't long for a care taker, at least in this separation I have come to realize that I can take care of myself. And by take care of myself I include the element of being mentally sound, of putting down the blade.
I fumbled my way in the dark with my needles, pins, and razors. You're fumbling with your smoke and your sex. We all have our coping mechanisms and while it breaks my heart, I understand. I don't apologize for snarling because I had the right to snarl. Part of how you ended me was cruel, but some of it was deserved.
You say that you are happy. Happier than you were. That I believe. I know that you are happier now than you were in those fleeting last moments with me. The ones scarred by jealousy and hatred and rash decisions. But are you happier than you were when I was sane? I know the answer.
I want you to be that happy again. You will be that happy with me, I'm ready to take care of you. I relied on you for so long that it wore you down. It's my turn now. It's my turn to take care of you. You don't know who you are right now. But I know who you are. I know.
When it comes down to her. She. It. That girl. I don't resent her. I'm jealous as hell of her because it's her lips that touched yours tonight, but I don't blame her. Who wouldn't want you. I don't know her, but from what I can see, she's beautiful. From her dark long hair and sparkly eyes, to her gliding curves. I'm sure she fits well in your palms. But I guarantee you she can't love you like I can. Maybe you feel the same rumbles in your gut that you felt with me, but I guarantee you she doesn't feel what I feel. What I felt. I guarantee you she doesn't look at your face and see everything she wants to be. I guarantee you she doesn't look at your face and see her entire life looking back at her. I fucking guarantee it.
And I guarantee she will never love you like I do.
And I guarantee she has never felt the level of regret I feel that I ever pushed you away.
I guarantee it.

Itch

Like a child I saw you crying,
but I don't care unless you're crying for me.
Your stained sheets and pillowcases,
your sad pleading faces,
won't sway me.

You left no time for regret,
it's just like you said,
gotta scratch your itch.
You left no time for regret,
can't control your tongue,
and once the final bell has rung,
you'll see what you've done.

Don't say that you love me now,
I would hate to rearrange your precious face.
So go love on your mirrors,
and see if you feel her,
while my hips remain tight laced.

You left no time for regret,
it's just like you said,
gotta scratch your itch.
You left no time for regret,
can't control your tongue,
and once the final bell has rung,
you'll see what you've done.

If you love me don't let me go,
If you love me don't let me go.
Don't let me down,
Don't let me down.
Because you rattle my bones love
you rattle my bones,
Stop rattling my bones,
stop rattling my bones.

You left no time for regret,
it's just like you said,
gotta scratch your itch.
You left no time for regret,
can't control your tongue,
and once the final bell has rung,
you'll see what you've done.

Shower

As the suds and acidic solution run down my back and into the dip in my spine you loved so much, I close my eyes and let the steaming monsoon engulf me. I feel the tiling beneath my fingers, slippery with condensation and soap, providing no handholds, no safety. I let the water run down that curve that you've traced so many times. You know the one I'm talking about. The on that slopes inward as it descends from the bottom of my ribcage to the tip of those hipbones. Those hipbones those hipbones that you would so viciously scavenge for. The bruises you left there are starting to fade now, so I lean back and ask the water, Hit. Me. Harder.

Office Space

In class we had to write a song based on a thirty second play about a ghost who can't fix a copy machine because her hands just go through it. and this is what i came out with....

You let me down,
with your overused wastebins, pencils and pens.
You pushed me aside,
with my heart on your sleeve and my paycheck on your mind.

So I'm kicking at the copy machine,
trying to get back all the pieces of me that you,
so carelessly filed away,
without asking.

Now I'm office space,
just another desk to fill with another pretty face.
It breaks my heart,
to see the notes that you leave her on microsoft word.

I'll be your lights,
a little too fluorescent and a little too bright.
I'll wash you out,
as you walk right through me on the way to her mouth.

So I'm kicking at the copy machine,
trying to get back all the pieces of me that you,
so carelessly filed away,
without asking.

You know I loved you until that day,
your scarlet letters blew up in my face,
and now I'm taking up your office space.
I'm taking up your office space.

And I'm kicking at the copy machine,
all that I can feel is ink running through my feet.
You don't see me just like the day you thought,
I didn't see you in our bed with,
your secretary on the day,
you cheated on me.

So now I'm taking up office space.

The Firefly Proposal

Last night I found your face at the level of my knees,
You picked me out a firefly and called it a ring.
I swear that I saw Jesus and he didn't seem so mean,
but I guess things aren't always as they seem.

You got mad my dirty spectacles kept your light from shining through,
so I traded in my lenses and nothing else was new.
At our last meal the waiter asked "how will you take your disease?"
and we both replied "I'll just take the regular please."

We were so infinite,
we felt so infinite.

I've been sitting in your windowsill for the best part of today,
my clock had it's own heart attack but I'm pretty sure I'm late.
And i thought you saw me creeping so I just wrote a note instead,
I heard you laugh when I called you darling.

But now we're in for it,
now we're in for it.
Right now we're in for it,
now we're in for it.

We were so infinite,
you swore we were infinite,
but now we're in for it,
now we're in for it.

Dear Mine

Despite the separation I've been seeing you everywhere,
your eyes are worn into the tree before me.
Despite my desperation all the roots are letting free,
and I'm seeing it go down in sharp relief.

Dear Mine do you remember,
the flaming arch in the field where you loved me.
Do you recall how the chiggers,
nibbled at your sundrenched skin,
as you stood in the field where you loved me.

Indeed my inclination is to make salsa of my heart,
and throw in the herbs that we collected.
Although release it sounds delicious,
I won't let you let me go,
so I'm descending into that fiery world below.

Dear Mine do you remember,
the flaming arch in the field where you loved me.
Do you recall how the chiggers,
nibbled at your sundrenched skin,
as you stood in the field where you loved me.

The bricks that you laid may be impervious to urban decay,
but then God's a killer and creator.
And this overgrown oak tree that I"m sitting beneath,
well like I said it has the eyes of you.

Dear Mine do you remember,
the flaming arch in the field where you loved me.
Do you recall how the chiggers,
nibbled at your sundrenched skin,
as you stood in the field where you loved me.

The Civil War Wasn't That Long Ago

My dear your old ways sit on my bookshelves, gathering dust,
gathering dust.
Your passion please are pages I don't want to read but find I must.

So pull your bayonet I'm ready.
Climb my parapet I"m prepared to fall,
on the old front line.

My love your new ways sit in my front seat making small talk with me.
Your fierceness ran away to play with other feelings and forgot me.

So pull your bayonet I"m ready.
Climb my parapet I"m prepared to fall,
on the old front line.

Who's side are you fighting.
Who's bed do you lie in.
Who's bed do you lie in.

So pull your bayonet I"m ready.
Climb my parapet I"m prepared to fall,
on the old front line.

Original Sin

Your fire walks, you show and tell,
your blooming bruise, I predict the tickets will sell.
Sell you out,
kisses from your red rose lips.
You turn me out,
until I'm nothing but bones again.

Where do you draw the line,
I'll find out, I'll find you out.
Because I want you,
because I want you,
for your original sin.

Your violet wars, your recycled tongue,
your leather shoes, but leather doesn't last long.
Long you'll be in the pavement's eyes.
Let my light be before you suck it dry.

Where do you draw the line,
I'll find out, I'll find you out.
Because I want you,
because I want you,
for your original sin.

Let your edge out,
Edge your love out,
I wanna see you edge out,
edge out.

Where do you draw the line,
I'll find out, I'll find you out.
Because I want you,
because I want you,
for your original sin.

Inside Man

Paving the streets as I do, I qualify as a mender. The simplistic means of transportation are faulted without their guard. So in my own way, I am your safe keeper. In my own way, I am your guardian. In my own way, I am your still flowered mother. My womb, though empty, claims you and cares for nothing other than your well being. I’ve taken you from your Southern dirt roads into the thriving metropolis where your tar is always foul and your streets are the rocks for you to go forward upon safely. I pave for you my sweet love. I fill your facets with gravel and mortar, to keep your inside parts tucked away. I am excellent with pavement. The exterior world delights in my delicate care. However, follow me into my home with its chipped tiling and I am worthless as the fearful entrepreneur. Ask me to fix the inside cracks and I will cower. Ask me to wipe the sweat off the yellowing linoleum and I’ll run with my rag for the street lamps that line Central Avenue. Ask me to take to the cobwebs strung along the eaves, which dangle and drip drop drip onto this floor and I will let my excuses run like whiskey from the bottle to the drunk. I pave the streets. I am not an inside man.

Gaby Calvocoressi Poetry Workshop= life altering

I took a poetry class from Gaby Calvocoressi and it absolutely blew my mind. Other than being an incredible poet, she's a phenomenal teacher. She's quirky and precious and talks about playlists and music and how she likes to write on big pieces of butcher paper, which she made us do. She asked us to think about the most difficult topic to write about for each of us personally and then to draw the image that comes to mind when we think about it. Then focus on a specific element, describe it, and then write something. This is in no specific form, like I said in the workshop it's just words put in an order. But it changed the way I go about writing.

The day that the sky feel through was supposedly a bright one. And while the exterior perimeter of her form reflected the image of the ironically ordinary, the surface area boiled. Later, as the water pounded on to the fresh open apologies it was as if the expulsion of physical matter could expel the one. The allergy to affection resulted in a resounding chorus of desperation, seeking the former penetrability. All the while ignoring the fact that a slew of new lesions made renewed entry next to impossible for anyone less than a martyr. An ordinary man is by no means a martyr, what with selfishness, defensiveness, despondency, and that thing they call desire. But what better is a woman? The stereotypical delicacy is indeed just that, a delicacy. The iron clad resolution required to endure pure adoration from another knows no gender. It know no bounds. It has no enemies. And with this stunning resolution that she was "contraire, car elle est juste" the seal was reinvented.

hello highly neglected blog...

I haven't been on this thing in months. I didn't have a reason too. I had a sounding board then, but the sounding board is gone and now I'm fumbling through heavy air looking for something substantial to lie my fears on, and this is all I could find.

I don't know why, but I keep thinking about that same damned frayed oriental rug. The one in my kitchen, with it's shades of yellow and coral. How many steps I've taken on it. Everything that's happened on that damn rug. But now I am the damn rug. Outdated and frayed, abandoned, and abused. But I don't want to be a victim. I hate being the victim. Despite the consequences I refuse to admit to being victimized. Victims are the people who didn't fight hard enough. I fought my hardest. I'm still fighting. Should I give up? Probably. Will I? Probably not. Love's a stupid indecisive thing. It fucks with your head, in so many ways. I hate it. I hate love. I hate to love anybody because there is always the chance that they will do exactly what has happened. Hurt me.

I've heard from multiple sources that I should leave. Leave everything I've gathered in my little basket in the middle of the road and hope a god damn truck runs over it. But I can't do that. I want to forgive. I need a reason to, I need something to fight for. But I want to so bad. I want someone to give me a reason to fight for them. I want someone to fight for me.

I can't think of your face without thinking about kong dog toys. You stuff all these disgusting things in them for bitches to lick out at their liking. It's a disgusting analogy but I've found particularly accurate in the past few days.

I can't think of your mouth without thinking about her tongue in it. And I can't think about her tongue without thinking about her tacky blue eyeshadow and smoke rings. And then I think about how beautiful she is. Yes, beautiful in a slutty disgusting way, but beautiful all the same. More beautiful than me. She exudes the kind of confidence I could never even muster. I never was exactly what you wanted I guess.

I love you. I hate that I love you. Because it makes me forgive you. And it makes me hurt. Physically hurt. Pain in my chest vomiting hurt. I hate it. And what I hate the most is that I can't hate you. I can't make myself hate you because I want you so bad.

And you don't want me.
you don't want me.
you don't want me.

I can't read you. I can stalk you all I want and read your twisted blog entries, hoping to find some kind of window into the extraterrestrial structure that has become your brain, but I walk away confused. And dissapointed. And heartbroken.

The heartbreak part comes in waves. but it's always there. Sometimes it takes the form of anger. Sometimes, the form of sickness. Sometimes, loss. But always, always, in the form of hope.

And that's the part that hurts the worst.