at the end of the play, the audience walks away...and you'll be shivering cold on a well-lit stage.
xgoodbyeskyharborx
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Country: United States
Gender: Female


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Member Since: 1/22/2005

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dead poet's society.
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Indie...is that like an Indian?
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I'm too indie for the other indie blogrings.
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.elitist.
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i rock the awkward moments
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coffee whores
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Save the cows, eat a republican
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conor oberst is sex
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Saturday, July 29, 2006

Confusion/Repulsion/Exclusion/Conviction

Hide your thoughts, hide yourself because
they've never shone before, and other paths
shine brighter to you.
Be spontaneous like them, be
happy like
them.
They're happy?  They're so happy and
you'll never be happy until you are apart,
Until you are a part of them.
But this feeling of doubt, it's
you in your image of their life, so you
Hate them and love them and want them and don't need them
all at once.
They see.  you think they don't see and you tell them and then they see
Even better and clearer and they
hate you for it.
and you hate you for it but not enough to say and to break down and to change.
But it's not really change because change is metamorphosis, it's more like
molting? Is that it?
Because if you shed that awful ugly confused skin, you
will be under it.
But it's been so long and it might even be never that you ever were pure and good and
perfectly you
that it's impossible.

i saw you.
I saw you and I touched you and
then you folded in on yourself again,
Inside where it's dark and cool but it's really a
fever that you only feel at night alone,
in the dark,
in your room.
And you think and you think and you hate
yourself for thinking and you hate yourself for thinking about yourself.
Sleep comes hours away, hours later when your
thoughts become spirals of wants and needs and wishes and ridicules
That drip out of your eyes.
"picture something beautiful"
Instead it's back to wants and hopes and hopeless wants and
you'll never be what they want until
you know what they want you to be
Which is nothing and so it's
hopeless, really.


Monday, November 28, 2005

The Struggle

She wakes up to
her own still body, head
pressing into the mattress
Arms tied down, almost.
A sleepy panic like
Claustrophobia without the walls, walls you can break down or
escape from.
And she convinces herself
she cannot breathe
The stillness oppresses her, Pushes in on her lungs, her limbs
It is too much to bear.  She cannot lift herself from this half-sleep to
break the ropes holding her still.
And just before she drowns
in the covers and in herself,
All her strength brings her arm to
rise and fall six inches to the left and she
Exhales
and falls asleep.


Saturday, September 17, 2005

it has happened again.
you do not speak, refuse to look my way
and my regret is ready to come pouring out of my eyes, my mouth
but (again) i push it back down into that dark place where my new tears drown themselves in my old
and the cycle continues.
please don't tell me i built this wall myself
when i spend every night trying desperately to tear it down
but i have a feeling that when i do, you won't be there.
it will just be me, surrounded by broken bricks
and there's a note from you.
it says absolutely nothing,
but at least i know you were thinking of me
when you left.


Friday, September 02, 2005

El primer sueño

 

 

Tal vez el sol esté brillando demasiado brillante,

Pero creí que vi una sonrisa aletea por tu cara

cuando hablé a ti.

Y toco tu mejilla enmascarada con mi mano enguantada

Y yo nunca descubriré como debe palpar

pero sueño con esto todo el tiempo.

Y en este mundo las emociones que mostramos no son las emociones que sentimos.

Nada es oro que resplandece

Pero nosotros cambiamos joyas falsas de consuelo

Pretendiendo ser honrados.

Me gustaría decirte lo que estoy pensando

Pero la lengua me falta

Y comunico fragmentos pequeñitos de la verdad.

Esto es la vida que vivimos todos los días

Viviendo de mentira a mentira

Y creemos que vivimos vidas reales

Cuando todo está cubierto con vacilación y inseguridad

Pero la encontramos en las lágrimas y las sonrisas de los momentos más puros

Y finalmente podemos perdernos en uno a otro.

 


new notebook

smelling of leather and paper and flaring inspiration
you are my white canvas
for those times when my mind wanders from routine and logic and straight lines and distraction.
undoubtedly i will tear some pages out
sick of myself and my stupid ideas
impatient with my own awkward speech and immaturity
perhaps this page will find itself in a trash can in less than a month, an embarrassment to all of my writing.  who knows.
i can never really predict myself.



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