Sh!

Hush now! Are you hearing that? It the loss of something real, and there's an echo. There's pounding, too; a pounding on the walls, the ceiling, like sky and thunder and it's trying to get out. This echo is pouring over and vibrating the house of cards we stand in, shaking down dust and old words from high tiles and shelves. The walls may not cave in, but this room will grow smaller, capturing it's occupants like ants in it's hand, and waiting. It's waiting until this something is finished, until the tremors in the walls overcome the tremors from inside; until the great shuddering we started is buried under this new fluctuation, and then the streams of stillness can run back through, gentle and rinsing away any earthquake evidence laying yet behind.

How Not to Bury Yourself in The Sand

There's chills and shivers in center stage touch, but I've yet to see acts for faith, a complete letting go of all that is grasped so tightly. It must be hard to breathe, living life so straight. I know "I wish.." is the perfect ending to rational conversation, but I wish the words of a single human life couldn't overtake the wonder of adventure. Here you are, and you can't taste fear. Brave is more, is better than waded through and wasting hushes, tentative, and failing to silence the waves of masses knowing nothing stranger than guidelines, who risk themselves -small sacrifices- for great causes yet undiscovered. These waves, they're rushes of sound from souls unknowing of chant, souls unbroken, and souls unbound. The release of meaning they have created can wash over you, and I hope that then you stand still covered with feeling as the great storm breaks for better. I wish the bounding courage, leaps of faith from unwarranted contingencies, self brought and beautiful, were something I could package, could hand over and watch new tides of understanding, but these trusts are something earned by chance alone. Embrace clearly what's safe, yet feel free to let go of all else; relinquishing the control over nothing which here alone is gripped so desperately.

In Saying

Just words. That is what I'll speak when asked for a secret, or in breaking a promise. That's all I could hope to find in asking questions; what I'll have to articulate in asking it. I'm lost for words, just words, and when mouths are open, nothingness comes out. I've seen empty space meaning more than I can portray with words, just words, but imagine what could be done with consonants, vowels; small affirmations not built to be sturdy, steady, broken or lost.  Let's balance on syllables, conceive quotations still silent. I want definiteness; I practice speeches for causes as people. An apology for forgiveness; prayer for pride saved. A lecturing lot of chosen words to take selected enemy from where they are and slamming them into dirt or lower, covering them with shards, fragments of reality to cut and bruise. There are speeches to give off hope, pieces of uplifting clauses clumsily stuttered together; but biting bits of reality tangible and comforting. None of this is includes that which I'll say, or help to recite these constantly changing words that I can't locate to relay, pin down, seize sure hold of. Questions should only come from people wanting answers, and several uncertainties later, I'll put forth questions myself. I want the satisfaction of simple words to throw about, conviction, and certitude in saying just words

Give Me This

I want to bend with the flow of feeling, resist the rush of chaos I carry, and contour with the curves of the dark sky's floor. I'm going to wait until the tides of steep water carry away the rest of the crew, and I'll not break until there is no one, and no thing left for me to love and be for. I can wave in the winds wailing, wearing on us like the stones we stand as, but how can I sway and stay rooted, somber or on my own? Hand over a self, so as to build an us, a pair, a tango, turbulence and travesties as a set; a reason to be weathered by worry, resistance, banes of our short existence, or cold shoulders from these warm hearts.

Sweet

Sweet is an early morning stillness where the sky is dark and you are my light, where I find my gravity. There's static in the air, and a susurrus I want to hear. Sweet is the taste of 'I love you,' on careful lips, what I haven't yet promised, the way you look at me, and how you say my name. Sweet is what I'd like to be with you, and sweet has all my hope. It's breathing in time, requited wishes, and thinking alike. Sweet is hearing your heart beat, my hand on your chest, your breath in my hair. It's what I want to be, how I want to be, where I want to be.

Line from Places I Wrote: Remnants from My First Finished Journal

"Lines from Places," I wrote, dark hush. Quiet pour in a few star sky- it lights up with world with brilliance unseen.

These are just homeless things I've put on paper. Wasting phrases, lacking order, sense, feel of rhythm, place. Mostly place, in celebration of my finished first journal. 

 I'm going to say a lot of words, and some should come out wrong. Some aren't going to match, yet some will be just right. These are the ones which worry me.
Don't tune someone out to accuse them of changing their song.
Withdrawal from people is the warning sign of a much worse condition.
There's always the taste of the rain and you. We'll love more than forgetting.
Hearts on sleeves and up in throats. Silly little notions we lose and forget, even though they brought about a world of background.
There's no music left, just the tumbling words falling around us like dust still settling; hearts and heads aching together.
Our irrational things are always the best.
Shadows in the brightness cause affection, but that doesn't allocate one the right to hide. Stand proud in fear; love loudly.
Start our riot, be so in love, speed me up, find solace in corners.
There's only great sleep for those who don't think or don't have to.
Stars look like city lights, and people look like voices should they talk loud enough.

A Desperate Love Letter to a Concept I Can't See

Dear Destiny,

We need to talk. I can't take this back and forth; this uncertainty and fast reliances. I know you've been busy, but I think we should take some time for us, my Fate. We're up in the air, here, and nothing short of a compromise or fast decision will bring us the gravity we've been craving, hoping for so desperately. I don't need much to work with, but you aren't giving any to start, and this is a working relationship. By that, I mean that we don't fit. When shoved together in circumstance, you and I don't line up, don't create something new. We kind of mesh, and we'll have to work to make sure you and I don't just fall apart. I'm really sorry, Destiny. I've never been good with relationships so untangible like this. But, you see, neither one of us is moving forward, as people up in thick, metephor filled air tend to have troubles with, and that's a problem. I can't hold still, I fidget while I float, and I can't help but say that I'm still blaming you for getting us stuck up here. I know what you meant, Destiny, but hiding things from me like that is the helium to these paper balloons. Everything's so precarious, now, falling and tumbling down so as to be saved by reflexes of unlikely strangers. You can't count on these things, you can't assume things will fall into place because you knew how to knock them over. Life doesn't work that way, Destiny. Be rational.

Signed,

A Sunday Kind of Love

September 2nd

I was so angry I stood, forgetting why I sat; so angry I stopped, forgetting why I walked; so angry I unclenched my fist, forgetting what's done with free, angry fingers. I thought I knew what was wrong with you. I thought I knew the catch. In a world of uncertain, changing things- a world of terrible, untrustable things you were the light. You were the good, the wholesome relief, a breath of safe air. You were the unchangeable human being that leaked around fast conversions, absorbing the tremors, and leaving this to ease into something new. I thought I knew what was wrong with you, and it was chained in a corner of you, cold, and you were ashamed just like oddly amazing people always are, always seem to be. But here we stand, looking, both of us losing sight of who you actually are, actually used to be. This isn't brave, isn't an act justifiable. Not an act of self sacrifice, it's a sell out story, a jest to be wiped off lips like harlot lipstick, and just as disappointing.

Come On

You in 100 Words

Adorable, sweet, hilarious, with big knowing eyes and a cute guilty smile. He's quirky, quiet, evens me out. He's what I didn't realize that I always wanted, and now know I won't be happy without. It's the noise not noticed until it stops, the fog not seen until it's gone- this unsuspecting reliance I've found, and just like any other addiction, you scare me. I'm afraid of being stuck, someone who may not try to get rid of me, or when I don't know what comes next. I'm afraid of the dark, deep water, sometimes heights, and now- just you.

Novelty

Defend yourself with words and armor, upturned noses or clothes for hiding. Hit new victims with flashy comebacks and dig a hole to burrow in. Cover your face and shame, and whatever else is in reach; save a little dignity if there's any left to spare. Find your defense, plan B, instant escape; find a wormhole out. Dissipate into small spaces- locate a place to hide. But here's to hiding in plain sight, where everyone can see and no one seems to notice- to blending into the crowd, not the wall- to making new scenery, don't match the old. It's the new best art form, this certain blending, and it's catching on like unfindable fire. Beg for attention that you don't want, and you won't get it. You can take all the notice you'd like to not have and no one will let you have any. Nameless daydreams and secret places can conceal a person only so long. Why try?

Fractions in 100 Words

People are pieces or wholes. I know someone who's just him- he doesn't need anybody else. He doesn't mind other people, and won't seek them out. I found an acquaintance who's always a half. Constantly searching for a temporary soulmate, she'll only become content when she can find someone to make her whole. And while no one tends to take notice or care if they're broken or bandaged.. or just fractional segments in something much larger, it's comforting to know that even if it gets hard rolling along as a half circle, there's someone else thinking the very same thing.

Scare Me

Nothing terrifies a soul more than that which can't be reasoned with, that which isn't known. It's scary, what you can't yet see or feel- what you can't predict. It's like the stage's dark fourth wall, where the pitch black, motionless susurrus is expecting- waiting to be pleased.
I'm no fortune teller; I can't tell you what happens next. So forgive me rhyme and reason; I can't reason with your eyes or smile, negotiate with your voice, besides. You may as well leave sense behind, it doesn't want to witness the irrational. This isn't a screenplay- you won't lose lives -just sanity, hearts, reasons to smile- and those are replaceable anyway.

I'm going to say some words,
and some will come out wrong.
They may not fit together,
they're just pieces of a song,
But some should come out right,
and those I want to say.
Don't leave me standing by myself,
and don't let this slip away.


I want to say I love you,
and I've got you figured out.
I've memorized your gestures,
How you figit, full of doubt.


I could read you at a glance,
But I act like I don't see.
I'm still scared of feeling,
of losing who to be-
I'm know I'm afraid of the dark,
deep water, and high heights,
But now I think you scare me-
a fear I can't yet fight.

Little Blue Journals

Realizing Reasons

There's a reason, perfectly insane and intact for unnoticed quirks like these. There's a reason I don't turn off the radio when his favorite song comes on anymore. There's a reason you listen to songs even if you haven't met the lyrics, and I think there's something in that reason completely, beautifully unstable. I can lie for all I'm worth, but an attempt to forget makes memory, and you were never any good with the how-to's of remembering anyhow.
I have a small purple race car, a little blue bug, a square-knot memory, and all your old love notes. I have a Valentine from the second grade and it says 'You're the bomb' in the very worst handwriting.. ever. People don't let things just be. I saw the black pin you still have in your drawer, and I know what it's from; not the same guy as the bumblebee charm. I know that you've been in love with the same man for twenty years, and haven't seen him for eighteen. The truth is that the truth sucks, and nobody ever wants to forget, or forgive. The truth is, I still have your text saying you're a jerk and a coward, and I kept it for a reason. The truth is that I can't hear Green Day without wishing you hadn't been everything he promised he wouldn't be. The truth is I'm too scared to admit what I've already been told. I don't know what I want, and I'm dreadful at letting go.

Collection

Speedy. Speedy stopped my on my path. Not his or ours, it's mine, and he was on it. He stopped and asked if I smoked the green. When the words 'Just patchouli, haha, no sir' confused him, I backed away. Speedy stuck out his hand. He told me he was Speedy. Gotchya.
"You single? You hot." He really was squinting a lot. In fact, I was concerned for his lack of eyesight more than I was for almost anything else. Hello, pepper-spray. Where have you been all my life?
"Well, uh, thanks, yeah, I mean, no, sir. I mean, um, I have a date. They'd be mad." No, sir. I'm secretly a lesbian... or a man. Both, actually... with.. AIDs. Lots of them. Yup, that's it. Gotta go.
"Well, I wouldn't wanna screw that up, now would I? I'll see you around, girl, right?"
"Yeah..see ya." Not on your tattoos, you won't. 

Yesterday, I met Speedy.

Wheelchair. Mr. Guy In A Motorized Wheelchair was walking the river in front of me. Stop turning for the river. You're scaring me. He was under the bridge, and his face was melting. Riding close for the water, I panicked.
"Hey, sir!" I smiled. He turned, and while his neck craned, the chair followed. "It's gorgeous out here, isn't it, sir?"
"Whaaaaaaaat?" Oh. I may be heading for the water too, if I couldn't hear the music. I tried again, and he let me know that he already knew that. A tad of relief hit when he started following me out. I was on an adventure, walking through the grass and wildflowers.
"You gonna get poison ivy?" I let him know that no, sir, I'm not allergic. He wasn't either, and he followed next to me for a while, back and forth, him on the pavement. Eventually he let me know that today was a great day for fishing.
"Yes, sir. It looks like it would be." He went home to grab his pole, and I was grateful for breath without thought.

Yesterday, I met a very old man in a wheelchair.

Junkie. Friar Tuck and I sat, wedged between rocks, harboring close my favorite spot*, mandolin, ukulele, and burning incense close in tote. Out of a God-forsaken nowhere, out came a young face, almost entirely hidden by shaggy black hair. He was bouncing on his heels, and wanted to know if we knew Sunny. Actually, he wanted to know if weee duuudes kneeew Suuunny. No, duuuude, sorry.
"Well, maaaaan, I juuuust got out of jaaail. I mean, just, duuudes. But I goooootta guitar at mah plaaaace.... can I jam with you, duuudes?" Look sir, you're hotter than the weather here, and we're one guitar short of a street performance. . . but I'm gonna leave you haaaangin', and have to say the jail part worries me.
"Well, uh, we're not sure how long we'll be here." Oh, come ON, Friar Tuck. You're six feet tall and have a y-chromosome. Please look up from your mando and pretend you're going to save me from the big bad pothead.
"Well, okay, duuudes. Peace, man." He held up two fingers and bounced off through the rocks, headed into the woods, and.. I heard a thud. Brandon had silently laughed himself off the rocks, down near me, landing where the junkie'd been floating just a second ago.
"Did that .... seriously .....happen? Because I think.... we should go..." Great, dude, now you speak.

With, Brandon, I met a juuuunkie.

*It looks like hippie heaven, covered in spray paint, love, and broken glass.

How It's Worded

 Speak up and out with words you collect to convey. Let life hit you, and hard. Retaliate with more than mumbles; let loose a stream of visible digressions and come out with a prize scar for showing. Be knocked down or knocked out; knocked around by forces unseen, these comments unheard. Feel the force of what's left unsaid. Taste the remnants of a bursting conversation. Realize this end has no tunnel, and speaking in circles is slow motion reiteration. Reopen old hurts and let new victims sizzle as you leave nothing unspoken or loved. Speak until there's emptiness left, but keep trudging. There is no addiction as communication; it will ail an unbending system, cure a broken heart, and shred a man to smears of color. Cough and spurt those unkempt phrases- don't carry vague wordings reserved for secrecy and loss. Give in to yourself; there's no one to stop self conflicts. Keep close mind on imminent death and presumptuous regrets you may not feel. You could be sorry about them yesterday, if that was a day of gravity. Nothing holds a soul still here more than what was left undone, and no one regrets mistakes- just spaces. Fill some.

Candle

Lighting a candle's easy. Set it on fire, don't leave.
People aren't so carefree. Light their candle, don't leave.
Don't slip, tell truths or lies. Don't care and don't forget. Reminisce when approved, forget past flames, and keep but one candle. Don't light up the room with glows of pure, warm humanity, don't let a raving blaze burn too long or out, forget vision of ghost fires hurriedly doused. If it's a bonfire, this love, don't dance in the brightness (certainly not nude), and don't use this blushing heat to sear proof of past love. It is not lit for setting light to love notes, not roaring to be rekindled by your shame and nostalgia. Don't try to bolster this flash fed by oxygen alone. Do me a favor to leave this wild, overtaking combustion burn down whatever it takes and pleases. I thrive off my ashes, this cinder you trail.

Holding

 Hold up, and hold on. Hold on to what you know or believe, and can't live without. Hold out for himor her, and hold through- desperately cling to anything that separates you from society as a mass. Hold on though windy weather, screaming fits, and wet, cold Earth-shattering heat flashes that tear one-track minds from their ties. Hold up to standards you scribbled with a borrowed pen, hold someone tighter than escaping, and snatch hold of little concepts dancing just out of reach. Grab them up, and don't you dare let them go. Take hold of anything you don't want to set free, and clutch it like it's the answer to everything you need. Don't just stand here whilst these waves wash us out and through, leaving us dripping in shame, bare of individuality and color.

I saw him, my something to hold on to, come back soaked, foreign, and missing those beautiful pieces I used to love and he did, too. I watched a change, a beginning- this death- and something sick that wasn't there before throw off all that was ever right and fit and him. I saw it, and I'm pissed. I thought you were so much stronger than that.

You were the one who showed me to stand out, to catch eyes as a wallflower, to always say 'I love you', to jump and shout and scream with the righteousness of a pure opinion that cannot be changed, to give away anything and love the best of losers, and to dance and sway even when humanity is staring. And knowing that you were the one to show me so much life makes the creeping hint that you've decided to be a number, a uniform, a face in a crowd of one outfit and belief just this much more hopeless. What did you want me to believe?

Keys

 The key of life or living is but acting and closet doors.

Things you'll close to keep monsters at bay
are simply an addition- a part in your play.
Dust covers aren't hiding the eyes staring up,
and weighing your words won't make all this stop.

Don't press past our lifeless actions- harboring scripts of allegations,
rancid communications, and simple confirmations.

I can see past your stage, a reused plot;
it's watching the stumble of slow hidden thought.

I hate sitting on edge, knowing all that you mean;
We're divulging no words, yet it's more than it seems.

Coordinate the chaos, set the scene for two,
and together we can wreck the hell out of everything we knew.

Here

 Humanity:
We can't live with any of them, but I won't live without it.
All these arrows point out as we trench further deep inside
(this shortened fort of roots: conceal feelings).
We won't get out, or see the light, and you and I are all we've ever got -
have had -
can conceive -
with these disjointed cogitations swimming about
and set alight.
Let us out, and together we'll fan the flames-
blow on these coals-
and bring these sparks to holocaust.

     Burning bridges, and talking to your ceiling. This is what the evenings will come to: nothingness icons, meaningless phrases, stories you don't want to hear, paper you didn't sign up for. I don't want to hear what you don't have to say, and no one asked for this quiet susurrus of a hate we won't conceal; convince ourselves that we don't have to exist, and call me crying when you think you've learned the key ingredient to what you've killed and commanded. I know pieces and shards are all we have left, but do me a favor by keeping our separate cracks and chunks away from each other; away from where we can build only one whole person, instead of these broken two and a half we've been left. It takes a lot of helpless love to hate a soul so thoroughly, and these are two supplies on which I'm not short. This silent war is making me cold, and I've yet to break through these prelude exchanges.

Wet Weather Friends

  Fair weather friends are those who're only with you through things both of you can handle. You'll never fight, you'll never hate each other, never get stuck on one another's shoulders, bawling your eyes out.

   Stormy weather friends aren't like that. These are people that you don't walk with, or maybe don't know your favorite Van Gogh painting, and brand of sour cream. They may not remember your middle name, or exactly which month your birthday was in. These are the acquaintances you didn't know you had; the free hug you accidentally found: they're the miraculous part of humanity that peels out of the walls and into your crisis. Call them self-punishing, but we all have them, and we all know that we need them eventually. Stormy, rainy, wet, awful weather friends are the ones who save us the most.

Take a Guess

Awful: a contagious state of being. Like Pathetic, it doesn't always have a cause. Rhyme and reason forgiven and passed, there's little explanation for onset sight, cases, and inclinations to being, acting, feeling, looking, smelling, waking, playing this and that way. So what do you do with a feeling, a verb, and these given nouns without an explanation, egress, excuse, euphemism when there's no backbone to the story, but fret without cause? I was trying to figure that one out.

What's My Problem?

 It starts in the range of caffeine.
Can't put down the coffee;
staying up 'til four thirty;
talking too fast, but moving too slow.

I have freckles and issues;
I can't find a cure.
I'm afraid of the dark,
of being found, or not sure.

I love the snow but hate the weather.
I'm just a morning person who hates to get up.
Always so lost, and never quite here.
I can't manage to find me, and I'm always so stuck.

I find love in a rhythm, peace by a word.
I overreact, over-think, over-turn
but don't understand and can't comprehend.
I've so much time, and so little to spend.

It's like loving an artist but hating the song
tripping and falling and feeling so wrong,
screwing this up when the time was just right,
replaying 'No bother' just to worry the night.

Whoops

 By formal technicality only was it an obligation. ONE text. ONE hundred thousand things I deeply intended to write in a vicinity not far from here (Such a though- to be here)
(I was thinking Denial for the next journal- there's so much promise and rhyming for such a future).
ONE big loss of a dear fine friend. Those for SURELY would only be counted.

By informal metaphors was it hinted into formidable recognition. TWO thoughts to be had. TWO metaphors to lose. There were TWO times I had to rethink, react, reform, reverberate across what's left to be found of existence.
(Twice I found a kiss, certainly where I'd been looking. Don't sound so disappointed, sir. Awkward is a beautiful little adjective; an unappreciated art form.)

((Okay, alright. I'm working on homework. Will be. Dearly soon. No three's to be found. Then I'll write the one that was hiding deeply within the confines of my journaljournal. Not the live kind. The journal kind. Not that anybody bothers to read a hippies journal -.-))