End

This blog is now done.

Gold Shoes

I knew
you enjoyed
my gold shoes
posing out your
car window
a dainty contrast
to the rest of me
and to those mad, inward
scribbles
constantly spinning and composing
further complexities,
blasphemy of self
and insecurity with the power
of prophecy

and the memory
is perfectly photographed
with in me
achingly so
because the time
is a depiction of two
other than us

and I know this now
because
I scratched away the surface
of that 40 second video
where we're perfectly posed like
gold shoes
and I found
those maddening scribbles
that tie together a girl
living in the most uncharming
chaos of clothes and
trash
and occasionally poor,
forgotten food
a girl
who cuts her hair instead of cries
who accepts misery
rather than her mother
who pools together wreckage
and uses it as a weapon
I found
such an untouchable sadness
that even I
can not touch
and dear, holy boy
neither can you.

E. E. Cummings Inspires

Read and understand. This man is brilliant.


O Distinct
Lady of my unkempt adoration
if I have made
a fragile certain

song under the window of your soul
it is not like any songs
(the singers the others
they have been faithful

to many things and which
die
i have been sometimes true
to Nothing and which lives

they were fond of the handsome
moon       never spoke ill of the
pretty stars       and to
the serene the complicated

and the obvious
they were faithful
and which i despise,
frankly

admitting i have been true
only to the noise of worms
in the eligible day
under the unaccountable sun)

Distinct Lady
swiftly take
my fragile certain song
that we may watch together

how behind the doomed
exact smile of life’s
placid obscure palpable
carnival where to a normal

melody of probable violins dance
the square virtues with the oblong sins
perfectly
gesticulate the accurate

strenuous lips of incorruptible
Nothing       under the ample
sun, under the insufficient
day under the noise of worms

- E. E. Cummings

I need to make a glorious sense of this poem
it resonates with my life right now
the notion that these words have manifested themselves in my life right now
leaves me searching for the core of this poem. or at least what it means to me

How often do I see people of the world earnestly put faith in the "great"
and how often does the faith and conviction fade away.
professing love for the epic and the beautiful
fuck he says it perfectly!
"they were fond of the handsome
moon       never spoke ill of the
pretty stars       and to
the serene the complicated

and the obvious
they were faithful
and which i despise,
frankly"

to the obvious they were faithful
and he hates it.
and he openly puts faith in the steadiness of nothing
in the unexplainable day
and the noise of worms....being silence.
And then!
he poetically, abstractly defines life
and how it exists on it's own terms.
and somehow manages to explain its contrast
with life's placid obscurity laying exactly beneath this carnival-esq facade
he describes that within a normal melody as square virtues dance with oblong sins
there is merely  incorruptible, accurate nothingness
i can't begin to say it as he does.

and my favorite part of the whole thing is his desire
to share this nothingness with a women
to watch
"the doomed
exact smile of life’s
placid obscure palpable
carnivals"
with her
and he says his song to her is unlike the songs of others
and that he is not adoring and faithful to many things
but he is to her.
he acknowledges the meaninglessness
and wants to watch it and experience it with her

ok i'm done

the pulsing warehouse

Forgive the
twisting DJ
that had my feet on strings

forgive the whore
that sold me bad acid

and forgive me
who straddled
and toyed with
the man from Chicago
as he whispered
of alluring positions
and my beautiful smile

and i bled
for the night
within the circus black
cement walls
i bled between the
molten molested bodies
of pupated dancers
bled for the night
trapped amongst my
own self
throwing my velvet
blacken skin
onto
sooty vintage couches
opening my legs
so he could taste a wound
that wont heal

but we ran from that
old black warehouse
with it's fire hula hopper's
and fruit fingering men
and tacky tequila

and we saw the raw
paper light of morning
and let our soles
beat the pavement
and screamed
as rain
fucked our skin

and somehow
freedom
came with
that slapping new
daylight
and it promised
a chance to heal
all wounds

<3


hey this is a happy poem
and one man helps me
see things
with hope

Today is has dropped drastically in temperature. my favorite trees have to bloomed and I'm afraid the chill will take them away. they are the most beautiful things...

TWO MONTHS AND 15 DAYS OF NO SEX.
THREE MONTHS AND 15 DAYS TO GO.

ok...
Today it stopped.
I have been walking this earth for the last two months and 15 days completely nun like. I have not looked at a man in a sexual way, with my brown eyes doing there practically instinctual come hither look. I have not flirted with a man in two months and 15 days. No biting my bottom lip. No itching my upper thigh under my skirt. No waving back to the honking men. Nothing! And clearly...no kissing, no touching, no sex of any kind in the last two months and 15 days. I have been god damn holy for almost three months. My goal is six.

A slight wrench has dropped into my little plan. Today I saw a man that sent shivers from my back to my feet and EVERY place in between. He has blue fucking eyes.... ALWAYS WITH THE BLUE EYES! I can't handle it! And worse yet...I find that the blue eyed, scruffy chinned, indie dressing god, who is probably skilled in the arts of all things pleasing to women, is a current employee at MY new job! Emphasis on the MY, because yes, it is MY job! MY job where I get to make coffee and not have sex and do dishes and not have sex and make smoothies and not have sex. And he thinks he can just waltz up with his cup of tastefully black, black coffee and just ruin my plans!? Not that he really looked at me or did anything, for that matter, even slightly out of the ordinary that would lead me to believe that he might indeed want to accompany me in slew of mind blowing sexual escapades, HOWEVER, it is his presence that is most offending to me. It is his mere presence, and his future presence around my nun like composure, and iron panties of chastity, that will surly stifle my plan! Does he think that just because he is standing next to me, that I will be plagued with irrational daydreams of our secret interludes in the freezer!?
No. No, I think not. It takes more than that! This is MY coffee shop and there will be no blue eyed men messing with my plan. I just pray that this man sees nothing in me, NOTHING in me what so ever, that is even remotely attractive to him...
Wish me luck.

Friaday night with Noura and Brad and lots of wine

More Cameron Louisiana:

This is for the eyes of a man who will never read

DO OR DIE!
DO OR DIE!
I vomit
the words
from fatty lips
and his hands
are wrapped
around my neck

and with the silence
of the beaten
he wrings the life from me
and I am reminded
my place of eternal comfort
at the bottom of
a glass

and I need
to tear
the skin from my muscles
because it's
BLACK
and I am
a vessle
for your sickness

and now my mother
is suicidal
and now my dad's
an addict
and my paintings
are bleeding!
like fruit devoured
and my cunt
is screaming
like lobsters
in the pot

and you are carving
CARVING
my eyes deeper and
wider
until they
are as
bottomless as yours
and you are branding
the underside
of my thighs

bird namer
painter
writer
of artichoke hearts,
you
are
HOLDING
me
under water

and I can see it
in your WOODNOTE eyes
as you fight
to go DOWN
on me
as you drink
espresso
across from me
I can see
like the Monalisa
your internal battle

of weather to consume me
or throw me away

and I sit and wait
like a ruined
slapped
little
girl.

<3

my virgin

Forty

cigarettes and white wine
my skin
on your kitchen counter
slippery
pink
lips.
i am
casually
downing glasses

slivers of your
thirsty
blue eyes

stay close
white wine
you are my lover

and i am poured
onto your bed
and you have a
small
open window
bringing in
air
and moon
and mosquitoes

slivers of paper
that hide
in your wooden chest
slivers of sheet
that slide
up
between my legs

and you tear
my flesh to
pieces
with your
mouth
and your boozy lips

and the room
is blue
the window
is my mother
promising freedom

the wine is white
singing from the night stand
stay close
you are my lover

and i can not breathe
and i can not breathe
push my head down
pull my hair up
moan
push my head down
pull my hair up
moan

the window is my mother
the wine is my lover

and the morning
comes stale
and my body
wakes raw
and your face
stains the pillow

with morning
i see
your age
and thick creases
along your eyes
and my lover
had cheated
my mother
a liar

a shower
and the soap
i smelled on you
last night
oh sweet pain
the water is clear
the smell is clinging
and i am scratching you
from me
and the blood is red
<3

I was looking back at old blogs tonight. I loved Jade's especially, reading parts of her life that were so filled with passion and pain and beauty. Then I started reading old poems of mine. My writing has changed so much, just in the last year. This is my first poem posted on blogger on 1-06-06


AS THE MOON TOOK OUR PICTURES

Sometimes,
Her face would crinkle in the most bizarre way,
To eco beauty that seeped from tiny memories.
Memories found in nothing more tangible than a smell
Or a dream that left the mind moments after waking.
She takes the corkboard pictures and scribbled memoirs of a child
To form a life
That looks delightful through kaleidoscope lies.
I know yesterday caught us bare
On the nights that froze us in time,
Swinging beneath a moon that took our photographs

So certain things grow up around us
And we realize they've been there all along
But the choices I made collapse like light on the pavement
Making me wish for something more or something less
But left only with what is.

His emotions push and pull on me like the tides
And I search and search through the pain
As I remember her singing
"Things are gonna change my dear"

And I keep seeing us swing
Beneath the moon that kept us young
Living as legends had lived.

For now our past stares at us with blank eyes
As we are left to fill in the blanks of what the truth should have explained
But I was never one for truth was I?
And I could pretend that he wronged me
As I remember his "whatever" eyes
And how I filled them up to the sound of his voice
Making them what I wanted

So our lives begin to seem belittled by the compromises we embraced...
But the little street light out my window
Forever mimics the moon perfectly
So I take comfort in it's little lie
And as it flickers
I remember how I felt free in myself once

But his emotions push and pull on me like the tides
And I scream at him through my own broken motions
But all that remains are the things I let go of

Beneath the moon that saw me bare
I sit and cry
Asking for everything back.


...wow it feels SO different

Sorry if my writing has been overtly sexual lately. I'm testing celibacy.


Casual Conversation


I strung my necklace
along my lower lip
your eyes follow
and follow

My eyes tunnel deep
into my milk foam
(drink more espresso.
drink more espresso.)
but rarely right at you
rarely right into you
and then there are those
moments
when I do...

Panties
Heartbeat
Bite lip

(Fuck!
drink more espresso.
drink more espresso.)

You ask,

"Do you want to
go fuck in the bathroom?"

Panties
Heartbeat
Bite lip
and then the quick
ignited flashes
of blooming nights
and music
that grew
and came
with us.

I sigh
"Let's get a cigarette"

<3

No more hair.

Coffee Shop Neuroses

My back has taken
on a strange curve
and the stranger sitting next to me
isn't quite a stranger...
I know him
but I cut my hair.
so we won't speak.
and I revisit
revisit
the pictures
of her dancer's body
because I am not that dancer
But I have
felt up a man
on the dance floor...
does that count?
no I guess not
that girl
has a lot of beauty to her

And I am so tired
because I write
write
until three
and then drink
coffee and coffee
and I am so tired
because I replay
replay
thoughts in my mind
until they are so worn
and then tare
Goodbye old, sad thoughts.

And I am sitting
drinking tea
(too much coffee and coffee)
at a place
that needs a dust
and the horror that you
could stroll around the corner
is very unsettling
and so is the lack
of honesty
in my own poem

Honest:
I've fucked guys since you
Dishonest:
They were better than you

There.
swallow tea
swallow pride
swallow tea
swallow.

And I wonder
who took my dirty
dirty cocaine away?
and who took away
all the careless lovers?
(I fear the honesty)
my better side...
well I want it all back

So,
the city has taken
more than it gives
but watch as it sits
stubborn as you

it still just snows snows
and it's cold
and these thoughts?
are long gone
gone.
Goodbye sad, old thoughts.

<3

would
you like to
wander the midnight streets with me?
no
no romance
no romanticizing the pain
of your mind
the turmoil that you deal with
(or don't)
everyday
and how you shove it on me
and how fucking beautiful and sick it is
(your mind)
how I would fucking drink your mind
a martini with four olives
cut my legs with big
thirsting gashes and
fill them up with you

And your mouth on my cunt
and your eyes on me
in the shower
your sick beautiful mind
loved to watch me
squirm with pleasure
no!
no romance
no romanticizing the pain

you are hungry
and enveloping
i am sweet
fuck so are you
so fucking sweet
and i loved
Shhh...
going down on you

but i chopped, chopped, chopped
my hair off
screaming
"NEVER FUCK A MAN FOR HIS SAKE!"
repeat repeat

and i read your poems
and they are so sick and beautiful!
the words
weeping, weeping
and it makes me scream
because i want your sick
beautiful mind
i would
crumple
beg
fuck
sacrifice
my own pleasures
my dignity
just for one
fix
one night
in the street
the restaurant
the sheets
No!
no romanticising the pain

Ok!
in a moment
where i am broken
down
into my most simple
basic part
i ask you
(beg you)
to let me be
i am too weak
too weak
too empty
to deny myself
your sick beautiful
mind
so, (please)
deny it for me you sick
sick fuck

<3

the writing has morphed
into an obsession

the sex
a necklace that I wear
you to mold me out of
pale clay
burdening me with the things,
you wouldn't speak.
(the man with gaping eyes
but a shallow tongue)
and what of the night
falling heavy into it's shadows
with my scheming heart
that calls upon it's own arteries
to feed from an un-sleeping
un-waking lover
for the heart can be a taking thing

and times come
when most is hushed
but even still
the blind are left to scratch
for the rest they will never find
empty
floundering grasps

and the writing has morphed
into an obsession
it is a plea to steady
the shaky nerves
a widower's song
humming
calm, calm
for it is in the moments of hush
that I feel most empty
<3

Why are my poem all over the place these days?

1-5-07

the roaring memory
of circus colors
and men
(how i wear them like necklaces)
and pungent flowers
that grow frail upon the vine
whither fiercely when the morning comes

and i know nothing of full moons
and healing teas
only of what the power of a man will do
to me
the touches that heal
sore bones
arching, biting, pleading
the words that linger far past
there speaker
the lost and the loosing battles
and then the only silly flower
that never quite withered

So lustful am I today.
I bent over in my seat.
the action was noticed by a young man
who smiled at my bodies sexual tone
my sheer oblivion to the action's nature
and it's observers
made it quite seductive
and has left me wanting
of a man
in fact, the simple act of an idle pen
looming up the thigh
pushes me further
into a state of mild frustration
for the conductor yells loudly of my
unaccommodating reality;
that of a passenger on a train.

Can anyone help me with a resume? I'm applying at fancy coffee shops and I'm having trouble talking about myself. I have never done one before.

i am ith out ords and my "_" is'nt orking
onderful.

My mom wrote this and I was quite impressed at it's honesty

My mom wrote this and I was quite impressed at it's honesty

It is posted on her blog but I'm posting it here too
http://notnecessarilytruth.blogspot.com/

rinse and repeat

a steady flow of alcohol, THC and nicotine
rinse and repeat

i want the night we slept in your bed
you traced my curves and pulled my body close to yours
i felt the early morning air and the unusually high tempature of our bodies
we laughed about how clothing and sleep never go together
and i remember what you said...
those cotton panties you're wearing are so fucking hot.
my heart skipped and i knew you weren't like the rest
you had dreams of me, but still i was free
curiosity, desire and pleasure... nothing more than bells on my toes

you are not safe
you and i entered the tent with the throbbing music
wided eyed, we saw that people never sleep
the sun threatened to rise above the horizon
there were no rules
just a steady flow of alcohol, THC and nicotine
rinse and repeat

i'm trying to remember all of your words
Would it be all right if I go down on you?
Oh my god, look at you!
Would it be alright if I get a condom and put myself inside of you?
i nodded to all of your questions
i couldn't possibly be any higher
you traced my curves again and pulled my body close to yours
i could feel you wanting me again and i smiled
you remembered what i said...
I gotta get me some more of that.

i am not safe
you laughed and smiled and you were so fucking into me
you took what you wanted
everything you said was more of what i needed
nothing was missing and i was satisfied
come here you dirty girl.
i have to have you now.

it's all running together now... a steady stream of alcohol, THC and nicotine
oh my god, Kate, you are so much fucking fun.
i like the way you think.
rinse and repeat

and i remember everything you said to me that night
i could do this all night long.
maybe fall asleep with my cock inside of you, would you like that?
i came and you didn't
you took me from behind
you cleaned yourself and then we slept
in the morning you felt my curves and pulled my body close

i volunteered to get you off
how would you like to finish me?
would you swallow me?
you came and i swallowed you
rinse and repeat

-kate

TAGGED (the harder version)
1.
I never thought I would admit to loving this since it has caused me so much grief throughout my life. Nonetheless, I love my ambiguous personality. So that all are clear on my usage of the word-
am·big·u·ous:
1.open to or having several possible meanings or interpretations; equivocal: an ambiguous answer.
3.of doubtful or uncertain nature; difficult to comprehend, distinguish, or classify: a rock of ambiguous character.
Anyways, I have been mistaken for dumb, stupid, mean, weird (in it's most negative connotation) etc. but what I have come to realize is that people are linear creatures that label what they do not understand. When I look at my friends and family around me, I see people that love me for what they can see and understand in me. I'm just lovely, unique and weird (in it's most positive connotation) and not everyone sees that nor do they have to.

2.
I love my sense of fashion. I self admittedly wear strange, weird, beautiful, cheap, expensive, stylish, geeky, boyish, sexy clothes. Call it what ever you want, it's always changing and developing. Call it ugly, chances are, I already know.

3.
I love my ability to be by myself and create my own space. My room is my favorite place because i fill it with things that make me content. I have also realized that being by one's self is a chore for many people. Being able to spend hours alone just doing my own silly thing is very healing.

4.
I love the self confidence I have about my body. Even with my big thick legs, my freakishly pale skin, my little girl boobies and my handles for lovin, I am so damn sexy. haha

5.
My creativity. It's my air, my pores, my limbs. It's vital.

Naked

The coffee house is full
smells piled on the air
layers like oil on the canvas
where she sits stoically ,
the girl I am oddly familiar with
and maybe I paint her
so tenderly
because I want her again
because I want to go back there
with the drugs and a
womb of them surrounding me
like skin on my bones
and now
I have torn away this
false flesh
presently here I am naked
as in the shower that morning
when I said to you
"I never let men see me this way"
not this way
naked in the water
water that ran through your eyes
not helping to dim there strength
as I had found myself wishing
eyes scratching through to me
through the water
and through my skin
leaving me standing
...naked

<3


i have a writing workshop tomorrow! i have no bloody clue what poem to bring! help!

Page.
1-10-07

You lay on paper's plane
swallowing ink
with a vigorous thirst
I, your page, once or twice
your thirst driving you
through every crease
and wrinkle

And you marked me
wine our words
words our wine
stone steps and wooden door
the church our heat
eyes the second language


And our mouths were fed
like fleshy organs
pumped full of crimson words
finally bursting into wild air

And your silent pain scared me
but it drove me, turned me on

turned on my skin
pale as bone in the darkness
turned on my mouth
and my neck that
bent to face you
my back that arched to meet you
my fingers gripping
I knew the pain in you
and you knew it in me

as you lay in the pages and
swallowed thick ink

<3

I've been tagged. I usually reveal myself through poetry, this is most comfortable for me. So I'll let you pick 5.

It is like a faint music
creeping from the basement
the subtleties of myself
that are seldom heard in focus
but always playing

I am the product
of this constant drone
like the memory of the little girl
in the bathroom and how I hurt her
the sickness I channeled into her
the sickness He channeled into me

Sometimes
late at night
or at the break of day
when the flesh of a man rots over me
I can hear the music
as I moan and scream
into his neck
his lips or hands
lies of pleasure
that I can not feel

So I search like a mad woman
aching to quiet the music

Quivering and blind
I bleed from my thighs
wishing to abandon my pain there
with only a thin scar in it's memory
but the music plays on

Even when I sniff cocaine
a flower fragrant but lonely
wrapping its seductive vines around me

The music
creeps up always
like the voice of my mother
her sound griping at my pulse
singing steadily
the tales of my worthlessness

<3>

Just some modest thoughts of the brain
not quite poetry



My mom has been gone
in San Diego for a week now
i don't miss her
more I miss the sounds
of humans in there homes
for I am much too silent
for my own taste

I have not felt pretty
for one week now
the quick come on of winter
does not flatter me
skin is cracked
like flowers dried
I am heavier than I like to be

I miss the instant comfort
of a man's sheet's
the touch that warrants
a slow and rocking sleep

but I bare in mind the morning
with her vicious light
shreds the still
shreds the man
and his oh so convincing heroism

with the promise of morning
I've often wondered
why do I so fully embrace him
and his night?

So today
there is an honest sting
on the air
and I am left to sit and dwell
with all these stones
settling cozy in my gut

<3

Paper to the wind

The snow is born again this year
and the house is cold towards me
here in the virgin stillness

The perfume that
bloodies my neck
the words of men that
I drink like cheap wine
all the stunted nights
kept weak by disease
the air, bruised and wiry

And the snow was born again tonight
at the window
they fall like papers to the wind

and it’s
too many lost nights
and kisses
like dried flowers on the wall
hours and whispers
and cotton sheets like crumpled notes
too many lost nights

And I don’t know
where the self has gone
or where the smoke has gone
that grew from one man’s lips
where have his callused hands gone?
that fragment of time
like shattered glass
that held a fleeing summer in it’s eye

And the snow was born again tonight
at the window
they fall like papers to the wind.


<3

This poem took way too long and I could not decide how to end it. It has defeated me and I am most angry with it. But I must but the bad with the good yes?

the skin of a lover
i wear thin to the bone

and in the empty still
he forms new divits
on my wooden figure

and with nights waxing frame
we shall grow thinner together

<3

I will attempt to fall
from withering heights
to gurgle down the wake of you

to claw at walls
and do lines in the stalls
to betroth myself to art and apathy
search through music and magazines
and collect myself
molding a woman of notes and clippings

then settle in the collage
of fierce pieces and bruised paper organs
that weep to stay in mild function

I will lay
amongst the struggle and color
amongst the fighting pulse
and wait for time to crumple me

for all that can transcend
from this faint self
is a modest tune
humming soft in the drowning hour
<3

And the smoke has started
to bleed from my lungs
the cigarettes
the booze
and the scaring tongues

that start at my lips
but move down to my heart
lower still to my cunt
this crying thing of botched art

and the day is marked
by sunrise
and sunset
by the way our skin will age
and the way our words evolve
page after page

the day it sits
simple and pure

but the smoke has started
to bleed from my lungs
and all i have left are my eyes
half blinded by grey
to look out at my lost but lovely
fragile day.

<3

I was listening
to words on a wire
there melancholy tones
feed my concave ribs
and fill my
opaque stare
the words of others
teeter on my weathered mind

Until i reach
this weathered page
and the words
so consuming and defining
drain out
like rain through the gutters
and my eyes for a moment here
are lucid
the complexities rubbed away
leaving
a simple pain
and a simple girl
<3

Some In Between Writing

Sometimes with a little
white wine...
a small tare in the linin
takes shape
after years of the bodies wear

And the boys are beautiful
i wear them well
with cups of coffee
(the complex kind)
and a little sunshine
a little truth
(very little)

Sometimes with a little
white wine
i realize how much i hate them.

***

He read my eyes.
I said
"They get me into trouble"
and i was relieved
that my eyes still spoke at all
and i havent cried in awhile, i thought
so maybe their holding
more of me

and i thought,
as the water fell over skin
cathing in some
perfect creases
and tracing from divit to divit
that i was cleaner than this
But the drain drank down
blood and dirt.
and i wondered
"who is this?"

"So what do my eyes say?"
I wish I could have asked
but i was scared
I was just a girl, I am just a girl
I went and hid under my bangs
does he know?
does anyone know?
it seem even I have forgotten.

***
Lets rewind
rewatch and re-enjoy
how you raped me with your soft eyes
subtle, pressing, juicy
your demeanor
savory and wrong
saught to dice me
like bitter purple onions
and ma use to cook like that too
with a little vicious on the side

So whats good for you?
you say I'm a little crazy
and i say,
with a casual step
and a chip on my shoulder, that
your a little fucking sick
So lets get sweaty
and I'll moan and scream
a big lie, just for you baby
and you''ll win
because I will be broken
laying in your cum
and my needy lust.
So stop with the eyes
and get to it.

***

Smog night
With its needy consumption of sky
and i see them tonight
or choose to them tonight
as red ribbons
that distain the warmness of this room
And the pain isn't a real feeling
So I make a cry to clear the air
and the sting of sound
feels more real.

***

Floral patterns in her skin
they matched the bathroom wall
it was then that she realized
how unorigional she was.

***

Bare your soul
to the skin of the pavement
forget your age
and paint your
weeping sexuality.
spread it thick.

***

So I woke up in his
drowing arms
and felt naked like eve
suddenly realizing
my humanity
and would'nt kiss his morning lips
and i wouldnt endulge his eyes with mine
because his sheetswere suffocating me
with his familiar smell

i wanted a morning in bed with him
i wanted to free my crazy, mad heart
into the covers
and tell him,
"This is me!
i need alot.
i think tired, lived in people are so beautiful.
my emotions are locked inside me.
even i can't find the key
if you ever want answers
look at my eyes.
I'm a daddy's girl.
I've hid in my journal for years.
I'm strange.
I'm addicted.
i could'nt ever love you. but i want to."
i wanted to show him everything
and lay in him for the morning
coffee and cotton and cigarettes

But i could'nt
i told him
i dont want him
and i can't stop running i've realized
so i've stopped asking for anyting
because i'll run if i get it.

“don’t
forget
me”
I only wanted to tell you
(wouldn’t ever though)
but I’ve realized
your method’s appeal.
you are such the
runaway type
so lets forget
the sex
and Americanos
the music
that inspired briefly
my toiled little poems

You had me from
the start
because you were always
going to leave
I guess I’m
old fashioned that way
and I’d like to think
that I gave you
only what I wanted to give
but I think you got
a little more
and maybe that’s why
I hate it
because someone saw the mess
someone saw.

So cheers boy
here’s to forgetting
our too real
so short affair.
and I hated when
you stopped me from smoking
(even when you could)
and I hated your cowardly silence
so it’s gone.

But your stare
is a little tricky
to forget that is
you never said so
but it might have been
filled with love
for me
and I never said so
but I stared at you
with
a little more than lust
and with a perfectly odd walk down south street
and kisses in city grass
with the CD you bought me
(dropped it into my purse)
and countless drives
and moments that I felt and
felt again
I stared at you with a quiet love
so can you forget that?
your such the runaway type
I’ll try and
forget too then.

I forget how to feel
even the words I write
turn to shallow darlings
there meaning as trite as
black polish on my nails
or these cuts
"Their so passe" I think
but there is a beauty
that's alluring
like an art.

And I forget how to love
so I walk
down the street and into his house
man drawn with his menthol in hand
his subtle look of sex
his hands are full of pleasure

and i sense his wanting of me
those careless cups of coffee
and his glances on me
like he can see his hands on me
and it's the physical
tangible
the sweat and the touch
"I wear it well" I think.

The genuine words
come less and less
and my life on
this small street
(it's getting smaller)
is something like a posh set
I sit on the red chairs
my look blase
...but come hither, perhaps.

And the men
with there well traveled eyes
traveling on me
and they love to tell me
who I am
but I can never find the self
to correct them.

I realize
what a colorful falsehood of my self
that I perhaps have made.

So I miss the simplicity
of feelings and loves
and life as a novelty
such a strange place this is
that i should forget my own self.

<3>
Does the ending need a change?

Dinner (part I)

"I always feel like I’m stuck inside my own mind.” Meredith said as a drop of heavy blood fell from her finger and stained an onion dice.
Scott had been watching a brigade of ants march up his kitchen wall and disappear into a tiny crack. “…Mer, I think we have a bug problem.”
Meredith brought her finger to the faucet and ran water over the cut, the water turning red as it passed over her skin. “ I mean its like I have too much going on up there or something. Not to brag, it’s more a cripple than anything else. Doesn’t your sister have a brain thing… a tumor or something? Never could get her thoughts together. Well at least we can thank the spirits I don’t have a brain tumor.” She shook her hands dry and continued to chop. “Hunny, could you reach up and grab those spices from Mrs. Stuckless. She says they were a gift to her from a small tribe in the African jungle. ‘Very potent’ she says. ”
Scott had wandered into the other room and was crouched low, eyeing a small space between the wall and the floor that seemed to be the ants’ origins. “Mer, you know I hate it when you cook with Mrs. Stuckless’s spices. The lady’s a witch. Who knows what kind of curse she’s puts on them. Plus they give me gas. And stop thanking the spirits. Dad’s right up stares and he still thinks you’re a born again.
“Hunny, your dad can’t hear us all the way up stairs. He’s probably asleep in the tub again anyways.”
“Mer,” Scott said back in his serious, concerned voice, “His knew hearing aid is state of the art. You never know with these things.”
Meredith giggled a little. She continued chopping vegetables but her finger had not stopped bleeding. She huffed and put the down the knife. “Christ Scott, I’ll never finish dinner if I keep bleeding all over the onions!”
“Meredith! Blasphemy!” Scott said in a panicked whisper. He was by no means a Christian but feared his god-fearing father and his new hearing aid. “Wait, why are you bleeding?” Scott stood and rushed over to her, a concern in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
“Scott, don’t worry about this. You keep changing the light bulb.” A task she had asked him to do 30 minutes ago when he found the ants. “Actually,” she added, “If you could just grab the herbal ointment I mixed last week from upstairs.” Scott grabbed her hand and examined the cut with the same intensity has he had the ants. Meredith cut herself at least once a week but Scott never failed to worry and fuss over her.
“Mer, this one’s deep, you’re not using that stuff.” Meredith had been trying to stir her sauce, boiling three feet away, with her one free hand. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get some bandages” Scott sprinted up the stairs. Meredith watched as he left. It was the first time she had looked away from her cooking and, in doing so, spotted the ant army.
“Hunny!” she yelled, her head pointed at the ceiling, “I think we have an ant problem!”

Just then Elsa, Scott’s mother, a missionary’s wife long too morally kempt, burst through the front door, her purse bulging twice the size as it had when she left. “Oh good!” she shrieked and clapped her hands together. “You’re still cooking! Too late for the peas dear?” She walked over to the counter and pored hundreds of peas from her purse. Elsa’s face beamed down at their grandeur while Meredith picked pink lipstick, a piece of gum, and a speeding ticket from the pile. Then, Elsa furrowed her brow and a sudden look of important business came over her face. “Now, I couldn’t find the Asian peas so I just got the Brazilian ones instead.” She reached to grab the knife from the cutting board when she saw the onions. “Oh dear is this, is this blood?”
Meredith ignored her. “Elsa, did you steal these?”
Again Elsa’s face changed, growing mournful and teary, as she wailed into the air “I know! I know! A tragic fault of my humanity!” She emphasized humanity with great inflection. “But the good Lord forgives. Mm, the good Lord forgives.” There was a momentary bowing of her head, then she beamed up at Meredith. “And dear please, it’s Mom.” Suddenly a new direction came over her again, “Now! I’m going to wake Lu from his bath.” And she trotted off.
“…Okay Elsa, thanks for the peas”

15 minutes later Scott, Elsa, a heavily prooned Lu and a triple bandaged Meredith, sat down to dinner.
“Let us pray.” Lu whispered. “Meredith would you like to lead us in prayer?”
She looked across the table to Scott who was concentrating on picking a plastered piece of food off his plate. “ Hey, Mer, we really should get that dishwasher fixed. I think last night’s soy steaks are still stuck on here.” He glanced up at her, confused by the silence that had followed his concern.
Lu cleared his throat, “Meredith, would you like to pray?”
Scott came to. “Oh you know what Pa, Mers been fighting off some laryngitis. How ‘bout Ma does the honors tonight.”
Elsa began instantly with a huge “Dear lord!” and continued on dramatically for a good three minutes. It consisted mostly of appreciation and love but a small portion was devoted to self-degradation and repentance for her pea stealing incident and doing 80 in a 40 zone.
“Thank you Elsa that was lovely” Lu expressed through a mouthful of Persian spinach paste.
Lu and Elsa were missionaries for the uneducated, rural class of America. They had been traveling the US for 35 years and as a result, Scott had been raised in a touring caravan. They were not bad people. Although Elsa had developed a few less than charming traits in her later years, they all chose to over look them.
“She means well.” Lu would say. “The Lord forgives.”
Scott had a different take on the matter and would conclude quietly under his breath, “She says she can hear the Lord’s voice inside herself, but what he’s telling her is to get a stiff therapist, a stiff fuck and stop with the stiff drinks.”
<3

haha just fun stuff. oh! everyone! PLEASE see the movie "An Inconvenient Truth". It's a MUST.

The song Peace Train has always made me weep. In the very beginning, it was the sound of his music. His voice and the mood of the song brought shivers of novelty to my skin and I was so filled with song that all I could do was cry. Then it was the lyrics. “I’ve been smiling lately, thinking about good things to come”. It seemed to hold the rosey, archaic world I was so enamored with. With flowered woman and freckled lovers in the grass. And oh how I new he wanted peace. I could hear it so touchable in his voice, his beautiful plea. I remember once it was dark and rainy and my mom and me were riding in the car. It was one of those nights where I could have rode through into dawn, passing night like it was a lifetime. Peace Train was playing and my mom heard me sniffle. She turned to me with her sweet motherly eyes and said, “What’s wrong Hunny?”
“I want peace so bad” I whispered.
The song brought to my eyes ever bit of idealism and innocence. It told me that I could change the world as long as I kept crying for peace. And all those beautiful people who must have cried with the song before me, who wanted peace just as much as I did.
Now I cry for none of these things. I cry because it’s all gone. Because, as much as I want peace, I don’t want it with all my beautiful heart like I did once before. As much as I love that music, it won’t bring shivers anymore. It’s symbolizes everything lost. Everything missed. Everything that I etched in stone and promised would be there forever and the ideals that kept me moving and singing on but some how faded away. It’s a song about my starry eyes that knew love could conquer all and that we could all ride away on the Peace Train. Before I learned that my heart cannot love anyone right now, because I don’t love myself. Before I learned that peace won’t ever exist, because people don’t want it to. Before I learned that fear and anger push people to hate and kill. Before I learned how much my mom has really hurt me, and there was only a tiny enclosed bud of blood red. But now my pain has bloomed into this lush red flower of dripping scents. Before all the boys caught up with me, before I realized that their marks wouldn’t fade with dawn but would taint me forever. Before all this, there was just a song that sang to every inch of who I was. And now I am drained so empty with only this hallow tune. It’s voice, a tiny string linking back to a faint distant girl, holding her tears for peace.

And oh how time slips away.


Life will crystallize into memories
When your looking away
And the loves lost
Leave creases to your face
But oh how I’ll love anyway

That night
Forwent its mystery
to us
laid it over our shadows with
all the constellations
and the stories
all the darkness
And we ran like children with it

And we drank each others charm
Folding are origami words
Into tiny
perfect birds
setting them free into
almost-spring-time night

and
you captured it all
in fragile
sounds
I didn’t know music like that
could exist.

Those old skies
painted out
like the skies of timeless chapel ceilings
they always find us
and remind me what is beautiful.

Spring season
and your ways
intertwine
and everything just grows and grows…

Even our kiss
that still evolves
like hands that work for a lifetime
and are rare by the end.

Even my words
that I seize when they come
and hand to you in a bushel
you hush their chaos colors
and their wild form
with understanding blue
flashing from your stare.

Please can we just trap
all atoms that make these moments
and I’ll live them when your gone

like everything else
the moments move too fast
mimicking the fleeting sun
we kiss beneath.
<3

May 24 2006


Oh weary boy
don’t make sense of me.
Me,
some intellectual picture
of folly and words
and leaking colors
some soiled years that wear like old jeans
but that’s all
I have and am.
and I beg you
please to stop
looking at me so kindly.

<3

Wow it's been a fucking while. Well, feels like it. I've been picking my life apart in therapy and it's exhausting. Any more pensive introspecting and I think I'll explode. I would do ANYTHING to just write something amazing, but nothing will come. I’ll try again.

Would You Have Me Any Differently?

This machine churns and toils with
metal beads and foiled gears
and it works with mechanical magic
tells me how to live
and I want to break and shatter it into pieces
don’t fucking tell me how to live.

Because I’m pale and peach skinned
Wide-eyed and weak
and worthy of all emotions
and my eyes will fill often like
that old collecting bathtub
of porcelain and tin.

I can remember the tub we bathed in
and you would scratch my wet
and soiled hair, your black nail polish spotting
my stare
every so often
and I felt perfectly fit between your legs

I have a million moments
of vibrant memory
that color
and cut there precious tears on me
and make me everything that I am:
tears and follies
her hits and screams but
her love and friendship
and the pain she has shared with me

And the self-abuse
that swims in lukewarm nights
all the mysteries never solved
and faces of men I will never recall
the drugs that frame it all

The place I called my home
for so long and now I dwell there
even though I’ll never see it again.
It’s gone.
An entire life.

I am every world
that’s ever tainted me
and every skin of every face I’ve tasted
and every night that has sought to envelop me
with the tangy fingers of orange moonlight
that I have ever laughed
wept
danced
or cut beneath.

The moon holds the photographs
of my life
and they’re dirty and raw
and beautiful.
They’re who I am and they’ll stay forever
imprinted in my strong hands
wrinkles and creases
proof that I have
lived as an artist.
<3

What does this mean to people? Is it more than just pretty words to you?

Two Nights, Two Lights

These last two days have been crazy. Temptation to tell is overpowered by unwillingness to type. I'll see how far I get.
My date:
went differently than expected. Instead of seeing a movie, which we both agreed was trite, we sought a field instead. I sat him down in the very middle where a patch of sun was still lingering and told him we had to take advantage of this "sun spot". He seemed so full of things he wanted to say but didn't have the means to do so and it seemed this was how his life had always been. He was growingly attractive as he spoke, his gaze kind of scattered when he talked until I told him to fix it on me. I loved his voice and the way he calls me little lady. I asked him what he was thinking about and his answer was the best I had ever received. He seemed overwhelmed by the question and genuinely replied how much there was to think about. It seemed like he was going to burst with his own thoughts as he listed the sun set, the geese, the field, words, questions, myself... Things that sound cliche now but were earnest when spoken because he was indeed thinking those things. I continued to move closer to him, movements not unrecognized by him, until I was face to face with him, sitting in between his legs. I wanted so much for him to just kiss me. I was so sick of being the confident one in these situations, but I knew he wouldn't. So I kissed him. It was the type of kiss that grew. The kind where lips and mouths had to be understood and known and then the kiss could be better. And it did grow better. His whiskery upper lip scratching mine a little. In fact all of his movements when he touched me were slightly rough yet refined. I liked this. I'm always handled like glass or something but he felt me and kissed me with almost an intoxicating roughness that was polished and never overbearing.
I am highlighting the good things and there were many. But it was not a perfect date. And as with most things, I can trace the coarse this will take and where it will end.
I was left content though. The feeling of the evening we spent together was so unique in that it continued to develop long after it was over. I continued to feel more and more content with myself and the whole thing. This feeling has now been drowned with memories of last night. A night I don't really feel like recalling. I wish I wouldn't let nights like that occur. Because I am always left slightly less full and slightly more damaged and can blame no one but my own self. Funny how clearly my nights have revealed me, both honestly, just each in a deferent light.
<3

Yay! Date tomorrow with uniquely attractive boy described in previous poem!
Will be attending a classy independent film at Doylestown’s own County Theater

Notes:
Remember your underwear this time!
Be sophisticated yet quirky
Don’t flare nostrils while laughing
Don’t make the first move as usual
Refrain from getting to second at stop signs
Flaunt what little cleavage is available through excellent choice in bra
Gaze intently and mysteriously
Smell and look flawless
Maintain moderately girly mannerisms while oozing intelligence
Don’t bite nails
Let conversation flow courageously and confidently
Focus on movie and not subtle bulge in date’s pants
Maintain mystery, class and reasonable prudence
Where jeans

Other than that, flaunt what ya got and knock him on his ass ;)
<3

4-25-05
Last Night and The Flower-giving Boy

I fingered those branches tirelessly
Little pieces of pine
Tearing to the grass

Sometimes,
I can’t help the sex that falls out of me.
Your precise eye patterns
that followed up
The trail of my leg,
Left me wondering…

Would you have had me there
under that old castle’s silhouette?
We could let its black crawl into us
As we mark novel bodies
your clawing cigarette smoke
sticking in its puffs through humid air…
I would have found your lips there in that dark.

The undulating black
and its thickening personality
god I had
to catch my breath more than once
as your eyes widdled my body thin.
I was watered down with such
a timid moonlight
and you saw me only through this medium
I wished to spark the night like a match.

And somehow I made it home
with the sad white flower
you gave
and the night’s character followed me up to my room
with its lingering hues of want,
your biting glances.


<3

Dance through the mirage
with colored skirts
that jingle and flirt
and tare open when your glance starts to wear
on my heart that searches for validation from your interested eyes.

The night that I remember with its shades that grew up like ivy
my sickly beauty that I cast away to you
and the dark that withered on the vine
as it burst in sighs and lies
whispered by you to me
taken because I wanted them for my own
lies that could form me into something worthy.
Your eyes
that left a shimmering stain on me
illuminated by fragrant moons
that bloomed as we walked past the night
hands fraught with one another’s and you steadied me.

That night that moved so slowly
as if we stretched it over lifetimes.
And you dangled me through colors
and then under suddenly remembered stars
visible out there above New York farm.

And the drums you beat
and adorning-night fires
that we worshiped with prancing feet
until I collapsed into you finally
and you said through the grass that stuck to our sweaty skin
that you’d lick every inch of me
and I laughed
and you kissed me silent.

Red sun and purple sun and gold sun
and it all scratched over me on the blanket we woke from
shirt that slid from my freckled shoulders
and you woke and walked down the hill for coffee. Never really coming back.
And memories that still water me down,

till now and I am nothing
but sky
jingling with frayed stars
covering this diluted city
as it morphs polluted colors
that were once beautiful.
<3

-any title ideas?

p.s.
Anon's language inspired this almost wholly

Dressed up in smoke
And yellow wolf skin
You spin and spin
Skeletal girl with eyes like the dream
I woke up in
All tails and fins



She held a red apple up
To my lips
Ghost of brother at my hip
Her taste, like blood
On my fingertips
Ghost of brother at my hip



Are you merely the spirit of these
Bones that shelter me
You spin and spin
She opened her legs
To show me
Show me mercy

I don’t feel like this often. This night is rainy and cogent and my house resonates with quiet. I’m always up working my fingers on something. Tragic or colorful or beautiful. But there’s a sensation I get so rarely and I have it tonight. It’s this feeling of novelty of self. That everything I was before this night has hidden itself just for now and this beautiful girl is left sitting. I feel comfortable with everything. Tonight I prance around in this sheer little white tank top and plain cotton underwear. I make funny poses in my mirror and I sing the same phase of a sweet song over and over. It’s been two days now since I’ve showered but you wouldn’t be able to tell. I still smell like perfume from the day. I love my body and I think I’m wonderful and I think this night is wonderful. And I can remember nothing of before this moment.
It sounds like bragging, but I haven’t felt this way since my grey t-shirt days in New Hampshire. When my vanilla vodka candles would burn till death and snow would fall tirelessly until our windows were half white. And it was the most beautiful feeling, because my whole street, my whole town… could go nowhere but there own lovely rooms. I have missed this so much and to feel contentment tonight is perfect. No. It’s more than contentment; it’s whatever tiny ounces of a child I still have left in me. She was fearless and picked up beach shells. She knew only one way of doing things, and that was the honest way. She was unpainted by life and pain and was still in love with the things that mattered. And she saw beauty in indefinable terms. And a fragment of her is back tonight and I don’t want to sleep because she’ll be gone in the morning.

Polish.

Sometimes I breathe in the memory of false kiss--

just to remember the way you handled me
like you were polishing
blue-glass antiques
my back would arch as I lay in encircling sheets
rose to meet your calloused hands
as they polished down my wais.

I carried scents around my neck for you
that mingled with my arousal
and deepened your grasp around me

Till I was left like glass in you hand.

I wonder,
why my heart drops to remember
because it wasn’t love.
It was just those nights
in strange places but
wilted my body into you hands
every time.

You stay here. And it hurts.
Why can I still feel your eyes
uncovering me
like they did, when I lay for you.
Your eyes could make me into something eternal
as they worked and polished me.

your tasting lips
made trenches through my skin.

You toiled and worked and painted me and left me drowning in you,
filled my words with kisses that exhausted my sexuality,
touched me as if I were this relic
steered me where you wanted,

with hands I could remember forever…
polished me.





This wasn't ment to turn anyone on...but it kinna did me.

I once let lips wrap the silence of this night worn room.
Ribbon winds that seduce my petal skin
and fragile sheets kept my figure
salted night and sweaty colors in the black
I slept among the graces of…

Who is it that sleeps here now?
This bed with
its fading perfume tunes, vivify
and make me question a dwindled self.
Missing locks around my face and scratchy wrists that make for secret art
wrists,
that never stop the murmurs of their appeal.

Who is it that sleeps here now?
As night breaks and pours it’s secrets
and eyes of trapped light blink franitally
in search of the familiar
as I miss the nights that kissed me whole
and the girl who slept here before.


i really would like criticism. i want to get better.

Alright! It’s been exactly one months and 10 days since I last got any ass! I demand that this horrible travesty upon human life be stopped at once!

Oh and btw, everyone seems to be putting little links to other blogs. And I feel a litte left out because my computer ineptitude has prevented me from doing so. Anyone care to share step-by-step instructions?

Eyes That Faded With Winter

In the photo
something about her eyes that day
that promised I'd have her forever.
blue, knitted mittens keep her hands
cold flushes her lips
and charcoal shadowed eyes flash in freeze frame white
as she poses
for bowing winter.

Have your eyes ever changed?
Your wrist grew cluttered
with beads and hemp
to hide red tears
and your laugh grew wasteful
as it's sound crackled through the phone
and dropped on my heart
your sadness poisoning.

But your eyes stayed vivid and pure in bowing winter
and still do.
Because that day was organic and lovely
and I know it resides in you somewhere.

I ask myself, are my eyes still reminiscent of before?
Even now that I fight the mirror for myself
always the burning voices
Match stick. Strike. Birth. Death.
Skinnier. Skinnier. Skinnier.
I'll fight the mirror till I'm only wire and lace
bones and skin.

I ask, can they still bare stories of before?
Before I let men kiss me dry.

Lips on stomach
fingers sneaking, pressing
lingering vines of finger traces
wrap my thigh and scratch the shadows
smells that mark you born
morals withering
as you kiss the scents that entice, corrupt.

I know those nights, I drank to scarlet hues
I didn't want to feel the pain that always tarnished
only pleasure as you kissed wine stained lips
but then with a buttery morning
left me.

I let them all kiss me empty.

I ask myself, are my eyes still reminisces of before?

The loves I've had made up my eyes.
Everything I ever held dear intertwined
but I've left all my loves behind
and my eyes have faded with that bowing winter.



Thanks guys for being so dear in your comments. You give too much
xx

So...yah. I didn't think the day could get much worse. Then the whole getting arrested thing happened. And it did. I wouldn't let myself cry or be scared. I just kept saying "I'm not ashamed. What I did was wrong, but I won't be ashamed. This is life and it will be over soon." In the cell waiting for my dad I just kept singing to keep from crying. I made up this little hum that I just kept singing over and over,

calm blue walls
keep me still
don't tell me you don't love me
we all feel empty like this

I cant sleep tonight. I feel like I'm in one of those tragic movies, where the lovers lie in bed with one another and they refuse to go to sleep because they know whatever magic is at hand will end by morning. I've been out of school for a week and it's all I ever need to find myself again. When I'm in school I feel so drowned. I'm never acting like anyone else or being fake, I'm just...Nothing. I'm such a shadow of myself. There's no life in me at all in that horrible place. Who the fuck made up all those stupid sayings like "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." or "Everything happens for a reason." Those are shit! This won't kill me but it isn't making me stronger. I feel like it's killing me. Making me less and less of who I am. Like I'm starving my self and pretty soon I'll just be bones. And things don't happen for a reason. We as people assign reasons to things. And I can assign no better reason for this horrible high-school than to teach me how awful people are.
I learn. But that is the only good. It's not even real learning it plastic, boxed words scratched on black boards and spoken by teachers who have been in that hole for way too long.
Sometimes, like now, I'll just start weeping because I feel like there's this huge, huge wonderful, rosy life that I want to just embrace! I want to love consumingly and travel like I have nothing to live for except the passion that keeps me moving forward. I want to give and give everything of who I am, cherishing for myself only what I need. I want to sing and write and dance and live. And for once I just want people to see me the way I really am. I've been misperceived for so long, that sometimes I believe what they think. And I start thinking, "Maybe I am dumb, maybe I am boring. A slut. A ditz. A loser. A weirdo. If the majority of people who know me think a certain thing, how can it not be true?"
I wish I knew how to be 100% of myself all the time. Like beautiful Jade. But 80% of who I am is always just a few scratches below the surface. In the year and a half that I've lived here...5 people at best have ever bothered to scratch the surface. I feel like I'm trapped in my own skin. I just want people to see me for who I AM.
I could sit here and complain for hours. But the fact is... I'm so terrified. I don't want to go. I just want to find a train and ride away from everything. I don't want to go.

So I have to say this to everyone. Please never EVER think you can know and judge a person before you REALLY talk with them. Remember everyone one has a story. Take the time to ask real questions and get to know who they are. I can name countless pricks who think they know me and never ask me a single thing about myself. Please don't do this to anyone.

-Megan. not Roquell.

Today I saw two separate worlds run parallel.
I remembered momentarily how it felt to be a child.
Two boys with blond hair and their dad stood in a driveway and waved as my train passed their house. It was a formalized wave. The kind where the dad says, “Look at the train boys. Wave to the train!” It made we want to cry as I thought of it’s relevance to my life. Each hardened, saddened, jaded man and woman inside the train stared blankly ahead into nothing. While the little boys stood outside waving and smiling naively, knowing nothing real about the train. They had only their curious, idealist thoughts of what the train might be like inside. The boys could not see in and the riders could not see out. Both worlds were blind to the other. And I remembered for a split second, how it felt to be ignorant of what truly resided inside the train. And I rode home sad, my realties harsher than before.

Catherine
our blood always ran thick and red back then.
Mixed potions of thought
that churned like sea foam
when our words came forth in sun drenched bedrooms

we were beautifully tragic as I swam in my tears
and you held yours back
as we cursed the world but love it too.
In the far back of our minds
we still believed in happiness,
this idea that it was out there somewhere
and we could find it
in obscure places

like the back seat of your car
when your mom still drove us everywhere.
Or your endless stony driveway
that we traveled on by night.
Football field chats
the philosophies of your bed that we discovered
and boxed
and made them our own.
I would not have found these places with out you.

How did we come to this?
How do you get to a place
Where your laugh sounds so barren?
I hate myself
for moving away from you
I hate myself.

The days where your kitchen was my kitchen
And mine yours
How could I ever have left you
With just a pile of sand
From my lake worn jeans?

I cant remember a time
I cried harder than this

Because I’ve never known
A more beautiful person than you
I need you to tell me
that I’m crying for something that still exists
and that when I come home
I’ll find it in you again

I have decided to take a break from blogging. My writing refuses to transcend itself, which means I need to live more fully and look for inspiration. I refuse to sit back ang let live dance past while i stare at this computer. I have so many questions and I don’t want to look for their answers through this blog. But fear not! I will be back soon, hopefully enlightened and spewing beautiful new writing.
Peace my lovely bloggers

Me and my love, still playing dress up
i just got them back, i thought they were cute

<-- I Clumsily put my finger over the lens here! but she's still so beautiful

Some spring poetry!

Soles

Today
I fed my calloused soles
with heated pavement
and I paraded my shoulders and back
a sexy treasure of mine.

My skin grew new around me
it held the lingering smell
of sweet sweat.

My toes grew quietly rebellious
poking the air
like an inspecting cat,
and I remembered my lover
that once told me her soul
resided in her feet.

So as I set my own free and bare
I realized my soul
had been calloused with winter
and now finally it laughed through my cherry-red toes
as they pranced down heated pavement.



Old Fruits

The soaked moon
looked like the melon slices
my brother would feast upon
when summer breezes lapped us clean

This night pocketed memory,
like the crumpled envelopes of poetry
that smell of ginger root.
Fragmented relics
of a lost era
she sends to me.

I composed myself of the thick fruity air
That broke upon my quiet stature

Wine grapes that I had pealed
Seeking their sweetened flesh
Cherries that I foraged for
their smells delicate
as I took each life with a pluck
And the sweet tea
That sipped Virginia sun on the lawn

I cupped this twilight
And fed on the recycled smells
of my old sweet summers

Do you ever look back at old photos
and wonder when you got so old?

I was sitting at a bar last Friday and I asked a man why he had chosen finance as his career. He responded
“Listen honey, I’m here for three reasons: to have fun, to help people and to make money.”
And I thought “no wonder you look so sad.”

Thinking I was better than him and on a wiser path, I was quickly humbled when we went drunkenly to smoke pot in the men’s room.

The Conquerors

My heartbeat ate at the city ravenously
till the air beat cohesive with me
pulsing like sex,

Sex that makes known
my lost shape.
That is how the air around me
throbbed.

I thought maybe I could finally unfold.
Collapse
my neatly constructed self
and coagulate with the puddles
but my skin
held fast around me
demanding propriety.

My heart!
it thirsted for something.
but the rain
climaxed romantically to a splash
So slowly it fell.
The gutters weeping
their tears unraveling
down the brick bodies.

And oh how I lusted to be free of myself!
my nipples
were hard from the cold
…or desire.
I know only that my body
grasped for more.
My heart beat still devouring the air

…Oh to bicycle in those streets
the philosophy of rain
pattering thoughtfully
against my skin.

The pedals conquering my fickle feet.

I thought of him touching me.
He touched me in a way
where I could own my body.
my thighs, my breasts, my cunt,
they thrived on my fiery claim to them
…but only when he touched me.

I thought of when he rose a sweat from my body
and maneuvered it
across my skin.

He made known
My stomach,
My legs, my hands
In a way I had not known them

He conquered me.

I remember the nights
where I owned nothing of myself.
My body
that yielded to hands,
to lips and false touches.
Each seemed to savor me.
There’re memories that roll on
like an old 50’s film
The defeat of those nights consumes me.

Those memories,
lit by smoky pool table hues,
belittle me,

So does my rainy city.
And over a long dim time
I notice…
that the waltzing rain
falling still, so slowly,

Has conquered my rythm .

beat…
beat…
…beat…


http://almostdalyblog.blogspot.com/
this is where the picture is from. his work is so beautiful.

The dream

That night ate colors ravenously
Leaving the green glows of street moons
They lit the unraveling drops

I let my body escape from myself
Walked a street of quivering black
That played me like an instrument
Thumbing my skin until I was freed with music

I remember the dream perfectly
The cinnamon girl lover I was becoming
Staining a night with my hums
And I pranced to the tambourine clicks of rain
Awakening the night with dawn
Trailing colors and enflaming puddles with light
I looked down and my flesh was bare
Reflecting with sunrise-pink hues
The rain clinging like I was electric
A quake of musical chatters behind me
We pranced on wet summer asphalt

A glass cup grew from my palm and it shattered
And my hands that had only just awakened
Burst into flowers of blood
I awoke and screamed through the night
Lit by sickly street moons
And I lay
Kinked in seething sheets
Till prickly light masqueraded as dawn

And Then the Colors Change.

Fickle hands and orange fruit laughter.
People with pretty pink toes, dancing on their tips
Until I come along with a push
And they fall from grace
Shattering into a million glass winks.

Yellow lips and frozen drinks.
And fireflies that glow red with sex
Cigarette smoke that thickens the night: to a black light purple
Kissing the façade.
Quirky blue rain
That falls ironically
Manifesting into puddles of memory,
Jumped in by the Yout6hs in Yellow Boots
And then the women they become in black suits
Click tap click
Stilettos of ruby red
Reminiscent of their lost puddle days.

The green fleshy foreverness of hilltop grass
That I owned for as long as I could
And the paints that sit stoically on her desk
The swirling color currents
Morphing in cup ponds
The memories I have, vast in sepia tone,
Act like the coffee stains of my home:
Artistic.

So I’ve come to see,
We all have seen the shades decay, dilute, distort and deform,
Into new colors.

It is finally here!
The Bonnaroo line up has graced us with its presence. I am getting tickets with DAYS before my parents realize that I will be thrown in amongst the hellion youth of our time and partaking in illegal drugs, underage drinking and multiple sexual escapades! Anyways join in! buy tickets! Come along! We’ll dance and sing under the stars, joining our souls with the magical fibers of music until we have found our inner most being! …or get high and get off to some chill music.Whatever, It’ll be AWESOME.

http://www.bonnaroo.com/2006/

run.

I wont pretend to be poetic,
But the questions posed, may call for it.
I can sit silently, eyes

like cat’s,
Watching the haze and colors and ticks that tock in her watch that clings to her wrist that hides her cuts and play her dilutions.
And I can just be.
For one moment in all of my life, I can stop the watch that ticks and see the colors in her scarf as they dance and play with wind, never a moment passing me by.

And the graffiti settles on a stone behind the shop, under the bridge in a place that smells like old rain, but it’s beautiful and noble in it’s isolation.
And over years the art changes and I can stop and watch it change.
Asking what it started as.

What was it those nights?
Was it love? Even though they say it isn’t, I say it was cuz the moon and the heat and the fingers were there to testify, whispering “stop crying” cuz it was love.
But I think the memory lies to me making itself full and beautiful and colored in black and white vintage beauty that swirls through fragmented snapshots of lives lived.

So where am I now?
Now that I’ve been there under those two big trees
And played in woods never to be conquered
And have watched that place grow up with me.
All the while,
Walking through hands that grabbed and begged and tore me apart until I was on loan with every pitiful person who ever said the loved me.
And No! I am not just talking about fucking boys. So don’t think I…
I don’t care what you think.
So where am I now?
I don’t want to come to resolutions that promise and promise cuz I’ve heard too many that just break and break.
I conquered those pathetic woods

And it’s not all right
Even when he touches me, breathes on me, drives fast, charms and lies with those honest eyes…getting closer and closer and closer
Till I run and run and run.

So I sit here now. With Christmases and first kisses and waves that crash right to the heart of me
And summers that never wane and towns that I left behind and woods that saw us all naked.
And people. So many people.
All those times.
Don’t tell me I was never loved.
As I sit here and cry and cry and cry
Don’t tell me I was never loved! Because I loved.
Past the sex, through drugs, the drinking, even for a single second. I could’ve sworn…I loved.
So where am I now?
Playing into some self-pity, needles in skin, alone to sit and cry, moment.
With only the memory of…
Of the loved.
Run. Run.
Don’t let them take from you.

Ok, I’m sick of this whole poetry bullshit.
Here are some questions that have pranced along mysteriously through my life and I've had enough of them! I demand answers! My public’s ideas are welcome.

* When humans evolved, why did hair decide to stay in the most obscure places?

* How do they get that cool outer casing on hotdogs?

* Does sex more or less feels the same for everyone?

* Why am I not attracted to black people?

* Why is pot illegal? Yah I know that’s not very original, but seriously…how come?

* When are towels going to be out dated? They’ve had there time in the spotlight long enough. The fact that large walk in body dryers aren’t common in all households is just shameful. And we call our selves technologically advance.

* Unless my parents secretly enrolled me in some devil elementary school that maliciously bred horrible spellers, I definitely had a normal elementary school experience. So why is my spelling so God-awful?

* Who throws a cup cake? Honestly.

* If Jews are God chosen people, then why have they been tortured, persecuted, excluded, picked on, misjudged, misunderstood and overlooked more than anyone else since the moment their earthly existence began?

* Why can/do we only use 10% of our brains?

* When will eye patches be part of mainstream fashion? There so over looked, but I see big things.

* Um…what is it with guys and tits?

* Does the whole jumping off a high place with an umbrella have a good outcome?

ok thats enough for now. Hopefully God will check the blog and clear some of this up in His routine dream appearances. He’s so bad with the whole computer thing though.

street.

I cried in the street that day
The pools in my eyes
They twinkled though grey afternoon.
And the street beamed with rain that caught lost light
I remember a little girl
Who ran along the shore and picked her shells

I watched how the sky changed above me
And felt the cigarette burns
And loved how the trains came and went with out me
I sat
My clothes drinking what fell
And I felt something
That moved up the street like a wind
A hundred broken hearts
That I had folded and tucked away neatly

I could hear her words over and over and over
“Just a pretty house…”
I wanted the pain that I felt that night…
Painting my body forever.
Because I knew it could make me feel something besides this.
And a sepia tone moved over me
Shadowing out the unimportant
Leaving the orange street lights
And pretty trash that toiled through puddles
And me who held fast to the bench
Like it was the last thing I had
It felt like the last thing I had.
And I remember a little girl,
Who waited for the Peace Train.

A time romanticized, when
There was so much I had to say, still a girl that could run and run and run,
Through a night that grew and grew and grew
Living in our summer skin.
One of those nights
I can’t remember which
I traveled a path that left me worn
And I sat,
Held fast to the bench.
I miss nothing.
And I yelled,
That I need no one
But no one was there to hear.

And I have been feeling a million things these days.
That day,
I wanted nothing but a beautiful cry in the rain
We always choose our pain.
So,
Smoke stain motifs
Pretty people who adorned the street
And the windowpanes
That captured art.
The boy in the bookstore
And the rain that hid my tears.
I took the train
And ran away
From that stupid street.

Ok….so things are less than ideal these days and while usually rightly optimistic, that quality seems to have run off. I have been optimistic about P.A. for EXACTLY one year; I guess I’m tiring of it. Not to say that I’m giving up in the idea, god knows what could happen if dwell on this shit. Anyways, in order to regain my fantastic life and propel my amazing mental physical and spiritual abilities into the future, (as well as avoid being told I’m “alittle whoa is me”), I must take a stand! And I shall start with optimism. As well as, but not limited to, the following:

Start trying in school
Get back to eating right, I am sick of feeling fat.
Embrace my age
Start running again...well maybe that’s pushing it.
READ!
Stop smoking pot. It’s making me lazy.
Stop Complaining
Embrace life even when it’s hard
Stop taking on other people's problems
Find friends who listen
Dream big

Ok over and out.

wait! A haiku.
Photo freeze motion
Emotion frozen in time
That wasn’t there then
-dad

Girl.



Girl,
Do you want me?
When you saw me there beautiful and naked
When you knocked on my door
And left a lifetime to dwell in me
I was made into a thousand pieces that night.
I was made into a thousand pieces

Oh… girl,
Do you remember me?
When we painted our eyes black
And wrote another life
What were you thinking?
That night as we lied on the floor
And I shook myself to a death
And I cried and cried myself empty
Empty.
Last night I ran though a sleep
And a smoke aged across my jaw
Revealing the subtleties of my eyes
Of oddities and tears that I had painted to my face
I can see you in the mirror
Your breasts and eyes


Girl
Is that what you want girl?
You spoke to me so distantly,
The words
They hit me strangely.
What were you thinking that night?
As you painted me blue

I sat with u
Behind the window
That gave to us a world untouchable
Flecks that danced for us beyond its frame
And I would weep and scream for them
So we danced with them
Till our noses bled
And our eyes drained empty
Our bodies used thin
And I watch my mind stay trapped amongst a menagerie
That parades my peculiar stare.

Boy...
What were you thinking?
That night you touched me in the grass
And when night told me to love you
And my broach held my heart together

Oh boy
What were you thinking?
That night I let you lie to me
Stumbling through those streets
Those streets lit with movement
And the remains of stars that we poked out.

I sat with her
And laced together thoughts
Of an oceans that licked me clean
I told her
Take all of me.
And she did.



Jenna and Me are here
Getting High
Letting Our Brains Fry
We Will Write This Shit
Till The Sky Is Lit

But The Moon Has Promised Us It's Kiss
And We Ask For Nothing More.

THE STOOP.

We stood on a stoop
In the middle of city rain
To the sound of a delicate conscience
It was an ugly stoop
Romanticized by memory
But it held secrets of tears and lips and demur to our lust
Things that spoke too quietly.

Sometimes I miss that place so much
But shame keeps me from going back
It kept us young for as long as it could
But we ran and ran and ran
Until that sky line collapsed
And the face of that sky withered to a bore

So their was never a stoop that held our love!
And no rain that collected us in it's puddles
But wouldn't it have been lovely
If there was?

Today was her birthday
Somehow it couldn't find a place for me
So I told her I would run home again
And we could embrace the memories that lie and promise us everything
We once had.
But life pushes and pushes and pushes
Until there is nothing left to seek for
And we are left astray in our own life

This morning I woke up in London
And the memory kissed me goodbye on our stoop
And the city rain came
Collecting glamorously in dirty puddles
And I drove away from it all
In a taxi that promised me nothing
Except for loves that are long passe.


Happy Birthday.

Day:
Finished with science project at 5:30 am. No sleep.
Presented first.
Slept in nurses second period
Went to lunch and reviewed Ben's heroine experience
Went to fourth and drooled through AP euro exam. Little hope for success there.
Pummeled by dodgeballs in gym
Walked through cold to get to train station
Mentally preped brother for parental disappointment
Ax falls. Brother gets busted for pot. Ironically, title of blog acts as a major theme here.
Finally I go to bed.

....At least I can say that I looked fucking hot the entire day.

peace.

Well once upon a time in 1776 Thomas Jefferson signed his name on a piece of marijuana,
and this document was a symbol of freedom and of liberty,
at least for the rich, white, gentry.
And time marched along,
this plant that I referred to has been used for everything from medicine to the American flag.
And now it seems to me
that somewhere along the way things got messed up, yeah, messed up, for marijuana.

A gift of God to my brothers and me. Oh marijuana the government wants to test me when I pee!
-Phish

The mind is a powerful thing. For example, I am now steadily convincing myself that there is no science project to finish by tomorrow. And that I have no AP euro exam tomorrow as well. However to my grave disappointment, my denial is no match for this shrewd and slightly more tangible rubric that I have sitting in front of me. My desperation has become so great that I have even forgone all dignity and attempted to auction off the writing of my paper for 100 dollars and or sexual favors. There have been no bids. What irks me most of all is how I now find myself face to face with my fucking future; dreading how I'll end up a homeless, crack whore with 12 illegitimate children if I don't do this paper. Do you see the propaganda that's society has instilled upon me?! WE'VE ALL BEEN CONDITIONED SINCE BIRTH! MY ENTIRE FUTURE COMES DOWN TO THIS PAPER! I AM TOTALLY FUCKED. Wish me luck.

Peace.

p.s.
Thanks m.l.k. Whoa...All his initials are right next to each other on the keyboard.

Today I was especially proud of my boobs. While small, they do exude a certain amount of sex appeal. And this particular morning that appeal demanded that it be seen. So I abided. I thought what better way of obeying my boobs than revealing them in this amazingly skimpy sweater with nothing under it? How ever as I attempted to walk out the door, heading to the grocery store, The Mother stopped me. "Pearls before swine darling" she said. So I promised them stage time another day.
Shit I love Al Green. Ok, If you haven't guessed, I'm really stoned. Well actually....It's more than that. I got so hyped up on espresso today that I started to shake. So I thought "What better way to mellow out than smoke a fatty!". BIG MISTAKE!! Now I'm calling everyone in my phone book and no one wants to listen to me blabble on.....So that leaves you my dear blog. Man that's a real friend....Someone who will listen to my meaningless marijuana induced jargon. But no! My words are without home...Left to wander onto this embracing page.
I forgot to write on Friday The Thirteenth. It actually wasn't a bad one. Unlike most of them, usually ending in broken hearts, body dismemberment, killings, explosions, paper cuts, etc, this one, (while being WEIRD) was quite entertaining. There was that branch that mauled me through the bus window, but besides that things went pleasantly.

Holy shit. Al is FREAKING OUT. Man, he is God. Seriously. God was like..."I want to come to earth as a hip, soul filled, black dude and woo the hearts of woman until I'm old and ripe. Speaking of wooing the hearts of woman....I need some fucking ASS! .....Um time has passed since she wrote that last sentence and it is in Megan's better judgment that she decide to cancel all further comments on the subject. However on the subject of boys...Men. Whatever the fuck they are. Here's my dilemma:
I've got my heart broken once....Enough to know that that's ENOUGH
I've fooled around with enough guys to know that it doesn't satisfy anything but the momentary wet panties.
Iv fooled around with enough girls to know that I'm not a dike
I've caught enough guys to know that the chase isn't enough
I've used enough guys to know that it only leaves me empty.
.....So where does that leave me now?

All I know is that the one guy I actually like....I can't get. And my efforts at self preservation are failing miserably.
Wow this is totally killing my buzz.
MOVING ON.
Just so you know....I am going to be famous. I'm sure most of you know this...But for those of you who don't....Be enlightened. You probably should start talking to me and pretending to like me so that you can ride my coat tail to the top. I think I really fucked up that saying, but potato, potAto. I was gonna put this link in my profile so that actual people I know could read it. But after this I'm not sure. I mean, I don't have shit to hide. I am what I am. But I'd rather not have stuff going around about me. Like last year when I moved here there was this thing in me that trusted everyone. I thought that everyone could keep a secret and that they would never hurt me on purpose. They fucked me over so bad. And now I cant trust any one. Except for those cool blinky advertisements that pop up when I'm online. "Who's legs are these?! Guess and get a free ipod!!" I fall for those all the time.
Ok I'm starting to get really tired finally. And I just tweaked out at a girl who actually wanted to listen to this shit. So I'm gonna call her and tell her I love her.
By the way, I am now listening to "Mr. Bojangles". Life rocks when you're high on Mr Bojangles. Well, and weed...But that's beside the point.
So now my dear audience, I leave you with the greatest gift man can have: Poetry.
He said, "I dance now at every chance in honky tonks
for drinks and tips.
But most of the time I spend behind these county bars
I drinks a bit."
He shook his head, he shook his head, I heard someone ask him please,

Mister Bojangles, Mister Bojangles,
Mister Bojangles, dance.



Peace dudes. I'm Crashing. Like a car. An out of control car. SHUT UP MEG!

P.S.
If you're wondering why my spelling and grammer are semi-emaculate, it's because I spell check these bitches. I feel weird doing it for some reason. Like I'm trying to decieve you all. So I figured I'd just get it all out on the table. I am a spell checker. Except for this last bit here. Totally me. Thought I owed you at least this much.

I miss My blue house
The lilac bushes
Shoveling my driveway every weekend in the winter, (well...watching my brother shovel it every weekend)
Waking up to the sound of dirt bikes zooming past my window
The backside of the house that was always scheduled to get finished.... next summer.
Pine wood walls
Seeing Jenna walk up my driveway...rain or shine.
My pink bathtub
Getting wood from the garage
The front porch
Old potatoes under the sink
Sitting in Caites kitchen in the morning while her mom forced pancakes down our throat
The mouse that scratched in my ceiling
Colored leaf bouquets
Old grey radiators
The ocean.... not the shore!!
The doorknob that always fell off
The woodstove
Dad’s blue glass collection
The tire swing
The Peugeot
Towering snow banks

...oh the things we take for granted.



"It's where we came from, you know, and sometimes I just want to go back,
After a day, we drink 'til we're drowning, walk to the ocean, wade in with our workboots,
Wade in our workboots, try to finish the job.
You don't know how precious you are, I am the one who lives with the ocean.
You don't know how I am the one. You don't know how I am the one."

Ok fuck the latter. Here it is.

GIRL BENEATH THE CITY

I recall the smell of cigarettes and addiction
As night and day tangled into morning
Something organic to the light
The morning after, always honest

When I see you in your bed with her
Something searches what’s left
Composing a scrapbook self

But there was a night, boy

When you stood without a home
And we were left to kiss between the bars.
I was never one for ideals
So this doesn’t amount
But I’ll count the sex at your door
And the no utensil universe we created

Lust is just a trade of mine
As I walk the tight wire
Searching for that summer when the hippie blanket covered me.
And I could see her beneath the water.
My bare feet walking with her bare feet.
But time can change anything to love
So now I’ll remember the city as clear,
Because I know you don’t remember when it poured.

So there’s the somewhat jumbled emotional jargon that I promised not to subject you to.

PeAcE & gOoDnIgHt...GoOdMoRnInG*

My Bare Foot soul mate to the right ------>
i love you







^Eating thai in Vermont

"'If I wasn't real', said Alice, 'I shouldn't be able to cry.'"
-Lewis Carroll

This whole blogging instead of doing HW thing has got to stop. My grades are rly slipping. Actually...their done slipping. They’ve totally fallen on their ass. And I don’t rly care. Anyways, I'm feeling particularly distraught this evening. Waiting for something I shouldn’t be waiting for. So I am going to split before it comes out onto this page.

peace

AS THE MOON TOOK OUR PICTURES

Sometimes,
Her face would crinkle in the most bizarre way,
To eco beauty that seeped from tiny memories.
Memories found in nothing more tangible than a smell
Or a dream that left the mind moments after waking.
She takes the corkboard pictures and scribbled memoirs of a child
To form a life
That looks delightful through kaleidoscope lies.
I know yesterday caught us bare
On the nights that froze us in time,
Swinging beneath a moon that took our photographs

So certain things grow up around us
And we realize they've been there all along
But the choices I made collapse like light on the pavement
Making me wish for something more or something less
But left only with what is.

His emotions push and pull on me like the tides
And I search and search through the pain
As I remember her singing
"Things are gonna change my dear"

And I keep seeing us swing
Beneath the moon that kept us young
Living as legends had lived.

For now our past stares at us with blank eyes
As we are left to fill in the blanks of what the truth should have explained
But I was never one for truth was I?
And I could pretend that he wronged me
As I remember his "whatever" eyes
And how I filled them up to the sound of his voice
Making them what I wanted

So our lives begin to seem belittled by the compromises we embraced...
But the little street light out my window
Forever mimics the moon perfectly
So I take comfort in it's little lie
And as it flickers
I remember how I felt free in myself once

But his emotions push and pull on me like the tides
And I scream at him through my own broken motions
But all that remains are the things I let go of

Beneath the moon that saw me bare
I sit and cry
Asking for everything back.

.

When Do we lose the self respect we had as a child. Those morals we said we would hold onto forever. Is that what losing ur innocense is? when YOUR morals become the worlds morals. Why do we give up our self respect for lust? For sex. Can that ever be justified? Theses days I find myself searching for one little peice of honesty in myself. Not honesty like the opposite of a lie. But honesty as in truth, rawness, innocence. When were children our lives made up a puzzle. Each peice represents our values, morals, dreams, loves, exspiriances. As we grow up we constantly are breaking the puzzle and rebuilding it with different peices. But the goal in the end is to still have a few peices of the very first puzzle. A few pieces in the very center that we have always had and always will. I dont feel like i have that. I look for it, but its gone. Sometimes I find it though. In my room. Jeans and a tee shirt. No make up. I'll be writing and thinking, and suddenly everything comes back: how i love my family so much, how i love god, how i love peace and want to change the world. How i believe in my self and believe in love: True love. not lust, not one night stands. How i hate lieing, to my self and to my family and to my friends. I look in the miror and I'm so beautiful and its back; peices of my original puzzle. But it never stays. I miss megan.
peace.

and yes this is a fucking emotional blog! treat me like a fucking lepper!

Hey
Ok, so this is my first blog...I ran from them as long as I could but my deep seeded need for acceptance and conformity finally won over my better judgment. I'm not making any promises: the chance of me running back to my nerdy little journal is likely. There’s something really unsettling about posting your thoughts for everyone to see. It has to be fueled by something unhealthy like loneliness or vanity and need for attention. OR! There are always people like Roddy, (I know, what were they thinking? He is rather "rod like" in shape however) this slightly attractive dweeb I met who uses these things to "jump start" his acting "career" (pardon my excessive quotation use). Not that I'm dissing...cuz, well here I am. Just questioning the nature of our being. So anyways I can't promise raw, naked Roquell: emotionally exposed for the world to see. However I can promise to visit when I'm board and provide barely entertaining banter for those who care.

P.S.
To all those bastards who decided to create the SAT and to all those in favor of the beast, I say... FUCK YOU.

P.P.S.
obsessions a bitch