Saturday, December 25, 2010

Whatever you say.

The great composers, naked
A lineup of mug shots
Exposed for Sir Death to stare at
Their pride tacked to the gates of hell
Their testimonies lie
The truth is,
Half of them hanged themselves.
And the other half were driven to insanity,
And stoned by the citizens
It's a revolutionary world, sons
The blue turns on red
But nothing. ever. turns. purple.
Nothing. ever. changes.
And if everyone had a choice between death
And their prides tacked to hell's gates,
They'd choose death,
So they can go Down Under, if only to reclaim their prides before they burn
The world is a hole
Death is the bottom
You'd best have a parachute
And a million dollars' worth of goats and chickens for the poor won't get you out alive,
No.
But I've heard if you strip yourself?
It's a better ride
And a softer landing?

In which I hate P.E.

Back in the day when I actually went to school, and I therefore pulled myself through P.E. at somewhere around 200 pounds, our gym teacher told us that physical fitness was all about lung capacity. That's not true, though, because I played the tuba, but I couldn't run a mile under 16 minutes.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Day time.

My mind is dry.
I just have to say, my life is about to get incredibly busy, perhaps only for a while, depending on whether or not I quit what little "school" I'm involved in.
And I'm scared.
But I feel like all that's happened was really meant to happen, and these opportunities are God's good and perfect will for me.
I enjoy keeping busy, but in this season of life, I feel the need for a substantial amount of "me time".

Also, I think I was demon-possessed the other night. But somehow, it's not that big of a deal, maybe because I haven't thought about it much. Because when I think about it too hard, I get really scared, but I know that I don't need to be afraid. Jesus is stronger.
I think I sort of dissociated it, because I didn't want to be so terrified of it.
My mind holds too many "becauses".

I wish that when I typed harder, it would somehow show up, so that when I typed I hate being fat, you wouldn't think I was bitchy and self-centered, but rather just a troubled child with a messed-up mind.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Paul Harvey and Fritos.

I'm doing much better. But there are so many moments I feel like I'm losing control, and have to go back over the day's calories, just to make sure the number is still in my head.
Just to make sure I haven't forgotten.
And I can try to drive the monsters away with truth, but sometimes it doesn't work, which doesn't make sense, because I know the truth is stronger.
I still don't really regret anything.

Oh, yes?

The funny thing is, at 11:30, "sweet baby boy" decided he would leave home.
My mom is on the phone with the police.

Friday, December 17, 2010

don'tthinkjustdoit.

Yeah, cinnamon burns
But it really hurts
When he doesn't learn
What the difference is
Between black and white
Length and height
It'd probably be useful information, because all he tells is
Tall tales
Big sails
That took him places
He wasn't supposed to go
Mama, we're out of thyme.
Because the moment he took the word "bitch"
And used it on you,
He decided he was grown up
And I've been sewn up
About a million times
But every time
He drops
I get ripped right open again
Not because he is the mascot of a donkey's rectum
(Ass. Hole.)
But because he
Never stops
We tell him every time,
Honey, that's not allowed here
But if I hade a dime
For every "fuck" his lips have ever formed,
I'd be swimming in money
And dripping with honey,
Sweet
Baby boy
Won't you come home

Thursday, December 16, 2010

Now.

If we were bluebirds flying.
If we were to fly away.
I wouldn't care about tomorrow.
I'd just speak to today.
Melancholy, tomfoolery, and
sweet, sweet joy.
I'd be happy to cry.
There's a mouth waiting
For a smile to employ,
And when we were destroying,
I was a little bit afraid
I wasn't part of me, but
Something, somehow made
Everything change
And now I'm a cloth doll
Bendable
But indestructable
To hold when you're alone
So if I'm the only thing you own,
It's worth holding on.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Westside.

All he wants is
Drugs, sex, rock n' roll
We just want him
To grow up nice
Be loved, loved
And love, love
The right people
Don't trash the steeple
There's a road under your feet
And it isn't until you've walked a long time
You appreciate your shoes
But him? No.
He's been in flip-flops from the beginning
And he will be until the end
And that callous has grown
Between his two first toes

Saturday, December 11, 2010

I am crinkly wrappers.

"I dreamt of cats all over my room, pawing me lovingly, licking me with their rough tongues, tickling my nose with their whiskers. And then, all at once, with the sigh of a far-off symphony, they all dropped dead. I had to bury them all in Jackie’s backyard. She wasn’t home, so I borrowed her orange shovel and dug until there were blisters on my hands, and then dug some more until there was no skin left, just bleeding flesh, raw like a tongue. I dumped all the cats in the big hole, and covered it back up. Immediately, a garden of red roses grew over it, spiny vines tangling themselves above the dirt. It looked so dry. I watered them, but they never turned moist and healthy, so I left the hose on, and eventually, the dead cats floated to the surface. I was so afraid of Jackie, I ran home, leaving the cats floating, to rot under the rosebushes. Jackie called the police. They came and drove me to Jackie’s house, where I was told I had to collect seven cat ears, fry them in Tabasco, and consume them as punishment. As I pulled the rotting ears off, feeling the furry skin tear under my fingers in a disgusting sort of vibration, I woke up."

See, this is what I write.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Murder.

It's still hard to know what to do on the good days.
But then I see people who function in this world, and maybe they have a hard time, but they can just be, and be themselves.
I wish I could be like them.
Everything makes me so weary.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Alligator.

Crumple paper
Love notes
Because the author
Is your mother
Dirty, sick, ugly, fat
Besides, you've got another
But you hate her too
'Cause she left you
And now you're stuck with this
So no touch, no feel
Unless we fight
No love, no hug, no kiss
Fires burn brightly
The heart of the matter
Is you're an asshole,
She's a bitch,
And I'm the mad hatter
Ha. Ha. Ha.

P.S. I'm just a decent person with a horrible heart right now. Let me rant.

Monday, December 6, 2010

Purple elephant.

Little things
Mess, mess
My mind
I confess
I don't know why
I don't know how
And if I did?
I wouldn't never.
Jailbreakers
Break me
Candlemakers
Make me
Fever-fakers
Fake me
I am an itsy bitsy spider
Crawl up your big oak tree
Tear off all your bark
And let you bleed to death
I am a quiet
A quiet love
And I'm not exactly sure
What I'm capable of
But I know you
I know you.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Dumdumdum.

The more you inquire of her, the more she'll inquire of you. So how do you heal?



All things blue
And beautiful
All creatures
After the Fall
Every time you
Touch me
I feel like a doll
Raggedy Ann
My best friend
And I am a monster
I am a monster
I am a monster
Andthe grass grows
When the sun beats on it
And the rain makes it soggy
And the dirt lies on top of it
But little hands can pull it from the ground
Weak fingers break
How?
Cells
I have a disease
And it's not contagious
But it never goes away
So stay away
Stay away
I am a monster
I am a monster
I am a monster

Friday, December 3, 2010

Downt think I dont no whutcher doeeeng. I nooooo yuuuu, yu liddle thinG.

Socks.

Lava flows
Like red roses
Beating drums
Pockets full of posy
Spin, spin
Get in
Run to where
The road begins
And there
Lies the graves of rainclouds
The great composers
And Houdini
So it must be like Alcatraz
Because he hasn't escaped
Go, go, go
Fly like paper
Airplanes, fly
Fly like birds
Jay jay jet plane
Scoop them up and rain
Rain bird
Feathers, blood
Fuck you
And try to change
Change, change me
Cash, cash, me
Credit, no
Debit, yeah
It comes from the same place
You and your pockets
Save face
You're a disgrace
So go, go, go
I hate you
Like nothing
Like nothing
Only because you think I do
No, I really love you
I just hate the things you do,
Like paper planes flying
Can't control where they land
And I'm trying
To hold you in the palm of my hand
I'm trying, I'm trying
The best that I can.
No. No. No.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Some things.

Your uterus of origin has nothing to do with your family.
If we aren't your 'real family', what are we? Your fake family?
Sweet.
When do I wake up?

Oh, P.S., you can start telling the truth now. I don't know what you are.
KTHXBAI

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

By the way.

Joan of Arc and I are on good terms again. Very good terms. There was a puddle of confusion between us, but nothing we can't jump over.
John Smith has been in a strange mood this week. We've been wrestling like we used to.
But he still does the same things.
Always the same.

Caverns. (Don't skip this post just 'cause it's "religious".)

There is this presence inside of me that needs to be filled all the time. And I fill it as well as I can, but if I have to do anything at the same time, it's very draining. If I am with someone, giving myself to them, I cannot be inside myself simultaneously.
I think it's a job for Jesus. I need to let Jesus occupy that space.
But I get scared to let Jesus inside that space, because I'm not sure what He'll do, and I'm afraid of what He'll do. And I think it's because I don't know Him very well.
It's hard to explain.
You can't govern yourself. And maybe that's a reason people seem to be afraid to believe in God. Because human nature wants what human nature wants, and everything these days is all about finding yourself. Maybe it should be about finding Jesus, though, because He's the one who needs to occupy that space, that space everyone means when they talk about "finding yourself". And then it sounds like you're chained to someone, like you're trapped in this box.
But that's not true.
Because you're the box.

P.S. I'm sorry if you've ever met a... "Christian".

Monday, November 29, 2010

Occasions.

The earth on your hands reminds you
Ashes to ashes
And dust to dust
Inhale
Scabby knees ground into soil
Kneel at the grave
And her hands reach
Reach from the ground and claw
She refuses to push up daisies
Now the earth in your throat reminds you
She won't go until you do
Exhale

Friday, November 26, 2010

Gnome with a G

What about the bad days? What am I supposed to do then? Lord give me strength.

Well.

I hate it when people say "life isn't fair". Because it's true, life isn't fair, but if the rich man steals the poor man's cow and the poor man complains, can the rich man turn around and say, "Hey, buddy, life isn't fair." and be off with himself and his stolen cow? No. I'm pretty sure the poor man has the right to inflict bodily harm on the rich man.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

I'm waiting.

Too many thanks and never any pleases, because...well, I don't know. We never asked for anything.

I didn't ask for you.

I appreciate you, but I'm not sure whether to love you for what you've done or hate you for what you did. The thing is, I do both, and it's confusing, and now I'm scared because I don't know how to love you when I hate you. It's just impossible.

I wish I could feel more today. It's all going to come crashing down anyways.



It's snowing. I'm thankful for that. But I can't help looking at the forecast and seeing it's supposed to rain tomorrow. The sky tears will wash the white away, and everything will feel strange, because your wonderland will disappear.

Maybe I'm just a pessimist.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

I think so.

I'd share with you the words I've made up, but I'm afraid you'd steal them.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, just so you know.
I'm scared.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Spice Candles

I'm scared.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Neopolitan.

There are no synonyms for 'feel'.

Apostrophes in your emoticons.

Every hearbeat feels like I'm bouncing on a drum, slow motion.
My head hurts in my stomach.
I'm braced.
It all feels like I want to push the life out of me. Like I want to hold my breath, and somehow, my soul will slip from my pores, and I can still be alive but I don't have to be awake.
Things move.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

Hum.

H is a nothing letter.
French is spoken in France.
Numbers are beautiful.
I'mbeautifulI'mbeautifulI'mbeautifulI'mbeautiful.
She's coming, but she's never coming back.
You're beautiful.
You're bad, you and you and you and you.
I'm bad especially, because I created you and I live inside of you and we've been married in all ways but one.
Hummmm, feel it in your nose, now plug your nose, and it's gone.
Everything is gone. Nothing is here.
I need a vacation, like a nuthouse vacation, and I'm not talking about the grill. No, I need the cheesy sort of stuff like group therapy and restrictions on sharps and "Hi my name is...".
Hi my name is Sara. I'm trying to develop a "fuck you" attitude, but it really only works on the outside. Everything you say (can and will be used against you in the court of law...) will be analyzed. Like I said, it only works on the outside.
Hummmmmm, feel it in your nose, now plug your nose, and it's gone.
Everything is gone. Nothing is here. Nothing ever was here, and I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't i don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't know.
And no, I didn't copy and paste those I don'ts. They're real. It's therapeutic. Try it. I think I'll go open a Word document.

Friday, November 19, 2010

Eeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Anxiety sounds like your ears are ringing.

Hey, look at me, I'm anxious.
Smilesmilesmilesmilesmile.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

We've got some things to learn.

I never forgot how devoted the disease was, because I'm here and so is it. Still. I just forgot that people like this existed. People so fucking selfish, they can't keep themselves inside their own minds.
Okay, so I'm a hypocrite.
But I don't tell the whole cyber world that I ate x calories today and weigh 32 pounds, but my goal is 20. There are other people who suffer the disease, you know, and I get it - you're thinking just don't read it then, fool but that's wrong. For vulnerable people, the disease is contagious.
Really. "Be thinspired"? I think I can legitimately say fuck it.

Philippins 4:8 Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable-if anything is excellent or praiseworthy-think about such things.

The disease only thinks it's praiseworthy. Don't do this. Don't indulge yourself in public.

P.S. I know, I don't have the right to call anyone out. You have permission to call me on Matthew 7:3.
This is just venting.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

I almost forgot.

The leaves are tree vomit potpourri.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Location:

I live in stomach aches, not the kind you get when you eat too much, but the kind you get when you really don't want something to happen.
I live underneath the table, not because it's fun to hide there, but because you will inevitably hit your head on some sharp jag.
I live in the digital world, where everything smells sterile and is uncomfortably cold.
I live in shoes with velcro, not laces.
I live in the ugly kinds of gift bags.

Define "good", and I will give it to you.

Dammit.

Apparently Joan of Arc and her army are joining us for Thanksgiving dinner.
Dammitdammitdammitdammit.
I can't do this.
I need helphelphelphelpme.
Please.

'Crass' is one of my favorite words. It's delivered awkwardly from the back of your throat.

Sometimes I think that maybe I don't particularly like being "conventionally" happy because I don't know what to do with happiness.
I mean, you don't come across many self-help books like "What to do With Happiness" or "How to Deal with Your Happy Teen", because apparently joy is a great thing. A normal thing. People get depression, and it's a disease, but happiness? Happiness is just an instinctively desired condition, a sign of health.
But I'm so accustomed to functioning on a brain washed in shades of blue and red and all the purples in between, that the warm colors are just awkward and exposing.
And somehow I don't think that's a sin. Maybe it's just me.
I can be in the blues and reds and purples, and rest in the greens and browns, but I don't have to climb up to the oranges and yellows to be a healthy human being.
I don't have to be a person. I can be feelings.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

But

I belong in a mental ward, where everyone is sane.
If I told you I was fat, you'd peg me for the blonde bitch who gives a fuck about what she looks like.
The truth is, it's just a feeling. It's just a feeling.

Beer.

Today I'm sick and I can't feel anything and I don't know why.

I hate the sound of.
Ice being scooped into a plastic pitcher.
My dog barking.
The microwave that beeps until you open it.
A baby waking up.
The printer.
Venetian blinds buzzing with the wind blowing through them.
People breathing, unless they're sleeping.
Stacking steel chairs.
People saying "um" when they're reading something.
A bad phone connection.
Crowds cheering.
People choking.

I love the sound of.
Babies snoring.
The first violin tuning the orchestra.
Cash registers that click and ding.
The wind.
Rain on the window.
Rain on a tin roof.
Chalk rubbing on a chalkboard.
People rambling.
The spatula scraping against the cookie sheet.
Shifting gears in a manual.
School buses and garbage trucks.
Weighted piano keys hitting that thing they sit on top of.
Sneezing.
Weird laughs.
Scissors snipping.

Monday, November 8, 2010

The kind of kin.

Today Mom yelled at John Smith.
Today John Smith yelled at Mom.
Today John Smith slammed his bedroom door.
Today I texted John Smith and told him that we loved him.
John Smith told me to burn in hell.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Look at me.

I figured some stuff out.

Like, the treetops don't have roots of their own.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Hey.

Does anybody read this?

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

What?

There are some people you can't hate. Like Jesus, for example.
People who've contributed so much good, it's impossible to even consider disliking them.
It doesn't even matter if they've hurt you. Churned your insides into an unrecognizable mishmash. Mishmashmishmashmishmash.
I can't talk to you whywhywhywhy. What?
I'm talking to you, Joan of Arc.
You took the guns away, but you replaced them with knives, and I think it's worse this way because I can feel it but I can't banish it, and I've lost the strength and stamina to keep masking it and I hate you hate you hate you but I can't because you're too good too wise
too too wise
and the stars in the sky
screeeeeam at me
aren't we beautiful?
and I'd say you were
but it's too sad why?
you're sad sad sad
and that feeling in my throat
that I need to cry
never goes away
but I can't.
I can't.
the salt in my tears would burn my face,
acid streams eroding flesh, I can't.
And I want to say "fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you" but you're too perfect to be condemned.
Anyways, I bet Jesus told you to leave me, huh?

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Smidgen.

An acquaintance's status: "Taylor Swift performing, lots of stars, and Bristol rockin the cha cha! dear lord, please don't let me fall in my 6 inch heels in front of Kurt Warner"

Everyone comments saying they saw her on TV.
You know, all I can think is "Why the fuck would somebody wear six-inch heels, and who the hell is Kurt Warner?"

Saturday, October 30, 2010

Unfinished.

South Park Street
Give me the word
Did you straighten me out
So I could carry the world?

Dear Joan of Arc,
I thought you might near perfection?
Well, you missed it.
By a lot.
But keep trying. Just not on me, or anyone else.
Love and Rage,
Your Project.

Friday, October 29, 2010

It's all.

Six billion people. Six billion lives. All ridden with fucked up notions: There is no God. There is one God. I. Am. God.
And everything is built into us so concretely that if you dare to try and show me something different, red hot anger flows, all I have is contempt for you.
Then someone has an epiphany:
You can have your own opinion.
Congratulations.
Please pick up your chair and relocate to the other side of the classroom so we may continue our debate.
Susie, please stop showing us your middle finger.
John Smith is the rapist.
Gotta have charm to be such a flat-chested woman.
John Smith plays the guitar.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Ridiculous.

Everything is ridiculous.
Have you ever felt so incredibly dejected that your stomach hurt? Or you couldn't breathe? Or every heartbeat had to have a will from God, because it wasn't you pumping blood through your own body? Have you ever discerned the difference between pain as a release and pain as means to an end?
Everything is ridiculous.
And then I/you feel guilty, because everyone is scolding each other for being selfish or ungrateful. There are starving children all over the world. Look at that homeless guy. He's smiling. And all you can do is think about how messed up you are?
Well,
1. Isn't the status of any situation relative? If you wear the same outfit to town every single day, you're either a) poor b) depressed c) really freaking weird. But if you wear the same clothes to bed every night, does that make you poor, depressed, or somehow socially abnormal?
You see?
Maybe I'm just trying to redeem myself.
Anyways,
2. That homeless guy is just fucking crazy.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

deerdeardarerearedeared

Dear hero,

I'm completely fucked up again. And this time, when you aren't there, I won't care.

Love,
Me.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

No.

John Smith stole Mom's phone again.

Friday, October 22, 2010

Oh, people.

Every era of your life is partially molded by people.

Your happy era. Your sad era. Your fat era.

And then there are subdivisions. The years in your eras. Your ballerina year. Your telivision year. Your romantic year.

Some have very concrete eras they store in their memories. I don't. Mine are just sensations. Smells.

There's this feeling you get in your eyelids when you come across someone from your previous eras, your previous years.

That old man has gotten older. The little girl you used to babysit is in seventh grade now. You were in seventh grade a few years ago. Those two are dating now.

You have to look at everything, everyone, and try to telepathically communicate to them the things you'd have done differently.

To the old man; your kids are fine. They're fine.

To the little girl you used to babysit; don't shop at American Eagle, and don't look at the Victoria's Secret models.

To the couple; don't do this to yourself. You have years to go. Everyone says that, IknowIknowIknow. But once you realize you don't want this, you'll have ridden that roller coaster for too long, and the operator won't stop because he's a mean carnie.

To the pair of sisters you went to church with; you are so. beautiful.

To your old doctor; I hate you.

To your second grade teachers; second grade. Second grade. Second grade. Oh, second grade.

To your old psychiatrist; thanks, but what the hell were you trying to do?

To your ex-romance; I'm so sorry. But please. Get straightened out.

And then there's you. Those people look at you, and some of them don't remember who you are, some of them don't recognize you. But the people who recognize you are terrified of you.

What happened to you? What. the. hell. happened to you? Who are you? I thought you were dead. I thought you killed yourself. Aren't you supposed to be in your room crying? I heard about you. My mom said you were ill. My friend said you went crazy.

You're like a legend. Neither good nor bad. Like the white haired lady who sits on her porch and eats canned peaches straight out of the jar all day. Legendary.

I dare you to bring her a can of maraschinos.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Bag ladies.

7:50. Every morning. We pass this lady walking counter-clockwise around the roundabout on her way to the bus stop. Short, round, greasy hair, glasses, waddles a little, dark blue jacket. I think she's mentally retarded. "Challenged", if you insist on being politically correct. She carries this turquoise bag. Every morning. Glasses, turquoise bag. Dark blue jacket, turquoise bag. Waddle, turquoise bag. Swinging as she makes her way toward that green pole with the bus picture on it.
Yesterday she wasn't carrying her turquoise bag. She was carrying, instead, a brown floral-print bag.
And somehow, it made her look less retarded. Less retarded, more like an old, single cat lady.
I'm going to grow up to be an old, single cat lady. And, fuck you, I'm going to carry a turquoise bag on my way to the bus stop.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Us.

We are always the same person.

You can change. Starve yourself. Stuff yourself. Be happier. Be sadder. Hate somebody. Love somebody. Suck up to somebody. Purposefully piss somebody off. Turn girly. Turn boy-ish. Be an extrovert. Be an introvert. Feel alive. Attempt suicide. Procrastinate. Over-achieve. Lead. Follow.
No matter how unstable we are in ourselves. There is always some element of me that is the same. You are always you. It's hard to grasp that element, when there's nothing to describe it, because you're finding yourself or you have no idea who you are, or whatever lookI'mdepressedandangstangstangst story you have, but there's always something. Like a flavor. You can be a flavored anything, but you're flavored.
Flavorflavorflavorflavorflavor.

Hello, I'm Sara-flavored.

Monday, October 18, 2010

My friend.

A few days ago, I was watching this You Tube video about a young woman who'd lost 100 pounds. She did all these happy commemorating things, like blowing up 100 balloons, and holding 100 pounds of dumbells, and she was so proud of herself.
Sometimes I wish it could've been like that for me. Happy. Proud. Accomplished.
But most of the time, I don't regret a thing. Not. A. Thing.
That is so cruel of me.
I'm sorry.

Friday, October 15, 2010

Um? (Don't read this, it's political)

I hate politics.
Or maybe I'm just ignorant. I'm only sixteen. I don't need to worry about politics. I'm not of voting age, and those "tea parties" and political rallies? Yeah, you're kind of pointless. All those things do is make the opposite parties hate you even more.
Anyways, I'm just confused:
1. So. A lot of the liberals are vegetarian/vegan. I'm not trying to stereotype, I'm just sayin'. That's great. But they're also pro-abortion? How can you kill babies and not animals? I don't understand all their radical ideas about life and aliveness and... living stuff, when they're all for the death of fetuses. Woohoo for women's rights and all, but... use a condom?

2. Conservatives. My brother brought this issue to my attention. They're all for separation between church and state. But taking God's name off the coin? Totally scandalous. Why would we do that?

Those are the two on my mind at the moment.
I'm not saying these questions are rhetorical. Maybe these are stupid questions you have positive answers for. It's just that everyone has a different answer, and everyone is positive that their answer is right. The liberals are stupid hippies with riciculous ideas. The conservatives are pig-headed idiots who have no idea what they're talking about.
Not all roads lead to heaven. But why can't we be friends?

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Five Dead Poets.

Things that keep me going:
The laughter I share with new friends at school.
The shining people at youth group.
Playing flute in the dark.
Playing loud chords on the piano.
Sad music in my bed at night.
Baking new things like French meringues.
Spinning circles with my hoop.
The humming of the heater as the wind blows outside.
The pittering of the rain when it hits the kitchen skylight.
The poetry I can catch that flows from my hands.

There must be something ahead of me.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Sometimes I have to remind myself that this is for me. Not you.

I love writing letters, but I hate being unable to bring myself to send them.