Dreamweaver

I'm really rattled up about this. I've never felt so out of hand with myself. I guess making a joke of it makes the impossibility more acceptable. Makes being so close but so far away so much easier to stomach. I feel like I'm making a mess of what could potentially be the greatest thing that ever happened to me. I somehow feel hopeful for the first time since I can remember. I think the world is just too critical and stuck in their heads that they don't know what passion is anymore. Society tends to put everything in too narrow a perspective for people to truly live by. It's about empathy, not morality. I would kill to live in a world which accepts peoples choices, sans judgment and unprecedented punishment. Alas, it's the 21st century. Wake the fuck up.

Laconism

The birds whisper in the wind and I feel nothing. Not the wind or the snap of fallen branches. Not even the unsteady beat of my own heart; the single physicality that always woke me from my sleep. The days fall backwards, as though silence were the only earnest way to distinct one from the next, and some don't seem to move at all. The taunting laughter in the distance makes me comfortless, a feeble stone tossed among the trees that never grow. But I am not small, my veins still ripe with overgrown bravery, head full of lucrative potential. Scorn from what I can only reason as arbitrary dogma. The line has blurred where loneliness began and emptiness remained. I have grown too proud to turn to God, ineligible for his sustenance, too distant for amendment.

Grow up, Blow away.

Please just decide how this is going to end

so I can stop waiting for it to begin.

Come Down Now

It was a love I created wholly and entirely in my head. It could have been real at some point, it felt very real. I'm still stomaching the fact that almost five of the most essential years of my romantic life were spent subconsciously needing him. He was the one thing that insisted on healing the wounds he continually created. My anchor represents those scars, the ones he pulled open, the ones I picked. The details are endless, and everything I have of him is tucked neatly in letters and hard drives, nothing I can or plan to throw away. The pack rat excuse has gotten me nowhere. At this point I'm not waiting, just holding on. Grasping so tightly to an aesthetic, a fairytale sentiment. I know it isn't real, but it's like there is a part of me that will always have some undying hope that it was - that nothing will compare to how unconditional it felt. But we made it up, wrapped it in lyrics, and pretended with every solitary inch of naivety we had left. "Everything looks perfect from far away". We were so far away.

The Waiting Line

Why can't you let me leave your life? Why have you prolonged this wait? Do you know that it leads to nowhere? Have you always known? How does "us" still possibly exist? After everything? Why do you expect me to watch as you give them the whims you etched in me? Am I only just in case? Did your love slowly fade? Do you miss me when the ocean hits your eyes? Do you know how much I miss you when I'm trapped beneath the skyline? Will you ever set me free? Do you think about how young we must have been? How naive? Do I get to keep your name? Whose smile is backstage? Who stands in line? Where do we go from here? Who gets left behind? Can it not be me this time?

Leo

Somewhere minutes away there is a meteor shower,
Jupiter fragments. I wonder how his hair would smell,
when his ocean eyes would crash right through me. The tickle of peaceful breathing, popcorn ceilings. Minutes away, the sky is falling.

At the bottom

The stagnation of each day is something I have grown used to, the dullness that has virtually entangled itself into the core of my soul. I miss how delicate I once was, how charming reassurances swept me off my feet. Am I truly bored with all and everything? Or is it something more unsound? If there were any real reasons to put faith in, I would give them to him. Being hurt meant being loved, and the downfall meant there was something to dwindle from. I am stuck in this place where existence is indolent, life is tedious at best. There is no way of pinpointing when the goosebumps left my skin, when all of life's aesthetic value became tarnished. My books don't read the same, my mind does not wander to any solitary place. The muses get by through slips of memory, souvenirs of my sentiment. I could be doing and feeling so much more than this, not wasting away in the aftermath of surrender. At the very least I can admit to that - I wholeheartedly gave up. I am lingering between having learned a lifetime of lessons and finding the means to use them. The past is my southern comfort, it is blinding and hopeful. Yet it makes no exception to the things I have become introspectively isolated from. I miss the tragic, naive, bittersweet, trusting, unusual, ignorant, sincere shell of a girl that needed nothing more than a notebook and well-grounded hope. Why has she gone where I cannot follow?