run away with me. take my hand and never let go. tell me all your thoughts about love. (story of a girl who can't tell her dreams from nightmares)

Thoughtlessness is a reflex. The knee-jerk reaction, the one you have a cast and a pile of pills for.

Concern is that small white bottle the one that says "Ehh take two or three." on the back. The one that might get rid of your headache, might not get rid of your heartache.

Your white lies are a ten car pile up in my mind. Tragic. All the steel, rubber, wheels and flesh contorts together, the cars all look the same.
Last chances fill the shelves in storage. I took inventory and lost track. 201, 202, 203... Should I stop counting first, or should you stop delivering?

You want gruesome. You want something raw. Something written here that you can chew up and spit back out. I'll try my hardest. I'll even throw you into the mix so you can whisper about it behind hands in the dark. You wish you could enter me into carfax.com and print out a list of problems. Proof that the battle of my concious and unconcious self has only resulted in a toxic and selfish hybrid of my thoughts. You want your name under the list of causes, right between self doubt and self righteousness. Don't waste your time I'll tell you straight out. You built the fence I'm on between sick and genius. Look at all the structural damage.

This was supposed to be a short one.
Just like how you weren't supposed to mess up this time.
ivegotmorewit

mad a(bou)t you

You are always asking me why. Here's your answer.
It's like when little kids are at the beach and they insist on digging a giant hole in the sand and try to fill it with water. They are yards away from the entire ocean they could be swimming in, but they always do it. Why? Because they can.

Sometimes I don't like to explain myself. Sometimes things just are. No rhyme or reason. There is not a lot I feel obliged to talk about. What I write may not be what you expect but give me a break. I'm like Bach except just another faceless, nameless person with the same psycho-emotional imbalances. He was a mad man. A piece of work or a work of art. You want answers, but this is all I have. You breath down my neck like a fucking ghost sometimes - you expect more than there is. Somethings go beyond these words, others don't but you pounce anyways, come up short. "Theres gotta be some medicine for your disease." Words flash black against white: DANGER DANGER. Flashes in your mind like morse code signals from a row boat in the dead sea, only nobodys looking.

You hear the best/worst things when they don't think you're listening. You go from talking about the songs you like to how one reminds you of me. (are those on the same list even?) Fucking lovely. Maybe I should just hold the backspace key down til this is nothing but blank and copy and paste some generic lyrics that sing you to sleep before you dream about me in here instead.

Sitting around, no work today
try pacing to keep awake
laying around, no school today
just drink until the clock has circled all the way
it is late afternoon
as you walk through the rooms
of a house that is quiet
except for unanswered telephones
you stand near the sink
while you're mixing a drink
you think you don't want to pass out
where your roommates will find you again
stumble around the neighborhood with nothing to do
you're always looking for something
to sniff, smoke, or swallow
calling over next door to see what they got
but you would settle for anything
that would make your brain slow down or stop
break this circle of thoughts you chase
before they catch back up with you
and your parents noticed your thinning face,
all the weight you lost
all the weight you are losing
you said, "i'm done feeling like a skeleton
no more sleep walking dead"
you're going to wake from this coma
you're going to crawl from this bed you have made
and stop counting on that camera
that hangs round your neck
because it won't ever remember
what you choose to forget
as you try to find some source of light
try to name one thing you like
you used to have such a longer list
and light you never had to look for it
but now it's so easy to second guess everything you do
until all you want is to finish this half empty glass
before the ice melts away
this feeling used to pass
but seems like it's every day and every night now

Can't stop itching these eyes. Just another bad habit I've gotta break.
Pupils dialated to kingsized whirlpools. Drop below sea level. Don't wanna see whats going on. Don't want to witness another public execution.

I'll get by on fake sleep for now.

It's 15 blinks past 4 don't you dare try to sleep.

Two birds are flying overhead (they're getting tired - just like me)

She waits. She waits a minute of hope and days of hopelessness. Sometimes she just waits, there is no greater insult. She sinks into her thoughts and tries to blot out the prison cell. If she's lucky, it dissolves and she can spend a half hour out in the open, beyond the doors and walls and hatred of herself. If she isn't lucky, her thoughts will poison her.

How long would he wait? He waited with months, days, minutes on his heavy head, and with the repetitive cycles of light and dark piled on top of the long and short pieces of time. He waited with boredom sticking its fingers down his throat. He waited for an unknown time, a time different from all the time on his head. It was unending, waiting for something that might never happen. Like in the winter - time fell like hissing snow through the crack in the windows, and it would never stop snowing. He stood in it as it piled up around him, and there was no end to the drowning.

"i dont mean to have you worried or troubled. its the last thing i want. never take anything i ever say too seriously. youd need a search party to track my moods."

I saved every note you ever wrote to me, so at the wrong time of year when I feel alone, I can know that I was loved.

Pennslyvania. I'm (im)pressed with days, hours, minutes, seconds.
"How time can move both fast and slow amazes me."
The skies are so open here.
It's whole layer of presssure being lifted from my shoulders.

Sometimes I'll take a picture of just you. I can look back and feel what it was like to have you, for you to have me.
Sometimes I'll take a picture of something else...with you off to the side. This reminds me that even when I'm focusing on something else, I will always have you. No matter what. "You can bet it all on that one." you said.

aesthetics, epistemology, ethics, logic, and metaphysics. (philosophy)

In italics means I wrote those words today. Otherwise I'm copying it from what I wrote in this originally.
Written on Tuesday, July 11th.
Six hour car ride to Pennslyvania.
Six strangers.
One is reading July, July. (about memory, hope, love, war)
Another in the front seat is falling asleep.
Two behind me are talking but I don't understand a word they're saying.
I guess you could say I'm falling apart to landscape views from the freeway.

I always find myself looking at the people in the cars passing by me. And a lot of those times I find myself thinking way too much or not enough. (Those two are always backwards.) I look through the glass and feel placed into their lives. Even if its for only a few seconds. I think. Are they married? Do they love live? Where are they going? Are they going somewhere, or leaving somewhere? Are they running away? Are they happy or sad? Are they talking into a cell phone or singing along to the radio? Are they thinking about someone they love? Do they miss someone? Are they hungry? Are they grieving a loss? Are they hopeless or senseless? Sometimes they'll look back. Should I smile? Or look away? Will a smile make their day? Or remind them of how unhappy they are? Do they ask their own questions? The answers to these questions wouldn't change a thing. The questions themselves are powerful enough to do the job. A conversation does not even exist but I've decided that it could change the(ir) world.

OAR comes through the speakers
Marc Roberge sings about home.
The driver sings along.
I wonder. Does she get it?
I write down "Home to me is reality and all I need is something real."
And only because I can't write anything without putting the word "You" into it: I'd say something like that to you, and you know its a lie...but it makes us both feel okay.

Breath taker, smile faker (That's you.)

I had this weird dream. There was a crowd of people in my house and one of them was you. (I told you it was a dream) I can't remember much. You're pretty forgettable. At the end we got into a fist fight in my basement. That was the only realistic part.
Back to my rambling.
Perfection is out there, somewhere. The game is to find it. Lives are just a video game for some other thing out there and so far I think we're losing. We're all in this together. The point of it all is just to save ourselves from ourselves. Everything we call tradgedies we've brought onto ourselves. Everyone says the end is near, I say it is only beginning. Somewhere those things are just watching us on a giant screen and they can't believe it. That how bad it is out here. You probably think this too but we don't dare speak of it. You've got more life in one little finger than in my whole body. Scientists won't believe this but they've pronounced me dead for over a year. Sometimes half a life isn't enough. (8/16 is pretty lousy rap sheet) May we follow wherever The Adventure leads.

I’ve got disappearing down to a science.

fabricate; to make something up with an intent to deceive, to make up something artificial or untrue. (note: webster doesn't lie)

its 2 am and your mouth is just a factory for lies. it sets the stage between your heart and my ears. your workers were paid actors, the strike was only beginning. you're taking their money, hurry quick destroy all the files and you're a free man. too late, they're all gone, and you can't act to save your life. nobodys buying. the products "came out all wrong". except lies and names weren't the only thing that slipped. you got lost in the mess and you're fucking caught.

consider me out of (y)our life.

i'm not talking planets or galaxies (i'm talking stars)

i see your ugly eyes and big heart on the tv screen and i don't know what to think. there's something captivating about your awkward phases. your slurred speech is a train wreck in slow motion and i'm addicted to the scene. we may miss a few stop signs but the destination will always outlive the traffic ticket in the mailbox. bad habits will meet us across the street from your parents house where we both fall apart.

we are the cliché about stars and destiny.

“Here's to the kids who have ever had a broken heart...from someone who didn't even know they existed.”