“you won’t see my hands in places they shouldn’t; nor my luck spreading off the mattress on my floor; there will not be nights of dancing and excluding the only thoughts that are worth thinking. that idea is impossible.”
Standing alone and off course for the evening; i’m more aware of the story rather then the cold. It’s the kind of night where everything is so worn you cold feel everything from disapointment to charm right back to disgust all in an hour; all at one time.
I laid in bed next too you last night, all night, thinking of ways feel better; feel sane. Turning away; my back towards yours, i couldn’t help but feel as if i was alone in bed. Sheets, pillows, and me; i’m lost.
As a boy i thought of courtrooms and islands. I figured that maybe i’d be the type of man my mother told everyone i would become. Somewhat tall; somewhat handsome. I imagined my twenties to be more exciting;
Before i die though i do hope to rewrite them. I know they’ve just started; i’m aware of the percentage of loss and gain; the thing is though….i’m starting to question if you even want to know my name.
My questions are always off cue; always ahead of their time. I truly wish i could sit among these reruns in my new sweater and my new “dreams” and just be. I want to just be. Before that i’m sure i’ll have to overcome my past. Not the tell all story of last year; but the agonizing defeat of myself. I’m not perfect; not normal; not who i am. I want to be a writer. I want to sit around and just think about the world and not comment upon it; just look at it from my light….from my
Sit and look long upon it and write what i see; what i feel. Write around the lonely nature i’ve been apart of for sooo long; around the undignified identity i’ve now grown accustomed to. To sit around and not worry about smiling all the fucking time; that would be heaven. The thing about me that is so disapointing is that i’m a whiner. I’m a little boy; in little clothes; in a big fucked up world.
I think i might be in trouble
I seem to spend the mornings without anything to the left or right of me.
It’s simply myself in a sad; cold; badly lit room that my brother sleeps in
and i come to escape in. Me and him are pilots who neither fly or own planes.
If you could explain to me once more the irony in that statement i’d be able to get dressed to work and actually attempt to make it on time. I believe that it’s silly to do what it is i’ve been doing for the past couple hours. I’m shirtless and bronzed; waiting for a knock on the door to say that everything that happened the night before…
was just a tiny chip in our birdhouse.
I guess i’ll head out and walk around it till nine.
I begin to hope that maybe florida will go down one day. Further south or under the sea i’m not really a picky sort of boy; all i need is for
everything or anything to go away.
I need snow. I need may. I need to feel that everything i write about will actually be said.
Do you ever look behind you while your driving instead of straight ahead?
Something tells me that if i take my eyes away from the rear of me too long i’ll miss something. I mean who’s to say that the mile back you just passed is the past? It’s simply a place you rushed through on the way to do whatever it is god told you to do. Tell me what to do!
I wish i stayed up all night talking to you.
i have your mask so that i can honor you when i feel afraid.
the world has turned to hell while you’re in heaven and i ask god how it is you’re doing in such a place; but you know him - he never answers.
the ghosts walk out into the open now and the thieves blend in with priests and our friends; so you can imagine how wide i keep my eyes open since you’ve been gone.*
I stare at my ruined skin and pray it will stay this way; i pray that everything will stay this way until i die. you see the hero left this world and while i wait for the villains to come and demand my head in their hands, all i do is spend this money and drink everything it is that i can.
As i skip over the clorox and chamomile tea he’d always suggest i drink; i think to myself, “who the fuck do i have to turn to?” the eyes of these people stare right at me and act as if they know how to care; but like monsters - they have their own life to battle. i have my chainsaw and my helmet we made;
i just don’t have the soul that’s needed to fight.
i order these men to touch me; you know, so that i can feel alive. the boundaries are always crossed, but i think thats the magic of being permitted to stay alive when you’re dead - everything’s evil and empty. lucky stars don’t exist anymore, neither do words like “we” and “ours.”
the terrain is rough and unkind, it mocks me and mimics my heart. As i look around; i see nothing - i feel not one thing.
you see the mother i always talked about has more important things to handle then her wounded solider - but silly me to think that this (I) am important enough. What not one single person realizes is that i do very much wish to die though the gypsy woman told me that if i did it myself i wouldn’t be able to ever see him again - so that’s my dilemma. so now i must find away for someone else to kill me.
something new is always nice