live. love. lie.

best night i've had in a long time.
the night i didn't have to worry about a thing.
and now?
all of the smart one who don't know shit would think i'm in a fantastic mood.
still.
no.
i'm sitting here, holding back burning tears, wanting something else.
and no, it's not whom i was with last night.
either go to pt, or stay home for college.
my life is already bunches of doctors' appointments every week.
and now i have three more a week.
and after yesterday's i feel like shit.
i can't do this anymore.
i told them all that.
but, of course, who would listen to me?

starbucks at hayes and hall has become my haven. i can read, write, and people watch without getting nary an eye condemning the way i am (or the world). he takes my order, nearly knows it by memory, though not heart, and makes meaningful, or un-, small talk to pass the time it takes to make a venti soy latte. i pick it up and take a seat, somewhat by the door. it is a small table, supposed to seat two, but usually has anywhere from four to six chairs encompassing it. i take out the current read, a hypoctitical notebook, and pen, and let my imagination drift to far away lands. the aroma of coffee and espresso fills my soul with peace and i write like never before.
an excerpt:
"Conor Oberst had it right - I'll never sleep a night sober or alone. Let the alcohol ferment in my brain, seeping into the crevices. The girl in my bed, she gives me the attention I crave. Her very touch lights my skin ablaze. Hiding my agony from her, I run to the bathroom of the hotel... She can never know."
this... this is peace. this is light. this is breathing without hopeful wishing of not taking the next.
i can only wait to go back to that place. whether it be physical or in the imaginary realm, i'll never know.

been writing more on paper recently. i've realized it's better to blow the ink on a pen, rather than the keys off my mac. emotions are running high, though i'd never let you know. i need to get out of this place, with it's sixteen inches of snow. i need to leave and live and let live and breathe. hell knows i haven't taken a single breath here without being scrutinized for it.

rip myself open.
sew myself shut.
tears stream down my face.
jude is the only one who understands.
will ever understand.

the inspiration well has run dry, and is only filled with the caloric intake of a mouse.

let's stick all the happiness bullshit in a gold coffin and seal it in july.
open it back up in january, where it belongs.
out in the cold.
stick some heartache lite in your shopping cart
and be on your merry way to the rest of your broken life
turning tricks like a magician (you wish).
no one understands the irony anymore anymore.
i don't know why i try.
wishful thinking never got the job done.

stay tuned for inspiration.
hell knows when that's coming...

she carries an overdramatic violin player in her pocket
orders red bull and vodka, it's the closest thing to an eight ball at the bar
epinephrine flowing through veins to keep her heart still beating
blood rushing up to the driveway makes her insane

no one cares that your eyes are leaking
we're only disturbed by the headboard that's always creaking
your nights are just remixes of the ones before



not done with the chorus yet... that's only part of it. worth continuing?

every night my eyes are stitched shut with nightmares of you. i just can't ever tell you i adore it.

being held hostage in my own home is not my idea of fun. too scared to look out the windows. too frightened to open the door. too upset to peek through the curtains. deadbolted. the locksmith reassured me, that'd he'd seen a million cases like this. he had a liar's face. before leaving a room, i look both ways to see if there is no cross traffic. there's nothing i hate more than not feeling safe in my own home. all i can do is wait for him to come, to battle to the death. thank god i put nine-one-one on speed dial.
i never wished death on anyone, and i never will, but i want this to be done more than anything. i need it to be done. finish the job already, goddamit. just fucking kill yourself already. i didn't want the next time i see you to be at your funeral, but at this point i don't care. i can't deal with this shit anymore. goodbye. so long. farewell.
i look at myself in the mirror. "i don't care i don't i don't i don't" is what my brain says. trying to say it aloud, i drop all my lines. blabbering, blubbering. you make me want to cry. i won't give my first cry in two years to you. you don't fucking deserve it.
dammit. damn me. damn you.

"and how do you feel about that?"
angry.
sad.
numb.
confused.
pissed.
tearful.
hatred.
black.
"fine. it's all okay."

ask me if you want to know. you won't get a straight answer, if you even care enough to want to know.

it's so hard to keep holding on when the whole world is tilted on its side. i need to be upright to think straight, and even that doesn't work sometimes. i need my normal back, can't adjust to this new one. you gnawing on my neck is my normal. fucking in the bathroom is my normal. this? this school life, this "normal kis" shit is not my normal. you took too long to help. too late.

the mad genious belongs in their daydreams. the scientist belongs in her rubik's cube. the cartooner belgs in his mother's basement. the june clever belons in her pears and heels, always. the hearached mess belongs in the shrink's office. everything belongs somewhere, it must. not a hair out of place, no blink unleased. don't move it. this world's not ready for change. this witld, with it's steroids and antibiotics and engineered edibles. it's time to go back to the basics. no fertilizer. no chemicals tainting our world. where animals can live freely, instead of standing in fear of the knife. this is the world i wish for. but, you're not ready, so i doubt i'll get it.

street signs named right and left, each pointing the other way. confusing me. confused theirselves. off center. off kilter. a clockwork orange, if you will. willing themselves to be right again (no pun intended). wanting more than anyting to become politically correct. but, in the back of their mind, they know they never will be. constantly telling people the wrong directions, and not being able to do anything about it. "the hardest thing about this life, this world," they'll tell you, "is living in it."

i am the ceo of nothing to wear and everything to lose
nothing can stop me now; i've been given a loan until tomorrow
my brain is spinning with all the options yet none of them seem right
come on now fake a smile for me; put on those ruby red shoes

well la tee dah

zip those lips and take your pick from answers a b and c
fuck me on the table now with some s&m honey clear my head for me
i'll give you ice cream with sprinkles and whipped cream, sugar on top
stfu and just do it PLEASE

i am the sun.
you are the moon.
but apparently, we are going through a lunar eclipse.

i'm never gonna kiss a gun street girl again.
only makes me feel inadequate.
not a good thing in sight.
except her.
her and her wide eyes and lustful lips.
it'll just fuck me up again.
she'll just fuck me up again.
not taking my common sense for much worth, i go running back to her.

ballpoint pens
fancy notebooks
heartached soul
headached hands
all the ingredients for making a song.
possibly a hit single.
ha.
you wish.

lover's lane with lacy lingere
(non-)heart felt fucks induce your brain
i've tried to get high on heels before, but i think i need to go back to coke
prayers don't send you to heaven or hell or purgatory
just "whichever one you like" of your mind
false hope and promises
birthday candle wax
serged ends on the sewing room floor
times from ten years ago that seem so much better now than then
false superstardom idols can't save you from tomorrow
i don't know what to do

"you are the music in me" hsm2
"brain stew" green day
"i feel the earth move" carole king
"1979" smashing pumpkins
"cabaret" cabaret
"back to the street" panic at the disco
"portions for foxes" rilo kiley
"play three again" backseat goodbye

make me feel alive again. shoot me full of antimicrobial febreze or draino. spring cleaning time, sugar.
i'm writing you an album, and you don't even know it. bits and pieces... this puzzle is not yet finished.

for ten short hours, i felt beautiful.
no man could resist my charm.
provacative till tomorrow.
mile long legs and hair to die for.
candy the stripper heels and feather lashes.
and then the clock struck midnight.

it was ice cream headaches in the back of her brain.
and a cupcake avalanche full of pain caused the courtesan to become insane.
condescending eyes, matching thoughts, from the rest.
though the buyers could care less of what she thought of the best.

----------

here’s to the kids.
here’s to the kids who would rather sit at home listening to music than go to a high school party.
here’s to the kids who blame MTV for all their problems.
here’s to the kids who, after reading bukowski and palahnuik, decide living’s okay.
here’s to the kids that smoke in the bathroom at lunch, and to the one’s that don’t eat.
here’s to the kids who think their parents hate them.
here’s to the kids who say they don’t give a fuck what you think, but always do.
here’s to the kids who listen to bright eyes as their lullaby.
here’s to the kids who hope to god they don’t wake up in the morning, and cry when they do.
here’s to the kids that eat ice cream melted.
here’s to the kids who didn’t feel so alone after listening to fall out boy.
here’s to the kids that know they’ll never fit in, and are okay with that.
here’s to the kids who despise anything and everything modern.
here’s to the kids who live in the past.
here’s to the kids that are full of regret.
here’s to the kids who make a wish every night at 11:11 on the first star they see.
here’s to the kids who start humming smashing pumpkins every time they open a jar of mayonaise or read the word tonight.
here’s to the kids.
you are the prayer inside me.

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music is about life and feeling alive.
nothing more.
nothing less.

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every time someone tells me they’re sick, i try to believe them. but i always come back to it’s all in their head. people make themselves sick from thinking about it. or maybe they just have a horrible aura, or karma, or both. i doubt they’re really sick though.

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Going Home:

love is:
pillow creases on your face in the morning, or 2pm, whichever you prefer.
margarita fountains.
scarves in the middle of summer in nevada.
hallmark cards sent for no apparent reason.
droplets of sunshine on your face.
naughty whispers a the mall telling you to go to the photobooth.
your girlfriend working at a phone sex company.
being slapped in the face.
heartache for a reason.
the clack of stilettos on pavement.
grocery bags over my head.
eighty-eight keys.
diamonds.
doris day at the apollo.
a plane ticket for tuesday.