life is a four lettered word

i’ve written so many posts, so many poems lately that i haven’t been able to post onto my site. don’t ask why, it just never felt right. so i’m here now, determined to hit the ‘publish’ button instead of sending unprinted ink into the trash. and there are a few things i want to say:

i don’t want the ideals others have to be expected of me. someone’s dream is my nightmare and just because the majority of the world may want something doesn’t mean i want it. i don’t want it and i don’t want to have to keep defending myself for my wants or lack thereof.

it infuriates me when people force their opinion on me time and time again. someone and i stand on two different sides of a decision i made and I hate having to hear her thoughts on it over and over again especially because she doesn’t know half the story. if she did, she’d be tooting a very different horn

the only love i feel is real is words. i spoke to A, and i could myself fall into the words. fall into them hopelessly–not even the person behind them. just the words. the way they sound. what they say. what they imply. what fonts translate. i could fall in love again, for a phrase, for a moment that’s been typed. and that’s all there is to it. this is my way of being shallow, of loving on the surface, of letting myself be wooed and seduced by the way words are strung together. that’s my Achilles heel maybe, but it only lasts as long as the sentence. there is nothing to be remembered and perhaps that’s why it’s so perfect.

i want to love for words. just that please. i don’t want more, i don’t want to be told to want anything else. just words. and to be left alone with them.

i am hurt to rage about how selfish people can be. but when a conversation where i split myself open turns out to be about them. i hate it…it’s like pulling out stitches and having the other person say “ow” and claim the pain at their own. is it so terrible that for a while, i’d actually like things to be about me? sometimes, there’s only so much listening i want to do. listening to your sob story. listening to your mistakes. listening to you whine and whine and whine about the same thing. listening to you, but you fail to hear what you’re saying is that you’re going to stay stuck in a stupid situation and in the meantime, you won’t let me share more than a breath and you know what, friend, that fucking hurts. also, it’s pretty fucking retarded.

time. lets me see things. i see how much people change, how much they stay the same, it’s just hard to turn the mirror inwardly–are the changes on D, or are they on me? is it really that D is more of one thing? or am i just less of it? is this the beginning of a gap or have the cracks always been there and i am only just noticing? what next what next what next

i wake up with a dose of exhaustion so deep that i carry it with me all day, i take it to bed, and it’s there–first thing i sense when morning greets me. like warm dog breath. unwelcoming, but almost comfortable after all this time. all this lack of rest. trying to stay from tired to tired to stop myself from thinking. to prevent the hole of dwelling on things. to stop from breaking i tear it to pieces. does that even make sense?

i need this, nine days from now, i need this is ways i can’t understand. i’m telling myself it’s not running away, but that’s what it feels like. it’s not running away, i’m coming back–and that’s what’s so depressing.

perhaps its time to look to the horizon again, and from the horizon, i’d like to see what the view from there is. what’s next what’s next what’s next

  1. Nameless said:

    Awesome…as usual. Love this…

  2. batgirl said:

    i miss your writing 😥

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