I'm Sorry Nobody Is Honest In This Town

And you would all have her feet on the ground, her head down bobbing among the crowds--but this kid is meant for the skies, her entire body up in the clouds...

She hopes for a man who can appreciate her passions, someone with gauges in his ears and nice hair and maybe some guitar callouses on his fingers. I feel like it's okay for her to want that. It's her future. It's her life. It doesn't have to be anything like yours; you should be praying it's even more.

She dreams greater than you ever will. The places she goes while standing still are better than any vacation destination you can get to. She's got a good, beautiful head on her shoulders.

Her heart is bigger than she realizes. The world goes for people like that (in a fang-to-throat sort of way.) She's vulnerable beneath her indie-punk exterior. And that's okay: it's wonderful to be so innocently breakable... I want to protect her, but it's not my heart to guard.

She likes the parks and the playgrounds. Swinging makes her feel like she can fly, even after you've all clipped her wings. Let her go, let her be in the places she's happy so that she can come home and respectfully bear your pecking, because one day she'll break out of the cages and you might just lose her, she may not come back.

People would have her believe she's odd, that she doesn't fit in. People would have her think that it's normal and fine to have hopes and never see them through. "Dreams are harmless as long as you don't expect them to come true." They would all like her to keep those feet on the ground, so one day she can come all the way down and marry a suit and be a mother for two and a half kids and maybe just idly strum her guitar on the weekends. People would tell her that that's life, settling, settling down.

They all just envy the girl who can soar so much higher than they can.

Let's Pretend It's Selfless

Even the sweetest rays of sun can't manage to get a vine to grow out of the ground; even the most lovely, gentle rains haven't coaxed a sprout out of this soil.

Don't curse the land!!

... And don't wait forever for it to yield something, anything. Because it won't give back but weeds, no matter how determinedly you tend to it.

Pack the lean-to and the plow and find greener hills on which to sow things worth feeling.

___________________________________________________________________________

 All the lovers are addicts, looking for a fix for their loneliness. All the boys and girl are addicts, searching for a high to feed the inner egotist.

You can all be bought with cliche's and compliments. 

You all give and accept gifts of self-portrait filled lockets.

The Fate of the Mediocre Word Artist

Pages blank, leather unbound, quills stilled in the inkwells

Musty books stacked on rickety shelves

Are draped in cobwebs covered in dust themselves

He is nothing now but a skull on a desk

All of his work rots...

The Pride-full of the Pitiless

Brothers, strip the carcass of everything ugly and leave the bones to bleach in the sun; skulk off with bloodstained paws and maws. Our dirty work is done. Don't bother to remember the fallen one!! He was too weak to go on. Move on.

Boys Consistently Suck

Because you'll hear a thousand of his words before you'll hear one of mine, because he's the one that sends tickles up your spine, because I'm just a friend, because you don't want it to end...

I should probably learn to shut my mouth. (I guess I'll be forever holding my peace?)

It Was Never Meant To Be A Canvas...

He had a corner apartment at the corner of town, a world of hard lines, a world without round; he didn't know colors, and he'd never seen shades--it was black or was white, a world without grey.

Paint his heart red. Paint your eyes blue. Paint his cheeks pink when he looks at you.

"You got your palette all over my sanity."

Where They Meet in the Woods

So dance, dance in circles, all you thieves, willing to make the others' hearts bleed for the sake of the thrill and the pleasant feelings, dance, dance, all you thieves.

Thieves in the night with no moon as a guide, dance, dance 'til you die, chasing the breeze of the person beside, yes, the blind lead the blind.

And the jingling of "treasures" stored in their trousers, (compliments, lies, petals of dead daisy flowers) make bell sounds to dance to in the silence of night, dance, flatter, you thieves.

Knives up their sleeves, they quickly pair off, entwining their fingers, each knows it's a rip-off of something quite real that the regular men feel, but they're only the pitiful thieves.

She'll bat her lashes and he'll kiss her hand, on the edge of a cliff, the thief couple stands, each holds a blade and plunges it in, topple into the sea, start dancing again.

Allegro, allegro, the tempo, the beat, water is churned by the thrashing of feet, both laugh so loudly as both their hearts bleed, they're dashed on the rocks, the sharks come to feed.

So sink, sink to the depths, all you thieves, having a romance that neither believes for the sake of the thrill and the fake pleasant feelings, dance, dance, all you thieves.

If it ever comes to it...

Feel your bony hand in mine, waste away, waste the day, cuddled on a couch with an arm around a waist and a guitar sitting on the seat close by. We've got a little one-bedroom shack; drafts come in through cracks, but all the quilts keep us warm, so it's okay. You don't cut your hair, you smell like me and you; I smell the same, too. Indie, artsy, Tacoma, lazy. I don't want anything but your bony hand in mine.

This is my sub-sublime fantasy; simplicity.

high school romance

whims sway like branches in the breeze, never catching frost, too animate to freeze

and hearts flutter like firefly light, touching on a tender moment before taking flight

these words have the weight of snowflakes, like down, said with a nervous smile, remembered with a frown

the remains are like skeleton trees after the fall; dormant branches are what's left of it all

blossom valentines can't make you happy forever, and no, neither can being together

so fancies shift like snow before an avalanche-- it's a midsummer night's dream sort of hopeful rain dance

let's cast lots and see who falls to love in the worlds driven by seasons sporadic

Confusion Is Sky-Blue

Every one of your words hangs in the air, my atmosphere; I try to breathe you in, but this air seems thin, filled with gossamer clouds and their linings of aluminum.

Fake

I've always been a liar hiding beneath the guise of "I just don't want to hurt anyone..."
Mostly though, I don't want them to hurt me back.

Trypophobia

This isn't a metaphor.
Even when I was little,
"Certain textures, like if they look like bugs could be in them, creep me out."
It's not like it's a crippling fear,
So I guess it's not really a phobia.
I can look at honeycomb
or hole-y wood and concrete
without running away screaming--
But it makes me all itchy,
Then it lets butterflies free in my stomach.
Nobody ever gets what I mean when I try to explain.
It's a real thing.
And the sight of lotus pods makes me sick.
(Especially lotus pods photoshopped into people's skin.)

Do Not Pass Go

I always think it'd be enough to just love
And be liked, maybe loved, too.
But in truth, I want to monopolize--
I'm sickeningly selfish.
I (half-heartedly) apologize.

Religiously Prodigal

I want to believe You are love... But then I think about Hell.

And I get these terrible blasphemous thoughts.

Jigsaw

I don't know how I got into this box.
You're all part of a picturesque seascape.
And I'm just all sorts of messed up.
I don't seem to fit.
... But it's okay.
Maybe they'll lose me under the couch.
Then I'll make friends with the dust bunnies.

Jerks.

Your immaturity hurt her and now I want to hurt your faces.