Friday, March 30, 2012

Friday, March 30, 2012; Sinner

"Must we spoon-fed you the truth?"
"Well I can't find it in the dirt beneath my fingernails so I suppose so."
Many stories of travesties and end-of-the-world notations have floated to & fro from town to town. Cigarette smoke causes global warming & her grandmother died of cancer. She never met her grandmother; only post cards from random cities would come each year for her birthday. Her grandmother's birthday, not her own.
There's joy found in the scent in old oil paints & the breeze one may feel as they swing on the tire swing in the garden. They plowed over her garden four years ago.
Crying out to Jesus always sits on the steps of the back porch metaphor that sleeps in her mind but Jesus never came to her as child when she cried out for help so why would he come now?
The first few years of this new year have blurred together. She can't remember specific instances except for the ones where she cried herself to sleep. She thought the sun could cheer her up but the sun is still hiding behind the clouds where Jesus supposedly hides as well.
The world has let her down so now she wants to burn in hell.
She smiles most of the time out of habit but memories haunt her considering they fill each corner of this town. Instances lie within each street sign & the roses that grow in only one place she knows of brings her to her knees.
Nothing & no-one will allow her to forget.
Her heart is aching.

Monday, March 19, 2012

Monday, March 19, 2012; Triangle

Although accomplishing something wrapped within mediocrity she can't help but feel strength within the warmth of core. An empowerment known to the patient & unseen. Months toiled by & she had almost forgotten the task she had started during the peak of winter; it was buried beneath all things forced to be relevant to survival.
Finally she gave in because of the leisure of time; here she is smiling about how she has beaten her first video game. Take that sister's of fate.

Monday, March 12, 2012

Sunday, March ?, 2012; I'm breathing right?

The same photographs are hung on the walls, the same children run through these halls, & the same delirium rules good-mannered intentions. Masks are placed upon each face, a happiness forced to show their teeth, until routine has marked it as the truth.
Secrets still linger behind each locked door.
Each second the clock accounts for is harassment & Jesus has let them down too many times. But here they are, priceless & smiling. Ashamed & caring. & for entertainment, rules remain desolate while morals are mandatory.
Selfishness rules each humble deed. You can hear it their voice; you can see it in the way their hands work. Their grips shows implications of their true self. Ignorance harbors each step.
Expectations are being lowered as the years hasten.
Children fall for their lovers quicker than ever just to have glass hearts broken.
Eyes don't meet for fear of regulations.
Voices stumble for fear of consequences.

We are not ourselves.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Tuesday, March 6, 2012; Why Wait Another Day?

Familiar tendencies are starting to take place. As I grow older, I start to notice trends throughout the seasons. My thoughts are similar, as are my cravings. I'm starting to figure myself out. The skies are blue today. My bones are cheerful simply from a change of atmosphere & a breathe of fresh air. Though exhausted, I can still appreciate this masterpiece that surrounds me. 
It's that time of year where I can't stand the darkness anymore but I've been struggling with even peering out the windows. & as much as I love natural light, I cannot pick myself up from the floorboards. My creative intent has sunk to the bottom of the sea & I'd like to go with it. The sun shines but I'm afraid to step outside. I keep reminding myself that my legs aren't broken & I've got all the means to do something but I just can't seem to make anything count. Inspiration always comes & goes & I never do anything about it. I'm selfishly hiding away the best parts of myself. I don't allow myself to achieve anything I take the time to perceive; all this wishful thinking drones & drains the most delicate fragments of my frame.
It's time I do something. Or I'm going to end up killing myself.
It's half past nine & this day has already proved it's self sufficient & dazzling & worthy to be incredible. Life is difficult but I've got to make everything count because if I can't do that then what can I do? I'm my work, right? 
I'm tired of wasting hours & salvaging seconds. I'm tired of waiting & I'm tired of pointless conversations. I'm sick of sleeping in & going to bed early. I'm tired of making nothing of these days.
The clocks are ticking & they're only telling me one thing so au revior & happy Tuesday. 

Monday, March 5, 2012

Monday, March 5, 2012; Cape Cod

Think of the account in which you used to take her & now, amidst new inquiries, you find yourself not needing to break her but to forget everything she once was. A reckoning is what you seem to desire & scream out for but she rejects the ideals in which you find to be presumptuous to the truth.  She asks you reasons why but confronted with those questions, you find that you have no reasons why.
"We're all dancing along the edge darling, so come take my hand. Now, tell me how that isn't good enough."
What you don't know, or never knew, or never will be able to realize is that she's conflicted with fear. In the processes of being forced to make a choice she's amounted herself to transform into an inanimate object, losing her realization of existence & loosing her symmetry with the stars. Living is easier when you forget the reality that we're all going to die. I suppose that's what she did & I suppose that's what you're all hung up about. But we're all tormented with the questions concerning life & death & the atmosphere around us. Things that science ignores & most accept mediocre versions of mediocre ideas. Where is the truth to accept?
It's in the cracks of your hands. It's in a stranger's glance. It's beneath the stairs, top shelf, smallest box. It's in an ashtray where cancer coincides. It's in your dreams that you tell her each morning. It's in the books no one bothers to read. It's within you & within me. But there's a catch. You've got to do what they tell you to be considered right; you must accept philosophical meanderings that someone else did for you. "A copy of a copy always turns out grey." Let me find this by myself. 

Saturday, March 3, 2012

Saturday, March 3, 2012; Headaches

If our memories were to fill a book, then there would be less than seventeen pages. Only specific instances would be permitted to form sentences or maybe just sentence fragments. Smiles could be seen in between the lines of chaos & righteousness; prayers can be read from the ink smears & coffee stains.
Sometimes I believe my memories have been robbed from me & replaced with disgraceful lies & empty hopes. A protagonist, drowned. Kindness is no longer a friend, but an enemy or so to say, a hoax. Trust no longer binds me to anything except for the force that holds my feet to the ground. & now that love's no longer here, why am I still breathing? 

I don't know & I suppose I'm supposed to write my troubles in a leather bound book. Retracing my steps, discovering each memory you've taken. My sanity was lost within a rage unheard by most & I don't want it back. I'm glad that I went through the things that I went through. Almost losing my life several times only certified my right to breath. Having my worth belittled each morning only reassured me that I am the opposite of what I've been told.
I still miss the hands that harmed me but I still hate the world around me & all I crave is sunlight.