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(Take my hand)

Nothing can help her, Jackie baby. She's lost. [22 Jan 2008|09:24pm]
Mom lied to noah. stole from the store.

"All you guys do is cost me more and more money. Cell phones. TV's. When are you going to work. Gonna get a job?"

Noah. Eleven. Listening. Listening to "you can't just sit there all night and chew. one day you're just not going to wake up. Thats it. OD."

Listening to "you hallucinate in your sleep. Keep me up. you sit there on the side of the bed trying to pull your pants up for half an hour and then urinate all over yourself."

Listening to "Thats got nothing to do with the pills. Its the hormones!"

The looks from everyone when I say something. "My mom went running for so many miles...My mom and I are going to Lowes to buy tiles. My mom took me to sell drugs. Don't worry. We were good."

From dad. Daddy dearest. Dad with a moustach and a beer belly, only happy when he's not here, only happy when he's drunk. Mom, doesn't know to shut the bathroom door.

Sometimes I wish mom would just die. Sometimes I wish I would get hit by a car or shot or stabbed or brutally mutilated. So people would come and see me. So mom would have to get better. Shake her out of it.

Sometimes I think that, yea, sure I've got me a chance. But other times I don't.

I'm sad alot.

(Take my hand)

[22 Feb 2007|10:53pm]
There are x'es on my hands, and my eyes are so heawvy they're closing, closing..closed.

Its time for a change! A change!
Stand up and drift that way, to the corner
the lawyer, he's a vampire
sucking away your LIFE
and theres nothing you can do.

Oh, Mrs. Blackhead crazy lady,
Why are you still here?
Still here?
Oh, Mrs. Demonladycunt,

I ain't no poet,
and I ain't got no rhymes,
but I try.

I try.

(Take my hand)

Stupid. [16 Jan 2007|09:44pm]
Theres something to those late night talks, those late night confessions under lamp light outside a torn down little townhouse, with the radio blaring nothing and the air blasting that always use to make me look up at the sky and let out a big sigh.
I’d look up at those forever clouds, those fluffy pillows of something so far away they couldn’t possibly be real, and then back at whoever was next to me, whichever poor chap I had listen to all those things that weren’t really problems, but to me, they were. And I’d try to smile kindly, and I’d try to wave it off, and yea, it’d be ok.
But it wasn’t ever really ok.
Opening the car door, I could already hear the yelling. Those drunken slurs from inside the house that would make cats run away screeching, that kept us rodent free. I would get to the front of the house, and in goes the key, and I’d turn it making sure to open the door slow so they wouldn’t know I was already home.
I’d shut the door, inching it closer, closer to the frame as I dropped my things on the sofa and crept, all to quietly, the kind of quite the stairs like to bomb at, that quite that no matter what you try, every creek lets out a squeal, up to my room.
I’d open my bedroom door and close it quick, and lock it quicker, hoping beyond hope they wouldn’t come in.
Because if they did, I knew it wouldn’t be pretty.
Because if they did, I knew that one of us would be on the floor, and there wouldn’t be a door on that frame anymore.
When you’re a kid, grown ups will try to hide you away from all those little things kids aren’t suppose to see.
They’ll tell you the red on daddy’s collar was just mommy telling him goodbye. They’ll say how, when big sister is throwing up in the bathroom after she ate that brownie, it’s just because she ate to much. Perfectly normal.
They’ll tell you how, screaming and yelling and crying yourself to sleep at night, that’s all just part of growing up. That’s how mommy and daddy talk.
That’s just how it’s supposed to be.
I remember when I realized mommy and daddy weren’t just “talking” for the first time.
I was one grade below starting and we were still back in Jersey. We lived in this real old style apartment building, the kind made of bricks with neighbors that’d been around for ages.
One day, after school, I had walked upstairs and heard mommy and daddy, and they were just talking again.
I crept inside the apartment, crept past my baby brother’s room, and opened my door.
I remember looking at the Power Rangers poster on my bedroom wall, and smiling before walking in and closing it.
As time went on the talking got louder, until I heard a big thump against my door.
I opened it to see what had happened, and there laid mommy, the Power Rangers poster ripped in two.
And it was then I knew that they weren’t just talking anymore.
This guy I know, he says innocence ends when you realize you’re going to die.
I think innocence ends when you realize mommy and daddy aren’t the Power Rangers anymore.
It’s that moment when you look up at mommy and see the wrinkles in her face, or the eyes caked with mascara. It’s the moment that she isn’t the most beautiful girl in the world, most likely when she’s behind the wheel of a mini van and driving you to soccer practice.
My dad use to always start to tell me stories about when he was younger, how he had this poodle named something stupid, something I’d never expect my dad to name it.
He’d say how he use to love this poodle, how he’d bring it with him to college and fought his brother over who got to keep it, and when it died, he broke down and cried.
My dad! Crying!
But then I’d ask him more about it, and he’d always say that he’d tell me the rest when I was older, older.
But I never got old enough, not for him.
So I never heard the rest of his poodle story. And after a while, I stopped caring.
After so long, you realize its better to just walk past the ripped poster on the floor, and just not cry about it.
You realize that, it may be cold and they may be crazy, but theres always a way out.
And you realize that its almost over. You can’t change them, oh no, but you can change you.

(Take my hand)

[02 Jan 2007|10:31pm]
New year. Yea, yea.

Things are moving along of so swimmingly, swimmingly, swimming. Kaboom is gone. Atleast, it's not the same. No no, moving things out of that one place that was my haven for so long, and into another that promises [fatfatfat.]

Someone's not having fun any more.

I'd post more, but Shun is here and his car is a rollin'

(Take my hand)

[12 Oct 2006|02:28am]
He's wobblinh there, his blazer hanging off his shoulders, his collored shirt open showing his gut bursting past his white undershirt. He comes into my room and asks me if I'm alright, and I tell him yea, I'm fine. Just doing homework.

Are you alright? I ask him.

He kinda bites his lip, a sad look in his eye as he counts one, two, three dollars in his pocket before he says no, no he's not. I turn my head to look at him after asking what's wrong, but he's gone. My door's ajar, but he isn't there.

After a minute I hear a faint "Nothing," from the hallway, and listen as he wobbles into his room to pass out again.

My heart's torn, and he just keeps picking at it, but I can't fucking stop myself from loving him.

He's so sad, so sad...

(Take my hand)

[05 Sep 2006|07:46pm]
I'm writing this to you because I know you'll appreciate it. I know that one day you'll look back on this and smile and be so glad that I did, because I know you. I know how you think. Today was the first day of my sophomore year. Getting up early again sucks. I feel kind of hopeless going into it all. 183 days can seem like forever when you're starting over at number one. Avid was first, and it was good. It felt good to be there amongst everybody again. When Kayla walked in she said something that really struck a chord. She said, "My family!" and as much as I don't particularly like to admit it, she's right. We're family. And its good to be home.

Second block was Bio with Mr. Gentry. I've known him a long time from cards. I can remember when I was in seventh grade and I would talk to him for hours at the store with Cisco and hope that I got to be in his class when I got older. And there I was, sitting there, with his Hawain music blaring from his black iPod video, walking all the way around the whole room to get a peice of paper that was a foot in front of me. He says its good for us, gets the blood from our butts to our heads. It should be an interesting year in science. Maybe I'll learn something.

Next up was Mrs. Paines' class. She's young, pretty, possibly pregnant. She's energetic and knowlegdable, but she underestimates her kids and her own abilities. She doesn't give me any confidence in her ability to teach. I think that it will be a hard year for me if I have to stay in her class. Hopefully I can still switch to Mr. Yano's, where I'll learn something.

Lastly I had psychology. I was really looking forward to it, and the teacher didn't disappoint. His name is Mr. Labarbera. He's a little man upwards around sixty, what hair he has left being completely gray. He has a moustache and a cordoroy nose. He seems fun, but very oppinianted. I don't think that is necessarily bad, because he gives me the impression that what he thinks is what he goes by, but he is open to discussion and is open minded. Maybe that means he won't just teach a curriculum that doesn't teach us anything except manufactured bullshit.

After the bell rang, I went to Mr. Yano's class to introduce myself. He's an older asian man, who talks lightly but his eyes indicate great wisdom. He promised to review my writing if I were to drop it by.

I went outside to find Lauren, and caught her just as she was going to her bus. She gave me a kiss and then left. I went to talk to Dr. Matney, and he said that Mr. Flanigan was taking care of the teacher problem for me. So, I once again went to the main office and once again, he wasn' there. I'm going to try again tomorrow.

Mom said she was on her way, so I waited outside. It was pouring by the time I got out there. The sky was a dark purple and the rain flooded the school sidewalk. The ripples were everywhere, and I took pictures.

I know this is very bland, but I have homework in two classes to get done so I have to go. Tomorrow is my first B day and I'm hoping the teachers make it worth my while. Somehow, I doubt it though.

(1 Watch me fall | Take my hand)

[31 Aug 2006|01:09pm]
I like acoustic music. A lot. I don't think it really matters who's singing, because right now I'm on this girl's myspace, and let me tell you, I don't like this girl one bit. She's loud and obnoxious, long blonde hair and jean skirts, a baby face but one of those kids that spit their apple sauce out because they asked for cranberry, two earings not enough diamonds. She's got the teeth of a beever, and if asked how to pronounce vas she says vase. I can't stand her, I really can't, but here I am on her page and she's got this song called Beauty In The by a band I've never heard of by the name of The Scene Aesthetic and I've just restarted the song. So I'm thinking maybe, maybe, if she likes this song, and I like this song, theres something deeper in her that I may grow to like, maybe we could be great friends, you know, those kind that after high school and college and cars and kids and houses and rent, we would go over each other's house to watch the Super Bowl, her husband and I screaming at the scream, my wife and her fixing dinner. And when that was all done, we'd sit in the back of the room, and ask whatever happened to so and so, and say things like "Thats so sad," or "I'm glad for them, they always deserved it," and we'd have our own inside jokes and it'd be something to remember.

Or maybe it's just the song.

(1 Watch me fall | Take my hand)

[26 Aug 2006|06:28pm]
We're all crying. Mom's in her room, the covers ditry with her owned spilled food, her own upchucked produce, draped over her with a box of tissues and running mascara. She's crying because she can't control the emotions that run through her, the thoughts that are there but don't deserve to be. Her voice is cracking, you can hear the tears in her voice. Shes making excuses, excuses, excuses, and her eyes are sullen. She's saying she's orry, ans she's sorry and shes sorry, and she's crying.

I want to take a shotgun to her brains and give her covers another story.

Dad's standing outside, his grey moustache the only thing he likes around him. He's chain smoking cheap cigarettes, unable to hear the screaming in his name two stories up. His ears long ago gave up the fight. He's leaning on the car dented in six places to many, wiping the bird shit off his hands, declaring to himself his own self rightouessness, his wimsy legs a feather away from buckling under the weight of debt. He's staring into the sky, and he's making excuses for his own behavior, making excuses why nothings' ever fixed, why he deserves to live the way he does, thinking he needs another drink. He puts his cigarette out on the pavement and starts to walk back into the house, his ears sighing as they pick up their spears.

I'm hoping the cancer kills him quickly, the sooner I can spit on his grave.

And I'm typing this, until my fingers are stubs, contemplating who to talk to, who can make things better, and I know that its impossible. No one can make things better. There's no one to talk to. And I'm alone. So I take the cool mint listerine, and add a dash of old Jack, take a swig and sit back. The blinds are like bars, my face the cell. I'm holding back tears when I think to myself that I haven't changed a bit, and I'm still lost. I'd ask God for help, but we all know how that always goes.

I'm praying for the night that I can't hold back, and life will be a lot shorter for them all.


(Take my hand)

[16 Aug 2006|05:30pm]
So, I'm breathing through the smokey haze that keeps on dropping little bits of shrapnel debries into my lungs, when I wonder if I want pizza or chinese for dinner.

(Take my hand)

[16 Aug 2006|05:26pm]
Everything's the same. Today is maybe just one of those days that life doesn't seem worth living, due to the countless pointless cycles that continue to prove that lack of excitement is the only thing to look forward to.

Maybe it's time to spice it up a bit.

"Where's the sugar?"

So basically.

(2 Watch me fall | Take my hand)

[18 Jul 2006|10:39pm]
Me and John rode out from ocean heading east
I had to see with my own eyes the factories
I'm buggin out
We've never strayed this far
Right out of town southeast and down
Inside my filthy car
But when we got there all we saw were more malls and marble mansions
In emerald parks the singing larks proclaimed the great expansion
There is no beautiful garbage
They cleared it up already
Tears roll out the eyes and though I cry I hold the wheel steady
Do do do do do do do do do
Do do do do do do do do do
When I get home
I cannot stand my house
My father still fighting with his trophy unfaithful spouse
I hear the echo now I see it somewhere else
A thousand ways, a thousand days, a thousand towns across the commonwealth
Out on a date but like a dog she smells the fear and runs
And still we make our cheap tortured artists are no fun
I dream of anger, sex, unnurtured I succeed but still
Soon I'll be poppin pills
This emptiness will not be caved or filled
Do do do do do do do do
Do do do do do do do do
Look at the earth
It's just so green
Perhaps it's envious of all the galaxies it's seen
Where forces swirl in symbiotic harmony
Free of the taint, the gas, and paint of parasites like me
Keep using love as the excuse for why we're fat and lazy
Wait to grow old, like we've been told
Go bald, go west and crazy
This is so pointless it actually holds up out evolution
Sing it to the bastards
Do do do do do do do
Do do do do do do do
Oh Oh I didn't know I didn't know
Oh Oh I didn't know I didn't know

You're sitting in a car. Its nothing impressive, on a not so impressive night, when already the chinese is getting cold. You're parked on a hill, overlooking the night-time ocean. The waves are calm, and the windows are rolled down to let in the night time breeze.

There isn't another car around anywhere, when the boy sitting next to you starts to cry. His eyes are closed, and he's balling. He's telling you that the world is a horrible, evil place, where people will do horrible, evil things. That there is no escape, that we're nothing and this place, this moment, will be forgotten with time.

That pain is everlasting while happiness is momentary. That its never going to be okay, and he's never going to be okay.

You look at him. He opens his eyes, and they're shining with glint of the starlight. In that moment, he looks so sad, so helpless.

So you put your hand on his leg, and tell him a story.

You're telling him about how when you were little, you would always go outside and catch fireflies. How you would run around with a jar, with only one sandle on with your mom screaming for you to come inside, and try to catch them. Four times out of five you'd miss, but whenver you did get one you'd scream in triumph, and kneel down to look at it. It'd light up once, maybe twice before flying back out of the jar and scaring you to death, making you topple over onto the ground. But in that one moment, that one moment that the firefly lit up and illuminated the dark world around you, there was nothing else. It was infinite.

You're telling this story, and he's listening, and before you can get to the next part his arms are draped around you. He's holding you tight, and suddenly you're holding him, and he's saying that he never wants this moment to leave. He never wants to open his eyes and be anywhere else except this moment, and that he knows its impossible, and that he knows they have to leave soon, but he says that it doesn't matter because in that one moment, in that one moment in that crummy old car, with the tears streaming down his face, he was infinite.

And you smile. You kiss the top of his head. You look at the stars, and all of a sudden, a firefly flies by and lights up. For infinite.

(Take my hand)

[04 Jul 2006|09:35pm]
I'm sitting in my room with the lights off looking out the open window to the dark sky. There aren't any stars, but the sky is lit with another light.


Its another year, my darling America, and we've survived.

Flash. Bang. Reds and greens and golds in the air.

Flash. Bang. Explosions and death and anger and racism in their hearts.

We're here, alive and well, full stomachs, money in the bank, our biggest worry getting up before the birds in the morning, getting drunk off life even with our pledged sobriety, while half way around the world our fireworks are matched by explosions.

America, my mistress, save my wifey, save her from the evils, save her from her mirror, save her from the border. Save Israel.

Flash. Bang. There aren't any stars, no stars, no lights, no hope.

(1 Watch me fall | Take my hand)

Summer Letter Assigment [27 Jun 2006|04:17pm]
Captain, my captain-

This was my first mistake. I knew it the second I started writing that this was a bad idea. So stop reading. I sent the bloody letter, didn’t I? Just give me an A and throw it away. It’s probably not worth reading. It’ll probably scare you. It’ll probably entice you, enrage you. It’ll probably do what no ones done.
Or it’ll do nothing at all.
That leads into my second mistake. It’s later than I’d like but not yet late enough for birds to be chirping. The room is lit with one lamp, and form far off I can hear a TV blaring. Tomorrow starts summer school, and I still don’t know if I really want to go.
I’m not sure about a lot of things right now, to tell you the truth. Not sure about why I’m still up right now writing this letter. Not sure if I’ll send it. Not sure if that lousy bang in this lousy neighborhood was a stupid gun.
Don’t worry. It probably wasn’t.
I guess I’m writing this right now because it’s late and I’m buzzed and it’s honest. No, I’m nearly positive its nothing you want o hear, but it’s the truth.
I warned you. Quit complaining.
This is therapy for me. Its blank lines and I’m the one who’s going to fill them up. I’m the one who will make them words, manipulate them, give them life.
It’s all about power, really. Same as a kid stoned feels power when he’s on top of the world, same as a judge feels power condemning a convict, same as God feels power over us.
It’s all about getting closer to God, really.
Well sorry mom. Sorry God.
You see, I’m just trying to live my life with as little mistakes as possible. I’m trying to do what every other person is attempting, trying to live and be happy, and know what it means to be content.
Give me happiness.
That’s like a kid saying give me a cake, but don’t put it into the oven. Don’t let it rise, don’t cook it. Bake me happiness, but don’t cook it.
I’m going through the motions. You teach us not to, but you condemn us to it. It’s not your fault, mind you. You’re doing to, too. We’re all living because we want happiness, we’re trying of so very hard to achieve something, to be able to look back and realize we were great.
We’re all perfect little angels with the potential for anything, but none of us are willing to work for it.
We are trapped.
I had a conversation with my dad yesterday about his drinking. I know this must be getting very personal, and you’d rather avoid that because you don’t feel comfortable, but hey! I warned you.
I tried, so hard, to convince him to stop drinking. We were outside sitting in chairs, the two dollar kind you buy for the beach, on the pavement we call a backyard. I’m painting him a picture of possibilities, flowers and sunshine and all that jazz. The way our family could be.
You know. If he stopped drinking.
I don’t believe you’ve ever met my dad, so lemme tell you about him. He’s seven years away from fifty without a possession to his name. He works at some high position at some fancy-spancy hotel downtown somewhere. He is never fully clean shaven, and his breath always smells like smoke and alcohol.
This day, this day I’m talking to him he’s sting in the same shorts he wears every other day he's not at work, but they’re around his ass showing his swim trunks not wet. He’s got this white tank top on with more holes than porous skin, and a dirty baseball cap. He’s sitting in this chair on this concrete slab outside our rented town house, but five feet away on either side from another family, and I’m telling him that we could all be better.
I’m telling him that we could all be happy. That I love him, and mom loves him, and goddamit, God loves him but he needs to stop! And he’s nodding like he gets it and his eyes are closed like its making sense, and he says he loves me too, and I’m smart, or so fucking smart.
But then he takes another sip of that goddamn beer.
Tonight, his breath still smelled stale. He still wobbles when he talks.
Sorry mom. Sorry God.
Don’t judge him, though. It’s not his fault. He’s trapped, just like me. Just like everybody. Trapped in this world we’ve made for ourselves, this little perfect box that we live in, unawares of our own trap.
He was never very smart. He tried, sure. But he could never keep up with his older brother, older Doctor Michael in Florida with the rich house, living the ‘American Dream.’
Dad says that kids make hum the richest man in the world, but really he doesn’t mean it. If he did, his breath wouldn’t be so stale. If he did, I wouldn’t have made the mistake of writing about him in this letter.
Yes, I know that that was a mistake.
We live in a society where everything starts with high school. We’re just learning what words like ‘masturbate’ and ‘premenstrual cycle’ really mean, but we’re already responsible for the rest of our lives. We need to get certain grades to get into a certain college to make a certain income to achieve what we’re all really looking for.
Problem is, no one knows what they want. And especially not a hormonal, annoying, hardly pubescent teenager who can’t think about anything else but when they’re going to get laid next.
Japan has the highest suicide rate in the world. Sure, they kill themselves under pressure. But we condemn ourselves to it.
For all the answers to those burning, life altering questions, consult the fortune cookie association.
So we end up like my dad, forty-something and drunk without a possession to our name with nothing to bring us happiness. If we can’t find happiness, we look for an escape.
But the grass is never really greener on the other side.
And one day, we wake up twenty something working at Kroger, living in our mother’s basement and realize our entire life was just one. big. mistake.
Sorry mom. Sorry God.
The clock is ticking. We’re getting older, older, and we’re wasting time. It’s late, and there’s no sign of it getting any earlier. Sometimes, when it’s really late at night and I can’t sleep, I envy the birds. Sure, they’re stuck going through the motions like everything else, but at least they’re flying high and that bang probably wasn’t a gun.
And then what do we do, once we’ve hit that point? Once we’ve gotten out of college, written the alumnus newspaper about the job that we got that we would even bother writing an alumnus newspaper about, once we’ve saved and saved for that bigger break, that better deal, and bought our house, a car, a family.
Now we’re forty-something with health insurance, and a kid graduating high school with merits, and we’ve taken the place of someone else’s rich Old Doctor Michael. Now we’re sitting on the edge of our pool under the hot sun with swim trunks on and no shirt, sun tan lotion smeared across our faces, watching a tuck take a crap in the pool.
Now we’re buying plasma TV’s for three-thousand dollars, two hundred thousand dollar cash deposits on beach condo’s, a horse for little miss so and so.
Now we’re packing to our biweekly trip around the world. This week we’re going to Antarctica. Why? Why not?
And you know, maybe this is what we want. Maybe this is how we beat the game. Maybe this is exactly where I want to be when I’m forty-something and balding. Sure I haven’t seen my family in three months and a day, but my condo at the beach sure is snazzy!
Maybe this is happiness.
But probably, its not.
Sorry mom. Sorry Coach Allosso.
I’ll see you in September, and you’ll act like this letter didn’t mean anything to you, and it didn’t matter, and maybe it didn’t.
But probably, it did.


(Take my hand)

[26 Jun 2006|11:06pm]
I'm asking you honey, for a knife
To carve away the decay,
I'm here for the night, and I can't find the switch.
I'm asking you honey, to show me the sky
Lets set the school on fire
Lets explode.

(2 Watch me fall | Take my hand)

[26 Jun 2006|10:47pm]
I'm thinking of a story. Its late, not to late, but later than I'd like. I'm sitting at home on the computer, and can't think of a god damn thing. Haven't thought of a thing in a while. Getting tired of not being able to.

I met this guy tonight. His nane is Chris. I like him alot.

My mind is blank, and my canvas is dusty. I need to write something. Something inspirational. Something unique. I need to be able to. I need to think.


I'm sitting in a theater and the actors on stage look all to familiar. Their eyes are too sunken in though, their movements delayed. The details escape me, and I can't think anymore. I can't breath anymore.

Save me from [myself.]
Talk to me.
Shake me out of this. Give me heartache, give me inspiriation.

Make me inspirational.

I'm tired of being bland and crying without crying and missing.

Give me plot, rising action, climax.

Give me falling action, resolution, sequel.


I want to end this. I don't know how. I won't walk away from this enlightened, and I won't feel better. Neither will you. If I was your best friend, maybe its time to find another, because I'm changing baby, and it doesn't seem like its for the best.

Give me a pen. Give me something.

I'll walk away and cry. Or try. Tears are hard to comeby, nowadays.

I need these feelings like I need teeth in my asshole.

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I'm thinking of a story. Its late, not to late, but later than I'd like. I'm sitting at home on the computer, and can't think of a god damn thing. Haven't thought of a thing in a while. Getting tired of not being able to.

I met this guy tonight. His nane is Chris. I like him alot.

My mind is blank, and my canvas is dusty. I need to write something. Something inspirational. Something unique. I need to be able to. I need to think.


I'm sitting in a theater and the actors on stage look all to familiar. Their eyes are too sunken in though, their movements delayed. The details escape me, and I can't think anymore. I can't breath anymore.

Save me from [myself.]
Talk to me.
Shake me out of this. Give me heartache, give me inspiriation.

Make me inspirational.

I'm tired of being bland and crying without crying and missing.

Give me plot, rising action, climax.

Give me falling action, resolution, sequel.


I want to end this. I don't know how. I won't walk away from this enlightened, and I won't feel better. Neither will you. If I was your best friend, maybe its time to find another, because I'm changing baby, and it doesn't seem like its for the best.

Give me a pen. Give me something.

I'll walk away and cry. Or try. Tears are hard to comeby, nowadays.

I need these feelings like I need teeth in my asshole.

<I need to be original.>

I need to stop writing.

I'm drowning.

This is probably nothing. Forget it. I'm probably okay, really, I am. That nuece hanging around my neck, its just for decoration.


I don't have the stall picked out and ready, I don't know when I'm going to jump. This probably won't amount to anything, I probably don't even have that nuece anymore. Glad you stopped looking.

Really. I'll be okay.

I remember when I was a little kid. A dumb, stupid little kid. I would take balloons and write on them. Little messages. "Hey grandma, hope to see you soon." Things that like. That was before I knew she had died from cancer. That was before the funeral, before the red paint that I wore, before the black suit.

See, my being a little kid and not knowing better, I would let these balloons go. I'd get up on top of the tallest hill in town, and just let the balloon float away. And I thought, I really thought, that grandma would get that balloon. That it'd find its way to her, and I'd see her soon, and we'd go to the park and she'd rock my in the swing, and I'd float away just like a balloon.

Last night I went to the tallest hill in town and blew up a balloon. I all over it, little things like "I'm crying myself to bed at night because the sandman forgot me."

Little things like "Daddy's breath is stale with alcohol, I hope he dies soon."

Little things like "They tell me to be original and creative and think for myself but they touch themselves in the bathroom with the hand they read the bible with."

I'm pissing blood in my black trousers, and everytime I change them. And everday I wear those same black trousers.

This won't make sense to you. And I'll let you in on a secret.

In the morning, when all is said and done, it won't make sense to me either.

I wish I could stay, but summer school starts in six hours and I'm already failing.


(1 Watch me fall | Take my hand)

[20 Jun 2006|01:55pm]
I'm in a rut.

I can't think straight about anything, I can't create. Things that were once important aren't anymore.

I can't write, and thats what I want to be able to do. Its the only thing I really want for myself. My ability to write.

No heart ache, no pain, no conflict. Without these things in my life to provide inspiration, I am nothing but the same. Tomorrow will be the same as today, and I know it. No new experiences means no new writings. I can't even think of words anymore.

I'm becoming bland. I'm losing it. I'm losing me.

Its sad.

(Take my hand)

I guess we're growing up, kiddies. [12 Jun 2006|02:28pm]
The year is over. Sure, we got a few days left for finals, and maybe we'll get some real learning experience in. But probably not.

Its hard to be sad about it, this time around. The trick to never feeling sadness is to detach yourself from it.

Don't think of it so much as being an ending so much as being put on hold.

The sound of burning buildings and torn up applications is your waiting music.

I'm pissing in my black trousers on the school roof and wondering what have I really learned?

Don't think of it so much as being a waste so much as time unspent.

And maybe one day it'll be okay. Maybe one day I'll look back, and smile. Maybe I'll remember my best friends, and favorite teachers, and laugh about worrying about that stupid final exam I aced and wonder why I took japanese over spanish and tell myself that it was all worth it, and write to the alumnus magazine about my fancy spancy job with that big company that sell's whoknowswhat, and maybe I'll be happy with everything I ever did, but probably, I won't be.

Don't think of it as laziness so much as missed oppurtunity.

Sugar coat me a world, I can't handle it all.

(3 Watch me fall | Take my hand)

Time flies when you're trying to forget the world. [30 May 2006|05:22pm]
[ mood | Take a guess, & throw it away ]

I was asked to update, so here I am. Updating.

Been a while, lots has happened. Blah blah blah. This isn't a chronicle of my life as it was, but of the way it is.

As of the moment, I'm sitting at the store. I do that a lot nowadays, sit around and do nothing. Maybe I'm gaining weight. Can't tell. Don't know if I want to know or not.

First year of high school is almost over. Its gone by in a flash. Wasn't it two days ago that I saw Lizzie last? I thought I had a paper due in Mrs. Fitzgeralds class. No? That was a year ago? Go figure.

Happier now, I suppose. Happier in some sense, sad and confused and broken and none of the above in another.

Never been happier with any one single person in my life. I love my Lauren. That hasn't changed. Don't expect it to for quite a while (or atleast, hope it doesn't.)

Only problem with loving one person completely? Hard to find a balance to love others incompletely. Or at all. Or have the time to figure out how to again. Or to figure out myself.

Deep inner workings of an alleviated mind needs time to breath. Little extra time to do anything, nowadays.

I'm not complaining, ok? I know that it sounds like that. But I'm not. Life is good, and I appreciate it, or try to, every single day. Like tonight. Know what I'll be doing? I'll be in the company of my girlfriend, revelling in our youth and ignorance to a world we think we know so well. And you know what else? Thats a good thing.

And then there are those things are not so good. Like when you're a kid and you find one of those bugs that light up, and you catch it in a jar. What're those things called again? Oh well, I guess it's not important. Anyway, you find them and you have them in that jar and you are so happy, because now you have a friend. You talk to it, and you smile and the world doesn't seem so dark because now, no matter what, you have your friend who happens to have a light built into its tail.

But then you realize, maybe it can't breath that well. The light dims. You know you have to let it go. You were so happy a moment before, and now its over, and you cry.

But I always remember, after crying cause I had to let my friend go, smiling. Because I let it be free.

And whats better than freedom?

So things are good. And things could be better, sure. But things are good.

Think sun set on the horizon good. Think starry sky without the illumination of the city lights good. Think enlightenment. Then throw those things away, and just stop thinking...

(1 Watch me fall | Take my hand)

Life has never been so fucking good...so slit your wrist and watch the blood spill... [09 Feb 2006|04:22pm]
I've lost it baby.

I've lost it.

(Take my hand)

gogogo [05 Feb 2006|12:58am]

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