I can't believe I acted that way.
I don't know why I stole my own peace away.
I let her words dive deep into my sorrow and got mad at my helplessness.
That old familiar sensation of alone.
I let my mind run a game on me where I felt crazier than when I was 17.
Back then I'd go walk on the road, by myself.
Last night I wanted to run, instead I kicked the wall and a hole through it.
I threw my phone when she told me I'd have to do it on my own.
She never listens so I don't know why I thought I could get it out
and have her understand. She makes it about her when I was trying
to tell her what was bouncing in my head, in my head, in MY HEAD.
Instead I came off as a judgmental psycho who wouldn't let her sleep.
I started out saying no, let's talk when you're sober.
I should have kept my mouth shut and waited til tomorrow
which is now today. I made a poor choice now she thinks I'm unworthy.
What am I doing? seriously. This broken record on repeat is nauseating.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Greenish Blue
I have this translation of time that takes collections of lifetimes like they were mushrooms. I find a path under the pines, secluded like all of the others and there I spot the time where I rubbed cheek to cheek with those whose genetic codes I shared. Our cells always vibrate close to the ones we love.
Now I'm here in another time, still bending perception with lacy white glove, a wand of sorts that I can use to distort or frame, like a lightning bug when it hits the screen. I use it to unveil the obscene and impose lightened ions on situations that seem too knotted to untangle, I revoke that notion and pull on the string.
In this dream there's a dog sunning herself against cool aged concrete. Watching the birds she observes the shadows they make on the four inch patchy grass, she thinks of smelling their wing tips but just scratches her ass.
In this dream I catch a decade back by the neck and feel like a teen, awkward and new but postured through and through. I crack bitter jokes and hop around in my thoughts as I showed them my kaleidescope. I was always finding reasons to be alone--to hear my thoughts, to try my hands at the arts of divination and creation and let's not forget about mutual masturbation.
In the last one I batted out of the park I left with a pattering rhythm of guilt and humbleness, maybe the same loner type of insubordinate beats. I left feeling like the lifetimes I have spent trying to reclaim this imagination of a better place where we don't have to fight for equal rights or to grow food in the sunlight can exist. I left feeling like accessed memories are a subconscious effort to remind me to soak in the styles of my grandparents' eyes and to continual be thankful for the purpose of surprise.
When I sat up groggy and concerned I went right to the photo album to remember their colors and sideways leanings. Most of the dead still show up from time to time.
Now I'm here in another time, still bending perception with lacy white glove, a wand of sorts that I can use to distort or frame, like a lightning bug when it hits the screen. I use it to unveil the obscene and impose lightened ions on situations that seem too knotted to untangle, I revoke that notion and pull on the string.
In this dream there's a dog sunning herself against cool aged concrete. Watching the birds she observes the shadows they make on the four inch patchy grass, she thinks of smelling their wing tips but just scratches her ass.
In this dream I catch a decade back by the neck and feel like a teen, awkward and new but postured through and through. I crack bitter jokes and hop around in my thoughts as I showed them my kaleidescope. I was always finding reasons to be alone--to hear my thoughts, to try my hands at the arts of divination and creation and let's not forget about mutual masturbation.
In the last one I batted out of the park I left with a pattering rhythm of guilt and humbleness, maybe the same loner type of insubordinate beats. I left feeling like the lifetimes I have spent trying to reclaim this imagination of a better place where we don't have to fight for equal rights or to grow food in the sunlight can exist. I left feeling like accessed memories are a subconscious effort to remind me to soak in the styles of my grandparents' eyes and to continual be thankful for the purpose of surprise.
When I sat up groggy and concerned I went right to the photo album to remember their colors and sideways leanings. Most of the dead still show up from time to time.
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