there are so many things
i've been tangled lines lately, trying to rework myself but i can't seem
to find the right strings to pull
maybe i am just pulling too much
have you ever noticed
how much i really don't
give a fuck about sex
and that's all everyone
wants to talk about
show me something else
other than your simply
wired dick that i can easily
unhem with my fingers
some mornings i wake up
wanting to draw lines
a sickness in my hands
they are everywhere, really
ones that break and bend and conform
and i watch the lines
in a woman's hip,
the break of a boy's lips
the press of two lines
i feel so lousy
for not showing you
who i am.
if i could break
my skull and release
my phantoms and
but i sit at a desk
or a keyboard or
a canvas and nothing leaves,
my voice is silent and
i am unreachable.
most of the time.
i want to create something
but i don't have the patience
lately to sit down and
i hate that i am putting everything off
i hate that i am ignoring everyone
i hate that my grandmother is dying and
is handing out the things she can't take
to her grave like pendants and earrings
and bracelets and photos and i
couldn't fucking go to visit her
the other day,
i stayed here in my bed and i refused to
leave and i just cried like a fucking bastard,
pitiful shit. and i thought maybe someone
would stop me from being who i was meant to
be but no one did.
i just want to leave, you know?
but not far. far enough
for you to extend your hand and say,
but i won't.
i never come back for the right reasons.
i never come back for the right person.
i will do better
there was a journal i read the other day
and i can't help but to agree with it
do you ever have those moments
i am not who i thought i was.
no one knows you more than you
and yet you feel as though
you may not no yourself in
all aspects at all
i've almost finished my novel but it will not be done by november.
i had hoped i could pull through, doing 1,000 or so words a day
but i couldn't.
i am lying. i could have.
but most of the days in november i
couldn't pull myself from my bed
or i had things to do or things i forgot
or just really wanted to watch some
game of thrones.
but december is not a bad month for writing
especially since i will have [more] free time
i use that word delicately
i like that word, delicate
it feels like sugar when i say it
but i hate those things, i hate the way they tingle
my poetry teacher told me i read aloud well.
i'm not sure
if that is an accomplishment i want to celebrate
i wish my life was categorized in files,
and i could pull out the moments that
keep me from sleeping at night and catch
my breath with fear in the morning.
i wake up and think, it never happened
but it did and i feel so sick
i want to burn it. all of it
stomp on the flames and sing some
iroquois shit unheard of
and wake up and think, later
that never happened,
and have it be true
i want to write so bad
i'll do that
and i will stop ignoring everyone
up, up, up