Old, wrote this last Summer

We're All Doing Just Fine

Old fashioned. Doesn't own all those gadgets you see everyone snatching the air for. Those silly children, grabbing from the giving palms of their blind mommies and daddies. An assortment of cups and mugs rest moistureless in a broken dishwasher. Gently spreads the table cloth evenly on the wooden table as a mask for all the mug stains. Fixes the back upright that keeps popping out of the top rail on the old chairs. Washes and dries the class dishes, manages to fit them in the tiny cupboards. Boredom is broken with the chipping of the kitchen counter. Fancy the DVD player and the computer. Not one big screen TV to be found. Mom irons clothes in the boy's old room. Dad whispers to himself all he hates so loud that she can hear him. Mom badgers the air with complaints. Dad and daughter, so unreasonable. Pulls father's seemingly filthy but genuinely clean clothes from the dryer. Dad dripping tears over his new iPod and skis. Can't get enough. Works so hard for nothing, makes him moody. She don't mind, but everyone else does, secretly. She looks into their eyes. They don't find her very lucky. But she learned the right way. Mom and Dad. Back in the day they were doing just fine. We're all doing just fine.

Naturally Needy

Some things a human just needs.

And my constant battle with what a human needs just makes things worse for me.

I'm sick of me. I'm over me.

I want to share me so I'm not the same. Even though I know I can't accept newness.

Newness is a great spark for anxiety in a lot of people. 

Dreams really rub things in your face. It's a reminder that I need something.

It makes things hard to handle, like an earthquake. Or maybe I do need it as a pusher to "participate in life."

But in the end, my true nature is always full blown, all fantasies aside.

I. Don't. Deal. With. Anything.

I will be incomplete for the rest of my days. And I'm not being dramatic.

Sometimes one can be so pathetic that they wish someone would spy on them. Through their window, I mean. Watch them in their messy bedroom staring at all the good they tacked onto their walls, or just sitting and staring at the mess they're supposed to clean, looking miserable as hell. They always hated the shit out of their messes, but they could just never bring themselves to move their muscles, especially at night time when they're super weary from the day. They kind of like the mess, though. It makes them seem busy or something, or like they have too much on their hands to care about the place they only go to sleep and stare at their walls.

Velcro Brains

Some people need all the geothermal energy in the world to pry their ego from their brains. It's some top notch velcro. Their parents are fine velcro-makers.

Global warming is happening, and it's not worth it to question such a big, GLOBAL problem when it's happening at this very moment.

Some times we need to write lame poems...

Wrote this one a while back...

She's so inactive, she thinks it's unattractive.

Truth is, screwed up by not knowing what's glowing.

These are the days where the rain is pouring,

she still thinks you're snoring,

you're shooting, scoring,

and she's still ignoring.

Mother dear shakes her shoulder

Still asleep, she's never felt colder

wonders if she'll ever feel older

but she likes the way things look

Through windows she'll notice that she can't focus.

Behind the dew, she can't peer through

The dew won't blur without a sir. 

She chooses to wear

a white feather in her hair.

Good luck darling,

now stop snarling!

Cowardice or a new beginning?

What man is, is a reasoning whiz.

We choose what's best, cause we are blessed.

So cowardice, or a simple kiss?

Never go to Britain, 

you'll never be smitten.

Out the door, smells the wet of the floor.

Takes comfort in

the pavement's spin.

Mother's windshield wipers wipe off the excuses,

Those dewy, dewy excuses.

And she focuses on the outside, only to see

that the sunrise has been obscured, unfortunately

by the gray of the clouds. The ones I've always loved

Unconditionally, their shape and size doesn't matter

The fattest man I've ever loved

The grayest man I've ever loved

He covers you, out of jealousy and rage,

And I can't move him from the stage

Tis a show for all the rain lovers to enjoy

and another excuse for the sun to destroy.

You are the sunrise, you really are.

I noticed it first, and I still like them.

Just a little bit of writing practice

It's not up to you.

You've sinned too much to allow yourself heaven on earth.

It's hard to let it be your place to own something precious.

And with the free-will of everyone else turning on you and walking towards fate, you lay down on your bed, soft as a rock.

You deny yourself happiness and pleasure, the real, true kind. You simply won't have it. You will punish yourself sub-consciously. 

"Oh call me Felicity"

You write that bullshit for no reason.

You write what won't help anyone, not even you.

You write what will help the people who have the same blues in common wallow in their whirlpools of wet tears.

And you sit here even now and write and write and complain and complain. Someday you will be enlightened. Someday you'll be enlightened.

La Grande Adventure.

Growing up is going to be fun as hell. Think Liberties, think drinks and dice and drives and dresses and lipstick. Think bare backs and big words and cigarettes and sheets. Think apartments and walls and shadows. Think the skies you'll get to see. The places you'll be. The vibes you'll never forget. All the music you've never heard. The curls and waves. The eyes and legs. Think the bodies of water you'll see, the puddles in the busy streets. Think the smile and the guy. The cold wind and the flushed cheeks. The tans and the cans. The middles of nowheres. The lights and the tights. The stumbling and the mumbling. The clubs and stripes, shoes and stars. Think all of the images of what you don't know for now.