My InspirationYou once asked me what inspired me, sweet love;And I shall tell what you want to hear...It is a girl who isn't clever, but clever in what she knowsand a lost boy who knows exactly where he is going to go.It is the scent of cologne and smoke and lovemakingand a man who wears his heart on his sleeveIt is a woman who has always believed in her loverand he will let her down no moreIt is a sick man who is whole againand the wife who stayed by his sideIt is a writer who has found a brand new museand the paint of the artist who draws her loverIt is the words of a poet whose trust is renewedand the warmth in the words of the
the soccer game.the thing is, i needthe deer to mean something.-i go to the soccer game and smileand nod while something furiousinside of me is screaming.a deer appears while the sunis setting and it's like a scenefrom a movie: green grass and gold raysthat spread out, tingeing our feetwith one last bit of wednesday.everyone watches the deer and makes noises of appreciation and i lookaround and i think to myself"okay, this is it, i am happy."-the deer is watching me and i tryto decide if it's a metaphor.i want the deer to be death, see,to represent fucking or blackingout or apathy or loneliness.someone does something
A Child AgainI wish I could be a child again.Where all I had to worry aboutWere skinned kneesAnd cooties from boys.I wish I would be a child again.Where boys ran away from girlsAnd no one lied.I wish I could be a child again.Where parents were devotedIn every part of my life.I wish I could be a child again.When there was recess,And fun and games.I want to be a child again.I want the child meant wonder.I want the never ending hope.I want loyalty.I want simplicity.I want to be a child again.I want my innocence back.I want to not have to worry.I want grades that don't matterI want time outs to be the worse punishme
In the EndIn the end,We try to pretend,Everything's fine,And you're still mine.But you aren't,And you can't,Stand to be,Around me.We're upside down,And running around,Trying to find,What we left behind.But what do we do,I wish I knew,How to fix it,Even if only a bit.I love you,More than you knew,But you didn't know,I wish I could show,How I feel,But your heart's like steel,You've rejected me now,And I don't know how,I'll be able to look at you again...
Riding BikesGoing off medication is like riding a bike.The doctor holds tight to my handlebars and lowers my dosage. The training wheels are off, and oh hey, look at me go! It's like flying but not, and I'm doing so well but then there's a horrible accident and I'm somehow upside down at the bottom of the sea with both wheels still spinning."Help," I say, and my doctor pats my head, puts a band-aid on my knee, and writes a note on my chart.I've balanced by myself for months at a time, but I always end up hitting a fucking tree or falling off a cliff or something equally catastrophic because I am a catastrophic person. Except that is an exaggeration
Tired.I, am tired.Tired of feeling.Tired of all the hard work of healing.Tired of failing.Tired of falling.Tired.I am tired of things,People, and notions.Tired of people, And tired of their motions.Tired of their talkTired of their commotion.Tired of everythingInside and outTired of hating Too tired to poutI just wish,Wish I could live, Live underwaterSome place to forgiveSome place to wishAnd wish I shall doWish to not be tiredOh, please wish, Come true.
HappyYou looked. I glanced. We met. I smiled. You smiled back. A sentence here. A metaphor there. A memory we both found beyond repair. I shared. You listened. You shared. I heard. You paused. And then I kissed you.We're happy.Fingers pressed skin. Then danced apart. I teased. You laughed. You joked. I grinned. Stairwells were dreamcatchers. Stars were destinies. Guitars became epiphanies. More words. More memories. More to admit. More to regret. You were damaged. I was broken.We're happy.You stopped smiling. I didn't laugh. Words began to go unspoken. Regrets emerged. Fingers didn't touch. Lips faltered. Stairwells were nightmare holders.
NPR three minute story submission She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. That low rumble had been Tom's temperamental engine; she was sure of it. The sound had tattooed itself on the inside of Anna's ears ages ago. Maybe he was sitting in the front seat of his car, trying to work up the courage to knock. Maybe his brows would knit together and his mouth would quirk and he would say, "I missed you, Sunshine," though he had never once called her by that nickname. Maybe she could apologize, and he would kiss the insides of her wrists, the back of her neck, her eyelids. Yes, she could hear a car door opening. If she listened
the perfect strangershe misses colin the most at night, when, waking from nightmares, her hand reaches out into the darkness for someone who is no longer there.-an unexpected message flares briefly on her screen, long enough for her heart to drop into her stomach in surpriseher ex-boyfriend's little sister's ex-boyfriend? sighing, she types a hello and strains her memory to recall what she knows of this boy from their one brief meeting. his name is aaron. tall. shaggy bed-head hair. sleepy hazel eyes. she lightly touches the keyboard, entertaining the notion that other people might feel as lonely at night as she does."tell me a secret," she types to
numbit is two o' clock in the morning and i can't sleep. or i sleep too much. one of the two, and the pills make three. they stew and burn the back of my throat; the chemicals dissolve and form words.the medical literature didn't say anything about that. or the numbness in my arms and legs. the tingling has crept up my right leg for the past week, weaving itself between my toes and nipping at the back of my knee. maybe it's a side effect, or maybe it's diabetes. or a blood clot. maybe my foot will need to be amputated, and i will have to hobble down the aisle for our wedding.he coughs beside me, still fast asleep, and i touch one of his eyebr
no one warned the little girlssometimes you will fall in love with the hands or with the jawline, not with the penis. watch out for boys whose eyes are rougher than their voices. little girls love hard and fast, and it is a lie to say that words will never hurt you.kissing in the rain is not romantic. it's coldand wet, and your nipples will be like pebblesdigging into his skin. he'll wipe water from your lashes, and, if he is polite, he'll pretendnot to notice his thumb blackened by mascara.later as he sleeps you will watch his lips,unable to feel anything except your haircurled damply against your skin.when you were young, sex was strange an
I usually love the softness of the lowercase, though.
Excellent and most illuminating.
Thank you!