(no subject)
Here is all the prose I've ever written. I'm making an art journal for my mister and pretty much all of it is going in it. And yeah, it's a lot for you casual readers. It's not enough in my eyes.
Poetry seems so false to me now. It’s safe to hide behind metaphors because no one wants to write what they’re thinking. But I think it’s easier to write without thinking. The words are your true voice. Phones have nothing on our voice.
But my phone does sit too silent sometimes.
Do people wonder as much as I wonder? I see an old couple eating at a restaurant, one looking out the window, and the other pretending her nails have some delightful amusement hidden underneath. Are they happy? Why can’t they capture the words that float around them? I don’t think they want to capture them. But I know there was a time that she could have been anywhere, and inhaled, and he would have heard it. He would have smelled her and tasted her. There was once a moment.
It’s so easy to become bitter. Life is surely ironic. It’s those people that try so hard to be good in their lives that are handed shit. Does it make us stronger? I don’t really know.
I love seeing new lovers. Their hands are clasped together and that’s the only reason you’d know they knew each other because their bodies are so far apart. But still. There’s that aroma of fresh roses and late night phone calls. Eventually the roses wilt, and the phone calls stop. But it’s okay to enjoy the moment.
I feel pain a lot. It’s hard to describe how I can be so happy in one minute and feel like my insides are being sucked out the next. But it’s a hurt that’s undeniable. It can be so overwhelming that sometimes I think it’s beautiful to hurt. I know that’s something only a few can understand.
Not you though.
Today I’m sitting wearing a skirt and a tank top, pretending it’s spring. The fan is blowing my hair in my face while I pretend the wind would actually accept me. The transformation from winter to spring is miraculous. I’ve never heard of anyone sitting outside, enjoying the cold weather. Yet so many claim to love it. In the winter, everyone hides in their cold apartments, with their legs crossed eating out of take-out foam boxes watching their insecurities on the television screen. In only the spring, not the summer because it would be too hot, you see floods of people laying in the bright grass, maybe under an oak tree, highlighting passages out of books while their lover lays on their lap listening to hours of amazing music while imagining what their world will be like, what the girl with the red book bag dreams of. It’s nice to wonder.
In my head there lies a world full of umbrellas and you. We take these umbrellas and spin them around with such childhood fervor until they make more colors than one could ever dream of. We use them to spin across the ocean until we landed wherever we happened to land and that would be okay. The ocean knows nothing of insecurities so that makes us feel safe. You see, in my world we would be one body with two umbrellas, constantly circling creating more and more colors. At night, we could lay in one sleeping bag, pretending we know constellations, because that would be romantic.
He could make pain beautiful. He is broken. That’s what caught my eye. The grass is greener on my side of the fence because I jumped over and found this person, when the sun was setting right above his head, so that his hair would shimmer, but only in certain parts, which impressed me more. And he had yet to know my name. I am broken. He could melt me with words but he loved picking up the pieces because we owed each other that. In the morning, he wears the sky, and breaks off a cloud, just for me. Everyone glances. I am radiance. At night the moon likes to squeeze between the blinds and pull the sheets off of us to remind us that love can be pure.
I was lying in bed and the clock was radiating five twenty six. My eyes always search above me, as if you'd appear. There’s always an unspoken hope in the late night hours. The TV and ceiling like to share colors, as if they’re dancing, and I like to watch the white replace the black. I remembered the times you'd tuck me inside your arms and our heartbeats would race to see whose would beat faster. You were always beautiful to me. And I miss you.
I like to hear the rain sometimes. Especially at night. I’d sit upon a porch swing, with my knees placed firmly against my chest, and my hair slightly moving east in accordance to the breeze and I’d watch as the rain drops fall, dribble across the ground, and fall gracefully into any crevice caring enough to take it in, despite all the dirt it managed to track in with it. If only people would be so accepting.
Poetry seems so false to me now. It’s safe to hide behind metaphors because no one wants to write what they’re thinking. But I think it’s easier to write without thinking. The words are your true voice. Phones have nothing on our voice.
But my phone does sit too silent sometimes.
Do people wonder as much as I wonder? I see an old couple eating at a restaurant, one looking out the window, and the other pretending her nails have some delightful amusement hidden underneath. Are they happy? Why can’t they capture the words that float around them? I don’t think they want to capture them. But I know there was a time that she could have been anywhere, and inhaled, and he would have heard it. He would have smelled her and tasted her. There was once a moment.
It’s so easy to become bitter. Life is surely ironic. It’s those people that try so hard to be good in their lives that are handed shit. Does it make us stronger? I don’t really know.
I love seeing new lovers. Their hands are clasped together and that’s the only reason you’d know they knew each other because their bodies are so far apart. But still. There’s that aroma of fresh roses and late night phone calls. Eventually the roses wilt, and the phone calls stop. But it’s okay to enjoy the moment.
I feel pain a lot. It’s hard to describe how I can be so happy in one minute and feel like my insides are being sucked out the next. But it’s a hurt that’s undeniable. It can be so overwhelming that sometimes I think it’s beautiful to hurt. I know that’s something only a few can understand.
Not you though.
Today I’m sitting wearing a skirt and a tank top, pretending it’s spring. The fan is blowing my hair in my face while I pretend the wind would actually accept me. The transformation from winter to spring is miraculous. I’ve never heard of anyone sitting outside, enjoying the cold weather. Yet so many claim to love it. In the winter, everyone hides in their cold apartments, with their legs crossed eating out of take-out foam boxes watching their insecurities on the television screen. In only the spring, not the summer because it would be too hot, you see floods of people laying in the bright grass, maybe under an oak tree, highlighting passages out of books while their lover lays on their lap listening to hours of amazing music while imagining what their world will be like, what the girl with the red book bag dreams of. It’s nice to wonder.
In my head there lies a world full of umbrellas and you. We take these umbrellas and spin them around with such childhood fervor until they make more colors than one could ever dream of. We use them to spin across the ocean until we landed wherever we happened to land and that would be okay. The ocean knows nothing of insecurities so that makes us feel safe. You see, in my world we would be one body with two umbrellas, constantly circling creating more and more colors. At night, we could lay in one sleeping bag, pretending we know constellations, because that would be romantic.
He could make pain beautiful. He is broken. That’s what caught my eye. The grass is greener on my side of the fence because I jumped over and found this person, when the sun was setting right above his head, so that his hair would shimmer, but only in certain parts, which impressed me more. And he had yet to know my name. I am broken. He could melt me with words but he loved picking up the pieces because we owed each other that. In the morning, he wears the sky, and breaks off a cloud, just for me. Everyone glances. I am radiance. At night the moon likes to squeeze between the blinds and pull the sheets off of us to remind us that love can be pure.
I was lying in bed and the clock was radiating five twenty six. My eyes always search above me, as if you'd appear. There’s always an unspoken hope in the late night hours. The TV and ceiling like to share colors, as if they’re dancing, and I like to watch the white replace the black. I remembered the times you'd tuck me inside your arms and our heartbeats would race to see whose would beat faster. You were always beautiful to me. And I miss you.
I like to hear the rain sometimes. Especially at night. I’d sit upon a porch swing, with my knees placed firmly against my chest, and my hair slightly moving east in accordance to the breeze and I’d watch as the rain drops fall, dribble across the ground, and fall gracefully into any crevice caring enough to take it in, despite all the dirt it managed to track in with it. If only people would be so accepting.