Little pieces of writing, shipwrecked - no, thrown overboard. Thrown overboard and floating in the ocean. Puzzle pieces except that they’ll never fit together, ever, no matter what sort of a mood you’re in because there isn’t just one puzzle, there’s a dozen, and they never ever go back together.

Piece by piece, fragments. Hit the previous button ( Read more... )

And I was in the kitchen
with the lights turned off
so early it was late in the
morning night, doing shots.
Shots of guilt as vaccination.
noculation against further
mistakes.

I may wear my youth on my sleeve,
age chiseled from my shoulder, but
I wear my memories as chips beneath my eyelids,
engraved with each blink of emotion.

- but unforgettable
anger is power
car music, mainstream
catharsis
go to sleepy, little baby
muzuki etrangere
strings are sex is strings
when your heart
rhythm & beat
words are meaningless -

Late night, early morning
[Casablanca, Gone with the Wind,
Pulp Fiction, and fictional pulp] discussion.
As always - over and over,
[fruit smoothies; orange juice
thatisn'tjust] analyzation for analysis,
[cold feet - elbowed chests - blanket wars]
talking to talk [dark chocolate in broken chunks]
no illusions of [silly wishful dreams] answers
waiting ( Read more... )

My guilt is ( Read more... )

I am drowning
in
forgotten appointments
and
unreturned messages
and
missed phone calls
and
unanswered emails.

I am suffocating
in
ignored reminders
and
broken resolutions
and
failed plans
and
squandered moments

Cause of death will
be
transgressed promises
and
mislaid notes
and
disregarded correspondence.

Casablanca and Gone with the Wind; a chunk of dark chocolate; fruit smoothies; orange juice thatisn'tjust; messages; silly wishful dreams; shared things and oh, those that aren't and can't; chattering chattering chattering away away; repetition as a desperation in an attempt at communication ( Read more... )

I'm sick of trying not to feel.
I'm sick sick of holding back.
I'm sick sick sick of living afraid to live.
I'm sick sick sick sick of not being able to let go.
I'm sick of this life.

When did I know?

When "What if?" stopped being "What now?" and became "What then?"

A shy smile to a bitten lip to a bitter laugh.

I'm left with simply "What?" and a hint of bile.