I cannot sleep..and I really want a ciggarette..
So, it goes like this, I cannot sleep, so I figured I would share a lot of writing. This is for you jupiblue .
Oh yeah, if you feel like reading, go for it. But Please if you read it, I would like input. Ofcourse if you read it, and don't say anything about it..I really won't know..heh heh..err yeah.
This is some writing I did over the summer, June of 2004.
And now I'm barefoot, in morning dew wet grass. Filthy feet bare. No cares to concern myself with, because I'm letting go with a simple determination.I feel a slight twinge of pain in my feet, but I can't force myself to care. I'm just here-somewhere, nowhere. I have no other place to be, sleep won't visit me in the dark, in the night. It is pointless anyway. Everything is, because no matter how far I go, or how much I accomplish, I am still just somewhere, nowhere.
Maybe that is why I am so undriven, because everywhere I go, there I am. I'd like to believe that something had a point in my life. I'd like to feel as if some of this was of worth, but I have yet to see anything of interest-well interest that was real.
The reality of me is painfully unclear. I wish for my ideas to be transfered into words that somebody besides myself can comprehend. And I wish that I never had to look at another tomorrow, I only want to see tonight. Days only run together and confuse me. There are no days to me, only nights to ponder everything.
Human nature is the only thing that I can believe in. Whom or what created it all isn't something that I have the audasity to question. I see no point in mindless cults to worship, sing, or praise. My prayers go unfullfilled and leave me a little more bitter with each breath, and cast me into a world where I am nothing more than some creature that lurks in the night. Disappointments shatter me me in the harsh Alabama sunlight.
I try so often to simply escape truth, and logic, because they hurt me so. I fail all, because of my dissatisfaction with life. But still I continue to linger with discontent, yet shamefully wishing for more, and more. And I wonder where I can find some happiness, and comfort. Could it be in a person, or money, or faih? I have heard that happiness comes from self. If that is true, than I shall begin to settle, with nothingness, and solitude. I rarely find comfort in "self".
To allow myself to find comfort in a person, to feel some sparke of a connection is another reason for self-loathing. But how do I stop such feelings, how does one go about fixing themselves to complete frigidness?How can I be so cold, to turn my back and deprive myself of feeling something, anything? My heart aches to consider love, all I do is wander aimlessly, only finding false hopes. Each person is yet another false hope, and I hate myself for opening myself to anyone this way. I tear myself to pieces with hopes of another person destrying me, and I simply return to my faithless, hopeless, bitterness. If it is not that, then it is me stuck free falling into a deep sea of hopeless dreams, waiting to fade away one more time. To disslove again. A gentle let down provides even more pointless faith in the good of another person, yet hurting me only burys me further into the ground of embedded sorrows.
I could chose to believe nothing, not one word spoken, not one kiss, one raindrop, or even the slightest of an eye glimmer. That being easier said than done, for I am just one more closet hopeless romantic, no matter how manys times I say that I am not. All I want is to fall into warm ambrace, drenched in rain under love. Or I could lay around laughing, dance in circles and pay no mind to anything but the simple series of moments.
I want for my life to have some sort of significance, and I want to die beloved, not alone. I want something peacefully beautiful and jubilant to leave my mind and drift sweetly over page afer page. I want for something to happen that I do not regret. Something to not fall over into dusty graves, under dirtafter eons of misery. I want to sweep gently through day's sun into the moon. I want reality and truth to be something besides constant dispair and painful memories. I want to smile, and I want to feel complete. But until that day arrives (in dreams) I can only fill pages with constant ramblings, seen through the eyes of misery.
I have these past images to guide me, no praticcal use for them. They only serve to haunt me, and lead me to vacant patched of wet grass.
To be continued...
Oh yeah, if you feel like reading, go for it. But Please if you read it, I would like input. Ofcourse if you read it, and don't say anything about it..I really won't know..heh heh..err yeah.
This is some writing I did over the summer, June of 2004.
And now I'm barefoot, in morning dew wet grass. Filthy feet bare. No cares to concern myself with, because I'm letting go with a simple determination.I feel a slight twinge of pain in my feet, but I can't force myself to care. I'm just here-somewhere, nowhere. I have no other place to be, sleep won't visit me in the dark, in the night. It is pointless anyway. Everything is, because no matter how far I go, or how much I accomplish, I am still just somewhere, nowhere.
Maybe that is why I am so undriven, because everywhere I go, there I am. I'd like to believe that something had a point in my life. I'd like to feel as if some of this was of worth, but I have yet to see anything of interest-well interest that was real.
The reality of me is painfully unclear. I wish for my ideas to be transfered into words that somebody besides myself can comprehend. And I wish that I never had to look at another tomorrow, I only want to see tonight. Days only run together and confuse me. There are no days to me, only nights to ponder everything.
Human nature is the only thing that I can believe in. Whom or what created it all isn't something that I have the audasity to question. I see no point in mindless cults to worship, sing, or praise. My prayers go unfullfilled and leave me a little more bitter with each breath, and cast me into a world where I am nothing more than some creature that lurks in the night. Disappointments shatter me me in the harsh Alabama sunlight.
I try so often to simply escape truth, and logic, because they hurt me so. I fail all, because of my dissatisfaction with life. But still I continue to linger with discontent, yet shamefully wishing for more, and more. And I wonder where I can find some happiness, and comfort. Could it be in a person, or money, or faih? I have heard that happiness comes from self. If that is true, than I shall begin to settle, with nothingness, and solitude. I rarely find comfort in "self".
To allow myself to find comfort in a person, to feel some sparke of a connection is another reason for self-loathing. But how do I stop such feelings, how does one go about fixing themselves to complete frigidness?How can I be so cold, to turn my back and deprive myself of feeling something, anything? My heart aches to consider love, all I do is wander aimlessly, only finding false hopes. Each person is yet another false hope, and I hate myself for opening myself to anyone this way. I tear myself to pieces with hopes of another person destrying me, and I simply return to my faithless, hopeless, bitterness. If it is not that, then it is me stuck free falling into a deep sea of hopeless dreams, waiting to fade away one more time. To disslove again. A gentle let down provides even more pointless faith in the good of another person, yet hurting me only burys me further into the ground of embedded sorrows.
I could chose to believe nothing, not one word spoken, not one kiss, one raindrop, or even the slightest of an eye glimmer. That being easier said than done, for I am just one more closet hopeless romantic, no matter how manys times I say that I am not. All I want is to fall into warm ambrace, drenched in rain under love. Or I could lay around laughing, dance in circles and pay no mind to anything but the simple series of moments.
I want for my life to have some sort of significance, and I want to die beloved, not alone. I want something peacefully beautiful and jubilant to leave my mind and drift sweetly over page afer page. I want for something to happen that I do not regret. Something to not fall over into dusty graves, under dirtafter eons of misery. I want to sweep gently through day's sun into the moon. I want reality and truth to be something besides constant dispair and painful memories. I want to smile, and I want to feel complete. But until that day arrives (in dreams) I can only fill pages with constant ramblings, seen through the eyes of misery.
I have these past images to guide me, no praticcal use for them. They only serve to haunt me, and lead me to vacant patched of wet grass.
To be continued...