Gripped with a stirring case of neuromuscular facilitation I find myself, like an Alzheimer’s patient on rohypnol, once again dragging my cold dead fingers across the keyboard. Jesus.Fucking.Christ ( Read more... )

I can hear you sinking in my heart. Drowning in its weight, calling out my name. Calling for freedom and dreams and what everything seems to be as just nothing or maybe it’s anything but me. It’s a passage of days, of “please don’t” ‘s and “stay” ‘s, of whispers and screams and experience at bay. Everything. Nothing. Here it’s the same. I can’t ( Read more... )

I sound exactly like Dr. Seuss. I am reading my writing... and I am Dr. Seuss. What.The.Fuck.

Lets see if I can't break the habit.
I don't know where I first saw him. In retrospect it seems as though he's always been there - but that's simply not true. No, I'm sure there was a time before this, before him, if only for my continued sanity. ( Read more... )

Trembling with indecision, a scribe to his muse, and a home to his heart as a pen hesitantly scratches syllables on to a page ( Read more... )

Singing songs sung not by choice, songs I never even knew ( Read more... )

And she wrote to me:
I was walking through the snow when all of a sudden I came upon my own tracks in front of me, how cliché but isn't that adorable in itself? I've been here before, with you if I remember correctly. I've been going in circles all along, I sigh. Glancing over I see the door; kicked in, ransacked, but what did it really protect us ( Read more... )

Once someone very smart gave me this analogy. She had a red crayon in her hand, and she told me that the crayon was me, my heart, my soul, my love, and then she snapped it in half, throwing one of the pieces over her shoulder and pushing the other half across the table towards me. She said, "this is you after you have been let down in love. You go ( Read more... )

September 14th 2007

There we were, floating in one of those bubbles you blow as a kid. Kind of round, and perfect, and just a little strange. Just... floating in the air. Lost in the soapy luster of our transparent surroundings, we'd float.

No bubble lasts long, or near long enough, and like all good bubbles ours was short lived.

Pop.

August 29th, 2007 ( Read more... )

November 20th 2006 ( Read more... )