The Lack of a Muse

I find once again that my muse has escaped me. Writing words merely to write them and feel that I, yes I am profound! Can’t you see that, possible friends? Can’t you grasp that, potential lovers? Grasping chocolate hair at the roots, I tear and tear in my perpetual frustration. Oh where has my insanity gone? My lovely noose that drove me to pen such eloquence? My straight jacket whispered words that echoed of depth and comprehension well beyond my years. Am I so inept that I cannot write without the presence of tragedy, which I have never lacked before? Smiling, truly, for once in a decade, but at what price? Come back to me, my soul, my passion. Come back to me, my wounded psyche. Come back to me, insanity.

The Illogical, Expected Need

You are demented and pathetic and I want everything to do with you.

The Clarity of Sobriety

It's not the drugs. It's not the stimulus. It's not the effect. This was never and will never be about the drugs. This is about the faux-cure to loneliness, to a broken home. Not just for me and you and them... for everyone. That is all we are. We are fractured kids made of broken glass and duct tape with film reels of prehistoric tragedies still perpetually playing on the backs of our eyelids. We are called drug users for a reason. We take what we want and give nothing back, and I guess by that logic we are modern day pirates. We pillage and rape your mental fortress. We tear down your walls with empty smiles, distant eyes, and promises of "family." Like I said, it's not the drugs. It's the feeling of home. That one thing we never had. The one thing we never got right. We built it ourselves with bandaged hands and rusted nails, and yet...we're suprised when it collapses around us. Once the sweet-smelling walls of smoke fall, we have nothing to block our perception of reality. We see what we've done and it eats away at our sanity...so much so that we crave the one thing we know destroyed us. So we perpetuate this cycle. Again and again we fail and we refuse to acknowledge this lack of logic on our part. And no, we are not ignorant of this, nor do we pretend to be. We are well aware of all that we have done and all that we will destroy, and yet we continue. We are unstoppable, infallible, unbreakable in our flaws. It's the one constant in this life: we will always disappoint.

The Summer I Can't Remember

I wear these lungs like battle scars.

The Unanswerable

So this is all that I am now. I am empty. I am hollow. My insides echo and I can hear your voice resounding, "Is anyone there?"

The Indifference That Never Was

I may feign apathy, but the truth will always remain: I am a creature of passion. I thrive and grow in fire, not in ice and that is where we will always differ and yes, we may smile and laugh and whisper sweet nothings for naught but the tangible heat to condemn, but when your frigid air and my volatility meet with no barriers between, where will we stand?

The Highschool Paradox

My thoughts swirl like smoke, ebbing and flowing in this perpetual state of fluctuation. And as much as I hate to include myself in anything that isn't unique, different, I'm just the same as every other broken, mislead, confused adolescent that arrived at high school and realized that who they were was not who they wished to be. But yet here we remain, stuck on this endlessly forking path we are forced to run through. "Stop. Look around you. Analyze. Pick wisely." But I have never had the cold, distant, and often uncaring mind set that I quite adore blanketing myself with and my emotions continue to rule my every action. If you mimicked Lucifer and fell from your heavenly pedestal, then what is to stop me? My pride? My dignity? My lost, scoffing, cynical self, enter stage right.

The Words

And the words mean so much to me… Merely symbols strung together in a simplistic, archaic, but utterly advanced form. Merely an informal dance between the tongue, teeth, and mouth. But your words bring me to tears, euphoria, divine epiphanies. Your words are every flower blooming, every star exploding, every life ending with a cascade of sparks. Your words are the crash and lull of the waves I watched upon that cliff and the reason I decided to not move, to not jump. Your words are my life, my thoughts. Your words are the spring and the winter and the seasons between, every life and every death, every rebirth, every decision, every heartbreak.
Your words are meaningless. Your words are everything. Your words…

The Restlessness That Kills

You will die. Maybe not within this hour, day, month, year, decade, but you will die. Don't just laugh and think "duh" in the condescending I'm-not-sure-what-condescending-means manner of yours, but truly ponder it, grasp it. This life, whether you believe in an afterlife, reincarnation, or that technicolored apes from space will steal your soul and replant you in another being from another planet, will end. Don't feed me your bullshit about how this life isn't about living forever, but about creating something that will. Yeah, maybe, I fell for that once, too. But how long until future civilizations forget your name? Until the books we read and the paper we write upon are nonexistent? You will never be immortal. At some point, even if your pathetic little achievements (which will mean nothing in one thousand years, by the way) manage to be remembered and hated by kids like you and I in classrooms or floating-fucking-spaceships, it will be proved that this world is not invincible... Fuck, nothing and no one is invincible, don't delude yourself. Millions of other creatures became extinct and thousands upon thousands of planets have ceased to exist in the time before us and in this time, right here, right now. Somewhere, on the brink of infinity, a star is exploding and swallowing the possible life around it. You are nothing, not even one blink of the universe's eye, hell, not even a blink of the earth's eye. I'm not saying this to crush you, tell you nothing is important... The exact opposite of that, in fact... Everything is sacred. Every grain of sand that glints in the sun, every wave shining silver that reflects the moon, every animals, every human, every life. Why? Didn't I just tell you none of it mattered? No. Never. We may be insignificant over all, but now...right here, right now, in the years you have left...

Believe me, there's not that many.


So why the fuck were you afraid to raise your hand and voice an opinion?
So why the fuck did you never pick up the phone to call that special boy or girl that you just couldn't stand to have reject you?
Why the fuck did you let some prick bring you down?
Why did you refuse to jump off that cliff into the water?
Why did you refuse to go to that concert?
Why didn't you ask her/him to dance?
What's holding you back?
Embarrassment?
...Really?

Do you honestly believe that in the future, outlined in some textbook on a musty shelf, will be the words "and then she turned him down."



What the hell is holding you back...?

The Confusion That Burns

The questions that plague me are never “why” or “what if,” it’s always “what the fuck is the god damn point?!” And no, I don’t use my expletives to show my contempt for the vulgarity of my generation, nor to express my rage against the corporate machine and it’s senseless restrictions against the people’s freedom of speech (though that is still present in bulk), I use it only because no eloquent words can convey the frustration and agony burning through my veins, liquefying me from the inside out. I can’t recall the exact moment I transposed from innocent child, full of faith in a government and god, to this cynical, sneering, and barely sentient young woman. My frustration sublimes to apathy, as I wonder if any of this will ever matter in the long run. Yes, everyone had prodigious plans for me since childhood. Eager to learn and naturally inquisitive, I seemed a promising pupil, but fate always seems to prefer the villainous role. The realization that no one lives forever and that someday, I truly will cease to exist turned me into a world-weary, bitter soul before I reached puberty. So now, I am here, teetering on the brink of madness and genius (though I’m beginning to believe they’re indistinguishable) and I never want to move and I never want to grow up. “Another delay, too many hassles. Where do we go, how do we follow?”

The Condemnation That Follows

I am disgusted by the careless way you condemn a race, by your spiteful death wishes to those you have never met, nor ever will. But I find myself unable to blame you for your mannerisms. You laugh and tell me about your father’s casual use of a racial slur at the dinner table, surrounded by your prototypical family. Your mother, acting scandalized, your brother and sister confused, but you, always you, agreeing with your father because He, the one who taught you how to catch, to build model airplanes, to ride a bike; He, who indirectly showed you how to hate; He who closed your mind and fenced off the possibilities you had, the greatness you could have achieved. .. He will always be right. Swallowing my logic and hostility, I am left only with sympathy and pain over the loss of a friend: the you I would have known if you had been raised without the constant presence of a father whose only prerogative is to form you into a clone of who he is, who he believes everyone should be. The lurking malevolence of racism and religious segregation that has formed you into the bull-headed, malicious being you are today. I clench my teeth and choke down words of grief for the innocence that has been slain by patriarchal ignorance, as I know nothing I say will matter. How could I ask you to choose the godless, hell-bound cretin you believe me to be over your father? How could I…