(no subject)
sometimes i want to write so badly
the words well up inside my stomach like i might explode!
but nothing comes out and it makes me angry and it makes me feel worthless
and i think, damn, if only i didn't smoke so much pot, i could clear out the thoughts in my head.
i could unravel the words and unravel my heartstrings and maybe, just maybe,
i could manage to make someone else forget to breathe
just for a moment or two
so it wouldn't feel as if all the hard work was wasted
that my tears, sweat and blood were painted all over ...
it used to be the pot made me creative or at least made me feel like it did,
and now most of the time it makes me feel nothing
and that's not what i wanted at all. ever.
i am the kind of person who needs to feel things. so deeply. to the core.
because if you're in it why do it half-assed, and if you're not going to be in it,
at least make your exit a vibrant one, middle finger flying, welcoming the unknown
and freedom and vulnerabilty
god i miss not knowing what would happen tomorrow
going and going, living on cigarettes and coffee and breathing in love-
or at least the thought of it, so much passion, the newness of the scents, the
fingers interweaved, the studying every wrinkle, line and vein.
sometimes i wake up and wonder how i ended up living in this matchbox house
in our little cookie cutter world, two cars, two dogs and one cat,
no debt, great jobs, successful lives...
and yet even in the truth there are lies
because what you see is not always what you get
and what you get is not always what you're looking at.
spontanaety once held so closely is just a memory stored in the chest of drawers
with the marriage license and the lint brush and your suit size.
there are days the highways call to me, the going nowhere moments i used to love,
the open windows and turned-up volume to the top stereo blasting ani difranco
and joni mitchell and janis and sarah and more
there are days i forget the creativity i once held in every corner of my space,
now pushed to one room cluttered with extra chairs and tables
no room to spread out on the floor like i need to when i paint or sketch or collage.
but i'm learning to play the guitar again and the art that was stifled for so many years
now flows effortlessly in so many forms. it's lovely and thrilling and i want to to so much more with it
but i won't
because i'm too scared
the only thing to fear is fear itself, they say, and i believe it. because i live it every day.
some days i feel lucky to be breathing
because i gave up on god a long time ago and now there is only me
groping at the world's meaning and my existence and who do i want to be and will i ever be anything at all.
will my words ever make a difference
will they ever make anyone sit up and realize that life is so much more
than just what you're looking at?
the words well up inside my stomach like i might explode!
but nothing comes out and it makes me angry and it makes me feel worthless
and i think, damn, if only i didn't smoke so much pot, i could clear out the thoughts in my head.
i could unravel the words and unravel my heartstrings and maybe, just maybe,
i could manage to make someone else forget to breathe
just for a moment or two
so it wouldn't feel as if all the hard work was wasted
that my tears, sweat and blood were painted all over ...
it used to be the pot made me creative or at least made me feel like it did,
and now most of the time it makes me feel nothing
and that's not what i wanted at all. ever.
i am the kind of person who needs to feel things. so deeply. to the core.
because if you're in it why do it half-assed, and if you're not going to be in it,
at least make your exit a vibrant one, middle finger flying, welcoming the unknown
and freedom and vulnerabilty
god i miss not knowing what would happen tomorrow
going and going, living on cigarettes and coffee and breathing in love-
or at least the thought of it, so much passion, the newness of the scents, the
fingers interweaved, the studying every wrinkle, line and vein.
sometimes i wake up and wonder how i ended up living in this matchbox house
in our little cookie cutter world, two cars, two dogs and one cat,
no debt, great jobs, successful lives...
and yet even in the truth there are lies
because what you see is not always what you get
and what you get is not always what you're looking at.
spontanaety once held so closely is just a memory stored in the chest of drawers
with the marriage license and the lint brush and your suit size.
there are days the highways call to me, the going nowhere moments i used to love,
the open windows and turned-up volume to the top stereo blasting ani difranco
and joni mitchell and janis and sarah and more
there are days i forget the creativity i once held in every corner of my space,
now pushed to one room cluttered with extra chairs and tables
no room to spread out on the floor like i need to when i paint or sketch or collage.
but i'm learning to play the guitar again and the art that was stifled for so many years
now flows effortlessly in so many forms. it's lovely and thrilling and i want to to so much more with it
but i won't
because i'm too scared
the only thing to fear is fear itself, they say, and i believe it. because i live it every day.
some days i feel lucky to be breathing
because i gave up on god a long time ago and now there is only me
groping at the world's meaning and my existence and who do i want to be and will i ever be anything at all.
will my words ever make a difference
will they ever make anyone sit up and realize that life is so much more
than just what you're looking at?