(no subject)
Just a bunch of diary-type writing. Not writing-writing. No beautiful prose or poetry here, just feelings I need to express somewhere-and where else is best but my constant journey journal since I was 14.
======
I can’t keep wishing
I might also be tired of trying
I think waiting, being,
and searching myself for peace
is, clinically, the best option
Just hard to make myself want
& enjoy solitude
Hard to not miss my consistent
best-friend
++
Hard to stop missing you,
even with all the facts
Hard to stop romanticizing
wonderful, beautiful, all I wanted you
even knowing what I know
Like a pump I can’t turn off
Like a locket long worn
years of practicing has made perfect
It feels like killing something
that I love
===
Three cheers to new songs
& new friends;
trying to let go through it
destroys you
Trying to grow,
with your head stuck in the clouds
+++
I miss you
I will always miss you
But that will never matter
because you’ll never feel
the same
You’ll never be that star-struck
girl ever again,
falling in love with me
like a sun burning itself out
every single day
--- -- -----
I’m tired of writing so literally, but it’s all you can do when you’re this exhausted. It was one thing when I felt like I might write out my own answers. The ones I was searching so desperately for. Or find some comfort/solace, be more easily able to let go and move on. Or even that old hope, so still and close to my heart, that if I phrased it just right, used the right words, was clever enough-that you’d somehow fall back in love with me. All I've wanted desperately the last four years of writing was to write just one thing beautiful and touching and real torn-from-the-heart-of-my-soul raw that you would read it and feel like you had just opened your eyes from years of being blind, that you would see the truth of us and find that same love for me that you used to have.
It hurts and worries and scares me more than I’m willing to admit to anyone how uncertain I get in moments before sleep, alone in the bath, driving by myself that maybe, possibly, those words ARE out there, and I’m just not a good enough writer to tease/pull/breathe it out. That maybe if I just put my all in one good time, spent weeks or months on one piece, stretching all my talent and pushing all my mental and creative extremes for a strained and snapping amount of time, fasted and focused and refused to let it go-maybe, just maybe then you’d love me again. I break apart in tears at the thought.
======
I can’t keep wishing
I might also be tired of trying
I think waiting, being,
and searching myself for peace
is, clinically, the best option
Just hard to make myself want
& enjoy solitude
Hard to not miss my consistent
best-friend
++
Hard to stop missing you,
even with all the facts
Hard to stop romanticizing
wonderful, beautiful, all I wanted you
even knowing what I know
Like a pump I can’t turn off
Like a locket long worn
years of practicing has made perfect
It feels like killing something
that I love
===
Three cheers to new songs
& new friends;
trying to let go through it
destroys you
Trying to grow,
with your head stuck in the clouds
+++
I miss you
I will always miss you
But that will never matter
because you’ll never feel
the same
You’ll never be that star-struck
girl ever again,
falling in love with me
like a sun burning itself out
every single day
--- -- -----
I’m tired of writing so literally, but it’s all you can do when you’re this exhausted. It was one thing when I felt like I might write out my own answers. The ones I was searching so desperately for. Or find some comfort/solace, be more easily able to let go and move on. Or even that old hope, so still and close to my heart, that if I phrased it just right, used the right words, was clever enough-that you’d somehow fall back in love with me. All I've wanted desperately the last four years of writing was to write just one thing beautiful and touching and real torn-from-the-heart-of-my-soul raw that you would read it and feel like you had just opened your eyes from years of being blind, that you would see the truth of us and find that same love for me that you used to have.
It hurts and worries and scares me more than I’m willing to admit to anyone how uncertain I get in moments before sleep, alone in the bath, driving by myself that maybe, possibly, those words ARE out there, and I’m just not a good enough writer to tease/pull/breathe it out. That maybe if I just put my all in one good time, spent weeks or months on one piece, stretching all my talent and pushing all my mental and creative extremes for a strained and snapping amount of time, fasted and focused and refused to let it go-maybe, just maybe then you’d love me again. I break apart in tears at the thought.