Grey skies, grey pants
A gentle rain fell all night,
The city slept on.
Waking up, confused, to the strains of They Might Be Giants. The calendar is covered in tiny red hearts today, but my brain isn't. I can feel myslf drifting awa, losing touch. I just want to be important. Just once, important. I was supposed to be your most precious thing. And I'm not. And I know I shouldn't resent these things, but I do.
Stars that are clear, have been dead for years.... Perhaps listening to Bright Eyes when sad is a bad idea. But I'm feeling a need to wallow.
I am everyone's rock, but all the dramaquakes lately have revealed deep cracks in my cliff face...
How can I call myself artistic if I fail to produce art?
How can I continue to slip your mind every single day if you claim to love me? How can I be less important than everything else?
I need to be cherished. I used to think I was.
I want to run to the mountains and play in the snow. I want to go sledding. I want to just... feel that feeling... Like I'm flying, inches above the snow, through a world of white and grey. Like everything that's important is right there, right then, with me.
I want to be wrapped up, held close, read to. I want to feel precious, and special, and amazing.
How did I get here from there? I have memories of wanting to be a surgeon. I have memories of outmarting my teachers. I remember joy. I remember safe. I didn't have much of it, but I remember it. I want to be cherished and protected. I never thought that was too much to ask for.
The city slept on.
Waking up, confused, to the strains of They Might Be Giants. The calendar is covered in tiny red hearts today, but my brain isn't. I can feel myslf drifting awa, losing touch. I just want to be important. Just once, important. I was supposed to be your most precious thing. And I'm not. And I know I shouldn't resent these things, but I do.
Stars that are clear, have been dead for years.... Perhaps listening to Bright Eyes when sad is a bad idea. But I'm feeling a need to wallow.
I am everyone's rock, but all the dramaquakes lately have revealed deep cracks in my cliff face...
How can I call myself artistic if I fail to produce art?
How can I continue to slip your mind every single day if you claim to love me? How can I be less important than everything else?
I need to be cherished. I used to think I was.
I want to run to the mountains and play in the snow. I want to go sledding. I want to just... feel that feeling... Like I'm flying, inches above the snow, through a world of white and grey. Like everything that's important is right there, right then, with me.
I want to be wrapped up, held close, read to. I want to feel precious, and special, and amazing.
How did I get here from there? I have memories of wanting to be a surgeon. I have memories of outmarting my teachers. I remember joy. I remember safe. I didn't have much of it, but I remember it. I want to be cherished and protected. I never thought that was too much to ask for.