You were beautiful but you didn't mean a thing to me.
It seems that I have perfected the art of being emotionless. I think to myself, this could be considered a gift in some cultures...however, in mine, it's not. In stating that, I don't mean to imply self deprivation or dislike; I'm just telling you the truth without much inside it. The line between being truthful about oneself and denigrating oneself seems to be increasingly thin.
Life is slow now; cool and flatlined. I can't help but assume that my seeing the world this way is simply because I am the one doing the seeing. That it is me that is really cool and flatlined, and in the act of seeing the world I have purely projected myself onto it.
I need more beauty in my life.
There's a grouping of trees out on East Franklin; they are perfect. When the sun is setting and it's so quiet outside, it's like the trees are visual music. i wish you could see it. It's intensely vague and the beauty in it is so unassuming it's as if the scene had been missed by thousands of other passerbys until I looked at it at just the right moment to catch it's possibility.
I miss poetry. Writing it and reading it, living it mainly. Maybe this is growing up, losing every passionate feeling in my body until all that's left are goals and worries and blankness. I'm tired of being so restless. I'm bored of being like this while feeling pressure to hide it; pressure to make other people happy and comfortable. to be honest, part of me kind of likes doing that. Putting other's infront of myself. It's been installed in me to be content only when others are. I'm a woman. A bible belt girl brought up in doing as I'm told and smiling as I do it. placing blame was another childhood habit I hold on to.
I can't recall how it felt to be kissed by someone I cared for. Sometimes I think I am so scared of my own memories I have lost them intentionally. I know my history in textbook form, becoming vague in the physical retelling. Hands and lips and arms are all parts of people I pack away. Knowing the emotional results to such stimulation; remembering how our knuckles fit together when he held my hand late at night long after everyone else had passed out hurts much more than a fleeting thought about roy's single bedroom house and an absract dislike for lanky boys. I like forcing physical memories forward. It makes me remember some sense of emotion. Like the trees. It reminds me of what i'm missing.
Life is slow now; cool and flatlined. I can't help but assume that my seeing the world this way is simply because I am the one doing the seeing. That it is me that is really cool and flatlined, and in the act of seeing the world I have purely projected myself onto it.
I need more beauty in my life.
There's a grouping of trees out on East Franklin; they are perfect. When the sun is setting and it's so quiet outside, it's like the trees are visual music. i wish you could see it. It's intensely vague and the beauty in it is so unassuming it's as if the scene had been missed by thousands of other passerbys until I looked at it at just the right moment to catch it's possibility.
I miss poetry. Writing it and reading it, living it mainly. Maybe this is growing up, losing every passionate feeling in my body until all that's left are goals and worries and blankness. I'm tired of being so restless. I'm bored of being like this while feeling pressure to hide it; pressure to make other people happy and comfortable. to be honest, part of me kind of likes doing that. Putting other's infront of myself. It's been installed in me to be content only when others are. I'm a woman. A bible belt girl brought up in doing as I'm told and smiling as I do it. placing blame was another childhood habit I hold on to.
I can't recall how it felt to be kissed by someone I cared for. Sometimes I think I am so scared of my own memories I have lost them intentionally. I know my history in textbook form, becoming vague in the physical retelling. Hands and lips and arms are all parts of people I pack away. Knowing the emotional results to such stimulation; remembering how our knuckles fit together when he held my hand late at night long after everyone else had passed out hurts much more than a fleeting thought about roy's single bedroom house and an absract dislike for lanky boys. I like forcing physical memories forward. It makes me remember some sense of emotion. Like the trees. It reminds me of what i'm missing.