the kind of affection you only see in the movies
After careful consideration and the effects of a conversation I had earlier I’ve come to the following conclusion(s):
1. What I write is what I write, it’s an expression of “something” I’m feeling, not necessarily the cut and paste copy of what I’m accurately feeling, but its part of it. To be ashamed of that is like being ashamed of whom you are, and that’s something I am not.
2. When I write about my most common muse I don’t portray those feelings and words into real life actions, not always anyway. The writing is “deeper” and more “extreme” than how I or anyone else really acts. They’re inside, and occasionally peek over the icy walls to gaze out across at something that they yearn to be apart of. Time will tell kids, time will tell.
3. If I come off as psychotic, then tough shit. I’m not so far as I know, I just write what comes to mind, what flies out of my fingers. Hanging off of every single word and taking it for a reality that we walk around in is something you should be careful about.
4. I don’t know why I’m writing this, well, I do. More for myself, justifying how I feel. Its okay to write what you write josh, more than okay.
5. If I feel like writing everything metaphorically and poetically, then that’s my choice. Fuck off if you’re frustrated because you don’t always get it.
Love songs are playing in the background of a darkened room; I can imagine myself sitting in the swivel chair pondering over the littlest things that deserve the most attention. A smile follows a frown, and vice versa. It’s the pattern of the evening, confusion written on every word that flies back to me. It’s okay though, things will be calm for a while and maybe, just maybe I can plan out my next move while I wait. Of course, all the planning might go to shit for a thousand different reasons and all of it would be for nothing. Maybe another crushing defeat, but that really doesn’t matter so much.
I wonder if I’ve become redundant and repetitive, but I feel like I need to emphasize all of this for myself. Maybe so in a month I can look back and read over these entries, revisiting the beginning of a mountain, or nothing more than a small hill that I quickly passed over. Oh, being self centered is easier than you’d think. It’s the subtleties of it all that trick you, but, musing over this isn’t really being self centered. It’s not like I have time for anything other than the few breaks I get to spill out crappy poems and strange journal entries.
I need to pick up some clothes, tight tight TIGHT ones, too. It’s funny, I think about impressing him with this or that. Worrying if I seem like a retard or not, lighting up whenever he “laughs”. Fleeting euphoria and sorrow, back and forth back and forth. Rowing my little boat down the stream, you creatures from the black lagoon best stay back and leave my paddles alone! They’re mine! Oh jealousy, you don’t even know where to glare really, but you’re here none the less. It’s been a while since you and I sat down for tea, greeting each other with an arms length of space. Eye’s are always on the door, any scent of foul play and I’ll run run run away from you baby. But you’ll just run run run after me, love. I suppose it would be easier to shake the rest from myself, eh?
Oh run-on and incomplete sentences, how I love you.
“I’d like to hold your hand if I could be so bold”
Ah. Holding hands is an amazing feeling. ‘Nuff said.
I should go to bed now. <3
1. What I write is what I write, it’s an expression of “something” I’m feeling, not necessarily the cut and paste copy of what I’m accurately feeling, but its part of it. To be ashamed of that is like being ashamed of whom you are, and that’s something I am not.
2. When I write about my most common muse I don’t portray those feelings and words into real life actions, not always anyway. The writing is “deeper” and more “extreme” than how I or anyone else really acts. They’re inside, and occasionally peek over the icy walls to gaze out across at something that they yearn to be apart of. Time will tell kids, time will tell.
3. If I come off as psychotic, then tough shit. I’m not so far as I know, I just write what comes to mind, what flies out of my fingers. Hanging off of every single word and taking it for a reality that we walk around in is something you should be careful about.
4. I don’t know why I’m writing this, well, I do. More for myself, justifying how I feel. Its okay to write what you write josh, more than okay.
5. If I feel like writing everything metaphorically and poetically, then that’s my choice. Fuck off if you’re frustrated because you don’t always get it.
Love songs are playing in the background of a darkened room; I can imagine myself sitting in the swivel chair pondering over the littlest things that deserve the most attention. A smile follows a frown, and vice versa. It’s the pattern of the evening, confusion written on every word that flies back to me. It’s okay though, things will be calm for a while and maybe, just maybe I can plan out my next move while I wait. Of course, all the planning might go to shit for a thousand different reasons and all of it would be for nothing. Maybe another crushing defeat, but that really doesn’t matter so much.
I wonder if I’ve become redundant and repetitive, but I feel like I need to emphasize all of this for myself. Maybe so in a month I can look back and read over these entries, revisiting the beginning of a mountain, or nothing more than a small hill that I quickly passed over. Oh, being self centered is easier than you’d think. It’s the subtleties of it all that trick you, but, musing over this isn’t really being self centered. It’s not like I have time for anything other than the few breaks I get to spill out crappy poems and strange journal entries.
I need to pick up some clothes, tight tight TIGHT ones, too. It’s funny, I think about impressing him with this or that. Worrying if I seem like a retard or not, lighting up whenever he “laughs”. Fleeting euphoria and sorrow, back and forth back and forth. Rowing my little boat down the stream, you creatures from the black lagoon best stay back and leave my paddles alone! They’re mine! Oh jealousy, you don’t even know where to glare really, but you’re here none the less. It’s been a while since you and I sat down for tea, greeting each other with an arms length of space. Eye’s are always on the door, any scent of foul play and I’ll run run run away from you baby. But you’ll just run run run after me, love. I suppose it would be easier to shake the rest from myself, eh?
Oh run-on and incomplete sentences, how I love you.
“I’d like to hold your hand if I could be so bold”
Ah. Holding hands is an amazing feeling. ‘Nuff said.
I should go to bed now. <3