Scribbler of Dreams
I like writing. I love it. I wish I could just skip all my classes, just to write. I want to be paid to write. I want to live within the books and paper I write upon. I want everyone to know that I love to write. I want to sit down with my pen and paper and just write everything. Anything. I love it. I can say how I feel and no one could ever judge me by my words. They are my own, and my own alone. Even though someone out there has written the same words, someday, I too will write something that way. I will say those same last dying words, yet alter them into ways they could not be used. Yes, someday I will write, but for now, I scribble my thoughts and dreams onto the sheets of paper I call my life.
Heart-less Beauty
I don’t like to get up in the morning. And when I am late, it’s even worse. My alarm didn’t go off, that annoying little buzzing sound that rattled in my brain repeatedly was not present. Where was it? I woke up. 6:15. Joy. I needed to be at car pool at 6:45. I got ready quickly and was in the car. First, and usually, only to turn up ten minutes late, waiting for that girl. She walks as if she owns the world, her hips swaying from side to side, bag in hand, face perfectly painted. The way she acts, the way she is, makes me laugh a little inside. She gets in, an unpleasant face, like she just got a sour lemon squirted in her mouth. “I’m here” She explains as she carefully arranges her backpack. Where’s your sister? My step-mom demands. Of course after ten minutes of honking, it was obvious she was not ready. A couple of explosions of words, there she came, the same walk, a small smile, and an unnatural satisfied gleam in her eyes. What made these girls so beautiful? Was it the masks they wore as faces? Or the act they played for the world? For what ever reason I envied them for a brief moment. No, I will not envy those girls, whose thoughts consist nothing of magazine covers and celebrity gossip. I am not them, I was never them, and I will never become them. “Let’s go” one of them says as the door shuts. Off to carpool it is then, with the people who I will never envy, who I never want to become. Yes, the girls with the perfect face, with no heart to match its outer beauty.
I Think Too Much
“I’m going outside.” I turned away from the foyer and walked away. I was going for a walk, to who knows where. Just anywhere my feet would carry me. “Where are you going?” My sister asked. My real sister, the one who knew me. She asked where I was going. Good, I still existed to her. “I’m going on a walk, I’ll be back soon.” “Okay, just be careful, it’s dark, and don’t get lost.” She waves as I shut the door behind me. It’s dark like she says. The plants of green are in bare color. The street lamps are lit, yet still I feel as if I am wandering blind. I am walking away from that house. A fountain runs in the front, with no reason, no purpose, just another hassle in the eyes of others, an unwanted decoration. Circling around it is grass that I planted flowers in, to make things a little more “cheery”. Behind this all lays the structure of the house, tall and beautiful, wide and spacious with enough rooms and bathrooms for everyone. This house, as nice as it is, has nothing to show for all it’s grace. There are no memories within its stone, there is no laughter echoing though the walls, there is no joy to be bellowed throughout the world. That’s my house. Even though all my steps were going further away from it, I felt closer to it than ever. I didn’t want to be associated to such a dreary house. But that’s okay. I didn’t mind all that much. I would use my memories from my old house to make this new one a little better. But I didn’t go out for a walk to contemplate where I live. I went on a walk to clear my mind, if I could even attempt to do that. I tried. But I couldn’t. The memories would never fade. I couldn’t even try to forget, something was always on my mind. Maybe that’s why I don’t sleep well. I always lay down to rest, and have something banging on my brain. Why don’t you talk to them? Why don’t you like yourself? I don’t know. I drain them out with a pill. There. No more dreams for me. I came home. It was late. “Glad to see you back, accomplish anything?” My sister is on the couch, asking frankly. “Yeah...” I reply bluntly with no effort. “Well? What?” She was pushing for some answer, like going on a walk solves every problem in the world. “I thought…” What else could I say? That was it. “You think too much!” And with that, she got up, went to her room, to dream. She’s right, I guess I do. I think too much.
All I Ever Did Was Write
That woman was everything to me. And I am not sure why. I sat there crying, all she ever did was right. She just loved and cared and cared for all. Her innocence was robbed by the hatred of the world, convincing her that anger would haunt her. That the impressions of others would become imprinted into her. That tire treed kept re-appearing, that shoe print I felt like she had in her face, always came up. Yet she never let it get to her. She always stood there, willing to tell the people she hates that she loves them. She never hated anyone; she found the good in all. All she did was love so much, maybe too much. That’s why I loved her so much; her love was unconditional, just like mine. And as she laid there on that Monday night crying, her screaming for help, I stood there and watched. The tears rolling down my face. I love you, she says between her breaths. I love you. And she stops. She’s gone. Her body goes limp and lifeless, she becomes pale and blue. I am powerless; I can do nothing to help. I can’t. I just have to watch her fall. I can’t help. I watch on the sidelines. Why can’t I do anything? Anything at all. I hide. And as I am there outside crying, I say to myself, all she ever did was right. All she ever did was right. And all I ever did was write.
Boundaries
I never realized how closed I am to people. To the world. I don’t like to talk much about things, things that remind me of her, or anything that ever made me happy to be present. I never like to think that I was okay; otherwise, things would appear okay. I know they are not. I am screaming for help inside, and I won’t let anyone listen to it. I don’t want anyone to see me here so broken and alone. So I pretend that I have everything when all I have is nothing. I don’t love anymore, I loved too much. I gave her all I had to offer, and yet that was still not enough. She still died, even though I needed her so much. That’s why I am afraid to love again. I don’t want to lose it all in one person. I don’t want someone to forget every memory of the days on that tire swing. I don’t want to look down and pick the only swaying flower. I want there to be infinite ways I can live, and immeasurable ways I can die. I want there to be everything again, but then, I don’t. I don’t want my everything to leave me like she did. I won’t leave you, not until you don’t need me anymore, that’s what she said. That’s what she said. I need you, I need you, and I need you. But you still died. Come back, please. Because I need you, and you said you would stay until I needed no one. Well, I still need someone, and all I want is you. I want a mother again, that’s all I ask. And until then, I will set my boundaries, on the lines of love and hate, standing in the middle, waiting for someone to pull me back over to love again.
The Manual of Tears
The grass is green. The sky is blue. Someone asks why, they make up a reason. Why do you move the piece there? Because that’s how the rules go. Why do you add two eggs? Because that’s what the recipe says. Why does it say to answer these questions? Because the instructions say so. Why do I cry? Because no one knows.
The Scarecrow Of Dreams
What would happen if I really went through with it? A few pills before the night is over and then tomorrow would be done. Nothing else to worry about. Just sleep. Sleep until they pass you by. Time is what keeps us bound, so by breaking that limit into sleep would be to release yourself from the gravity which holds you to this world. Yes, maybe one day I will try to sleep until I can sleep no more. But until then, I will enjoy the sleep I get in anticipation of my heart stopping within my dreams. I wonder if the dizzy light headed feelings would be different, maybe because you know you will never feel them again. I wonder if the sheets between you would feel unusual. I wonder what they would think, mortified at a corpse in your blankets. When that comes, I will become the sleep-less stitched mouth doll I am, the corpse of straw.
I Can Love Without A Heart
Pandemonium is the wreckage that I claim to be. My statue is not quite straight, therefore I lean on you. My never ending chaos that turns my head into a canvas of paint spills. The sky is so open, and there is no painter to paint it. The mayhem distracts the painter, and with a heavy heart, he leaves the canvas dry. There are no thoughts to be written upon its empty sheets, no paint upon the image, just the simple musical notes of the birds. And as they sing along, the window sills close upon their hearts harkening the joy in the mind of others. There they go again, so unwilling to be loved by the birds with their compassion in their hearts. Yet they still sing, when no one is there to listen to their music. So the painter paints his picture, even without a canvas. I can love without a heart.
It's Always Just Okay
You, couldn’t see me. For who I was, but that is okay, I'll go on anyways, even without you. You who didn’t understand. Who didn’t know the plan, but acted like you did. And you were so lost, even without a cause, but that is always okay. But that’s just me. Who knows how they, might react to me. Accepting me for you, accepting you for wrong, and as I walk along. This dirty unpaved path, I wonder what you said, even if you did. No words are spoken, yet my heart is open, to anyone willing, to pass me on by. So, stop, just for one second, realize that this, this is all I meant. Please let me be me, with no authority, and pass me on by, never realize that, I, never really was. Just someone you forgot, how could you forget? Someone who just cared, someone who just loved, but that is okay. Because everything else, is just okay. Never really was, but I like to lie, because that’s what I do best. Lying to you, lying to me, and everyone else cant you just see? That, I, I am not okay. But that’s alright, you’d find out anyways, when it was too late, when I disappeared into the night I fear, that is when. You will realize, that all of lies, of all that I despise, where never really there, I used them just to hide. But like I said before, everything’s okay, because now, I don’t have to deal, deal with you, and all of my lies. Now, I can just hide; hide anywhere, because I have no choice, just to disappear. And now you ask where she is? Who are you to blame? But that’s okay.
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This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you
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