Why?

Why. Am. I. Sitting. In. This. Office. When. The. Sun. Is. Shining. For. The. First. Time. In. Days. And. It. Is. Warm. Outside. For. The. First. Time. In. Months.  ?!?!?
 
Oh yeah.  Because my job has me whipped like a plow mule.  At least that ass gets to be OUTside.
 
 

I used to be a good writer.  I used to be funny, and insightful, and dexterous in the way that I spun words together to form a story, a world, a point.
 
Now I am dumb and encumbered by life's crap detritus and I can't seem to dig my nails into the grimy wall of this hole in order to pull myself out.  Clawing and screaming and shaking my ineffective fist I pause to sit at the bottom and wrap my arms around my knees, lay my head down and wish for defeat.  But I know that it will never come because I will never give up...
 
I am just resting my soul.  Building up my strength, my resolve, fixing a point with my mind's eye and aiming for it.  Don't worry - no matter how many times I have to try, I will Ne-ver give up.  Don't worry, don't worry.
 
You know I am talking to myself, don't you?

Hurry UP!

Hurry hurry, before you get buried under so much emotional baggage and bullshit that you won't be able to create a sentence anymore, let alone a full book of them.

Shit shit shit shit SHIT.
 
That is all.

These are your choices

Make it funny, make it a lesson, or let it torture you needlessly forever.
 
Bless.

My life is a series of corners that I turn to find the light.  One day I would at least like to exist in the light for a greater length of time...at least until a sweet darkness falls each night.

Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness. Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing. Use the pain as fuel, as a reminder of your strength.

- August Wilson quotes

Him: "Kelly, you are a beautiful disaster."
Me: "Thank you."
Him:"The disaster part doesn't bother you?"
Me: "No. The beautiful part does."
Him: "Then why did you say thank you?"

Me: "Because it means you know who I am."

No. Peter Pan. I do not have a twin.

And the mold shattered when they made me, so it's a slim chance that you'll find anything close to compare.

Bless.

glazed gazing

I wrote this 5 days after I moved to Manhattan...I want this girl back: glazed gazing

There is not a sound in this world that I could give voice to, wrap my vocal cords around, that would do justice to the noise in my head.

I am starting to resent the fact that I allow people to make me dislike who I am.  No really.  It's making me angry.

I wrote this when I drove to Atlanta by myself to see Sasha in a tiny smokey club there. Andy thankfully went with me, and while I hung with the guy who inspired this poem, Andy stalked the perimeter of the room and the peripheral of my vision. This poem has always reminded me of him, oddly enough.


Hard hands
lingering at my hips.
The pulse of the beat
throbbing through my bitten lips.
I feel your
blue pinstripped shirt
beneath my skin,
the touch of the fabric in my fist -
or brushing my flesh rakishly
as you wrap your arms
about my waist
helps to spin the passion
of the night into my brain.
I move.
Aware of how near you are
how warm with sweat and fun.
Aware of the arousal
that lingers like
the thick smoke in the air.
I close my eyes
and let waves of feeling
get carried away
by the master of a trance...
I open them and you are gone
and I am left only
with the smell of you
in the beginning light
to remind me
of hard hands and bitten lips

Roses...

Rosie Rosie Rosie...she is growing in my head.  Beauty and thorns, and all.
 
And then her name was Roses.

I wish that I could play these computer keys like a piano...that the words would charm like a simple melody and communicate without heavy logic - that I could say how the music haunts my heart and makes me feel beautiful and alive and achingly real.

Drawn as I am to the hauntingly off-key ...it only strikes me if it's oddly juxtaposed to what society would rather see. Slightly ugly, a little worn and oddly bold is so shiny and pretty to me. I see it, this bit of macabre and I want to consume it...like a blood red apple with a tiny, cute little worm.

Dark beauty strokes the underbelly of my heart, calms me. I understand how rich and pungent the fallow side of a rotting log in the forest is...I want that deep texture and color, even if it comes with creepys and crawlys and things of a skeevious nature. They crawl away, or they make friends...but they are not scary.

I am not scared by the darkness. I am scared by the false light.

LIKE BLOOD LIKE HONEY

You want to catch your breath you want to get out
But as you surface you don't really know how
How to live upon the solid ground
Sometimes it's easier to let yourself drown

Love is
Thick like
Blood like
Honey

You cannot spell it out there are no words
Mrs johnson never taught me those verbs
On how to give myself and how to receive
It is something that's inside of you and me

Love is
Thick like
Blood like
Honey

Forget everything you ever learned
No one listens when you want to be heard
Just bleed the bittersweet
Seven sunrises and seven more nights
You'd think that we could learn to do it right
If nothing changes then i'm gonna stop
But do i really have a choice?
I think not

-Holly Brook

Reminds me of you.

Written awhile ago, but still ringing true...

My words mock me. They are harsh reminders, down to the very letter, that I am only operating at a fraction of my capacity. I feel that if I just try, if I could just concentrate for long enough, I will find a vein, a pulse to follow, and it will be the beginning of everything.

My problem is allowing myself to want and take and need and give everything without care. With wisdom, but without worry. I think that people give up and settle in the hulls of themselves and I find myself doing that and it's alarming. I know that everyday can't be rich with all manner of beautiful stimuli (and even as I write that I think, "why not? Who says?") And I know that it's good to still feel surprise and wonder and gratitude. But I think it's tragic, in a small way, that happiness and joy shocks me so much. Like I don't deserve it. And sometimes, I find myself trying to hoard it, like a tangible thing because I am not sure when it will arrive again.

The barrage of thoughts and indictments of self that are the fallout of my bad habits are exhausting. Stability is good. Roots are good, forming a foundation and a network, all good things. But stagnant, stale, tired and hurtful behavior is self-destructive and only lends itself to honing out the hull.

You are not above this happening to you, but you can be. This should be your mission, everyday. As elusive and indescribable as these steps may be, you need to actively seek them out, every hour of everyday.

Now.

I have never understoood why looking people in the eyes is such a powerful thing to me; more intimate than most acts generally judged as the end-all of intimate acts. I mean, I get the "windows to the soul" line of reasoning, I guess it's a little of that. But it's more that I can't hide from you if you're looking into my eyes. I can make my face a mask, I have mastered all forms of indifference as a painter does his canvas, as an art. I make absolutely no claim of being proud of this...in fact it's really starting to bother me. But I can keep nothing, no thought, no emotion, out of my eyes. I am painfully bare and exposed, you see me as the wounded thing that I am, scars and pride and even happiness and all...I don't think that I've much been ready for anyone to see this. I've wanted plenty to look into my eyes, but I haven't been able to let them.

My brain just waved a figurative middle finger at me and said "bugger off, I've stopped work for the day."
 
I think it might be mad with me for depriving it of sleep for two nights in a row...the sentiment "I'll sleep when I'm dead" clearly is not going over well.

My View From Here

All I see
in my mind's eye
are landmines matted
in the neurons
of my brain