feelin rusty

Earth is like this big, beautiful ball of metal. It's hard and strong. It can deflect bullets, as if shrugging off the day from it's $2,000 Armani suit shoulders. It can reject moons, staying monogamous to one, making Jupiter and Saturn look like a couple of sluts. It rolls and sways in the universes gravity, giving off a blinding shine when the sun hits its side--and even though there are other planets much, much bigger than Earth, it shines so much they are afraid of Earth and how powerful it is.
Then there's people. The rust of this wonderful metal. The once bountiful nutrients, now endangered: The strength of the Earth being siphoned through eager machinery, fueled by depleting resources and greediness.
         The shining metal is now slapped with splashes of orange, red and brown layers of rust. Sometimes the rust piles and concentrates in a single area, and the once beautiful metal becomes corroded and weak. It doesn't shine when the sun hits it, the Earth cries. The sun is now harmful to the decayed metal, like a bad sunburn leaving blisters on the skin. The other planets laugh and Saturn and Jupiter relish in the Earth's ruin, groping onto their moonish polygamy more than ever before. Sometimes the weakened Earth can hear them talking over who gets to take the Earth's moon when it finally rusts to nothing. The Earths moon mourns in silence.
         The shining metal creaks and weathers away, being forced to give up its vanity, pride, and health...all the while, the rust grows and expands. The reach of the rust is unmarked and viral. Soon, the metal will no longer be visible, and the red, oranges, and browns of rust will dominate the once powerful metal that was Earth.

rut a tut tut

I feel like I want to write so much, but have nothing to say
Maybe everyone should just shut up for a day. We can make it a national holiday--you know, one that every faith, race and sexuality can enjoy.

Christmas List

I want to live.
I want to read.
I want to eat persimmons.
I want to find joy in everything.
I want to love everyone.
I want to hug people more often.
I want to marry Michael Whisman.
I want to feel fulfilled everyday.
I want to scream at the top of a mountain.
I want to camp for days.
I want to get lost up in big bear like Pazely and I did years ago.
I want to tell people I dislike, to fuck themselves.
I want to tell bad people why they're bad.
I want to help people.
I want to learn about God.
I want to write something profound and lasting.
I want to be a part of theater.
I want to travel everywhere.
I want to go to parties and sing karaoke.
I want to run everyday.
I want to be courageous enough to look foolish in front of anyone.
I want to feed into Holiday Consumerism and decorate my house EVERY year
I want to use my money buying things for people.
I want to take road trips to the beach at two in the morning, just to catch the sunrise.
I want to keep my friends, no matter how long I haven't seen them.
I want to stay as hopeful as I am now, forever.
I want to make people feel like the world has hope.
I want to have two children: Vincent Michael and Penelope Marie.
I want to make everything I'm a part of better.
I want to be in a snowball fight and go sledding.
I want to cuddle on cold nights and watch movies to pass the cold time.
I want to cry for everything deserving of such a powerful emotion.
I want sick people to feel better.
I want my family to find peace with themselves and discover faith.
I want my mom to find happiness the most.
I want to drive with the windows down, a car full of friends, singing a song at the top of our lungs.
I want all things vanilla.
I want to stop wanting.
I want to appreciate being alive.
I want to taste, smell, touch and hear life and be worthy enough to appreciate something so incredible.

explanation

there are times when you want to explain something
but there would be so much explaining to do that you're at a loss for words
you would have to sum up years of experience in short, general phrases
memories could be hazy and you might get a part wrong
lines and stories may not add up
different emotions, feelings and words would get lost through translation
and you would end up cutting yourself short
knowing that there was so much in that time
so many things said and done
so many moments
you'd get so frustrated and heartbroken trying to explain something so profound
to someone who could never understand
that the only consolation to yourself would be a deep breath
and acknowledge that it's too much to say in one conversation
and so with one person confused, but unmoved
and the other, you, nostalgic and lonely in thought that can't find solace in empathetic ears
with this, all of this, a part of yourself gets buried and your mind tries to digress
memories and feelings that were once so important being stored away
little by little, in between short handed conversations and no way to express yourself
you get lost
   you forget who you are
           slowly, you disappear

Coming Clean

Dear Timothy,
      Your girlfriend Sofie found me on a Tuesday, several months ago, and since then we have gotten to know each other very well. I know things about her that no one else does. She turns to my comfort day after day and you still don't know. You don't know that I take care of her in ways that you can't.
      The truth is, Tim, I've seen you two together in rare moments and I watch your hands fumble around her. I noticed that you don't reach the places I can, nor do you take the time to touch or caress them.You rush and trip over your fingers. It's less about love and more about charades with you, it seems.
       I know things about your girlfriend that you don't. You don't take the time to, Timothy. But I do. For example, I know that she has a freckle on the back of her neck that you can't see unless she lifts her hair when you're close behind her. I know that her favorite smell is a warm vanilla cinnamon: I've known this almost as long as I've known her . I know that her favorite spot to get rubbed is her lower back. In soft, slow motions. I know that she has soft and slender arms leading to soft and feminine hands that guide me around her body whenever we meet. From her breasts, to her hips and thighs and right down to her toes, I've known our beautiful Sofie. Almost everyday, I know her over again.
      I realize this might upset you; however I couldn't keep doing this without you knowing how personal Sofie and I's relationship has gotten.
      I'm sorry Tim, but you're not the only one touching your girlfriend.
                             My regards,
                                     Sofie's Shower Loofah.

Fall

There is something about Fall that makes me feel so nice. It's like I get so excited that I die a little on the inside--in the best possible way, of course.

What got me thinking about this was that I was walking around the lake at the college with my pink little sweater on, hot drink in hand, and I felt so happy. I could see leaves fall and ducks swim around, pecking at each other, people wearing boots and cuddling themselves or each other for some kind of warmth. I wasn't expecting all of that to be as uplifting as it turned out to be.

I don't know what it is about Fall. The sun is out, but it's not as bright as summer, or as hot and violent. There's a coolness to the air that makes me feel like I could quite possibly be the most romantic person in the world. Which isn't true, but it makes me feel like I could be.

I start thinking about scarves and pumpkins and being with friends. Cuddling comes to mind and stay-at-home days when all we do is bake and watch movies, covered under blankets. It's strange to think how much happiness a time can bring. I have no idea what will happen this Fall, but I'm so irrationally happy at the simple fact that I'm living at this moment of time, that I could care less.

So, thank you, Fall, for making every year worth the wait to get to your season of loveliness.

This story doesn't have an ending yet! If you have any questions, comments, suggestions, etc, etc--tell me!  Constructive criticism helps out!

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          There's a man. A little man. He teaches biology. He has black hair, brown skin and a black mustache. He consistently wear khakis and button up t-shirts that look like they were inspired by graph paper. He wears different outfits everyday, but they all follow the khaki and graph paper t-shirt guidelines.
          At first his students came to the class prepared, terrified of the subject they were going to tackle. They were unsure of how hard each test would be and whether or not they could remember everything. Nerves got to the students and their hands grew hot, some with perspiration on their foreheads, some with anxiety growing in bellies that wish they would have eaten the second half of their bagel this morning. Nevertheless, the students waited. And waited. Some making idle conversation and little jokes, but none overstepping the unknown boundaries of the classroom.
          Then the little man who knows so much about Biology, but little on people, came into the room with his notebook and brown leather messenger bag. He situated these things on his desk then looked up at the nervous and anxious students. Thirty-two pairs of eyes looked back at him, scrutinizing his mustache and choice of clothing. One girl questioned his leather bag while another tried to think of what he would look like naked. One boy decided the teacher was too small to teach such a large class and immediately stopped paying attention even before the lecture started. He later failed the course. Some students had notebooks and pencils out, ready to write down whatever the teacher may have to say. However, the majority sat down watching him, waiting for something to happen.
          Then he spoke.
          It was a simple, "Good morning." The two simple words that would define an entire man. In his eyes, he simply greeted the classroom. However, what the students saw, was something entirely different.
          The students saw a man who avoided eye contact, gazing down as he said good morning--a greeting more directed to the ground rather than the students. He put his hands in his pockets and when he wasn't looking at the ground, he was looking around at everything and nothing at the same time; anywhere but directly at a student. His mannerisms and persona screamed nervousness, shyness, a lack of good self esteem or confidence.
          It was in this ultimate moment of judgement that the teacher had lost his classroom. Half the classroom stopped listening to him and started thinking of him as a joke and quickly wondered if he would let them out early. Some looked at each other as if something funny just happened and they should laugh together, roll their eyes and take a sigh of relief--this wasn't a REAL class, this was one of those classes.
          A few felt sorry for him, but consequently couldn't pay attention to what he was saying because they were too busy paying attention to how sorry they felt for him. One girl hoped she could find a wedding ring on him, as if that could give him a happiness the girl didn't think he had. (She didn't find a ring on any of his fingers.)
          The rest were overachievers who tried to track everything he said about the class, but soon realized he was repeating himself and what they had already read in the course syllabus. As a result they shrugged him and his entire class off as an easy A. In their academic minds, he had been crossed off as a source of help.
          The only person who liked the teacher was the girl who imagined him naked. She liked him because she was an art major and thought that since he was a small man, he would be interesting to draw.

another day in the dumps.

Charles' day was going along just like any other.
He woke up, walked his dog, had a protein shake, showered, got dressed, kissed his wife goodbye and left for work.Nothing out of the ordinary. It wasn't until after he gave his hello's and how-are-you's to fellow co-workers, got to his oak wood desk, sat down and opened his first e-mail that Charles started to feel strange. His stomach gurgled in a painful kind of way. He wasn't hungry, so he figured it was unimportant and ignored it.
Then, the pain came again and his stomach turned in an awful kind of way. It was like a fist grabbed the inside of him and twisted a handful of guts and muscle.  The sharp instant pain was new to Charles, so he inhaled a surprised breath then groaned.. Charles put his hand to his stomach as if it would calm the agony growing in his belly.
The phone rang, but the constant wailing rings were nothing compared to the constant painful churns of his stomach. It was when Charles fell out of his chair in an attempt to call for help that he thought he might die. Pain like this couldn't be for the living, he thought. Charles' nose started to bleed and he gave a little cry, trying to yell for help. However, Charles had a very nice office with very nice doors that he special ordered so that when his very nice looking mistress came to bring him lunch, they could have sex in peace, without notice.
Charles cried again, the pain intensifying even more. The blood from his nose had stopped flowing, but dried on his face, crusting itself onto the pores of his skin.
Now, if you could imagine just for a moment what it would feel like to get stabbed in the stomach by a thousand needles, then having to live in the climax of that pain without any relief or break from it, you might be able to imagine what was happening to Charles.
He feebly curled into the fetal position, praying for the first time in his life.
Dear God, please help me! I can't stand this-Ahhhh! Oh--Oh--oh!!  I'll spend more time at home! I'll give my wife the children she wants! Just please-oww--pl--uhhh-PLEASE! Make this stop. I won't cheat! I'll go to chur--   Then silence.

The stillness before a painful climactic end. Charles' eyes bulged and his mouth dropped.

Just as he was going to pledge his life to Jesus and monogamy, a thunderous sound coming from his ass filled the room. Confused by the noise and gradual relief, Charles moaned the entire time. No more pain? Some moments later when the sound ended, Charles breathed in heavy, short gasps looking towards the lower half of his body.
Charles had painfully shit himself.

On the subject of Love

When I was younger, I was much like any other young girl. I watched all the princess movies with all their happy endings. I watched all the quirky romantic movies and television shows where everything was over done and stomach butterflies were a must where love was concerned.
All these fictional stories telling me what fictional characters do in fictional situations, ultimately leading to a lovely fictional ending. It's no wonder I had no idea what I was doing in High School. I had unknowingly let fake stories define what love was for me. I didn't have a fucking clue. With no real examples of love, what's a girl supposed to do? So, I found faith in Cinderella and Molly Ringwald. I let every character that John Cusak played to become a mold of what my lover boy should be like (with a few bad boy twists, of course.)

As you can imagine, any relationship, or possible relationship, failed. I was never surprised, though. That alone should have clued me into what kind of bullshit I was accepting as replacement for love. See, I always thought love was where you feel like the world can break at any moment if the relationship didn't work. I was fooled into believing that love was this blazing fire with fire-proof butterflies gnawing at your stomach 24/7. I thought it was okay for me to get hurt by the guy, because love was struggle. If it was complicated, it meant we could bond through making it work. Basically, my subconscious understanding was, love=overkill.


I know that sounds bad. Now.


So, you can imagine how surprised I was when I really did fall in love. It wasn't with the bad boy with a sensitive side, it wasn't some guy I met two days ago at a coffee shop, and it wasn't the most-popular-high-school-jock.
It was with Michael Anthony Whisman. My best friend. I've known him nearly six years now. I've seen him at his worst and at his best and love him through every part.
We told each other everything before we even became each others everything. We knew about the past girlfriends and boyfriends, and still accepted each other. I couldn't believe how easy it was to fall in love with him.
It wasn't some overkill where I couldn't sleep at night because I didn't know where the relationship would be the next day. We both knew we would be together.

All the princes, John Cusaks and bad boys vanished completely from my illusion of love and were replaced by the most real thing I've ever known and felt. Michael replaced them all.

I learned that butterflies are just another form a nervousness. I learned that intimacy is much more than what we see and read in stories. I learned that a want for overkill comes from being bored. I learned how stupid I was, ha ha. More importantly, I learned how happy I could be.

Love isn't easy, but with the right person, love comes easily.

Old shit

Atlas, renewed.
With the worlds hands around my neck, I cry out, "Break me."
If you want to break me, you're fighting a losing battle.
Welcome chaos so you can drift in the waves of adrenaline the mind creates in response to panic.
The tectonic plates of my moral standing collide and reverberate a feeling of release I can only compare to a divine salvation.
With the worlds knuckles on my cheek, a bloody mouth spits out, "More."
Welcome fear and failure for the right to say you've been there and found reason to trudge on.
Pick up those feet, swing those arms, expand those lungs with air, your mind with knowledge, and your heart with understanding.
Even if you're crawling, do so with the conviction that you're alive.
With the worlds knife at my back, I pledge my life to no one and laugh in the face of hopelessness, "I'm still here."
Spread your feet, stand your ground.
Throw back those shoulders that are so used to carrying the weight of the world.
Lean your head back and take in what the world has to offer...
          For all it's done to you
          For all the things it's yet to do
          For all the years you've yet to live
          For all the years cut short
You still smile and laugh.
Because when you raise your palm to see the creases of your able hands, you see the world. 





Untitled

            Who am I?
Think of me as everything in this world that has lost meaning. All the things that used to be so precious and pure in their value, now empty with forgotten purposes. Think of me as the after effects of misplaced hope.
         I'm not your Average Joe, but I'm not the second coming of Jesus.
         I'm your lost ideals. I'm what you used to be.      
         I'm everything that was beautiful, now decayed.      
         I'm the Mona Lisa ripped apart.
         I'm the Eiffel Tower burned to dust.
         I stand for more than myself.
         I'm living proof of a lost theory. A dream that used to be real.
         I'm your lost and found of creativity.
         I am not the destruction, I'm what's left over.
         I'm that little moment when you realize that what you had is gone.
         I'm indispensable, but unwelcome when noticed.
         I'm the first step towards progress.
You've always known me, but like a child who's in denial, convinced yourself otherwise.

Speak!
The funny thing about words is that they never stop.
Even when you aren't talking, there are letters forming themselves into these intricate little patterns that we call words.
Words made to describe the constant relaying of information, emotion, imagination and fantasy that your brain can't stop conjuring up.
So many words bouncing themselves along the walls of your mind, bumping, crashing, intertwining, you have to speak to let them out. maybe if you say this, confess a little of that, they'll calm down and you can find peace of mind.
Except, when you let one go, another comes to take it's place. Sometimes even two, three or four will replace that thought. A word for a word, your mind never stops.

A lot of the time you don't even know where these words are going or why your mind even threw them together in the first place.
Why should you say that?
Why should you ask this?
When you convince yourself that you shouldn't, that's when you've ruined yourself.
Rather than let these words release you from their hold, those words rebound around one another creating a fantasy situation of if   they had been spoken. If  they had been planted into another persons mind to find freedom and reassurance of its importance.
But you know it's just a fantasy. A dream. A sad little imagination looking for solace from a person too afraid to find out where their words could have led them.
You didn't speak up; you let yourself down.
You try to disguise a lack of confidence and self esteem as self control.
You speak the words aloud: "Self control. It was self control." But the words dancing inside your mind are calling you weak and cowardly.
 Words will always find their place whether you speak them or not.
It just eases the tension when you give the words a purpose and meaning for their existence.
At the end of the day, when stripped of everything, all you really have is your word.
Whether or not you stuck by that word determines what kind of person you are.

So, what do you have to say?