title??

you showed me your past on a computer screen
pointed at your flaws
your mistakes
everything that makes you human and
you said, help me fix this
there must be a glitch
people say i'm not real.

well hell honey
breathe in nostalgia and
what life has painted for you
with her fragile hand
tell me if life's worth living or not
after you met death that bleak september
night.

in my many seventeen years of life
i know one thing scarier than death:

life.



ps:: i promise to make it less vague. this was a stream of thought.

daddy knows best

the moment i realized my family meant nothing to me, my dad hurled his bladed words into my fragile memory. he called me a cynical little bitch for one reason or another while my sister gazed with terrified eyes. there was no protecting her or me.

we were the victims of failed word choice.

i can't remember was never an excuse. but sometimes it's true. i just can't invent the past, or reasons why my father, carrying then 44 years, would ever degrade himself by insulting his oldest.

my dad may have the iq of a card-carrying MENSA member, but most of the time his mentality mimics a teenage boy who just wants to get his way. i can see him sitting across from me in a classroom. he's the one who divides his periods through shut eyes - who never really tries but determines through power he'll be the one ruling the world in ten years. dark moose hair sprayed across his temple, numbering the breaths he takes...

an accomplishment, i think.

if he could give me one piece of advice, he should say,
"i hope you never aspire to be me."

then,
i could safely craft my future without fear of failure.

overwhelming

my family isn't a family. and to put it in the simplest term,
i hate it.

my parents are an eruption of who-does-what-better and dreams-don't-exist. mommy is the woman who gave birth to me and daddy doesn't care about my
'feelings.'
happiness, intimacy and love are merely meaningless, abstract words.
my sister walks the earth with no tangible form of communication. she's lost, but the definition had vanished before she could grasp it.

sometimes i wish i could start all over again.

i can't remember the last time daddy said i love you. yesterday i wasn't his daughter, i was a wretch of a girl who didn't check her tires for air.
how could i forget?
i must be stupid.
circumstance doesn't exist to the king of the household.

confidence is just a word.

proof

i'm in love with jim morrison. he wrote this: called, who scared you?

Who scared you? why were you born, my babe?
In two-time's arms with all of your charms, my love.
Why were you born? just to play with me?
To freak out or to be beautiful, my dear?
Load your head, blow it up, feeling good, baby
Load your head, blow it up, feeling good, baby, ahh.
Well my room is so cold, you know you don't have to go, my babe.
And if you want it up right, I'm gonna love you tonight, my love.
Well I'm glad that we came, I hope you're feeling the same.
Who scared you and why were you born? Please stay.
I see your rider, coming down the road.
Got a virgin, carrying a heavy load,
One sack of silver and one bag of gold.

just some

fun happy thought provoking quotes to help anyone jumpstart a piece.
perhaps.

"spongebob, your pencil's broken.
it won't make words."

"life is not cut and paste..."

"your kisses are addicting."

thanksgiving piece

i am thankful for the cliche: for the living and those who flourish in heaven. i am thankful for daddy and mommy, who tempt the disease known as confidence into my blood stream. and for my sister, who constantly challenges me with her lust for the unknown. the sisterly struggle to be better than the best - somehow, she never loses her definition of family.

i am thankful for tears and devoured empathy. how else would k.w. know i am eternally thankful for her existence? that horrid night she shattered her mind - slapped her world on pause for one whole month - i was trapped there with her. destruction running rampant in my sanity. those bitter nights when i couldn't help but declare, "this is it, this is all there is, this is the end." emptiness personified. i am so very thankful for god's second chances.

i am thankful for pens and the right of the written word. i am thankful for the life and times of jim morrison - and other ridiculous inspirations. the scent of freedom on my tongue, laughing in my ears, slapping every surface of the body. wake up, woman. your future is peering through the window.

yes,
i am thankful for the monster i call the future. ominious, looming closer closer closer. sometimes opporitunity is scary. i am thankful for every second my heart beats faster - every second my lungs compressand release.

some aren't lucky enough to have that luxury. i am thankful i am.

trapped

i wrote this after scavenging my former notebooks for any sort of wisdom. it's astounding how much i've changed since mid-freshman year...


my past is a vacuum. i get trapped in images and words buried in a sealed container labeled memories. i can't believe my mind once thought the way it did. i can't believe i once dreamed what i dreamt, smelled what i smelt, craved what i oh-so desired. bundles of yesterday clutched to my heart. my mind is cluttered with false accusations and half-decent lies. my mind is screaming, hold tight to nothing but who you are now...

the masculine mystique

boys are supposed to be the pillar of strength in an otherwise spineless society. it seems without men, the earth will stop spinning and civilization as a whole will collapse. i guess stereotypes are safe.

i know a boy. his biggest brag isn’t his bench press, or that he’ll one day rule the world with his obviously superior intellect. no, he’s seventeen years old, and he tells me he hasn’t cried in five years.

maybe there wasn’t a grin on his face, but my mind had submersed with the great stretch of time. does he feel sadness, i wonder? what happened to him? what made him resort to such an empty empathy? he’s seen things i can’t fathom. images of blood kissing asphalt; bodies tangled in metal and nature; the screams of death as he carries away another hapless victim. and yet, not a single drop of remorse. the devastation of the event strangled his sanity and suddenly, there was no need for tears anymore.

it’s just a memory, he strains. it does nothing.

nothing?

i don’t even think about it anymore.

is there strength in apathy? i don’t think so. if giving up my right to drown my cheeks in sorrow means being a man, then i want my apron now. because i can’t imagine floundering in a world in a patriarchy where emotion doesn’t exist. if death doesn’t stir a soul, a man, then i can’t imagine what would.

it's genderific!

currently titleness... sadness abounding...

if i could send a message to every ten year old girl, i'd tell her to stop -
stop growing up right now. dump out your fifty dollar purse and show me what's inside:
a box of crayons; a love note from your mommy; your telephone number in case you forget; a Polly Pocket doll for those dull classroom moments when you wish you could live someone else's life.

you are.

when i was ten, i didn't know the meaning of sex. i still scrambled to be first in line for the newest Disney movie, and i promise you a piece of clothing covered every square inch of my body. mom still doesn't let me go out of the house if my belly is showing.

those girls you see on tv aren't real; stop mimicking their words. they don't know what it's like to be a ten year old girl. if they say they do, then they're lying. so jump from the clutches of your plastic casing and please please,

just live as a ten year old girl.
i promise you barbie does not exist.

"i love you", he said.

i love you, he said.
what a generic phrase.
i want to believe you;
prove it to me.

you don't know what it's like
to be hurt:
to have your heart cluttered
with lies,
only to be chained back together
to please the same
mistake.

what is love?
you didn't love him.
who are you fooling, girl?

my mind is constantly chattering.
i have no perception of
peace or pleasure.
go ahead,
destroy me.
i've already got you all
figured
out.

how can you prove love?
i am sure i feel it.
what is it like for him?
does he feel the same strain
every time we part?

i want nothing more than to spend
the rest of my life in
your arms.

i want to be able to write happy things.
this is happy.
i am happy.

hold me to your trembling heart.
never let me go;
this is it:
prove you love me.

i never want to hear your voice say,
"michelle, i don't know about us..."

i hope this is it.
i hope you're it.

"i love you" is lies;
i love you.

just a wayward thought.

"and don't look back. memories are merely a trap for the weak."

seriously. my notebook is chaos.

a necessary lack of oxygen

i breathe in your body whenever we kiss.
these are the moments when time collides and
our definitions merge to form one:
us.
your arms become mine and suddenly i'm
melting,
melting until you mold my likeness with your touch.
who am i?
i am god's child, i am my mother's daughter,
i am your lungs when you feel as if you heart
won't
beat
anymore.
i can never tell you this truth because
you don't understand the beauty of language.
what are you writing for?
i am writing for your eyes, for your tongue,
for your toes and for your never ceasing lungs.
i am writing for me.
when the clock screams for sleep,
you peel your identity from mine.
we are two.
every night, my lungs start hurting,
but i know you're still breathing.