cynicism.

I think it’s sad,

that some people never look up at the sky anymore,

that they never talk to imaginary friends, instead they let the silence drive them insane.

that they will let the light leave their children’s eyes, and accept it as ‘reality…”

that they will forever wonder how to pay the bills, how to make the next paycheck count,

cynicism is a sickness,

and many of us are unwilling victims.

cynicism is a sleepiness,

and many of us may never wake up…

 

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home.

I planted flowers in my backyard
and painted the walls yellow
I locked the front door,
and told fear she could
find someone else to room with.

The stairs stopped creaking
with the steps of people that abused me,
and I blared music loudly
and opened all the windows
allowing light to finally touch parts of me

I danced, and laughed
pulled out all the old photographs
of what I had, but never quite lost
I have never felt more at home
in my own mind

 

innocence.

Her hands have a slight tremor. “Stop that; I am in control,” she whispers to them. They have words written in pen–smudging on the ends–all over them. People tell her the ink will poison her, and she just laughs.

Her eyes are held open by mascara and cups of coffee. No cream, no sugar, she likes the bitterness.

She hums something under her breath. A song from some distant memory. That Ben Rector song that made her smile and cry at the same time.

She’s been heartbroken, but the broken heart is fixed with a little tape and glitter glue.

Her taste is eclectic; never fit into a box. Her room is littered with pictures of old memories; movie tickets, polaroids, letters, journals, and glass figurines. Her stuffed animals lined up on a shelf, and she kisses their cheeks when their eyes droop.

Maybe, she never grew up. She got taller, wears makeup, smiles when she’s told, strives for better grades, fell for boys, and felt her friends maturing day by day.

But–she would still hug the tree in the front yard, or dance along to her favorite songs when everyone else told her to stop.

She watched the city the other day. She drove her mother around, and she realized how alone she felt now.

So many people were gone; some by choice, and some because life is full of chapters. It seemed the town’s population of kindred spirits dwindled daily.

And, tears blurred her vision as she sped along the highway.

Growing up wasn’t what she always expected it would be…maybe she never would be everything they wanted. Maybe, she would always push boundaries, and always get cut from pushing the envelope too much.

That was alright. And, maybe people would keep leaving, because of college, jobs, and responsibility. And, maybe new people would appear and they’d make unforgettable memories together as well.

So, she still hummed the Ben Rector song, and tapped her trembling fingers to the piano playing in her mind, and tried to think of a time where innocence and happiness were second nature.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

resuscitate.

someone give me life,

because lately I’m having a hard time staying awake

I laid in my bed–mid day–

and stared at my ceiling in silence

my sweatshirt doesn’t keep me warm anymore

I’m chilled to my core

there is a lump in my throat,

I tried to wash it away

but it’s latched on from my lack of tears

no one seems to understand it,

neither do I.

the basslines in my headphones,

resuscitate me long enough

to keep breathing.

 

 

fight time.

We sat side by side in the dressing room,

tears streaming down our faces,

broken, bleeding, crying for help;

you held my hand, and said we had to stay friends,

fight time,

fight the impending pages rustling by quickly…

too quickly.

I want to freeze time and stay with you.

I want to miss you every time I see a blonde;

to keep writing you letters with ‘I love you,’ implied in every line.

Life is cruel.

I won’t let it take you from me.

I love you too much.

 

 

 

it’s been a long month.

the girl pays for her coffee with quarters,

her trembling hands grasping for another cup,

alone, she sits.

the seat across is empty, someone once sat there

the coffee runs down her throat, and warms her heartless body.

it’s been a long month.

 

the breath is knocked out of her,

as she watches couples hold hands

a tear escapes, and she scolds herself

too attached; she got too attached

she shoves the emotions away

it’s been a long month.

 

dear someone, she writes in her journal

why am I alive?

because, all I do is disappoint

and I break beautiful things

I wonder if there a point to this pain?

it’s been a long month.

 

and, the seconds creep by

slowly, the days muddle into night

she tells the moon about her failings

slowly, the nights drift into day

and she plods along whispering as an excuse,

it’s been a long month.

 

 

 

past tense.

The Neighbourhood came out with an EP,

and I thought of you…the days we would sit in your brother’s Subaru, and sing the lyrics to The Beach.

You’re right…I’m abrasive, cold, and suppress emotions. I don’t want to hurt the people around me. I don’t want to disappoint.

When you wrote it though, I cried. I just realized how you actually saw me. And, I know you saw how I actually saw you through my words.

Maybe, we were spiteful. Or, maybe we meant it. I can’t tell if I did or not, and that’s why I haven’t called.

I’m sorry. Because, I miss you but I know I screwed up, and that our friendship is a thing of the past.

It’s hard using past tense. Was and were are such devastating words.

Maybe, we can visit present tense one day. If that’s alright with you…