Words are worthless, try not to worry.

Freedom.

I used to stumble into freedom, almost anywhere I went. But that was when my hands were clean.

Dreams.

I used to have dreams. I used to be inspired and blindly hopeful. I used to think I'd grow up and be beautiful, that I'd grow up and find love. I used to think that my life would unfold before me like an enchanted board game, and all the shiny pieces would fall into place. But that ended when the sound of my alarm clock became more familiar than the sound of my own laughter.

Feel.

I used to get lost in words. But their meanings all changed, and it hurt my feelings.

So I don't feel anymore.

I used to have friends at school, but my style changed. I started carrying a notebook. I talked to it instead of them and I guess it hurt their feelings.

Lost.

I've lost my feelings. I think they are in my room, under last weeks receipts and my psychology assignment. I'd look for them but I'm sick of playing hide and seek everyday.

 

All these notes and all these words,

are all thats left in me.

Bend these pages, count my woes,

one last song to set me free.

I feel like no one sees me.

I'm a ghost.

I sing and scream, and yet there's silence.

If I'm just a star in the sky, why don't I sparkle? If words are worthless, what does that mean for me?

I'm not you're bitchy ex-girlfriend. I'm not yours, and that's the point.

If this is karma, i'm confused.
But I'll keep sailing home, to you.
They'll tell my love that I'm gone, and not to worry.
Even though my hands are colder that ice box you call a heart.
I'll chisel at all that frost until we come to a conclusion about what we had, and lost.
And once I've found my favorite T-shirt, and my dignity I'll ride the winds back into his arms.

Because, darling, he's not you. And that's the point.

Ghost town.

All to often now night comes and I find myself to tired to sleep. To stubborn to dream. On these nights, I let myself breath. I leave my body behind to the glory of imperfection. And wearing nothing but the shadow of my soul, I wander.

This is a direct order, to disobey all orders.

This is a direct order to drop that Iphone and run.

This is a direct order to skip the chapstick and kiss him.

This is a direct order to crank the latin radio station and let your hips talk.

This is a direct order to sing on the street corner.

This is a direct order to throw rocks at your Juliet's window.

This is a direct order to hangout the car window and let the highway speak to you.

This is a direct order to skinny dip in the duck pond behind your high school.

This is a direct order to throw out the filter between what you want to do, and what you are doing.

This is a direct order to shout from the roof tops.

This is a direct order to sneak out and watch the sun rise.

This is a direct order to fallow your favorite band from city to city.

This is a direct order to cut class.

This is a direct order to *67 the kid that drive you crazy.

This is a direct order to hit snooze and let the Z's fly.

This is a direct order to party like a rockstar.

This is a direct order to spend your time wiser than you spend your money.

This is a direct order to have sex on the beach.

This is a direct order to buy tickets from a creep on the sidewalk.

This is a direct order to wear your dress without a slip.

This is a direct order to protest.

This is direct order to crowd surf like its your day job.

This is a direct order to order the whole menu.

This is a direct order to quit your job and buy a type writer.

This is a direct order to buy that hoodrat kid a real meal.

This is a direct order to write your blog and not give a damn if they like it or not.

This is a direct order to stop over thinking, and start over doing everything.

This is a direct order to live.

His hair would have curled like yours.

My stomach is sick, and turning. Round and round slowley like the rickety faris wheel you refused to ride with me. I had it in my head, a perfect vision of a perfect kiss. We'd be high above all the filth of the world and we'd kiss. But you hated faris wheels, and I should have known.

My hands shake, and I can't control it. I gave you control, I always did. I willingly handed you the remote, and pretended to be interested in what you put on. But my heart was heavy and my tender womb was empty. And your movie made me cry. And your lack of sensitivity made me cry, and I cried on your couch. But you didn't wipe my tears, and you didn't turn it off. Because you hated my past, and I should have known.

And you are gone now. Far away. And as hard as I fight to keep you with me while pushing you away nothing changes. Nothing changes for me and I should know by now.

My head replays our life together, little reels of tape spin continuously. But its a sick, broken movie. Our movie makes a porno feel like home. And the home you left me with feels like the set of a dirty movie. And I force myself to breath through my mouth because the taste of sin is easier to ignore than the smell.

But the pain won't leave me, and everything takes me back to him. He would have been our son, and you would have been the sweetest Dad. But you didn't want him.

And you don't want me.

I wish my psychiatrist would shave.

Duck tape. That's the cure.

I sat on his sterilized fake leather couch and pretended to open up. I faked a range of emotions and even mustered a tear or two. His eyes rarely left his ugly yellow legal pad, and he answered all my questions with questions.

He had graduated from an Ivy League school, and had framed the evidence. It hung smugly on the wall. He combed his mustache with his fingers while he explained my psychiatric state to my parents. I found this habit disgusting, and rather repulsive.

He said he could see I was deeply troubled. I doubted that, his glasses had lenses thicker than encyclopedias.

He said I was depressed, severely.
Depressed.

He wrote me a prescription, for duck tape.
Duck tape.


He must be delusional.
Duck tape can't fix depression.
Everyone knows that.

Bricks.

I've lost the feeling of weightlessness.

I, am heavy.

I do not float beautifully on the waters surface any longer. I have sunk to the bottom, and I stay there. Stuck.

Heavy.



I let my worries go, a long time ago. I threw caution to the wind, and the wind cleverly kept it away. I was fooled by you. I bought into your gimmick.

We spent hours laughing, and building. You smeared mortar on my cheek and laughed like an angel. I stacked bricks, and watched you work. We constructed a mis-match home for our hearts to stay in, together. And I thought I'd call it home.

But your empty chest grew lonely. And your lonely greed became bitter. And the bitter you began to lie. I didn't like him.

I watched him work.

He tore apart that quaint brick house, and stole back the heart he thought was his.


They find me now, those bricks. They find me on sidewalks, and in movie theaters, at school, and in the deserted parking lots. I can't leave them behind, those pieces of my beautiful house; so I carry them.

They make me heavy.

They make me heavy, but I carry them.

They make me heavy, and carrying them makes me tired. And I grow weary of seeing this tired me in the mirror. I don't like her.

I watch her work.
I watch her wither.

Bricks.