I feel as though I've reverted back to my usual invisible state, a phantom gust through the hallways. And here I thought I'd broken myself of that annoying habit of not being seen....
Well, what does it matter, anyways? After all, it's not as though I'll die of this. No, the scars of tribulations past will protect me from the mild discomfort of not being visible. This is nothing, no matter how inconsequential it makes me feel.
Whatever. The years have taught me that I am a minor absent detail in the tapestries of others' lives, so I should expect only to escape notice. What dementia possessed me with the recent delusion that my place is in the forefront? I know not, but I discard it along with the phrase 'I'm important.'
2/1/08
Too Late
What the HELL are you doing? Yeah, I get that it's less scary to hint around the edges of what you mean, but it's also less appealing. What am I supposed to think?
Besides, it's obvious. You COMPLETELY lack subtlety, which makes it even more frustrating that you don't just come out and say it. I mean, come on. You extol your 'virtues' when it comes to love, how it should be based on more ethereal standards rather than physical appearance. Nothing like swinging a brick at my head....
You're such a hypocrite. You want to be a hero to my damsel in distress, but there's a slight problem with that. I'm not a damsel, nor am I distressed. Thus, I need no hero. I need a dance partner, and as you said yourself, you don't dance. Ever. You also say that your love is based on values and what you see in a person's heart, but you're so busy looking at yourself in the mirror that there's no way you can see anyone else. Any 'love' you experience can only be lust.
Anyways, you're too late. You missed your chance by a large margin. Yeah, you were so busy hinting around what you meant and swinging your brick that something awful happened: I got to know you. And since you want to be a hero and I'm no damsel in distress, you can give this obsession you have with me a long, forever, stretch of rest via death.
Besides, it's obvious. You COMPLETELY lack subtlety, which makes it even more frustrating that you don't just come out and say it. I mean, come on. You extol your 'virtues' when it comes to love, how it should be based on more ethereal standards rather than physical appearance. Nothing like swinging a brick at my head....
You're such a hypocrite. You want to be a hero to my damsel in distress, but there's a slight problem with that. I'm not a damsel, nor am I distressed. Thus, I need no hero. I need a dance partner, and as you said yourself, you don't dance. Ever. You also say that your love is based on values and what you see in a person's heart, but you're so busy looking at yourself in the mirror that there's no way you can see anyone else. Any 'love' you experience can only be lust.
Anyways, you're too late. You missed your chance by a large margin. Yeah, you were so busy hinting around what you meant and swinging your brick that something awful happened: I got to know you. And since you want to be a hero and I'm no damsel in distress, you can give this obsession you have with me a long, forever, stretch of rest via death.
1/29/08
Death in Her Grave
As a queen in my grave, I toss and I turn and I wish I were anywhere else. Can I not climb to heights unknown? Well, I may not do that if my dirt duvet continues to weigh me down! I must shed this suffocating skin if I wish to taste the stars.
Does Death pretend to those alive that she is among the living? No, she never bothered, never tried, for though she breathes and beats, her soul has withered inside. So, she poses no charade and goes about her business, and with every soul she guides to rest, she wants to be alone. How hollow her pursuits! If it were not for the strength of her wings, her heavy heart would not let her fly. Eternity is too long - she never wanted forever.
Like never in a moment, Death was a queen in her grave. But she was always still, her fingers wrapped around the blade. She'd already climbed to heights unknown, dwarfed the highest mountain - the warmest thing she'd ever felt was the weight of that dirt duvet. The ground was solid about her and she savored every taste. Who needs the stars? That open sky is but a waste.
Does Death pretend to those alive that she is among the living? No, she never bothered, never tried, for though she breathes and beats, her soul has withered inside. So, she poses no charade and goes about her business, and with every soul she guides to rest, she wants to be alone. How hollow her pursuits! If it were not for the strength of her wings, her heavy heart would not let her fly. Eternity is too long - she never wanted forever.
Like never in a moment, Death was a queen in her grave. But she was always still, her fingers wrapped around the blade. She'd already climbed to heights unknown, dwarfed the highest mountain - the warmest thing she'd ever felt was the weight of that dirt duvet. The ground was solid about her and she savored every taste. Who needs the stars? That open sky is but a waste.
1/28/08
Intrigued
By all the Gods in Heaven, I must confess! I am enchanted, bewitched! Who knew I'd ever meet a guy with just the right lazy smile, just the precise drawl in his voice! Perhaps it is mere infatuation, but I am feeling this in my bones. Damn, boy.... Congrats. I can't remember the last time THIS particular set of emotions possessed my soul.
The thing is, everything I do, everything I've learned.... None of it quite works on you. The way you hide in your shell, covering your face with a mask that is composed of a book and a steady look away glare makes me desperate. You remind me so much of who I used to be. (It doesn't hurt that you're the sexiest thing I've seen since Jake Richardson.)
I really want to get to know you, to learn who you are, what you're about. I want to know what you care about, the things you value, the substance that powers the clock (bomb?) waiting within your soul. In summary.... I'm intrigued.
The thing is, everything I do, everything I've learned.... None of it quite works on you. The way you hide in your shell, covering your face with a mask that is composed of a book and a steady look away glare makes me desperate. You remind me so much of who I used to be. (It doesn't hurt that you're the sexiest thing I've seen since Jake Richardson.)
I really want to get to know you, to learn who you are, what you're about. I want to know what you care about, the things you value, the substance that powers the clock (bomb?) waiting within your soul. In summary.... I'm intrigued.
Science Class (Required Course)
I find it so difficult to scrounge up half a care for the subject you teach. It might be different if I could mix it up by paying not the least little bit of attention. But, no. You INSIST that I provide you with the privilege of occupying 100% of my usable brain space. (Hate to break it to you, but my attention span only extends that far when it matters.)
Sorry, but I'm much too distracted by your awful outfit. (Pure white simply should NOT be paired with brown.) AND you have poor grammar! Talk about beating me upside the head with your lectures!
This is dull, darling, I am compelled to confess. You're reiterating information long learned, repeating conclusions easily reached by a languid twitch of common sense. Just, please, please, let me occupy my understimulated brain with some other task. It's either that, or doodles get stamped all over your pretty new lab notebook. Isn't it all easier for everyone in the long run if I pick up my book and read?
Sorry, but I'm much too distracted by your awful outfit. (Pure white simply should NOT be paired with brown.) AND you have poor grammar! Talk about beating me upside the head with your lectures!
This is dull, darling, I am compelled to confess. You're reiterating information long learned, repeating conclusions easily reached by a languid twitch of common sense. Just, please, please, let me occupy my understimulated brain with some other task. It's either that, or doodles get stamped all over your pretty new lab notebook. Isn't it all easier for everyone in the long run if I pick up my book and read?
1/27/08
Kickback Eyes
I'm a dream with kickback eyes, come find my story. Let's forgo reality. Maybe it's not practical, but it's quite the scene. Soft hair and bidden touch, it spirals out in ink. I'm lots of fun, you need lots of sun - the dark is closing in. The candles flicker through the night, fire my dame. You're glorious, yes, you are, a dance to mark and deem. And here it is, once again, my eyes a kickback dream.
'Easy'
Have you even once heard me agree to the notion that I'm 'easy'? Hell, no, you have not and you never will! The reason being? I'm NOT easy.
I am as difficult to get as you can even dream of conceiving. I stoop in the doorway of life to even CONTEMPLATE seeing you. So, how DARE you imply that I'm free, a slut, a pre-paid whore, the one that gets you off at the count of three!
(Tactic switch.)
This merely shows how small you are. You're so teensy-weensy-tiny, it's adorable. You're a six year old, both in your behavior and everyone else's perceptions. Now, just because you'll never have me doesn't mean you can try and shoplift me off the shelf by claiming that there's no price tag attached. It just doesn't work that way. (Especially when the price tag describes something like 'good old fashioned hard work' or 'wooing'.)
Oh, I'm sorry if you don't have the right currency. Unfortunately, it's impossible to change out. Oh, well. Go see if you can suck your own dick. (Not that you haven't already tried.) 'Cause your claim that I'm easy? It kinda just makes me even harder to get.
I am as difficult to get as you can even dream of conceiving. I stoop in the doorway of life to even CONTEMPLATE seeing you. So, how DARE you imply that I'm free, a slut, a pre-paid whore, the one that gets you off at the count of three!
(Tactic switch.)
This merely shows how small you are. You're so teensy-weensy-tiny, it's adorable. You're a six year old, both in your behavior and everyone else's perceptions. Now, just because you'll never have me doesn't mean you can try and shoplift me off the shelf by claiming that there's no price tag attached. It just doesn't work that way. (Especially when the price tag describes something like 'good old fashioned hard work' or 'wooing'.)
Oh, I'm sorry if you don't have the right currency. Unfortunately, it's impossible to change out. Oh, well. Go see if you can suck your own dick. (Not that you haven't already tried.) 'Cause your claim that I'm easy? It kinda just makes me even harder to get.
1/23/08
A Realization
She's not so cute - just unforgettable. Merely a star visible in a cloudy sky, flashing bright. Of course you want her - she's the only source of light. What a shame if she turns out to be a flame to burn you. (Actually, that would amuse me GREATLY.)
Me? Bitter? Oh, you perish that thought. You seem to have forgotten that I am the DEFINITION of sweet, simple, innocence. (The fact that this is not the case will not be taken into your consideration.)
Okay, I get it. My body's telling me something, and you're not gonna like the message it's sending. It's tellin' me that I'm lookin' for love, and guess what?
You ain't it.
Don't get me wrong - you're a nice guy, but that's just the issue. I have this critical fantasy in which I'm arguing animatedly with my fellow and then he pulls me close in the moment, still debating some point or another. You wouldn't do that, and everything within me screams out that anything else would be a BAD idea.
No, she's not such hot stuff. You and I both have to accept that. For once those clouds clear, and they will, there will be other stars to guide you. And the star you choose won't be her, won't be me, 'cause I KNOW that I'm a flame which will burn you.
Me? Bitter? Oh, you perish that thought. You seem to have forgotten that I am the DEFINITION of sweet, simple, innocence. (The fact that this is not the case will not be taken into your consideration.)
Okay, I get it. My body's telling me something, and you're not gonna like the message it's sending. It's tellin' me that I'm lookin' for love, and guess what?
You ain't it.
Don't get me wrong - you're a nice guy, but that's just the issue. I have this critical fantasy in which I'm arguing animatedly with my fellow and then he pulls me close in the moment, still debating some point or another. You wouldn't do that, and everything within me screams out that anything else would be a BAD idea.
No, she's not such hot stuff. You and I both have to accept that. For once those clouds clear, and they will, there will be other stars to guide you. And the star you choose won't be her, won't be me, 'cause I KNOW that I'm a flame which will burn you.
1/19/08
One Guy, the Emcee
I'm hyping myself up for this, and I'm not sure why. It's just a guy, one of many, who has just been persistent enough to warrant an invitation to check out the place I lived. I swear, something like a demon has siezed control of my body.
He's next to nothing to me, really. Just another diversion from the lack of true interests. He's bold though, a splash of sunshine in a cold pool on an August band camp day. He revives my interest in the male gender. He possesses the ability to create WORDS!! And not just innuendo - he has matched me stroke for stroke, blow for blow, somehow managing to switch my fighting waltz for a much gentler, much kinder dance. How the HELL did he manage that?
Okay, I'll admit it. I was impressed by his daring moves, his sweet smile and sense of romance. But then again, I was ALWAYS a sucker for romantic gestures, flowers and stars and moons and slow meanders body to body, in time, in step.
But he has too many of the right answers and not enough of the wrong. It makes me REALLY suspicious. No guy is that perfect, not without manipulation. It's so hard to believe that he's dealing me straight instead of spinning me across his finger like an emcee plays a record. So, I'm hyping myself up for the coming duel, placed conveniently on my living room floor. I just hope that there aren't any bloodstains.
He's next to nothing to me, really. Just another diversion from the lack of true interests. He's bold though, a splash of sunshine in a cold pool on an August band camp day. He revives my interest in the male gender. He possesses the ability to create WORDS!! And not just innuendo - he has matched me stroke for stroke, blow for blow, somehow managing to switch my fighting waltz for a much gentler, much kinder dance. How the HELL did he manage that?
Okay, I'll admit it. I was impressed by his daring moves, his sweet smile and sense of romance. But then again, I was ALWAYS a sucker for romantic gestures, flowers and stars and moons and slow meanders body to body, in time, in step.
But he has too many of the right answers and not enough of the wrong. It makes me REALLY suspicious. No guy is that perfect, not without manipulation. It's so hard to believe that he's dealing me straight instead of spinning me across his finger like an emcee plays a record. So, I'm hyping myself up for the coming duel, placed conveniently on my living room floor. I just hope that there aren't any bloodstains.
1/17/08
My Ex is a Bisexual
This is the creepiest thing ever. I'm trying to repress the knowledge, but it just makes me feel so sick inside. It squicks me out!! Yeah, I know it shouldn't matter, but it's creepy. How can the guy I spent close to a year kissing and loving suddenly want all that with another GUY? It's screwy.
The thing is, I've got nothin' wrong with it, in theory. To each their own. But, honestly, I feel betrayed, stabbed through the back with a knife I never thought you'd DREAM of pickin' up. It tastes bitter, sour, warheads spiked blood, no sugar. Maybe if I'd known before, this wouldn't sting like so many hordes of jellyfish.
And perhaps if you'd told me yourself, it wouldn't be so bad either. But, no, I have to hear it from my best friend, the gossip queen, that you've moved completely under the status of 'man-whore'. I figured that's where you were heading, but I didn't... COULDN'T expect this.
Okay, I'm cool. I'm dealing with it. So, you're a bisexual man. Got it. You wouldn't mind having what we had with somebody else who happens to have a penis. Nothing screwy with that concept.
The thing is, I've got nothin' wrong with it, in theory. To each their own. But, honestly, I feel betrayed, stabbed through the back with a knife I never thought you'd DREAM of pickin' up. It tastes bitter, sour, warheads spiked blood, no sugar. Maybe if I'd known before, this wouldn't sting like so many hordes of jellyfish.
And perhaps if you'd told me yourself, it wouldn't be so bad either. But, no, I have to hear it from my best friend, the gossip queen, that you've moved completely under the status of 'man-whore'. I figured that's where you were heading, but I didn't... COULDN'T expect this.
Okay, I'm cool. I'm dealing with it. So, you're a bisexual man. Got it. You wouldn't mind having what we had with somebody else who happens to have a penis. Nothing screwy with that concept.
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