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[13 Apr 2011|03:55am]


Hey to all of you out there. Some of you have kind of gotten to know me for quite some time, reading whatever I happen to throw at this journal. If you're new, you could have picked a better moment to intervene but that is okay. Stick around until you get bored.

I don't know how many of you know this or have caught on but I have a chronic case of MDD, or Major Depressive Disorder. Sometimes it is nearly nonexistent and others incredibily severe. Sometimes I forget I have it. Other times I feel like my mind is diseased and some type of negativity has hijacked my entire body, soul, brain, everything. It's like I can't escape and my every hope is held hostage to this angry, irritable, terrifying I don't know if it is a person, side of my self, glitch, or a kind of a virus that just gets control when my system is vulnerable.

But it shows me terrifying things.  Things I could do to myself. Images of death, gore, dying, decay, any image that you would be shocked at on a film screen suddenly becomes native to my own mind. I can't get out. It takes away my every word and speaks terrible, terrible things for me. It pushes people away and I just break down.

Normally I am incredibly motivated. It cuts me off at the knees. The only thought that is my own, the only part of me that is left during this captive struggle is Jesus just let me die, let me die. I want to fucking die already. There is no hope in life. Everything is gray at best, black at worst.

Everything about me is to fault. I'm suspicious of others and know they will let me down or put me down or show me something incredibly faulty about myself. Everybody has a gun and I am a target and a villain, all at the same time. I can't get close to anybody, anything. I can't speak, can't think. I can just stare at the computer screen.

I feel like I am losing my ever-loving mind and any moments of sanity or rationale are fleeting. I try to call to myself, try to get rid of the shadow eclipsing my soul and emerge from the black waters filling my lungs and the pressure and gravity destroying every attempt at saving myself. I just get heavier and heavier and I know there is a black hole at the bottom of that ocean and I always make it above water and to shore. But every time I get closer to sinking into that hole and I know one day it is going to happen. One day it's going to swallow me and that will be the point beyond no return. I'll drown and the only thing that will be left of me will be a body and a shadow of myself. And even now I feel that shadow just behind me, beginning to wash over my heels. And I'm terrified of it and frantically trying to escape it and so tired that I'm surrendering to it, all at the same time.

And to me that is death. Death isn't the death of your body. That's just a machine shutting down. That's just a body that has stopped working. But when the soul gives in, when it sinks and drowns, that's a terrible death, a death I feel more and more every day of my fucking life. I don't even know who I am anymore. I don't even know that girl that was smiling yesterday, who was successful, who was everything I'm not. She had people fooled. I'm just a shadow.

Arori: The Painter. [30 Dec 2010|06:38pm]


This follows a previous entry. You can find it here: http://shoelace009.livejournal.com/102324.html .
I think it is better if you read the entry but you don't have to in order to get it.


Heat seared towards me on the tails of red sparks. I was in the wrong end of a firework shot towards the ground rather than away from it. It felt like one of those moments you see in an apocalypse movie. I was going to die. We all were. But when I looked up at the woman, I noticed her eyes for the first time. Large, but not in a looming kind of way. They were black but a gentle black with a twinkle, like a diamond sat in each of them. You'd think she would have realized what she had done. You'd think there would be an expression of guilt, or at least one of panic. But nothing. She just waited.

And then the shower fell to the earth all around the awning. It looked like handfuls of sparklers falling to the ground and extinguishing in puddles. Steam curled up in snakelike tendrils from where each spark had landed. There was some hissing for a bit and then nothing. Silence except for a dented pop can being pushed across the pavement down the street.

I thought that when I looked up she would be gone, like she had never been there. Just a constellation outlining a shape I had imagined. But she was, and was staring down at me knowlingly, like we had known each other my whole life. She smiled and I saw rows of pearls, real pearls.

Arori, I thought. I didn't understand where that came from. My name is Arori. I looked over my shoulder for somebody. Up here. She smiled again.

"Oh." Very eloquent response of course.

She nodded and turned away from me, spreading pink, orange, and yellow across the sky. It was most vibrant in the east and faded out into the west where she sat on the silver edge. Goodnight. But, it's almost morning. I heard a laugh that sounded like a short melody. Maybe for you.

The lady waved a few multicolored fingers then hung onto the moon as it flipped around and the sun began to rise above a cloud like a child slowly peering out from under the blankets in the morning.

[Possibly to be continued.]

The Painter. [30 Dec 2010|02:21am]


I looked up. It was one of those nights where I had nowhere to go so I just picked a star in the sky and followed the streets I thought would get me closest to it, ignoring the fact that none of the streets were on hills and I wasn't climbing any higher. It didn't matter though because I wanted to be closer to the star, not in possession of it. Doing that would make it nothing more than a flimsy night light bought at the corner store, adjacent to my flat.

So like I did most nights when I couldn't sleep, I just followed. I figured the less I look at the ground, the less aware I was that I was pinned to it, like a piece of fabric safety pinned to the quilt. I hopefully wasn't being sewn into the earth any time soon. Anyways, if I could just avoid looking at the ground and try to make sure nothing got in my sights but the sky, then maybe I could convince myself that that was where I was.

That night, in order to see the moon, I had to round the corner of a crumbled brick building with dusty dirty windows that distorted my reflection when I glanced at them. The moon wasn't realy my thing. I generally preferred the simple stars but that night it was different, much different. Nobody ever believes my stories. They say my nighttime walks are just dreams and maybe this one was but there was a woman sitting on it. She had short, chocolate brown hair that was flipped out. A thin, white, lace dress hung from her ivory shoulders. Her ankles were crossed and hung over one of the edges, balancing her as she leaned into the sky, painting silver and gold stars. She was articulate, and graceful, and, well as much as I hate to say it, perfect. She wasn't worried about who was watching her or the lengths of her strokes. It was like she was illustrating something that had already been created and she was just filling in the truth.

People always tell you this junk about how you're looking into the past when you look at stars and whatever, all that scientific bull. And, I generally am in favor of knowledge of whatever kind in order to support belief but there she was and I didn't need any other sort of explanation. It just was. She was there painting stars, and then, as if it was part of the plan, she began painting something else.

It was like a kid had tipped his crayon box over into the sky, a crayon box that had been left out in the sun so it was just melted wax. She spread the melted wax with her fingers in all different directions. Blue violet and indigo. Fuschia and Sea Green. Turquoise and orchid and a hundred other colors. Stars burst from clouds and their golden sparks rained down through the atmostphere until it turned into a mild rain shower that brushed my face before falling to the sordid bricks in the sidewalk. It was like watching the creation of something. I wasn't sure what it was but it felt mythological and real and magical and true all at the same time so that I wasn't sure what I was looking or why. I just knew that I was enjoying what I saw and I knew I somehow was a part of it.

And then she did something I didn't expect. She began to paint with crimson and firebrick and forest green, grey and black. And something in me grew fearful. I'm not sure why. But for some reason when she ran palms of paint acrossed the newly fierce clouds I began to wonder what I had to do at home and an invisible leash tugged me back to my stoop. I'd just stepped under the awning when the clouds she'd painted, those clouds that had been so beautiful and graceful, ripped themselves open and a crimson flood of sparks fell toward the earth.


I was inspired by an image on one of the photography websites I check out. I wasn't sure where I was going with this and it was purely freewritten so if it makes no sense I apologize. I just had to write what has been in my head all day.


Frostbitten Love. [13 Dec 2010|02:15am]

I'm sitting here, staring at the windshield freezing over. I know how it feels because my feet are going through about the same thing. Waiting on you, like always. Burning with anger and frustration, even in the midst of a snow storm. Didn't know it was possible but here we are.

God I'm always waiting on you. And I feel like I've done this a hundred times, sitting in the car, seething, knowing you're in the house bullshitting while I'm losing limbs. You always say "Oh I'm just going in to get something." Either you've neglected to tell me that you have to get into Cuba to get it, which would take a whole lot of time, or you're just a slow ass. Out of all the guys I picked up, all the guys I hung out with freshman year of college, I had to get the one who takes three days to do one load of laundry.

I'll think these thoughts a hundred times but it will never change anything. Because we both know I'll be here next  week doing the same thing. Some people think love is shown in a black and white picture, a rose, that kind of kiss where you close your eyes and breathe really deep, those butterfly feelings, but it's not. Those are the benefits of love. Real love, is feeling like a fucking Eskimo in the middle of a freezing ice box of a car in December because you love your slow ass boyfriend too much to stay at home in the heat. Real love is knowing that you're more likely to get hit by a train than get anywhere on time with him but realizing that, no matter how much you complain, you wouldn't change it, because then he'd be some Type A bastard with a watch stuck up his ass.

Whenever I listened to fairytales as a little girl, saw Cinderella in her pumpkin carriage, I never thought that my carriage would be a broken down Ford with no exhaust and a missing driver but at least I know that when it hits midnight and I become who I really am, you'll stick around.


The Lion and the Doe. [27 Nov 2010|03:30pm]


Sometimes I'm the lion, and sometimes I'm the doe. When you make me mad, when I'm passionate about something, when my blood is racing so fast it's roaring like a hundred white rapids, I'm the lion. My curly hair rests, curl over curl, twenty rolling masses protecting my vulnerable neck and masking my exposed heart. But my hide won't be thick forever, sometime I have to lay down in the sun. The heat wears on me and before I know it my lashes are caressing one another. My paws grow too heavy to pick up and I'm rooted where I stand. I'm tamed and I fall heavily, like a building drawn too far into the sky. Pride is strong and stubborn but it is short lived.

And then I'm the doe, prancing around dead leaves and snow melting on my nose. All at once I'm graceful, nervous, and vulnerable. I look so innocent, standing there. I don't make much noise but you watch me none the less. At first you enjoy it, you're entranced. You want to draw closer and pet me, run your hands along my long back. You watch my every movement, the musles on my legs running smoothly like water in a shallow river. No sound, no rocks to hinder it.

But then it grows cold and that river turns to ice. The seasons change and you're not a boy anymore. My grace doesn't matter to you. You forget the fact that I mean no harm; it's erased from your mind as if you never knew it. You forget that first snowfall and the joy we both felt. You pull out your gun and you shoot me, a bullet to the heart.

And all at once, you've taken everything I ever was, a proud yet vulnerable thing, a girl you once loved. And with one fatal blow, you crushed both hearts, that of the lion and the doe. Because when you were a boy somebody let you play with a gun and pretend to shoot imaginary Indians. And when you grew, you forgot who you were shooting at, who you were hurting. You drew me in because you loved me, because I loved you, because you made me feel wild and tame at the same time, and just when I walked into the clearing, you punctured me with lead. Didn't you ever think of who you were shooting? Didn't you ever stop to think that I'm more than a trophy? Don't you ever stop to think that there is more to being a man than hunting and taming and caging and hurting? More than the destruction you make with your own hands?

You used to pet animals, you used to hold girls' hands, now you shoot them because it's all a sport.


Trump. [26 Nov 2010|02:41pm]

I just want to be loved. I just want that one person who doesn't make me compete. Just somewhere, just in that one person's heart, I want to be the trump card, the queen, and the ace at the same time. I don't want the whole world to revere me. Screw the world's worship. Here today and gone tomorrow. No thanks, I don't want to be glamorous. I don't want to be famous. But just to one person, I want to be the legend, the epic, the fantasy, and the love story. I don't want a fairy tale. Cinderella can keep her shoes. No seven dwarfs will follow me.  Just you. You're enough.

Fairy tales don't exist. Somewhere the little girl in me has seen with knowing eyes that there is no Prince Charming. And the adult in me has adjusted and grown to love it. Bring me your flaws. I'll kiss them all. Just bring your heart with it. Your whole heart. That's all I want. I don't want to be forgotten for a video game or another girl or the guys. I want to be your one necessity. So that no matter where you go in the world, even if I'm temporarily on the other side of it, my name is written on your mind and my heart in your hand.

If you want all of me, you have it. It's yours. But if you get all of me don't go searching for anything else. If my heart isn't enough, if your head still turns on your shoulders because you feel like you're standing there, waiting on just one more thing, a traveller at a stop waiting on a bus, then get on it when it comes. Get on it and don't look out at the window as it goes. I want to be a destination, not a rest stop.

Keep in mind I'm not asking for the world. I'm not asking for the attention of all who come and go. I'm okay to be alone. But if I'm going to give that up, if I'm going to leave my peaceful solidarity it has to be replaced by something else. I don't want you to give me the world. I just want to look at it standing next to you. No matter how beautiful the island, how bright the stars, how soft the sandy beach, don't stow me anywhere for you to come back to. Life doesn't wait. Love doesn't wait. Neither can I.

Why do pirates hide their treasure anyway? Just for somebody to come along and find it. If you find something worth finding, don't leave it. If you say I'm your treasure then where are you going? If X marks the spot, and I'm standing on it, so should you. You should never need a map to find what you love because you should never turn away from it. Buried treasure is obviously no treasure at all.

[04 Jan 2010|12:51am]



so here is a rough draft of sorts, i suppose...i've not written any poetry in so long. i feel like its slightly disjointed and i'm not sure where to go.  but it is something quite personal that i needed to let go of, and this seemed a proper means. so here goes:

untitled, as of yetCollapse )

The hollow ache, it creeps in,
Into the space between the sheets in which we lie.
And once the rhythmic movement has ceased
And the body heat dissipates
Oxytocin alone won’t keep this thing alive.

It starts with raw desire
Hungry eyes and sweaty hands that just cannot rest
but sharp pangs of emptiness shoot through
And I’ll willfully ignore truth
Until I’ve destroyed what sanity I’ve got left.

 I’ll wait here in this anguish
Broken into tiny pieces that can’t be found
Yet I’ll fumble blindly with bare hands
Until my fingertips go numb
And I’m sobbing and shaking on the cold, hard ground.

 I’ll be ruled by emotions
And you’ll be haunted by the shadows of past love
but my conviction is an anchor;
and I’ll sink down to the sea floor
to succumb to this weight  crushing me from above.


Farewell to Romance [22 Dec 2009|09:11am]


And it is this thought now that gives me a scare, “Are they imagining and what I see is real? or I am the one imagining here?”

and they’re about to go now, and they look back, and say, “well we guess we’ll leave”, and I am still standing at the edge shouting, “Hey! But I still believe!”


Pipe Dreams [02 Oct 2009|01:05am]

[ mood | mellow ]

Here's to all the little melodies, that would have,
but didn't,
if only for a momentary disturbance,
to a composer at his violin, in a fleeting moment of inspiration...

Here's to all the little paintings, that would have,
but didn't,
if only for a subtle distraction,
to an artist at his canvas, in a fleeting moment of clarity...

Here's to all the little stories, that would have,
but didn't,
if only for a little confusion,
to two hands that touched, in a fleeting moment of togetherness...


A note to you. [28 Jul 2009|06:44pm]


Ok so this was an experiment. I looked up the titles of a bunch of Vertical Horizon songs, wrote them down on a list in an order, and tried to write an entire piece just going from thought to thought and title to title. It was sort of spontaneous. It's relatively short, just something I wanted to try.

A note to you.

I'm clearly not everything you want. I understand that. You're the best I have ever had. To me you were always really more of a god, something that was never tangible no matter how hard I gripped your hands or securely held your arms or long I kept your lips. No shackle proved strong enough and that's ok because I'm still here. And you're not. And I've learned that that's ok because you fleetingly change like a muse and more than anything you're a shooting star, the one that leaves all the other stars behind; and as terrible as that is to feel, it's a terrible beauty because that fact that you're shooting through my life like a bullet or some sort of canon ball designed to leave the foundations as they are but completely useless in function, is what makes you beautiful. It's rooted in your nature and unraveling that thread from all the others to keep you will destroy just what I'm fighting so hard to keep.

So this is my resignation. An understanding resignation devoid of bitterness but a resignation all the same. Goodbye again. As much as you are a woman and strong and independent this really is the story of a girl who will never grow old or change and that's fine. Once you catch wildlife and catch it the beauty of the freedom it once held dwindles and all you have left is a crushed soul. And as much as I love that soaring, racing, stubbornly independent wildlife, capturing and imprisoning it is too vile for me. So while I'm tempted I'm going to do this to save me from myself.

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You were meant for me. [23 May 2009|06:26pm]

** Just a warning. There is a sensitive nature to this piece so I have placed it behind a cut. It's only about twenty three lines but I didn't want to upset or offend anyone just because the subject and what it deals with.

You were meant for me.Collapse )

Sweet Nothings. [09 May 2009|12:37am]

I am toying with whether I prefer this as poetry or prose. I'm unsure.

I suppressed a grin as he whispered sweet nothings in nearly silent breaths which tickled my ear, setting alert every nerve along my neckline. I call them sweet nothings because that's what they were. So sugary you could hardly have such a thing every day but wonderful nonetheless. Nothings because no sooner than they had rolled off his tongue and passed in manipulative waves across his lips, had they deserted the threshold of his mind, ceasing to exist. He instilled in me a sourceless feeling that lost its purpose as soon as it was conceived.

I suppressed a grin
as he whispered sweet nothings
in nearly silent breaths
which tickled my ear,
setting alert every nerve along my neckline.

I call them sweet nothings
because that's what they were.
So sugary
you could hardly have such a thing every day
but wonderful nonetheless.
because no sooner than they had rolled off his tongue
and passed in manipulative waves across his lips,
had they deserted the threshold of his mind,
ceasing to exist.
He instilled in me a sourceless feeling
that lost its purpose as soon as it was conceived.

Finding Atlantis. [06 May 2009|07:43pm]

This is a short piece just to get me started in writing for the summer.


The wind had already picked up the afternoon's stragglers and dusk was threatening. I crouched in the sand and drew terrible pictures with a stick. They looked like chickenscratch to the discerning eye but they were works of imagination. I smirked at my work and looked at the gently stirring water, debating, searching.

Behind me Mother rolled up a wrinkled, shabby blanket and picked up her ladie's magazine, the one that would tell her how to be beautiful, how to get the ideal man, which skirt to wear to that interview, all of the staples of life. She slipped on some sandals, the ones that gave her blisters I think, and slid her petite body into a jean jacket. She wanted to go back home to her telephone, her tv, and her date. I wanted to stay.

The tips of my pigtail braids were damp and my hair was beginning to curl at the ends, the few pieces that she had left unmanipulated when she pulled and twisted, combed and yanked. I sighed, feeling the edges of my feet melting into the sad, watching the sand gradually sift into the ocean, becoming a part of something bigger than myself. I didn't like beaches in general- all the glamour of swimsuits and tanning, girls trying to look gorgeous under their umbrellas, guys trying to look buff spiking their volleyballs. Then again I was young but something told me that many of the things I didn't understand at eight I wouldn't understand even after decades of exposure to them. But this, this I understood. Solidarity. Peace. True beauty in between the rocks, thriving off the quietness, the pending storm.

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Dollbaby. [09 Apr 2009|08:36pm]

I remember the first time I held her, the day I became an Aunt. She had my brother's jet black hair, our jet black hair. Don't quote me on this but I think all babies with brown hair come out that way, some postnatal tradition or something.

I'd always thought newborns looked alike and I guess I felt that way then, minus the fact that her nose was cute. I liked it. It looked kind of like mine but fit for a baby, the way it should be but you have to understand I wasn't used to this sort of thing. It had been a long night and I'd slept on the floor of my brother's girlfriend's room, waiting for the time to come. Everybody else had passed out and I felt obligated to stay up and attend to her.

The baby had been born, so to speak, while mom and I were away getting lunch. I remember it being a stuffy lunch, one of those that has little taste but has no necessity either and is more for the disposal of time. Feeling the need to get back and the desire to stay away, we ate in the car. By the time we had arrived back at the hospital we were grandmother and aunt, changed in our titles perhaps but little else was different. There was nothing incredibly shocking or new to this, not like we had been expecting.

We took turns holding her and I took mine, well aware of the sensation that told me this first time would be the last, the self-preservation the moment had of itself. She was light in my arms and still, like a rock swaddled in pink cloth. Her head was tiny and her black lashes long. She was silent, like a mime almost. She didn't cry or rattle the room with high-pitched screams. She just lay there, like a rock that could sink peacefully to the edge of the ocean. No fussing. No moving. A dollbaby that I might have lay abandoned on the floor ten years ago.

Sitting on the edge of my seat, I looked up at her mother, laying in the bed. Her eyes were shot and her cheeks softened by tears. I got up and handed her the baby. The stillborn baby. The dollbaby. There are just some things even nine months of pregnancy won't prepare you for.

I want everything to do with you. [09 Apr 2009|04:48am]


You came to say goodbye to me. We were both going home for a week but it felt like it would be a year. Though I wasn't one for the melodrama, I started to miss you before you even came to say goodbye.

We talked. You teased me about how I wasn't allowed to go out when I went home. I dismissed it. I made some joke about how if I ever had to make a choice about anything, I would choose me. I turned around to look at my desk for something. Standing by my door, you abruptly grabbed me back the hood of my sweatshirt and pulled me back to you. Kind of like they do in the movies but there was no forceful, longawaited kiss with it, no admonition of love. You wrapped your arms around me like you have a thousand times and told me how you'd miss me. I sat there in that familiar place with my forehead pressed against the little curve between your neck and your shoulder, my little curve, the place that gave me the comfort of home though every time felt like the first.

You left and I let you go, debating with myself over whether I was feeling that familiar rush or reluctance to see you leave. I watched you walk away because that is what I do. I never stop you when I can because I know I really shouldn't despite that fact that something begs me to anyway.I shut my door and put fingers on my forehead, dragging them down my face. Romantic as it really isn't, you grabbed me by the strings of that organ so often associated with love, that organ we won't mention lest this turn into a chick-lit sort of vignette- nevertheless, you got a hold of it just by touching my hoodie and pulling me backwards, back into a feeling I've been trying to drag myself out of.

You're my best friend. I would walk through fire for you- and that's one of the only times I have ever meant a phrase like that when I have sworn it. But I would. I want to teach you everything I can and I want to make you a better person because it's a far more noble goal than bettering myself. You're my best friend and I would stand beside you through everything. You've never done me any wrong except for making it so that I won't be able to leave you even when you no longer need me.

Somewhere along the line somebody told you to make yourself indispensable to somebody and you listened.


Real Girls Wear Converse. [25 Mar 2009|02:01am]


Ladies don't spread their legs... but girls may do cartwheels. Ladies don't spit... but boys may do so. Ladies don't laugh too loudly... but happy people burst at the seams. Ladies don't intrude on men... but men may intrude on women. Ladies are polite, ladies are this, ladies are that. Ladies are robots.

Ladies are poor fakes who attempt to appear human in order to appease society and good manners. Life is natural. It's not well-mannered. You're born crying so why conceal your tears? Mom never had an answer to that one either. She just said it made people uncomfortable, that it was not proper. Whoever set up the rules of propriety obviously didn't do a whole lot of living.

I don't want to be a girl or a boy or a man or a woman and I certainly don't want to be a lady- no matter what mother says. I want to jump and scream and laugh and tell the honest-to-goodness truth. I want to be free. Is that so much to ask? Nobody asked me if I wanted a corset. Nobody asked me if I wanted chains around my wrists. They talk about progress and women's suffrage and freedom but they've replaced social restrictions with euphemisms, heavy-handed judgments, and great expectations. The only difference is these cuffs are transparent. Visible or not the wind can still whip you in the face; audible or not, a church can still chastise you with its murmurs and its pointed glances.

Ladies don't make rude, open comments; they tell white lies. Ladies do not sin. Lying, however, is a sin. Ladies don't do a lot of things but they do contradict themselves. To Hell with being a lady. Give me back my converse and baseball cap and I'll show you a lady with some pride, a lady who can outrun all the boys and be a credit to her gender because a sex's merit is not found in the drawing room or at the dining table; a sex's merit is in the personalities it can boast. It's in the range of characters it produces- not the robots a society turns out.

A person should be judged by her strength- moral, physical, and emotional- not her virtue and some good-for-nothing white dress. Forget your lady's virtue. Mine isn't between my legs and you won't find it in the kitchen. Mine is in my heart and those muddy, unlaced converse. Unlike your heels they don't let out the standard, dehumanizing clack and they don't blister my heels. When my feet hit the ground you won't hear a lady or any of those impersonal echoes they leave on marble floors. You'll hear the concrete steps of me and only me, the deafening sound of where I've been and where I'm going- lady or no lady.


Saying Goodbye to Prince Charming. [22 Mar 2009|05:41am]

I've never understood why but it always rains at funerals. Apparently God saw a movie cliche and decided maybe the filmmakers had a point. I don't really know but if I was going to make an ass of myself, that'd be a great assumption to go with. Not that I mind being the ass. It generally works.

I felt like the ass that day. Everybody was crying, tearing up, bawling, breaking down, saying their goodbyes and I was fine. I'd given a rotten eulogy and thrown up a time or two but that was nerves about standing up in front of people. I'd always had trouble with that. I meant nothing in his eulogy. Not a word. The phrases and sentences maybe my mom and aunt meant but they never understood him anyway. Their minds, like those of so many humans, were crowded with love. His death wasn't about him no longer living or watching his child grow up. It was the whole "For whom the bell tolls" complex. They were lamenting at their own immortality as well as the loss of the future experiences THEY would have had with him and the love THEY would have felt. Love can be a very selfless thing but at the bottom of it, self is the root word, which is why I didn't feel anything but the rain poking at my exposed patches of pale skin in contrast to the black. I didn't feel anything.

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The Eulogy I Should Have Written. [14 Mar 2009|12:04am]

Thank you for failing to live forever. Thank you for making your own bad choices. Thank you for riding the high that brought us crashing down. Thank you for living your own life in a way we never would. Thank you being the despair of the entire family. Thank you for being praised and remembered immortally in the most dire of ways which aren't accurate portraits of your character in the least. Thank you for being remarked as the savior of this family when you were nothing but a man.

You were nothing but a man and when the coroner declared time of death they forgot that. You were a man and men die as victims of life, accidents, and their own choices. You were nothing but a man. Thank you.

There are enough people trying to be Jesus Christs in this world. Thank you for being a human being and not immortal, the imperfect picture of a human being and nothing more. No matter what they say I'll never think you were perfect. I wouldn't do you the disrespect of forgetting you like that.

Thank you for living and dying with your flaws. If none of them remember, if all of them forget, I'll keep you here alive as you would have been not as you should have been. I'll keep you alive.

Travelling Dirty Roads. [12 Mar 2009|09:45pm]

This obviously isn't poetry but I think the idea might in some way be poetic and that's what I was going for. Hope that's okay.

We were sitting in the car, my mom, my brother and I, and we were taking him to work. He had lost his license years prior through some bad decisions and was working at the local factory for the time being. What he did I don't pretend to know. It was a job he would keep for a month or two and that was all there was to it. I was majoring in Biochemisty at a college four or five hours away and rarely came home, which was good because it kept us and our animosityu towards one another from being in the same room or car too often. But of course it had to happen sometimes.

He was sitting in the car bugging mom to buy him cigarettes and I was staring out the window looking over the town that used to be my home. Mom caved as she always did, adamantly refusing in the beginning but it was always a given that she would give him what we wanted. I was the baby by birth. He was her baby by selection.

We got his cigarettes at some rundown gas station off the main drag and turned down a road full of pothouses, empty fields, and abandoned houses. Sitting on its broken throne under a pile of grey, polluted clouds was the factory. It didn't take me long to figure out my brother worked in the land of promise.

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Et tu, Brute: a Death in Betrayal. [09 Mar 2009|07:10am]

Caesar didn't die because he was stabbed. He died because of who stabbed him. We're hurt most not just by what is done/said but by who does/says them. Take a lesson and keep your distance from everybody so that nobody can leave you bleeding to death on a marble Roman floor. But of course if you let nobody close enough to you, you die a death of loneliness. Look at it this way. Either way it's a gamble. Do you get the human friends, you know those flawed creatures likely to make a mistake and allow greed or power or ambition or insecurity to get in the way, or do you get the angelic, saintly friends who are a statistical rarity? All people fail us in one way or another. It's just about choosing who fails you out of malic and who fails you out of imperfection. But if you're sensibly afraid to get close to anyone or get lucky and decide to have your slumber parties and swap secrets with Brutus, you're dead ahead of schedule. The whole Ides of March thing. Some times the people we pick to protect us are the ones who have drawn the piercing blade, aimed at wounds they know we already have. What ironic lives we lead.

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