Neglect.

I'm a bad parent.
Social services should repossess my child.
For those who are left clueless,
I am referencing this.

People

I asked, "can you define your life with one word?"
"Can you show me why?"

Bare

Words

My words are stuck on my tongue, in my fingers, in my head. They are tied together in knots. They don't fit with eachother or in between one another. They are starved and afraid. They are unwritten.
How long has it been since I caved into my urge to write? It's been so long since I fed the caged words in my soul. I feel guilty, like a theif, for stealing their potential. I feel muderous for denying them life. I hope they will forgive me. I hope they can escape. I would give them the key to unlock their cage, but I can't find the time.
I know why the caged word doesn't sing, it is too busy crying. It sulks in its neglect. My words are abandoned. I hope they don't forget me. I hope they embrace me once I find them. I have stifled my words too long. I vow to work out the knots, to detangle the curls and bends, feed my soul and set them free. Soon enough, these words will sing again, soon enough.

No Words, No Life.

I am so ashamed of myself. I haven't allowed my words to escape in such a long while. I fear they have forgotten how to use the exit. I don't have an excuse. My soul is starved. My heart is whithered, and my voice is silenced.

Creativity.

Does creativity expire? Does it "go bad"? Can we throw it aside when it sits in the refridgerator a little too long? Can it make us sick? Can we purchase a new carton of creativity if we don't like the taste? Can we adjust the concentration? No. Because creativity is a spirit we are born with. It lives in a cave we commonly call our minds and waits to be beckoned. It waits to be awaken by the alarm we feel. It is a definition of what we can become. It is our only eternity.

It

There comes a time
when nothing else
matters.
And this is
it.

Gulf Oil Spill Crisis

The "oil" depicted in these images is made of chocolate syrup and food dye. No harm came to any animals in the making of these images.
Models: Margo & Chelsea

My Town

I live in this town. To state more correctly, I am located in this town that can be described as none other than a zit in the arm pit of Florida. It stinks of failure and waste. All one can hope for a future in this place is a job working shifts at the paper mill or a chance to run their father’s company into the ground. This town is stagnant and I want nothing more than to flee as far from it as possible.
To say that I hate it here would be an understatement. People think like they are told to think. They exist to work and reproduce. No one is here to create. And my spirit loathes those built to fit in. I am beyond ready to break out and break free. It is time for me to find my way to the other side of the world, to find people that are my kind. I find it impossible to believe that this is all that will ever be. This cesspool is far to content with its sameness. I am seeking a plane ticket to anywhere, at anytime, on any day, as long as that day in now.

Love and Innovation

You can't be great at everything all at once.
It's one or the other, or average at both.

Which Way?

As of late, failure has taken to tapping me on the shoulder. I am forever unsure of what to do with my life. I have no plan or idea which path I will take. I cannot decide which talent to pursue. My goals are all massively unattainable. I believe I might have a fear of growing up.
It's almost as if I pick a career or a path, I am abandoning the childhood I never had. Comparably, I am acting like a child in that I refuse to accept that it is time. It is far due time for me to pick up my belongings and get myself to a new place. It is time to live for myself and be wholly independent.
But, beginning this journey is extremely difficult. I simply cannot decide where to begin and, more importantly, where to end. I suppose this is me seeking guidance. Guidance for my "independence"? Is that possible?

Monster Ball

This is probably the scariest place I have ever seen. People walk by with their eyes closed. Their minds are shut. Their hands are busy ignoring, as well. We are a world full of alone. Interaction is reduced like canned soup. Personable is a thing of the past.
People carry the world at their finger tips, in their pockets, glued to their ears. They can pretend to be anywhere at any moment. They can own it all without spending a dime. The world wakes them up. It watches them pass out. Hushed whispers are the only noise they make when speaking to their world. It makes them cry. It makes them laugh. It makes them smile. It tells them where to be and when to go.
This place isn’t filled with people anymore. Machines walk the streets and roam the halls. Death means less than life. Life could be traded for groceries. I am so alone here. Please, someone look up and notice that I am still here. I am still breathing, alive, and terrified. I am still here, where have you all gone?

Love.

I don’t know what it is
What it looks like
What it feels like
Who it belongs to
Or where it goes
What I do know
Is that everyone wants it
And it doesn’t exist
Because I can’t feel it
Taste it
Smell it
Or keep it
It isn’t a riddle
Or a question
An answer
Or rhyme
It isn’t or wasn’t
It never has been
Mine.

Yum Yum

You're delicious
In the worst way
You are my danger
My tragedy
My alibi
You’re everything they hate
And everything I crave

You’re the culture
I will never meet
You are what’s different
The change
My stability
You see what I cannot
And still you see me

You’re a joke
In the most serious sense
You are my laugh
My humor
My sorrow
Be my desert before dinner
And save your best for me at last

You’re not here
And I miss you
You have adventure
New life
No me
It will be the death of me
And it’s driving you further away from home

Attack Me Love

Oh, love, why have you departed?
Why did I wake in your presence?
Against my better judgment I beckoned you,
Why did you answer?
Why did you claim my heart like a bandit?
Why did you gallivant away and leave me behind?

Oh, love, take me with you.
Take me away to meet the world.
Invent adventure within my heart.
Sleep with my memory tucked beneath your pillow.
Why did we collide?
Why are you impossible?

Oh, love, you are for fools alone.
No one should set their mind upon you.
Your supports are weak.
Your intentions are bare.
Your warm presence leaves me cold and alone.
Why do we even bother?

Oh, attack me love.
Attack me gently with the heart of fools.
Bring my life to a new horizon.
Oh, attack me love,
For you alone are gentle enough.
Attack me, sweet, innocent, unused, love
And together we will dwell in deaf harmony, forever.

Fake It Till You Make It

Every day I wake up and I look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are always blue-grey, my hair is always golden brown, and my skin is always peachy pale. Every day, I look the same. I feel the same. I breathe the same. I am the same, except for one thing. Each day when I prepare myself to face the world, I have to tighten the bolts to my fake smile a little tighter.
There is no reason for me to confess my heart’s fallacies to the world. Nor should I have to explain that I am just as human as everyone else. But for myself, for my own sake, I have lost my joy to the age of my mind. Stress has ticked away on my internal clock, counting down the days to the complete elimination of my innocence. With each second stoke, I feel my oblivious state of mind slipping further and further into its depths, never to be seen again. The reality presses against my eye sockets begging to be part of me. My mental immune system weakens daily against its persistent begging. Soon, reality will be my only consideration.
As I pack my bags to begin my adventure into adulthood, I stop to dust off the mementos of my childhood- my true innocence. The band-aid I was given when I realized that the world wasn’t full of loving people who want to love and be loved, my broken heart from my acknowledgement of the opposite sex, my bruises from my disobedience, my golden stars for my participation in life’s silly games, they all find their way to my side. I cannot help but think, “If that girl knew what she was traveling towards, would she stop dead in her tracks? Would she turn and run for shelter in her mother’s arms?” I honestly believe she would press on.
She did press on, I always will. Reality cannot control my future. Reality cannot control my dreams. Reality exists within itself and within itself alone. Reality is palpable and authentic, unlike myself. I am fake. I am a simulation of life- one who embraces not the opportunities that present themselves. Why would reality like to crash the party of the fakes?
Every day I face the same world the same way. Nothing ever changes and I hate it that way. I hate that I have allowed reality to make my heart a stone. I hate that I have allowed it to press into my eye sockets and rule my thoughts. I find it an injustice to my innocence, that it was bested my reality. I sure thought it was stronger.

Seasoned

This town is starving. It eats people up and leaves no trace. Few are the ones who escape this place. Many are blinded by the simplicity and have yet to realize that this town is a black hole. It swallows up futures. It swallows up lives.
Those who notice that this place isn’t as peachy as it appears are set in a determined state of mind. They don’t fool themselves by believing in roots. They don’t anchor themselves in regression, they climb out against it. Somehow they see the dim hope that lights the distant future.
I’m not quite sure if I will ever escape. My mind is free to roam, but my feet are sewn to the ground. My type is this town’s favorite meal. My promising future creates the perfect flavor. It will keep me here forever if I let it. But I don’t know if my drive is strong enough to rip the seams. I don’t know if my future is bright enough to light my way. But if I don’t try, I will never know my fate.
This town is starving. It eats those left unaware, those who turn their backs, those who don’t care, those who drink their meals, those who sell their mother for drugs- it eats them up. It leaves no trace of future. It leaves no trace of life.

Nothing

I want to write the words that change the world, but I have nothing to say. I don't quite know how to say nothing so gloriously that it souds like everyting. Can you change the world with nothing? Can I make myself a legend with no ideas? Bringing nothing to the table is nothing new, everyone has done it. But I have to change what nothing is. I have to change nothing's state of mind and create it as though it is not only something, it's everything.

The Hands

The silence inside my soul is alive. Its fiery hands grab my throat and hold tight. It chokes out sound, it chokes out life, it chokes out hope. Hope is the fuel for life. Without hope there is no tomorrow, no bright future, no progress. Without hope, no one will ever try. With no one trying, we all will fail. The world will die starving for hope.
The hands of silence create the feeling- the delusion- that words are not needed. The whole world falls victim to silence's sick game. Homicide of creation, suicide of thought, slaughter of hope- silence cannot win. We cannot be silenced by the cruel monster inside ourselves.
So we shout and we scream. Our pent-up words must be poured out. Our voice must win the battle. beat down silence until its broken hands cease to move. Defy its wishes by saying all you need to say. Speak- not to hear yourself, but so others might hear. Inspire them to win the battle inside themselves. Revive the world. Revive the hope.

Sentiment

I’ve never been one to remember the little things. The insignificant sights, expressions, smells, feelings- they’ve never stuck to me. So, when I am going about my day, and my heart tries to remember a “little thing”, it tends to exhaust me from the energy it takes to fully recall.
As of late, my heart keeps these memories close to the surface. Sounds trigger memories I’ve never thought twice about. The pattern of my sister’s laugh. The wrinkles in my grandma’s cheeks. The smell of the last stack of pancakes my grampa ever made. The squeeze of his hand the last time he told me he loved me. All these things are held close to my heart and it creates in me a feeling that is totally new. Is this sentiment?
Perhaps I have always stored these feelings of love somewhere and this change in my life has given them a violent shove toward the surface. As they boil up, they tend to force out droplets that have been hidden far too long. Ancient remorse, aged anger, new tastes of love- they all flood my senses as these little things work their way back into my life.
I think I could potentially fall in love with this “sentiment”. It’s a living memory of a love that has been postponed by Death. It’s a freeze frame in an ever growing child’s life. It’s a life we are able to hold inside, to keep forever, in a hope to hold on to the little things.

Scattered

Because red was his favourite color.
Because this was his favourite place in the whole world, other than the arms of his love.
Because it was your birthday, Grampa.
I miss you and love you with all my heart.

My Heart Come Home

Her heart is a space for rent. Her rates are low and the room is spacious. But right now, her it’s out of order, broken, missing. Her heart isn’t functioning as a selfless organ. Her love is on vacation, leaving behind a cold, empty woman.
When she lost him, something snapped. She pushed the world out and let only sleep aids in. self medicating her depression and loneliness drove her physical body into the ground, then someone else drove her to the hospital. Emerging from the emergency room, she declared herself independent. No one wanted to be around her and no one truly loved her- this was her delusion. She kicked her boarders out; she evicted her daughters and granddaughters.
She was screaming for help, all while pushing everyone out and locking the door. She was begging to be loved while believing herself unlovable. She was thirsting for attention and now she lives at the center.

Will You Be My Valentine?

Love isn’t always something that we fall into. Sometimes we stick our toes in first to make sure it feels right. Sometimes we wade in slowly, adjusting as we go. Sometimes love falls on us unexpectedly. But no matter how many ways love tends to finds us, it will always drown our senses to dim the awareness of anything else.
This love wasn’t a choice. This love was pacing the hospital waiting room as I was being born. It was a love softer than clouds, warmer than fire, and stronger than diamonds. It was the love of a proud Grampa greeting his first granddaughter.
As the years flew by, our hearts remained tethered by an unbreakable, yet very flexible, bond. Our hearts were joined as one beating in two separate bodies. Now I am carrying them both in mine. I keep you alive in my thoughts, in my dreams, and in our love. There will never be anyone who can embody love as you did. No love will ever live as long as yours.

Titanium

The silence is deafening, weighing heavy upon my heart. It wraps itself around my shoulders, tightening its grip around my throat, choking out all attempts at speech. Crying out for liberation from my burdens is useless. While most silence is golden, this one is titanium- stronger than any sound. It forces me to admit that I am weak. I am so weak.
Retaining every emotion that dare to encroach on my attempts at disregarding the sorrow that has entered my life, has done nothing but add to the weight of the silence. My heart is a vault with a seemingly unbreakable lock. Nothing can crack the code. No one knows the secret to opening my safe of emotions. The silence leads me to believe that they would rather leave the vault untouched.
Perhaps it is better this way. Maybe storing my words for a rainy day is the best option. Maybe repressing all my rage, sorrow, and vulnerability is the only way to stifle the problem. But it doesn’t seem so. This roaring silence pushes against my tongue, begging me to speak, begging me to cry. Crying shows weakness. Weakness is never the solution.
The weak are consumed by this vicious world. They are lost in the jungle of malice and spite. They are overpowered by the silence. Weakness is submission to fears and distress. It produces a smell so ripe that even the dead can smell the frailty of the weak.
As this liquid silence grows daily, I search for a draining system. This I haven’t found among my family and friends. I haven’t found it in the council of the elders or in the presence of the wise. Speaking to the silence only fuels it, causing it to grow at an ever increasing rate. But it is my only constant. It is the only one who remains through all the changes in my life. It is the monkey on my back and I have begun to accept and, perhaps, enjoy the companionship.

Outta Sight, But On My Mind

Tomorrow is the day we put you to rest. You won’t be our main focus. You won’t be our excuse. I’m afraid people will forget how important you are. I’m afraid I will forget what life was like with you.
I feel like I’m searching for sympathy when I call you my best friend or I tell people we were close. I feel like a hypocrite when I watch Grandma break down and say it will never be okay. I feel like I am the one who lost the most, but literally, I lost the least. I said a temporary goodbye to a man who I had for the developmental years of my life. He meant the world to me, and I to him, but I didn’t lose a life love, a husband, or a great father. I lost an extension of my soul I will once again regain.
In all honesty, saying goodbye was scary. It made me doubt my faith. It made me wonder if we are worshipping the one true God. It made me wonder if heaven is real. It caused all the doubts that I’ve never before had- that I’ve never before needed. Grampa, don’t get me wrong, I still believe Jesus is the only way. I still believe there is a heaven and you are there waiting on me, on Grandma, on everyone. If I didn’t believe, then I would have no peace.
Peace has shocked me by its presence. It is ever present, holding me, as if to say, “I promised I’d always be with you.” Is peace the role you play in heaven? Is it you holding my hand? Grandma needs some you, she needs some peace.
As I sit here talking to an absent person-soul, I wonder if you hear me. I wonder if you are still you and if you still love us. It wouldn’t be fair if you didn’t. so, whether it be true or just a piece of my imagination, I will hold onto talking to you and believing you hear me. Even though I don’t hear your reply, I know what you’d say, which isn’t much. I love you, too.

Be Careful What You Say, Because I Just Might Mean It

The consumption of my focus is attributed wholly to the absence of my love. “We have all the time in the world.” You were wrong and we both knew it. Our hearts were broken and we both hid it.
Your world was limited to the walls of your house and the leather of your green chair. Your time was kept by the frequency of the morphine dosing. Four hours. Three hours. Two hours. One hour. “Mrs. Linda, is it okay if I flush this, because I can’t leave it here?” They took away your body and wheeled it right out the door, along with Grandma’s heart. My heart went with your soul, through the roof and out of sight.
Is it possible to love someone who doesn’t technically exist? You did exist and I love you, and you being gone makes me love you no less. From a black and white point of view, I love nothing. But truly I love my everything, my everything just happens to be dead.
Why do they call it losing someone? I didn’t lose you. You didn’t walk away from me on the cereal aisle in Wal*Mart. I know exactly where you are. Half of you is set in a box awaiting the reunion with your mother and the other half is in a box waiting to be an addition to the beach where you grew up. Your soul is with your Father and your shadow falls on us.
Now that everything is over and I’m no longer busy with you, it happens to be very obvious that you are gone. You left me and you promised. You promised that you would be there for everything. You promised! But just like my heart, you broke your promise. You had no idea how much time was left in your world, but you knew you wouldn’t be here for the rest of mine.
It just isn’t fair that I had to give you up, that I had to give up on you. I don’t have a grampa. I have no man that loves me with no reserves and no contention. The heart inside of me misses you, but the shell can’t show it.

Randomeese

I’m thinking in a language I don’t understand. My thoughts−the memories−flash by so quickly that I can’t observe them. They poke their heads out from behind doors to which I have long ago lost the key. Then, as quickly as they have arrived, they hide themselves away. I believe this is the definition of scatter-brained.
Not understanding what it is I am thinking isn’t something to which I have become accustomed. I’ve never had problems comprehending or remembering. I find I spend most of my time in thought because that world seems to make more sense. The world outside my skull has always been the one to confuse me. My world isn’t upside down, it’s inside out.
I am frantic as I try to remember what it was that I was thinking a moment ago. Where was I going with that thought process? My brain cells are carrying my thoughts around and disorganizing them so I can’t find anything. Words that come out are just as hazy as those that come in.
My fingers are loosing their grip on my comprehension of how life works. How does life work? What’s the point? What is life? What is death? Why does milk go sour? Why do people eat sour candy? Some candy would be good. Good people are always punished for their good deeds. That’s why people die tragically.
I miss my norm. I miss being present.

The Weight

It's difficult

-breathing-

It's harder than ever imagined

-living-

It isn't fair

-losing-

It never leaves

-death.