StuckImagine there's a girl that you've known for a little while.
She's cute, and bubbly, and you genuinely enjoy hearing about her day.
You see her more and more now, and you become friends.
She compliments you and you feel all gooey inside.
That's when you realize you might have feelings for her,
And you don't want to, because you're friends now.
But you can't help it.
When you see her, you just can't stop that dumb grin that plasters your face,
Smiling helplessly and staring at her,
Because each time you catch a glimpse of her,
She's suddenly the most beautiful person you've ever met.
And when she asks for a piggy back ride for the third time that day, you of course oblige,
But you know you're just sinking in quicksand.
And when she sits on your lap or leans her head on your shoulder,
You know you're almost under.
And when she begs you to hold her,
You hug her from behind with your hands clasped over her stomach,
And her hands holding yours.
Right then, you can't help but notice how
.chromatology - Prologue
Is there someone that is so important to you that you can scarcely imagine what your life would be like if they had never graced it with their presence? If so, I am immensely envious of you, because I can envision exactly what my future would have been had I not met her, and it still frightens me to my core. She saved me, and there is no possible way for me to repay her in full for everything she has done.
There are roughly 7.3 billion people in this world, and using the probability formula to get the equation: P(A) = 1/7.3 billion, the odds of her appearing to me out of everyone are 1 in 7,300,000,000. If I were to get technical, I could also factor in the probability of the two of us being born in the same lifetime, of our parents coming together and conceiving us, and their parents, as well as everything else that involves us existing as we are now, in which case the value of the denominator would be countless infinities. I feel so prodigiously fortunate; everything right and
an exercise in giving upI don’t know what I’m doing in this place.
My bones ache to take me away – to take me anywhere but here. But my heart remembers this place and its beat is racing, pumping blood into the far corners of my body, making my limbs too heavy to move. But I want to leave so badly, with every part of my being, but the one. My heart still belongs here…even after all these years.
I don’t remember the last time I saw your face.
But I can tell you that I still hear your voice in my dreams. In the deepest of sleeps, you’re still alive inside of me, deep within the folds of my heart, the dark spaces of my imagination. You’re alive there, even though I know nothing of where you are in reality. I know nothing of you anymore. Maybe that’s for the better. Maybe. Maybe.
I can’t recall the first time that I heard time will make it better.
But I do know that my mom repeats it to me every Saturday when I go to visit her in that old house that’s fu
i hold my own wrist,
as if it's broken,
'cause there are no hands,
available left to hold it.
to rest in the base
of your touch cannot happen.
it's much too tough to ask.
so i sit staring
into a blank field,
body in reverie,
mind in ennui,
sick of you and i.
i love you
but hate i fell too
deep into the pool,
of what I thought was true.
5 feet, 5 inches,
around my 5'7'' frame,
now left a shell.
my arms hold me,
as i clutch my abdomen,
and rest against the floor.
i lie there,
knowing the pain
will finally stop
that it's just beginning.
because the hardest
part about this,
is loving a ghost
that isn't dead in body,
but in your mind,
and you can't kill her,
no matter how much
you wanna take the gun
and pull the trigger.
so i let pellucid phantoms
perplex the crevices
of my intricate labyrinth.
and i let the apparition
fly around inside,
before it fades and dissipates,
just like the b
Being Okay Is The Hardest Thing We DoBeing Okay Is The Hardest Thing We Do
because being okay is expected,
if we’re not okay, that’s not okay,
what can we do to be okay?
we can scribble illegible words
on a canvas made for by painters
masquerading as notebook paper,
and hope that we can sell the burn
of stinging emotions for some paper.
but the funny thing about that thought?
is that american money isn’t paper,
it’s 75% cotton and 25% linen fibers.
so even the money you'd earn from your misery,
isn't anything you can write on
when you realize your money isn't
made to heal. even if it does talk.
but it never really ever says enough, does it?
But that's okay...
being okay is the hardest thing we do
because sticks and stones do break bones,
but you can hide the scars
with a jacket or longer sweatshirt.
or put on pants as opposed to athletic shorts.
words kill, words heal, and words are so much more.
and you can't hide the scars that riddle your face,
the way your
An Ode To A SmileOf late there has been something missing
From my visage, my mien and my face
My adult self not able to regain
What it is my childhood has misplaced
The absence has become more apparent
And is there for the assemblage to see
But as it did not happen over night
The origin remains a mystery
Could it be the colour and the tone
Of my sallow skin pigmentation
From too many hours indoors alone
And within my imagination
Perhaps I should pierce my ear and nose
Rebel against a faceless system
Or indeed tattoo text upon my neck
Quoting some so-called ancient wisdom
I could iron out all of the creases
Nip and tuck on my pronounced cheek bones
But this would mean erasing my journey
So I might never find my way home
And none of these things in any case
Will ever change the person that I am
Or influence the mood of the others
Like a timely facial expression can
From limbic system to nerve and muscle
To the countenance conveyed on my face
So complex that even Mona Lisa’s mood
Took over four year