Surprising how I haven’t got tired of calling you 

late

at 

night

Hoping for some human contact

Anything

To make me feel that I am real

I am alive

I am not alone

A single touch can bring me back

And hold me here

To the tangible world

With his head bent down in concentration, she analyzes his graying and balding hair

and tries to remember if it had been this way when he had courted her a year ago

his calloused, coarse hand undeniably shakes as he lifts the pen off the page

time and time again, he lifts his hand and the compulsory shaking begins

he feels her stare, tilts his head up, and smiles, looking directly at her

instead of easing her growing concern, the dark, red bags under his

wrinkled eyes give a hard-earned look of age-given contentment

and the strong, clear, deep blue that used to effortlessly pierce

her heart is densely cloudy, his thin smile of ease crinkled

at the edges, makes her severely uncomfortable

and she is frozen, unable to return the smile

she feels the subdued intensity of his love

he is tired now, always tired, tired, tired

she attempts another calculating look

he touches his wrist in pain

and she wonders

how she ever

fell in love

with him,

when she

herself

is

young

pretty

and

new

in his bed

in his house

she asked him once

if he loved her

but she asked like a coward

in the quiet of the night

while he was falling asleep

and in either his delirium

or his negation

he didn’t answer

but remained quietly

with his back against her

and she stayed awake

unable to sleep

seeing if his breathing would change

become slower and deeper

she sat

in his bed

and listened

(after our poem session)

i instinctively want to touch you 

to hold on to something real,

beyond myself

because all the words are falling away from me

glossing over me

and not sinking

-

surrounded by the softness

of words

falling and rising

drifting off and dissolving

they will never be

heard again

-

grasp this reality

this peace of the moment

and know someone else 

can feel it too

The feeling

of weakness

of insecurity

of vulnerability

These are things I don’t allow myself to feel

in real life

So I allow them to creep

into

the bedroom

And I allow you

to feel

powerful

and in control

commanding

And I allow myself

to be weak,

helpless,

left completely to your will

I kept the flowers you left on my porch

Your kind, drastic gesture of love

The purple petals of the lilies were beautiful

Unopened

I anticipated their blossoms

And slowly one by one

The insides, the stamens errect with pollen,

Fully opened

The sweet smell suffocating

Intoxicating

Attempting to lure a bee that will never come

Like a glass full to the brim with water

Another drop, another day

The mouths opening wider and the scent becoming stronger

Till one day they tipped over the edge to death

I put them on my desk and watched them die

I became accustomed to the smell

First, the pollen began to fall

No longer supported by the sticky tips 

The orange-red love dust covering my desk

Staining my papers, my books

And my fingertips

I ignored the small signs of death

But then the petals began to fall

And I knew that their beauty would never be renewed

Today I finally threw the flowers out

Re-realizing that flowers in vases are worthless

Because there are never any roots to grow

Betrayal was where I was yesterday,

When I actually cared.

Now, all I feel is relief.

Now, I don’t have to worry about the sin that you and I committed.

The sickening feeling of emptiness

-the vacant bedside left dirty, discarded, desolate

No, you couldn’t allow me to feel that

Instead, you filled me with your hopes week after week

You choked me

Suffocated me until I believed

The only breath allotted was full of belief

Until all I could taste was faith in you and us

“Yes, things will change”

That’s more betrayal than finding you with another woman.

(via fuckyeahneruda)

Junip - “Always”

(Source: hesychia)

I’ll know my name when I hear you say it.

Because right now, my whole life lingers on the words

The syllables

That you bestow

On Me

(via thepiano)

Ramblings that will eventually become a short story/ YA novel. *fuck will be used often* 

She ignored me again today. Nothing new. Still I hold out and expect something different. Most people think that if you just try hard enough, be yourself, someone will notice you. Someone that you care about and love will love you back. That’s some shit. Only a small population of the male species can be the sensitive type that I am and somehow be successful at getting a/THE girl. Yes, the movies are wrong. John Cusack would have been standing under the window of some girl who thought, “Oh, he’s really sweet, but man, this seems really clingy.” And the only reason I know about this sappy 80’s movie guy is because of her. I’m sensitive enough to watch a marathon of 80’s movies that publicly oust my kind. I wasn’t even born in the 80’s. Examples!!!!!!

John Cusack - Say Anything

16 Candles - the dorky guy

Not another Teen Movie (yeah, it’s not 80’s) - the other dorky guy

I truly believe that natural selection will gradually extinguish my kind. I am of the notebook carrying, song lyric writing, ipod-wearing boy-man subgroup. Don’t start thinking I’m some tall lanky mysterious loner guy who will sing you songs that instantly drop your panties and melt your heart. Do you know how many girls want that guy? ALL OF THEM. Fuck. Do you know how many books are about the friend who has always been there by their secret crush’s side and held her hair back as she puked? All the while knowing that she was trying to get drunk off her ass to be able to talk to a guy that isn’t you? Um… based on my experiences… let me think about this really hard for a second, none.

            The truth is that if you can care about someone with your whole heart they can still always see you as friend. The truth is that you are assigned a number 1-10 of how hot you are and, naturally, likes match with likes. So, if I’m a five I will probably be with a five. People like her get with people who are the same number - an easy 8 or a possible 9. I’m not making this up. It’s science.

            It’s also science that beautiful people have issues too. Sometimes weird fucking issues..

Her: How do I look?

Me: Do you want the guy point of view or the girl?

Her: Obviously the guys.

Me: That dress is hideous. You look like a fuckin carrot. It neither

shows off your ass or your tits, therefore there is no point to it    

Her: Damn you’re right. I saw it in a magazine. I thought it looked good.

Me: …..

No, that was not my honest opinion. She looked hot and always looks hot, but with one word from someone else she changes her hair, her clothes, her personality. She’s not perfect and that makes me like her even more, because I am nowhere close to perfect. However, her proximity to perfect is way different from mine. I’m standing in another town while she’s having a nice candlelight dinner with it.

            So those that think that we, as individuals, are capable of doing anything we want can go to hell. How the fuck can I be in control of my height, or my clothes, or my parents? I’ve been fucked from the beginning. Those people who think we can somehow maneuver ourselves through the hierarchy of high school popularity can go fuck themselves. No fucking self help book can help me with this one. Seriously, I hate those bastards that sell self-help books. Why? Because those who buy them are so unhappy with their fucked up miserable lives that the book itself is a window to an emotion that they can’t grasp. The book’s only help is that it promises help and therefore makes them feel better while they read it. “If only I think positively then I too can become a millionaire.” Then once the book is done, a minute population will actually act on it. Yes, self help means you actually have to get off your ass and start changing shit yourself. Most people self-defeat themselves before they even start.