I don't want to wake anymore. Drudging through the empty day, with no one opposite the coffee pot and the passenger seat left cold, is beginning to be not worth my time.
(by the way, I tried letting the dog ride there -- it's just not the same)
I admit accosting you was not the best use of our time together, but what of it? You would simply return the favor, and at least we had each other. I did not ration the coffee grounds because you would finish what was left. I didn't take the highway because it didn't make sense -- getting off again in thirty seconds to drop you off at University.
I never answered your calls at lunch because I could
Dear Janna...'s... voicemail...
god... s.
I have a poem.
It's not a facade... s.
It's genuinely words
that seem to rhyme... some
please don't eat me
or mix me with rum.
I'll do part two later
when I have more time
and am less nervous
of being eaten with lime.
Nothing is more piteous than the writer than cannot describe himself. He is the suicide who forgot to load the gun, who used rope too weak, who tied the wrong knot, who mistook painkiller for sedative. He is left with the equivalent of a broken body, and people who remorse him, and worse – pity for himself. Yet it is worse, for it is a broken mind, and people who cannot know cannot understand. A mind that doesn't comprehend itself can't fix itself, even though something somewhere isn't quite or nearly right.
Yet even so singular an occurrence of man exists. And he finds himself typing fitfully, at least how he used to feel before he be
Wishing and waiting
and wondering too,
when, if ever,
I'll hear back from you.
I'd like to be smarter
than to hold on forever
but I think we both know
I've had control... never.
I wish that I did –
this may not have happened.
I think I'd be happy
if somehow we'd ended.
I tell myself
“I can't”
keep waiting - praying to see
how it ends
(if it ends at all).
But I know that tomorrow
the next day or after
I'll find myself composing,
my heart in the rafters:
How I loved you,
how I flew...
How I'd do anything
just to –
To find myself there,
ready to go,
I should have kissed you
those three years ago.
My stomach st
She came home to see a glass of whiskey in my hand, slumped to the side, about to spill on the couch. Quietly, softly, earnestly, she set down her bag, came over, and sat next to me.
“What's wrong?”
I lean forward over the table, setting down the glass, putting my head in my hands. I want to cry. I want to be drunk. I want so many things.
She rubs her hand on my back, waiting patiently. These things can't be forced. After a minute she lies down behind me, waiting for me to lean back, to be home, to be safe.
I lie like that for a few minutes, then roll over into her chest, put my feet up, and fall asleep with tears barely lucid
I don't want to wake anymore. Drudging through the empty day, with no one opposite the coffee pot and the passenger seat left cold, is beginning to be not worth my time.
(by the way, I tried letting the dog ride there -- it's just not the same)
I admit accosting you was not the best use of our time together, but what of it? You would simply return the favor, and at least we had each other. I did not ration the coffee grounds because you would finish what was left. I didn't take the highway because it didn't make sense -- getting off again in thirty seconds to drop you off at University.
I never answered your calls at lunch because I could
Dear Janna...'s... voicemail...
god... s.
I have a poem.
It's not a facade... s.
It's genuinely words
that seem to rhyme... some
please don't eat me
or mix me with rum.
I'll do part two later
when I have more time
and am less nervous
of being eaten with lime.
Nothing is more piteous than the writer than cannot describe himself. He is the suicide who forgot to load the gun, who used rope too weak, who tied the wrong knot, who mistook painkiller for sedative. He is left with the equivalent of a broken body, and people who remorse him, and worse – pity for himself. Yet it is worse, for it is a broken mind, and people who cannot know cannot understand. A mind that doesn't comprehend itself can't fix itself, even though something somewhere isn't quite or nearly right.
Yet even so singular an occurrence of man exists. And he finds himself typing fitfully, at least how he used to feel before he be
Wishing and waiting
and wondering too,
when, if ever,
I'll hear back from you.
I'd like to be smarter
than to hold on forever
but I think we both know
I've had control... never.
I wish that I did –
this may not have happened.
I think I'd be happy
if somehow we'd ended.
I tell myself
“I can't”
keep waiting - praying to see
how it ends
(if it ends at all).
But I know that tomorrow
the next day or after
I'll find myself composing,
my heart in the rafters:
How I loved you,
how I flew...
How I'd do anything
just to –
To find myself there,
ready to go,
I should have kissed you
those three years ago.
My stomach st
I wear ratty old t-shirts to bed most nights.
Because we don't have sex on weekdays.
And yes, it is a stupid rule.
I hate that rule.
With a burning fiery passion that sends me into a fit of rage.
It seemed like a good idea at the time, when we were so exhausted from working all day. And then there was the housework we didn't have enough income, nor did we find it reasonable to pay a stranger to clean our house.
So we don't have sex on weekdays.
It was a Thursday. I got home later than normal because some mother was hyperventilating about her daughter's grade falling slightly after the midterm. And today was my day to cook dinner. O
Over the past month or so I've come to realize that my latest deviation, which started with the sentence "I wasn't meant to be loved," was coming to define who I was as a person.
I think it was correlation, not causation, but on the off chance there was some causation involved, I thought I might try posting something else. I use the word "try" because I'm not sure of the results, but I think this is one of those instances "trying" might be more the cause than the results would indicate.
In any case, I've been "trying" to write other things, and -- hey! -- I even posted one of them.
I don't expect DeviantArt will ever be as big a part of my
...in light of always doing what we say we don't do, I've been writing more.
I'm also home (in Minneapolis) until leaving for a service project in February to fix bicycles in developing countries. I'm keeping a blog for that one and taking all the support I can get, so check it out if you like: 90bikes90days.org.
Anyways, just around, working here and there, mostly doing things I didn't have time to do in college, and prepping for real life. Here goes nothing!
~ me
Hello World,
I won't be writing much anymore. I haven't been writing much anyways, but this will be the official announcement. For me, writing was always a release, a way to say how I felt without actually saying it -- a way to be introverted. Truth be told, I don't want to be that person anymore. Of course, I'm not saying that's how writing is for everyone. Just for me.
I may submit things from time to time and I will of course log on to see the works of those I love. But don't count on any regular updates from me. Instead of writing, I'm fixing bikes, doing math, and trying to better the world in my own little way. But, DA, you held me up