| hey xanga. been a while.
you're still fucked up too.
what a pair we make.
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| I think I am more than finished with Xanga. I'm going back to using my journal. Back to using my privacy. It was .. whatever it was. Goodbye.
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| This time, things will be different. No, they won't. Stop lying to yourself. Stop patronizing me. Things will be okay. Just let me live. You call this living? It's the best I can do. Why does it matter? Why does it not matter? Leave me be.
[Edit]
I love autumn. I love the rain. I saw an abandoned small building. I was that building. I was the rain dripping from the ceiling.
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| We sat beneatht a tree at the festival and wrote and listened and were living each moment. Perfection.
Poetry:
01.
The smoke fills their lungs
Legs intertwined with strands of puppy love.
A finger lingers on her neck
the other palm rests on her shoulder.
He's still the same boy
who played in the grass until
the sun went away
and the night creatures
started to reveal themselves
in the dark.
You better hurry home, boy
Night time is the place for sin,
and you're still just a child
with countless years in your view.
Don't rush what you can't control
the consequences
will eat you whole.
02.
Oh Daddy, you're all legs.
Not a bone could be broken,
you're invincible to me.
You blend in with the leaves,
you're a creation of nature
Climbing all over the trees
and in the grass
If only I could hold you in my palm,
keeping you for myself.
But you have other trees to climb
other journeys to be had.
Oh Daddy, where did you go?
03.
I try not to get mad
but the anger fuels my body,
like a steam engine:
my fury is the coal.
I try not to be sad
but my mother is picking me apart
like a rabid wolf
feasting in the moonlight.
I'm trying to really see you
but you're disappearing
inside my looking glass;
we are one.
I try to forget
but the sun rising each day
is the sound of
your engine, your yell, your
breaking glass.
04.
I sit beneath the
trees that shed their greed
looking off to the side,
up, to her, down, to him
looking for some
gust of wind to tell me
what to write.
I find nothing
because the wind is not a friend of mine.
They're all kind of dumb, but I felt like I should wanted to write.
Critique at your will.
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