I am starting a new section of my blog, called "I'll admit it." At least weekly I will post a normally disclosed thought of mine for everyone to see. This may be my worst idea ever, but it on the chance it's not, I'm going to do it. I firmly believe that true beauty lies within the imperfections.
So, here's my first go at it...
I'll admit it - I listen to voicemails, that I can not delete, from people who are not even in my life anymore.
Friday, May 30, 2008
just call me trouble
It's as if your dreams have slipped through the barrier that normally keeps them out of your awareness during the day. It's a challenge to discern real life from fantasy now, which makes it hard for you to make a decision. You could get into trouble today because things tend to look better than they actually are. Stop for a reality check before you make any significant moves.
I'm all moves and full of trouble... super calculated. I think I've already gotten into trouble once today... oh no!
Saturday, May 24, 2008
This was killing me
I'm getting sick again. I feel it. My insides hurt, my body aches, I have no energy... And most of all I can't digest properly. FUCK! If I am supposed to go I want God to just take me now. I do not want to be dragged through this, again. I can't. This is insane. I am so upset nothing makes sense, including my thoughts. If anyone out there is reading this, sorry for that. I'm not sure anyone even looks at this. It's fine by me if not. I need a vice, but all I want to do is stay inside, listen to music, read, write... That's it. I need to keep human interaction minimal. What's the point of making a connection just to inevitably say goodbye? Whether I die in a year or fifty it all ends either way. Right now my feelings could be completely erotic, but I don't care. I feel like being extremely reactive, screaming, going out and acting repulsive... I want to do something, but I'm not going to. I'm twenty three years old. I'm too young to die. The curtains can't close... We're not even in intermission yet... This cannot be the final act.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
The Only Color She Paints is Red
To the dynamo of fillip,
Through gurgling gust,
By monstrous mayhem,
Thrusting pontificated rationale,
Mustering meaning through deadened pupils,
And over exposed flesh,
Stroking the ingenious of what remains.
Plunging towards purpose.
Driven by unfailing hope…
Unseen and fondled by sound,
Attached to solace,
Coupled in codependency,
Know your role!
Know your role!
Set forth by unwavering determination,
Self-deteriorating fluctuating intention,
Incarnated again and again.
Rehabilitated in each heartache
Made new by death,
Mentally anguished, distraught, sullen.
Morosely proceeding
Flapping at him at her at you and at me
Innovative mind, gone solo
Unstirred to action or feeling
Fleeting transitory trends
Sardonically shouting of "sissy" and "coward"
Amused by the self loathing
Displayed and broadcasted for countless
Forgeries, fallacies
It's all the same!
All the same!
Contemptuous she may
Exultant she might
Virtues vocally abused
Taunted by many, lost to many.
Each stroke has significance,
Krystle
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