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(no subject)

i have trouble breathing sometimes, and i fight back tears that are going to be the end of me. this is weakness at it's strongest which is kind of weird when you think about it- if you can even think anymore. worst day ever topped off by heartless displays of no restraint and words slung at open wounds. i guess its my own fault for leaving myself open. everyone wins and i don't care because i'm done trying to. i never made my whole life a game, and maybe if i had i'd be more successful at it.

i told you i don't want you anymore so stop trying to push me away more- i'm gone. and so are you as far as i am concerned. leave me alone. you only make things worse when i thought they were as bad as they could get. seek help.

time is all i've got and i'm running out of it by my own will- if this is 'time' then i want to sleep past it. lies are what you imagine and excuses never seem to run out.

i love you and you and you. but is this ever enough to keep going? i'm calling in sick (of myself) tomorrow.

love isnt a word to throw around like a baseball until you break someones window/heart- take a time out until youre too old enough to play the game. you cant blackmail your way into forever. pick up the pieces that i made fall apart from your grand scheme and put them back together in a different way. youll see youre better off in the deep end.
drink up

Don't Criticize What You Don't Understand.

Everything is so indecisive.
Even the weather cannot determine the best course of action.
This morning the sun shone as if summer were making a comeback,
Only to be shrouded by steel-wool clouds saturated with water.

We're painting poetry in the back of the submerged car.
Submerged under smoke, under rain.
Light blue still creaks from the sky,
In the making for our faces even more beautiful.

Sometimes I don't want you anymore but I hope we live this out.

I'm in a slump

It would seem so few people understand human frailties. I see them always. My heart twists itself into a knot because I can't stand to see others be so oblivious to them, just speak or act so uncaringly and not even conceive a notion that it might be possible that they are having more effect upon something than they tried to.

It is not often that I am not aware of it when someone is uncomfortable or bothered by somebody's actions or words or uneasy with their own things. Often I want to speak up and tell them that it is alright, though I worry that I might be mistaken or catch them off guard and only make it worse or confuse them and they'll think I'm awfully strange.

Everybody already thinks I'm awfully strange.

But I can't help it, I see everything. I am so aware of every simple intimacy, every certain regard in a direction, every faltering deep inside of eyes, every tone of voice, shade of light, movement of wind, motion of limbs. Nobody knows. I wish everyone could see things the way I see them just for a little while. They would understand then

I hate days like these. They get me down.
I put all my feelings into art. Although ugly, but art nonetheless.
I haven't done this in ages.

But tomorrow will be the day it will all turn around. I just know it.
Things are lovely if we let them.

If anyone still actually reads this darn LJ, give me new music to listen to. Preferably anything like Passion Pit, Le Roux, Walter Meego & Glasser... Or, better yet, surprise me.
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I want to run through the woods and fill my lungs to bursting with crisp, fresh air and laughter and whisper melodies to butterflies and get all muddy and not mind at all and fall asleep under the trees, drunk from the smell of leaves and earth, and wake up in the sun, under a clear autumn sky. And you're the only other equally frivolous soul that would be down with me.

(Just an observation, all the people on Livejournal disappeared. Oh why?)
diamond boy

The ones who mind don't matter.

Painting poetry in the back of the submerged car
Submerged under smoke, under rain
Light blue still creaks from the sky
In the making for our faces even more beautiful
I hope we live this out.

I am.

Even if it's only in my mind.
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soul animals

I had forgotten the dull little stars wrapped in
red gift paper and Satan's men
ironing my clothes while I slept.
I tried to be grand for it, but my heart's
a city park: there's nothing anybody
does but lunch
by the broken
carousel, swing from twisted
limbs, copy Vivaldi, lean
forward, and fall
in love while I simply observe.

Yours are the rounded fingertips of
everyone I know, mooneyed,
starlucky, soul-animals, pale, nearly invisible,
warning ourselves, overnight, very whitely,
discreetly, our heels and our hammers.
The day melts and I lean forward,
lean back into the white part of a new soul,
and I think I can feel everything.

You overuse the future tense, immense
and gentle, and try to get me to
iron my own clothes, to stay put.
The little laburnum outside the big
window that cries and embellishes
nighttime shadows, it's cursed and
watching, even though you always said
you never noticed it. Maybe
it's the lack of mirrors, the laziness
of time and the way the end
while you aren't looking.
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"because of the hormonal imbalance you made me tear up," too.

My slumber is a storm. It is a poet with the dreams of speaking the language of the city, it is summer's footprints whitewashed off the walls, it is a concrete face and a film about incest that drags on for far too long. The light swings away from my face and I do not believe in warmth any longer. The strange shape of my soul extends its hands and memories outweigh words; the meaninglessness of lucidity opens my mouth for me, and all I can speak of is the brilliance of death. If I had piano keys for limbs, I think, then she would find it so much easier to talk to me.

The window is slowly turning different colors. Here there is a silly different something pounding in me, not possibly a heart. A heart couldn't possibly thrive in me, you see. My cheeks would be damask and perfect if I had a heart. It is promises, perhaps, tied in a tidy bundle with brown packaging string, teetering on the windowsill. Or it is a teeny tiny glowing flushing war, hanging on the window, knocking against it as a door slams.

It is sad that I don't know you anymore.
patd stars

we're all looking for something to write about

I consume these red days and their dirty thirsts with Venusian vigor, so you mustn't say I am not trying to improve. It's those horrible peacocks of girls that lift their dresses instead of thinking, lips swelling and eyes falling, those you must worry about. All those handsome disabilities of theirs creep the sky, and the wind becomes nicotine, addicting me remorselessly to autumn. Oh most fruitfully I've found a way to blame every scalding misinterpretation on some force of nature. I couldn't possibly keep all of these premonitions to myself, you know, I must spread them like counterfeit pennies. You need fistfuls of me, charming boy, even if these fistfuls don't mean a thing, even if I am shaving seconds off your lifespan and tucking them in a homesewn pocket on the back of every dress I've got. I've had enough of relying on kisses from the morbid neighbor, rolling around in my head by myself, fighting with figments of your imagination, and waiting outside the art gallery in the rain. My sweater clung to me and I clung to the vaguelettes and puddles moving secretly towards the gutters. I made small rhymes to pass the time, waiting for you and toying with that change you embedded but so often have forgotten to restore.

Now stepping out of the fantasy world I've built in my head, school has started yet again. This week has marked the beginning of the last two years I have in the hell hole that is the Ateneo. Maybe not hell, exactly, because I quite love a few of the people walking around there. Looking back at Orsem, that I remember quite perfectly, I never thought I'd get along with the people I do now. The past summer has made me closer to quite a few people. Thank the Lord for our endless trips to the land of saltwater & garter snake filled pools, the treehouse with the hot brother, marco polo pool games, no-judging-no-matter-whats, COTs, Uncle Moe's, Ate Jhilette and fuzzy ducks.

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"remember when i tricked you into falling in love (with) Paris?"

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Starting today we are away, some distant location kept secret. This place and its wind, you see, keep me up past my bedtime quite often, reminiscing of fine childhood nights with my face pressed against my father's silk Windsor ties, staring into his shoes and keeping their shine for later stages of imagination. My face, pressed against the screen, attempting to distinguish stars from lights on hills, from helicopters and other universes. It is warm here, so very warm, and we arrived in sweaters and scarves. Some funny vodka concoction with loads of rose petals in it is waiting on the veranda.

Paris, after some time, grew to be wordless, seedy, a secret. It is everything New York is not, in the most subtly pitiful way. I still adore it.-

Tell me of your favorite place in the entire world.