i'd rather be

I feel like all my real friends have slipped away from me and all the people in my life are too busy to form real friendships -- they all have 'old friends' who are their 'real friends', to whom they go when they fuck up; and I don't even have that. I feel like my definition of what 'real friends' are has shifted and I didn't even really notice until now. Now it doesn't mean what it used to...

And I just gave in to a moment of 15 year-old angsty self-pity...forgiveness please dear (non) readers



23
I'd rather be
alone at sea
- K

stolen

I'm in shock.

I feel violated.

My bike was stolen.

I need to laugh and I am going to eat lots of chocolate.

little arsonist

I might set the world on fire

Aquarius: (Jan. 20?Feb. 18)
You never thought you'd do anything to set the world on fire, but after a three-month arson investigation, that's what the U.N. tribunal will determine.

courtesy of the onion - you know suddenly, I'm in the mood to listen to "We didn't start the fire" - at 7, I lip-sinc-ed to that song with my best friends, it made me feel powerful and bad!

Check out these educational Billy Joel lyrics!

tropic of capricorn

Night of the winter solstice; dark snow-dreams blink upon eyelids closed
confessions are ripe, waiting to be found in the starry face of the great bear
fires are lit; bodies contort and meld with the flamesparks, ghostly ghasts
shaping five point ids.  The winds call me home to taste pristine icemen.

I cannot bear this parting, I won't be found until morning finds me again.
This long night of the year, its darkness, comfort only softness can imitate;
seems to be a haven in this madass world of bright lights and anti-christs.
I wish I could hold you now, under the tropic of Capricorn, touched in sun.


Dreaming of distant places

mythologies

you told me once
you loved me beyond reason
and I believed you
as we wrote our mythologies
on beer bottles
and fly paper

with feathers in your hair
you kissed my pillow
like sweet morning dew
and we laughed at the grass
for growing sideways

toasting moonbeams
from the back of a
green pickup
drinking like the finest tequila
from lips that dared not
burn the basic format
of desire

now your image is careening
off my memory plane
into a realm of fly paper,
bottled-blue
stuck in my hair
stuck to the moon
with the permanent glue
of mythologies