Eight-thirty AM

It’s midnight and I’m sitting in bed.  Does it not sound average? It’s midnight and I’ve taken two NyQuils to try to fall asleep, but I can’t.  Does it not sound average?  It’s midnight and the universe seems to oppose the idea of me falling asleep.  It’s now ten past midnight, and my roommate is sitting across the room from me clicking and clacking on the keys of her laptop.  She opens a bag of chips.  The crunching noises begin to flow from her reverberating jaws and I turn my body in my own bed.  I withstand a few minutes of the incessant crunching before I frustratedly step outside of the room to sample the water fountain that I’m all to familiar with.  I can’t sleep, my heart hurts, my sinuses are congested, and I want to murder my roommate.  Tell me that my night is just average, and maybe then will I be able to fall asleep.  Eight-thirty AM classes find the best of me. 


The more I read, the more I know.  Knowledge is wonderful, and should be bountiful.  It seems to me that the more I know, the less I employ whatever decree of intelligence I may possess.  I rely on regurgitated fact or idea to solidify my thought process, or lack thereof. Rarely do I form my own opinions or support my own arguments because Lacanian theory seems to do a much better job.  At what point does simply knowing become too much? 


3 months ago with 1 note

Sleep Cycles

Last night I couldn’t sleep

All I wanted was a conversation.

But all i heard were voices

And the wind against my window

I tried to shut my eyes at one

But the temperature dropped

And I searched for a blanket

I tossed and turned until 

I was completely immersed

in a sea of fleece

My eyes closed again

But my mind wanted to wander

So I dreamed of a future

And resolved my past

Still so alone, I searched for company

A voice outside my head

Words on a tiny backlit screen

And the light lulled me out of sleep

Until the sun reached through my curtains

Finally, sleep embraced me

Another day has passed


Blind

Open eyes are but a choice

One can close them and

live their life in night

Stargazing, sleepwalking

Forever on an endless path

Illuminated by daylight’s glimpse

Sunlight creeps through the crevices

Awaiting the shutters’ openings

Until the sun sets out of sight

The walker walks on in the night

A half smile molded onto the lips

Full impossible without

The light of the day

Unknown to the blind


A Phoenix of the Words

Pages fill quickly and ink pillages paper

When an active mind has no one to speak to 

Desires become the main characters in a plot

That eerily resembles the life dreamed of once upon a time

A love so perfect, embodied by a broken writer’s words

Crafting happiness with a string of words and a touch of glitter

How ironic that a heartbreak becomes a masterpiece

Do we admire its transformation or mourn its veil of reality?


In the Pit

She feared his touch

Because it left her powerless

But her closed eyes had visions of an unrequited love

A mesh of perfect gears

Drawn together by an engineer

She shudders at the thought

She knows it’s true and that it’s beautiful

But still she runs away

Unsure of why but sure of everything

Her journey plagued by remorse

But extinguished by her pride

A delicate but brash volley between the what-ifs and could-haves

Unrequited love against unrequited guilt

A battle of a lifetime

Death the champion


Lullaby for a Dreamer

I have nothing to write of

But the fancies of a lonely girl

But the small glories of a patron of the arts

A lover of a man she knows not outside of words and melodies

This is not a girl meets boy story

Rather one of how the realness of the world destroyed her dreams

And stole her from the scheme of the piano’s keys

The resonance of a soft voice

Whispering a song from miles away

Fading out are the final notes

A lullaby for the dreamer who woke

Farewell to the crumbling pixels of an image of bliss

The song plays on in an undreamed dream


3 months ago with 1 note

I’ve found that the fluidity of my thoughts becomes much more apparent when I attempt to communicate through writing.  My superb handwriting is certainly an influential factor which beckons me to venture on into the disparate world of ink and paper, but the most rewarding consequent of writing may be the awe with which I am struck when my words transform my innermost emotions and sensations into tangible and revisit-able memories.  At this moment, I can resurrect a myriad of occurrences that I would much rather obliterate from past, present and future existence, but these are not the moments I write of.  Sweet, teenage innocence and curiosity litter the lines of copious spiral notebooks.  First encounters with passion are stored between two hard covers.  My past delineates itself through theses meager epitaphs and struggles to remain in a near-sighted world.  I write to reflect and resurrect, to allow my thoughts to immortalize and engrain themselves into the constantly moving trail of space and time.


1 year ago with 2 notes

Letting go of something you love is akin to becoming a spectator of your own body and soul.  The inexplicable void that becomes permanent is destructive at its best; the absence of passion leads to a passionate disarray of all order in life.  Allowing oneself to delve wholly into an idea or practice opens the door for creative expression and the positive release of energy.  Search for self-discovery.


With open eyes I explore the world

Stumbling upon unseen colors and uncovering hidden emotions

But after I laid my eyes on the everflowing stream of blood

I wanted to close my eyes forever


1 year ago with 1 note
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