These words.

Oh God,
Not this again.
Stripped from hope,
Twisted until I bend.
Hopeless romanticism,
Was never common.
The positions,
The holds,
The chains,
Grab your crown.
You've won over the dead.
This heart has never before been clenched.






I can't fucking stand thinking sometimes.
Most of the time.








Whatever this is.
I hate and love it.



And I am sure that every person will know what I'm saying.

They will all understand exactly how I am feeling.

But gosh, it's like nothing anyone has ever felt before.

It's like Clash of the Titans: Certainty vs. Uncertainty.




I wish that.

I wish that things would just fall into place, without giving me time to second guess myself.
Without time to feel unwanted.
Without time to feel abandoned.
Without time to feel threatened.




How can I constantly ask myself if I'm saying the right things?


I just feel complete ache.
So dissembled.
So disgusted.


Yet I feel beautiful.
Well kept.
Wanted.



Why is there never a balance?
This Earth is a flat disk, constantly tilting radically and I have no grip.



"I'm always wishing, I'm always wishing too late for things to go my way; it always ends up the same."




Guess how this post came to be.
You will never get it.
Never fully comprehend.

Clone.

I don't know what is causing this insomnia. Maybe it's the constant thought. Maybe it's the light. Maybe it's my ridiculous sleeping schedule as of late. Maybe it's because I'm starving. Maybe it's that latte that I drank around 8:30.


No matter what, I don't like it.

I feel like getting shit done, but I have nothing to really do that makes sense to do this late... or rather early.

I read two long chapters from a book called Without a Net. I still like none of the characters, which means that I still do not enjoy the real people, since they actually do exist. A real life story about living out of a car with three children. But at least the book is good thus far.

I wrote some random shit down for my faces collection that I'm going to work on. I'd love to actually incorporate a woman's face, but for some off reason I can never really get it down. How hard is it to draw a doll? Apparently really hard. Unless I go into huge detail, then I can just take two months and plow through a realistic portrait of someone. I'm trying to figure out which moods I would like to convey in charcoal, though. I have what I would assume to be angst, something for what I'd presume to be pride, and I have something written down for wrath. I want to do something for romance, "love," whatever you want to call it. I wrote a poem, but I am fairly shotty at love poems, so I am unaware if it is any good, or not. Maybe some of it is good, and I could just detach certain parts, and add others to make it more... my style. Instead of seeming mushy, I suppose. I am not exactly one to write something positive about romantic interaction, ha.
I do want to, though, do my drawings on different kinds of fiber. I've already done one on a regular stretched canvas, but I think that doing one on a paper bag would be awesome. Just anything that I can find, or something. Maybe a piece of wood. Maybe just a large sheet of paper.

And I'm writing about stuff that no one cares to read about.

Lately I've noticed that a song can just completely change my mood.

If I listen to something sad, I become depressed.
If I listen to something revealing, I feel open and breathing.
If I listen to something lovey dovey, I feel immersed in that "crush" feeling.

I don't know if I should just go for the ride of being able to be controlled by lyrics so easily right now, or if I should be a bit wary.
Of course music has always had an effect on my general mood, but the act has always been when I was already feeling the way the music conveyed the artists' moods and feelings.
Now music has been completely controlling the way that I feel.
It's like I am stripped of personality and self control.
But maybe this is a sign. A sign that I should not feel like I am in complete control. That I need to just "go for the ride," so to speak. Delight my life with even more spontaneity than I already do.

It has been a great break from reality.

I want my Third Eye back. Of course, we never lose it, but I mean that I physically want my microdermal back. So badly. I feel so... incomplete.

I haven't posted a blog that has completely ran on tangents in a while.

I am hoping for an extremely rad 2011.

God, I am so fucking hungry.

I watched Scott Pilgrim vs. The World tonight. Finally. That was much overdue. I absolutely loved it.

My hair grows fast. I can't wait until it starts to curl up all adorable again.

I want something really good to happen.

I think that this may be a green Christmas. Tonight felt like Spring.
And I can't wait for stuffing.

I know how I feel right now. I know everything that I need.

Mother, Can I Be Pretty Too?

I am supposed to be a cosmetic prodigy.
I am born to be the most beautiful human being that you have ever laid your eyes upon.
I must create a painted face.
I must have a raw face.
I need to make my hair noticeable.
I need to make my lips plump.
I need to have rosy cheeks and a curvy, yet slim physique.

I am supposed to be a confidentiality.
Every person wants in.
The everyday paparazzi.
The everyday rumour.
The hearsay of my life, whispered through every hall I pass down.
My life, controlled by people who do not know even my name.
My rights, ripped away from my body.

I am supposed to be an intellectual.
How I must yearn for a higher education.
I need to be placed in the corporate machine.
This is how creators are born.
This is how successful people are born.
I must step onto the conveyor belt.
This is what my family wants.
I must take my place in line for debt and embarrassment.

I am supposed to be addicted.
I am the very definition of sober-lacking.
I am the contents of which you journey.
A get away, a path to a door from problems, I am.
Problems that we do not face.
Let go.
Substance has our souls.
Like babies, we are born addicted.
I must shiver from withdrawal.
I must cringe to the knowledge of human awareness.
This is the only place that I must go.
They would never want me to stop the numbing.

I am supposed to be Christ.
I must worship.
Never must I will to go to Hell.
I cannot set my own beliefs and goals.
I cannot set my own regulations, my own commandments.
Never must I believe in anyone else.
Love can only go to the beauteous creator.
Never will my family ever come first.
He gives me all, I never work for myself.
I never live for myself, nor anyone else.
Only Him.

I am.
I am.




With all of this weight, I just cannot fit the slim mold.

I will be awake and suffer with my insecurities.
I will be my own teacher.
I am an architect.
I will reach my meaning through my third eye.
I will not be replaced.
My love is foremost to my life, to my real protectors.
I will be loyal to the ones who revive.
Happiness is my first calling.
I am beautiful, without perfection.

You are beautiful.
By yourself, you are immaculate.
My attention, and everyone else's, you have.
You can have a clear mind.
You can have fresh air as a release.
Our souls.
All of our souls, they intermingle.
Please.
Please see this.
You can be alive.
You can be alive without all of their opposition.
You can be alive without drenched awareness.
Please see me.
Please seek me.