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.

Say my name.

Have you ever thought that nothing was real?

That every single living being was completely fake in our society's "reality"?

How the hypocritical mass of existence is only there to entertain all of the other hypocritical masses?

How human beings only look out for themselves?

How so many people fit the mold, even if they don't feel as if they themselves fit the mold?

Have you ever noticed that the people with any different perspective are shunned?

How those people are looked at as awkward and strange?

What about noticing how extremely intelligent people are thrown to the curb and stomped by people who are so good at memorizing books and mathematical problems?

Did you ever notice the way that popular turns into rubbish, and then turns into popular?

How about watching yourself be a stepping stone for others?

I guess that I am just full of questions.

I have just seen myself as the person who gives others a good time. The person who gives people happiness, but is then just pushed away. I suppose that this is okay for me personally, because I get bored easily, I like to help people, and I honestly can't stand most human interaction. Strange, since I seem so outgoing, is it not?

I suppose that this post is only of my thought process and consciousness, which is surely alright.

I just want to know why I push the people who I actually am interested in being actual friends with away, and to the point where we never really talk. When we do, it's awkward. I just don't understand why I help people to understand themselves and press them toward what they truly want and love, yet I, myself, happen to create destruction for, well, myself.

And this is not saying that everyone who I've strayed away from are people who I have been admiring from afar, because there are people out there who are just no good. But really, I remember certain people and I just cannot understand, even with how self-analytical I am, why I desire to push away from those people, yet be so eagerly attached and pulled to them from a, what might now seem creepy distance. But I promise it's not really at all creepy, just a wish that I had pushed that picnic to happen, or a wish to have not so greatly detached myself from that ever embracing hug that generated true delight from either party, yet I would never show my emotion.

I am never satisfied.

Now.

You are nothing special.

You are everything special.

We are all beautifully crafted creatures, all out to be what the mold feels is good of us.

For us.

As scientists try to clone us, try to make us live longer, make us drive faster, make us our own personal tracking devices; we are losing what we are organically.

Constantly told to not do this, but instead do that.

We're told to eat differently, that we're all corporate scum, that we are all a part of the system.

We all should branch. Our own personal Jesus. Create our rules.

There are no sins. There are no sins.

You own what consumes you. You own even this idea, and it consumes you.

An opinionated, illuminated threshold.

You can contemplate every single philosophical piece of logic, but you are still a piece of shit.

We are all life in the present.

Stop thinking about yesterday, or tomorrow. There are no hours. There are no minutes. There is the sun.

Go to sleep, then wake the fuck up.

We are all terrified that we will miss something. No matter who you are, you are terrified to die. To not exist.

Stop talking about how you love make-up. Stop talking about how you hate make-up.
Stop talking about how shitty your life is when you made your decisions.
Stop talking about living a certain way, and then not doing what you want to live by.
Do not take any of this into consideration for your own personal ideals.

Make your own fucking belief system.

Be the beautiful nothing that society has created.

Start a fight, beat yourself up, spread your words through paint across the walls.

You've created now your own personal revolution.

Don't you dare forget to dance.

Billie Jean is not my lover.

I was thinking today, just a few hours ago, how I feel as if a lot of people, actually everyone has a pseudo security blanket. I was then intrigued to know which was my own. I toiled in my mind to figure out what keeps myself sane. I have decided that my hair is my security blanket. I create new versions of myself very often. I do not want to ever look the same, because being the same for too long absolutely terrifies me. Change is good. Having shaved my mohawk back in completely with barely any hair on the sides, I feel as if I may just completely get rid of that security blanket. I feel as if I need to take my hair completely off. Yes, that completely scares the shit out of me, and I'd probably cry if I were to do the action. But what if I need it? What if I need to break from being able to completely conceal myself from different varieties of expression and change? I suppose that shaving all of my hair off would in fact be a large change, but the idea would not be the same kind of change that of my initial security blanket problem.

Or maybe I just have an extreme sick obsession with destroying something beautiful. So many compliments to my hair, no matter what I do with it. Maybe I just want to strip people of that. Maybe I want to destroy my own ability to create myself anew.

Or possibly it's a subconscious spiritual matter. I feel as if I need to go back to how I was created. Completely innocent. Completely naked and irritable. Confused. Back to Earth, instead of within this capitalistic Hell that we all need to fit the mold.













I need to be pushed into reality.

Under the ground.

I am the requisite to your dreams.
The meaning of life;
I am a human unaware.
This purpose;
I crawl to you,
Your footsteps.
Grazing my soul,
You consume my Earth.
I am the requiem to your body.
Cold and on the floor,
You lay as I converge.
The motions,
You have none;
A recluse from reality,
You speak with no meaning,
No translation.
I am the requisite to your intentions.
I abide by rules,
Broken and blistered;
Your fire,
It pours to my body's convenience.
Your contempt is lucid,
Running away to vast guidance.
I will always be alone.