dance for love

wish list

replace judgment with understanding,
erase anger, abandonment, and demanding.
atone for mistakes that once tore you,
but don’t regret the leaves that lie before you.
look forward towards nature, it is the same height as you are
(maybe even up at the stars and the sun and the moon)
but don’t look down at nobody, not even at you.

#dusty corners

well, I guess I want a little space to call my own.
I guess I want to feel belonging.
I guess I don’t like cleaning because it feels like leaving,
I guess I don’t like things to just disappear.
But I like cleanliness. It’s an odd thing. To dislike cleaning
but to like cleanliness.
I guess, though, I just needed a little space to call home.
like, permanently.
I don’t know, I see grown ups get hurt and cry about not feeling
special enough or loved enough but somehow I got used to the
reality of it. you know?
I mean, I know I’m loved. things aren’t always physically there with you
but you know in your heart they are there. you know? I don’t know if it makes
any sense to you.
It make sense in my head, not always to other people though.
Anyway, I guess I just wanted that physical proof of some kind of belonging
like everyone else around me had. that physical proof of belonging.
and Every time I cleaned up my stuff, my clothes, my dresses, my perfumes
and the furniture just sat there all by itself…all empty and alone without the
company of my stuff, I guess the emptiness of it just showed me the bare truth
of the fact that all that furniture where I kept my stuff wasn’t mine.
this room wasn’t mine. I don’t know how you would understand what I mean
till you felt it for yourself.
how your heart would feel heavy to be in a room where you lived for, for so long;
but the realization that it wasn’t truly yours, because in your heart your mind knew
that you would be leaving eventually, back to another place and another room,
which also didn’t completely belong to you.
I don’t know how you could deal with that.
I don’t think I quite fully understand how I myself deal with it, actually.

#things I feel every now and then

I’ve realized that driving calms me. it kind of distracts me from my own thoughts.

I’ve realized that you’re not the first or last thought in my mind everyday anymore. But you are in my thoughts every now and then. You’re a big part of me, you know.
It’s hard to ignore that. So I guess I try to embrace it.
Sometimes I find myself questioning my decisions. Doubting my own deeply rooted faith in fate.

In my head it seemed easier to leave you than it really was.
Actually, no.
Leaving was the easy part. Having the strength to stop myself from giving up and going back home to all that comfort I was so used to… that was the hard part.

I’ve realized that my negativity and stress is reflected in my physical health. I try to stay away from feeling low; I really pay attention to my thoughts more. Even happiness takes effort. I guess it has to be a state of mind.

I guess I’m tryna find where to draw the line.

I know I left because it felt right. The idea of leaving felt comfortable. Isn’t that ironic? For something completely unknown to feel comfortable?
But I cried in the airport. So much. I never used to cry in airports.
I guess leaving home makes me sad a little.

but it’s bittersweet. I have to challenge myself. I know that I must challenge myself.
Life is nothing if it isn’t a challenge.
I don’t know too much about philosophy though; I’m only seventeen.

Things I feel every now and then are things that I started feeling way back when
I didn’t know how to rhyme my pain so that it could sound beautiful amidst gloomy rain,
and things I feel every now and then are composed of distant lovers, strangers, and friends
and composed of things I have yet to understand for myself, despite feeling them
and in spite of healing again, these things I feel every now and then
are things I wish I could have known way back when.

I’m the kind of person that gives it away. I could tell you my whole life story and expect you to understand within five minutes of meeting you, because in my head all human beings have an ounce of goodness in them. All human beings have the ability to connect at a whole different spiritual kind of level.
I’m the kind of person who lies a lot, too. Artists lie though, you know? That’s just what art is. Or maybe that’s just what I say to make myself feel better.
No, I know these words aren’t a little passage from The Things They Carried and I’m not trying to fuck with your mind like Tim O’Brien did. But never mind, you’d have to have already read it to know what I mean.
But, my point is: This is not Vietnam. My life is not Vietnam. I don’t see dead soldiers and have post-traumatic stress disorder or contain any known disease.
But shit, I have so many thoughts.
Every now and then. I switch. A switch goes off. I go from the realist to the dreamer in a second. I over-think and over-analyze and assume that my life is this whole other world separate from reality.
And shit, this isn’t even Vietnam. So why am I already tripping.

that was a moment ago though.
It’s done. I’ve overcome the feeling.
It’s just these things I feel every now and then, you know.

ache

when it aches I can’t explain it.
I can write about it, but I don’t know how to talk about it.
when it aches I can’t explain it.
but inside it just feels like too much weight.
when it aches I can’t explain it.
loneliness turned out to be a little harder
than I had sorta kinda planned for me.

human/alien

pressure pulling in, pressure spreading thin;
stretching obliquely strange textured skin.
thoughts adding on, dreams sinking in;
while your feet keep walking on.
looking for more words to rhyme,
looking for the right space for time;
time to escape my reality, but moreover my mind.
listening to the the silence in search of your voice;
writing down thoughts despite distracting noise.
I am so strange.
I wonder why. I am so strange. I have never come to accept the reality
of my own horrible depth. it is so deep, I wish the bottom of my soul
could somehow reach my feet.
it’s like being on the deep side of an empty blue swimming pool,
swimming around the chlorine to which I am allergic to.
it’s like being on the awkward end of beautiful, it feels horrible.
it feels strange. different.
I just wanted a space to fit perfectly within.
I just wanted to be able to hug my mother and cuddle with my brother.
I didn’t ever anticipate life to be so blunt. to be so long, and filled with so many
unnecessary moments.
I am always in a hurry. I know, I know. I know I need to cherish the journey.
I am thinking aloud. I am chaos and haphazard trapped into a cloud.
I am amusing. my strangeness amuses me.
what am I? am I human, really?
because sometimes, when I analyze my own thoughts, they disagree
with the reality that I seem to be.

Decisions

judgment is the biggest vice,
but it’s done even before my mind has a moment to think twice.
I know I’m trying to cut through all these stereotypes
but I listen slower than I feel sometimes
and I consider more than I reveal at times
in my mind, in my mind, in my mind it’s a maze
of circles and squares and a million other ways
to reach the destination of greatness, but I know it’s all a phase
of growing up and giving in and letting go and living in
a place that tears my patience thin
and still,
and still I am left with the struggle to determine how to win
how to love, how to trust, how not to judge
how to be, how to just exist within the billion corners of me,
how to hold on to the light in my soul
how to not worry about growing old
how to exist, how to be just one little piece in the puzzle
but how to be essential,
how to use my potential. I am left with struggles that I am bound to
defy, but I am left with the choice to decide.
and maybe, it is the act of choosing that is the bigger vice.
the choice of deciding whether to fight or take flight,
whether to judge or to invite,
whether to love or to criticize,
whether to live in comfortable darkness or blind my eyes in the pursuit of light.

wrinkles

it’s the end of my life and
you have looked into my soul
and sett your luggage in those dusty corners
and made yourself at home.
it’s the end of my life and I am older
and wiser and everything did not go as planned,
I plan.
it’s the end of my life and I see you there,
I hope to see you there. I see us drinking warm tea
and eating blueberries, and it’s summer and we’re free
and we’re sitting under the sun
and it’s the most beautiful place to be.
it’s the end of my life but maybe, just maybe
it’s only just the beginning.
our bodies have changed and our faces have aged
but your hands still feel the same and your neck still smells the way
it did, all those years ago.
it’s the end of my life and you are there and we are happy.
at the end of my life, that would be the most loveliest place to be.
don’t you agree?

Accept.ance/Expect.ance

melodies that I’m tripping over
skin that I’m sinking under
a voice that I’m playing over
and dreams to which I am an unknown lover;

this writing is empty white, just as my soul in the blackest night
and it may shine from where you stand, but to me it feels like gripping onto sand.
possibilities are infinite
but my ankles need to be rooted to the ground; don’t let this mind wander
to a different town.
you’ll drown in the possibilities to which you seem sound.
you will lose, because expectation will let you down.
but inner-peace will arrive when you let acceptance come around.

linda,

what would I say, how could I say it, how would it sound.
it was true, from the spirit world and into the depth of this ground.
what would I say, how would I explain, how could I tell you the truth about words.
I am here because my past hurts,
I am here to change what happened first.
how can something else tell me the purpose of my own writing?
but it was true; why else would I be trying.
dreamers are broken and dreams can heal.
and writing is a drug more dangerous than it seems.

but it’s okay.
in my head it saves me, it saves my life.
so it’s okay. if writing and dreaming is what I need to get through the night.

- this is an allusion to the ending of The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien. That ending made me cry; the story about Linda got to me. Needed to write about it somewhere.

The weighted scale

Maybe I’ve had it wrong all along
Maybe making an effort is the realest kind of bravery
But parts of me are tired
And parts of me are sore
And parts of me can’t deal with the reality of it anymore.
I guess I have had it wrong all along
But if it’s about effort, maybe I’ve been the bravest of them all.
Or maybe not.
I guess I try when I give a shit
And when I’m selfish I just let it slip,
Into the rhythm of skin and faces
And superficiality
I hope I’m not a sinking ship.

Mind/Heart

Mind in one place, heart in another
while the soul finds a place in space to hover.
Dilemma’s and choices and decisions and change,
and fear. This fear that adds on plenty unneeded years.
This fear makes me older than I am,
this fear is in the way of what I can’t and can.

The inside part of my chest is a tangled mess that can’t
seem to find a place to rest,
so many life-changing tests; I’m flustered and lost and I absolutely
cannot
decide my own fate for myself.
what a state of unfortunate feelings and open-wounds bleeding
I was supposed to be healing.
Mind in one place, heart in another
and I miss you. I miss being home. I miss belonging.

Mind in one place, heart in another
but challenge and trouble can carry me farther.