this is fall.

I'm just bones

and lungs

and flesh

and sometimes I want to destroy it all,

and sometimes I feel indestructible.

naught autumn summer.

I've romanticized it to the point of no return.
But amid any meaning,
Being alive only means that you're not dead.
We're trapped in a crowded blue ball,
swimming, suspending in dark, noiseless space.
Waiting for every perfect moment like it's the last,
because it very well may be.

Doll.

I'll have you know whatever you want me to say I'll say it.
With my hands bound to your skin, it's what I crave.
But I've already said too much, and shared so little

Let It Breathe.

obsessed with the idea,

that there are too many lives I'm not living.

So much air that I can't get into my lungs.

There's not enough space, not enough time,

to live without the abandonment of guilt.

We believe in photographs and words.

We believe that if we keep going up we'll

find the promises we tried to keep,

everything will be made up for in the end.

If there is an end.

End. It sounds as it's said.

The fire to extinguish all hopes.

And the numbness, the comfort of lazy apathy.

Like a summer blanket,

sprawled across the bed of all the judgements we've received.

And people with their

judgement glue,

without fail soaking us in it,

to justify their own glue-soaked bodies.

Attached to the lifestyle of living a lie.

Only tell the truth when you need to.

Only caress the solitary ways of my past

and the abundant togetherness of my present.

What have I turned into?

I'm constantly turning, constantly taking the consequence in stride.

The room is spinning, aching with the thought of emptiness.

A powerful, candlelight death, or end.

Time no longer works with me, and I've been down this small alley before.

The alley of ever present hope and blatant disappointment.

And walking down it, skimming the crushed possibilities with my hand,

it doesn't feel familiar or foreign, or even real.

Just condescending.

I pay in not forgetting, in not getting attached, in vain smiles.

(Let's see how long I can fake it to my self.)

But, see, everything's perfectly normal.

All of these words, all of these preconceived meanings.

They mean nothing, yet they are part of my everything.

(I have a lot to say, but only a lot of the most nothing that I can conjure up)

significance of a room.

everything seems cleaner far away.

cracked ceilings.

the absence of life when you seem to disappear.

(we seem to be dying. whatever that means.)

coldest gust through everything

what exactly are we waiting for?

a summer

our words

put together

are just tiny incantations,

honest confessions.

tales of the inconceivable future.

misspelled with the quirk of being human

being hopeful

and being forever young.

I Remember to Forget Everything.

I know too real and too fluently the meaning of jealousy.

( I can't stop- going.)

Over thinking,

excessive over thinking.

castles that are nowhere near midnight.

What are we

little

tiny

masses

of flesh

we need, need, need

everything we see?

The burn of want

seeping holes in our stomaches.

Yet, I need every second,

every moment,

to feel as if

I'm getting my flesh's worth.

All of this confusion and over exaggeration,

just another step, moment.

Little

tiny moments,

of pure joy

for the sake of breathing,

to feel as if

I'm getting my soul's worth.

Descent Redefined.

I do not worry about silence.

Or the trembling from expectation.

I know my capabilities and am no longer frightened by them.

I've made my own decisions, sucked them into my soul,

defined them.

I am nothing of then and everything of now.

Right now, this moment in these months.

And I will change again.

Everything comes subtly.

Faster than a blink.

You're there, in the storm, thinking about your death

as a nonchalant routine of human life.

The thoughts dwindle.

Liquid catacomb for all of my worries and analyzations.

Yet, the fear is gone. Like it never existed. Like I never doubted my existence.

The quickest habit to form is the one that forms without even having to say a word.

(as long as I'm smiling, as long as I'm laughing, I am happy. This is happiness.)

I don't even bother with justifications. I don't even bother with blaming excuses. There's nothing to justify, and no one to blame. No reason to blame. I have what I have because I need it to be there for me. I do what I do because I need to learn how to deal with it. Deal with myself, deal with the heart-stopping realization that nothing is how it seems, nothing feels how you think it will feel. Every dramatization is a lie we are all tricked into living.

(what is alive? the opposite of death? Is that all? We are going through all of this because of our need to contrast?)

Oh, but the brittleness is gone. The collapsing bone structure is now a solid mass of ideas and identity, guarded with iron and locks. But they're visible to me now, and necessary.

And I know I will change. And everything will be different. Oh, I know that now. That no feeling last forever. Everything is a dwindling spark, everything fades. (memoryless)

I've reached a pinnacle of witnessing perfection, living through perfection, facing ghosts of doubt, nightmares of fear and insecurity. And it all feels different, except I ride still silently, accepting silence as apart of my security system around the mass that I now am. The burgeoning honesty started flowing. And I took the insecurity, the doubt, the fear, all strong statured ghosts, I took them by the hand-

And I let them all go.

Beginend (First Cycle)

beginend (|biˈgin||end|)

1 a final part of something, esp. a period of time, an activity, or a story

1 [ trans. ] start; perform or undergo the first part of

2 the furthest or most extreme part or point of something

• death or ruin

• [ intrans. ] come into being or have its starting point at a certain time or place

3 Change.

4 Growth.

everything.

heaven opens up through the trees sometimes.

when mornings rising

or day is setting.

tiny drops of sunlight

atop the forest trees spilling onto the leaf

infested ground.

what is this solid place, where is this solid place-

i do not know,

but it's all I know of peace in this world.

end of april manifest (2)

manifest (meaning one)

somewhere in living and learning the truth

i've lost my capacity to write fiction.

i can only pen out biographical pieces.

everything leads back to the vanity of 'I'

and 'me'.

I can acknowledge the vanity only now.

But as much as I am fascinated by people,

I cannot seem to write their personalities on page.

I make them seem shallow and characterized.

My imagination is still brimming with impossibility.

But even my imagination sounds shallow on page.

Everything has two sides and I have yet to master the art

of showing both.

this is where I lose everything and regain more than I'd hope for.

8 more weeks?

(am I counting down again? because this means so much more than silly numbers that make me think I can cheat time.)

clear.

you inspire in me hope.

and how could I not recognize

and want this open hope and inspiration

you so willingly give?

slow.

you are:

ancient wicker chair familiar.

silence becomes a good thing

when you're sharing it.

I need you to understand this.

I need you to understand that there is still

so much of me that I don't understand.

That I've grown out of falling apart,

but still rock heavily against strong tides.

I need to know you'll understand.

Yet, I cannot ask this so blatantly yet.

I must wait for my friend time to shake

the decisions I make between now and

the time of your arrive.

But somewhere I know you'll understand these things.

And that every silent friday was worth it.

there isn't any hope left to stay in the neon cemetery.

so i must depart.

and in that I am scared.

anxious.

and feeling everything i am supposed to.

full moons and lighter fluid.

I'll smile from every unfamiliar tree

to every ingrained piece of sidewalk.

From every foreign language,

to every spoken secret.

Perhaps, I don't know how to feel.

No one ever tells you how.

You just do.

Every breath is a consequence of your last action.

The breathing continues,

I have not fallen asleep.

I have not been lowered into the deep soil.

We bury to forget, to hide.

Because what is not animate is ugly.

What is silent is an unsettling mystery.

We can't stand to see someone go to a place,

where we cannot follow.

My sleep is temporary.

False peace amongst constant spirals.

But my eyes are wide open.

clues (2)

2007-

...censoring the unknown...just to be safe.

august 6. 2008-

you get to the point,

where you don't even know what you mean anymore.

hesitant means pleasing everyone but yourself.

jaded reality.

august 7. 2008

and maybe you don't understand how deep this could go. and maybe I don't want to understand that this could go nowhere.

it's the worst disease: natural curiosity.

and we all have it.

must I get punished for these things I did without thinking?

august 15. 2008

sweet charades.

mimicking happiness.

august 22. 2008

my words aren't lost.

just traveling.

experiencing life & failure

pride & winning

they're deciding which roads to take.

So they can come back home to the paper

and tell it everything they've seen.

august 23. 2008

seeing my reflection while playing with shards

of glass.

this isn't what I asked for. It's not like I would ever ask to face

childhood fears with adult confrontations.

we aren't what we seem to be.

september 1st 2008

don't say you need the best

when preparing yourself for the worst.

clues. (1)

2007-

I'm exposed.

I don't know where to go.

I might turn into something I hate.

All my worries tied to the back of a freight train.

Tell me all of my enemies are fading.

So, I take other peoples burdens

and lay them upon myself.

As if I'm trying to break myself.

Because I have to prove how much I can bear.

when it snows in the city...

it feels as if the whole world has shut down.

everything is quiet but the expected

crunch of snow beneath my boots.

it's hell to walk through but it's beautiful from afar.

it never stays this beautiful, ever.

but whenever I go away and miss this city,

the picture perfect New York is vivid in my mind.

I don't want to miss this, but apparently I have to.