27 Feb 2008
the moment left him. He wondered if it would return someday as a fond memory or an unsettling thought. Her objection in refusing him was saddening. More so than previous times, with other girls. For this time he felt like he really did love a person. Her. More than just a crush, he adored her and appreciated all of the small things about her.
The way she tied her hair up in a small pony tail for work. How her teeth were unusually, but attractively bright white. The slight rose to her cheeks and how she looked a little flustered all the time. The necklace that hung low around her collar and was dainty enough to compliment her smile. Charming and modest. The awkwardness of her address to him when she spoke, though with moments of confidence.
He could not help but think that his attention to detail would go unappreciated and unnoticed. Once again he became as small as a fly on a wall and felt as significant. Reduced to watching the world around him but not being able to truly interact with it and a seeming nuisance.
Looking back over old photos. Past loves and desires. He realised that she would likely fade into another one of the envelopes or boxes that he kept all the pieces of his heart in. In his room. In his wardrobe. Under the bed. She would be forgotten in years to come and only recalled in moments like the one he was already starting to lose.
He began to think that love was like that. It was so fleeting and inconsistent. He wondered how it was possible to love someone for the entirety of his life. How could he not have a heart filled with different loves.
His final thought as he went to sleep was that he was likely the sum of all his loves in life. That one day, someone would get the pouring out of all the love and sorrow and sadness and mist that was him. Hopefully they'd connect with it and want it and understand it. Perhaps they'd be the same as him. Perhaps they'd want the same as him.
He slept and he dreamed of falling in love and what it felt like and what it might feel like with someone else. It was one of the most beautiful dreams he'd had in a long time
Saturday, May 3, 2008
time’s like a broken watch
26 Feb 2008
time tortures me repeatedly till I can't wait any longer
my mind condenses profusely and I whittle and I ponder
your lack of actions and decision and my hesitation to advance
I'm wound up, I'm bound to your fateless contradictory plans
you snare me and lure me and turn me into your slave
I endure you and try to move you but you're a sleuth to my prey
you pretend you don't hear me when you know I call for rescue
you repeatedly give up on us, you say I keep leaving you bemused
I'm a broken watch that needs winding but you've no need for the time
you're impermeable to my charm and resist the sincerity of my lines
every sentence from you is sadly contentious and leaves me vexed
I can't work out what you're thinking or what you're wanting of me next
how does a pretty face like yours let your soul betray me with such force
it's so easy to let you creep into my heart, where you cut rough and coarse
you banded me to a wagon; rolled me downhill to roads less taken
you made it beyond evident you stopped loving me and my trust you are forsaking
I'll be lucky to crawl away from you my with my limbs still attached and working
the shameful and pensive memory of you and I perforating continues hurting
your disinterest in my comfort makes me despise the way you watched us wilting
and did nothing to protect us or venture towards prevention of us jilting
I'm an old flame now that burns vengefully mastering scorned spite
I've got contempt in me yet; you don't know the hate I can requite
time tortures me repeatedly till I can't wait any longer
my mind condenses profusely and I whittle and I ponder
your lack of actions and decision and my hesitation to advance
I'm wound up, I'm bound to your fateless contradictory plans
you snare me and lure me and turn me into your slave
I endure you and try to move you but you're a sleuth to my prey
you pretend you don't hear me when you know I call for rescue
you repeatedly give up on us, you say I keep leaving you bemused
I'm a broken watch that needs winding but you've no need for the time
you're impermeable to my charm and resist the sincerity of my lines
every sentence from you is sadly contentious and leaves me vexed
I can't work out what you're thinking or what you're wanting of me next
how does a pretty face like yours let your soul betray me with such force
it's so easy to let you creep into my heart, where you cut rough and coarse
you banded me to a wagon; rolled me downhill to roads less taken
you made it beyond evident you stopped loving me and my trust you are forsaking
I'll be lucky to crawl away from you my with my limbs still attached and working
the shameful and pensive memory of you and I perforating continues hurting
your disinterest in my comfort makes me despise the way you watched us wilting
and did nothing to protect us or venture towards prevention of us jilting
I'm an old flame now that burns vengefully mastering scorned spite
I've got contempt in me yet; you don't know the hate I can requite
111
23 Feb 2008
He boarded a train to the city. It was the coldest summer day of the season. He was wearing black pants, a light blue shirt with French cuffs. A black belt with a brass buckle. A woolen winter coat and a black woolen scarf. The light drizzle of rain was beading on his coat and dripping onto his shoes getting steadily heavier. His black leather boots.
He watched his feet as they clacked on the pavement away from the station. Watching the city buildings around him in the reflections on the roads. Glancing up every few seconds to avoid a collision with someone, he dragged on his cigarette that he clutched between his fingers, holding it to the wind.
He was unfamiliar with the city, more so than seemingly everyone around him. Who all seemed busied and rushing by at a worryingly frantic pace. He wondered if the world was coming to an end and no one had bothered to tell him. He kind of hoped it was.
He stopped at a corner and looked up; flicking his damp hair from his eyes to read the street sign. It was bent, so you couldn't tell if it was pointing to the street straight ahead or to the left. Deciding left was a suitable change, he kept walking. For a moment his thoughts were not riddled with street directions, commuters, buildings and his cigarette and he found himself thining of her.
Whilst only a moment, it seemed like the longest thought and the slowest thought he'd had all day. His mind's eye was at her work and she was friendly and cute and touched his shoulder. And he instinctively put his hand on his own shoulder, pretending to be brushing the rain from it, but actually wanting to see if he actually remembered what her touch felt like. He couldn't.
He thought of her voice and tried imagining something she said to him in his head and what her voice sounded like. But she sounded just like him. He walked through the door of the coffee shop and sat down out the back. Lighting another cigarette he ordered a strong flat white. He realised his thoughts were wistful once again and it made him think of the last ten years. Not much had changed. He, really hadn't changed. He was still the same 12 year old boy, consumed by the possibilities of people not liking him but knowing he was likable but unsure how to convince them so.
It occurred to him that so many times what made him most sad, was that he just wanted a chance. He thought he was at least worth a chance. He wondered if it was really that much to ask for.
Taking the first sip of coffee that arrived hot and cozy and tasted so immediate, he brushed the rain off his shoulder again and closed his eyes for a second. Sighing to himself he decided that this would be his new place. But here, he wouldn't be so sincere, he would guard his heart with caution and he wouldn't be so sad.
He boarded a train to the city. It was the coldest summer day of the season. He was wearing black pants, a light blue shirt with French cuffs. A black belt with a brass buckle. A woolen winter coat and a black woolen scarf. The light drizzle of rain was beading on his coat and dripping onto his shoes getting steadily heavier. His black leather boots.
He watched his feet as they clacked on the pavement away from the station. Watching the city buildings around him in the reflections on the roads. Glancing up every few seconds to avoid a collision with someone, he dragged on his cigarette that he clutched between his fingers, holding it to the wind.
He was unfamiliar with the city, more so than seemingly everyone around him. Who all seemed busied and rushing by at a worryingly frantic pace. He wondered if the world was coming to an end and no one had bothered to tell him. He kind of hoped it was.
He stopped at a corner and looked up; flicking his damp hair from his eyes to read the street sign. It was bent, so you couldn't tell if it was pointing to the street straight ahead or to the left. Deciding left was a suitable change, he kept walking. For a moment his thoughts were not riddled with street directions, commuters, buildings and his cigarette and he found himself thining of her.
Whilst only a moment, it seemed like the longest thought and the slowest thought he'd had all day. His mind's eye was at her work and she was friendly and cute and touched his shoulder. And he instinctively put his hand on his own shoulder, pretending to be brushing the rain from it, but actually wanting to see if he actually remembered what her touch felt like. He couldn't.
He thought of her voice and tried imagining something she said to him in his head and what her voice sounded like. But she sounded just like him. He walked through the door of the coffee shop and sat down out the back. Lighting another cigarette he ordered a strong flat white. He realised his thoughts were wistful once again and it made him think of the last ten years. Not much had changed. He, really hadn't changed. He was still the same 12 year old boy, consumed by the possibilities of people not liking him but knowing he was likable but unsure how to convince them so.
It occurred to him that so many times what made him most sad, was that he just wanted a chance. He thought he was at least worth a chance. He wondered if it was really that much to ask for.
Taking the first sip of coffee that arrived hot and cozy and tasted so immediate, he brushed the rain off his shoulder again and closed his eyes for a second. Sighing to himself he decided that this would be his new place. But here, he wouldn't be so sincere, he would guard his heart with caution and he wouldn't be so sad.
22 Feb 2008
I tried being nice, I tried being sincere and you threw it back in my face
you gave me a feeble sorry and a let down story dressed in lace
as if the prettier your fable, the more believable you'd be in rejection
but instead you just make me angry, your lies are no protection
I can't stand being told you know I'm nice how do you think that makes me feel
are you saying you don't want it that way are you saying that breaks the deal
well I can't read your mind, I don't get how you play, there's something you're not telling
I feel like for how nice we're being it's bullshit and we should be yelling
I feel sad about how you said no, though in the kindest way you thought you could
I'm emotional and contemplative and can only think of what would
and can't now and of how you should have taken a chance on me and seen
what might've and what maybe I know I am becoming and can be
Your rejection makes me think of primary school, a particular school excursion
when I gave a girl a friendship band as incentive, evidence and persuasion
of how I've been trying for so long to be a nice guy, genuine and sincere
but every time I'm just myself it gets me nowhere and my heart just seems to sear
I guess I'll still see you at times though I don't know if friends we'll be
and I know for a long time to come I'll wonder what if about you and me
to you I'm sure I'll just be a memory of when you felt good or a passing flatter
But I hope one day when you feel alone you consider how much to me you mattered
I tried being nice, I tried being sincere and you threw it back in my face
you gave me a feeble sorry and a let down story dressed in lace
as if the prettier your fable, the more believable you'd be in rejection
but instead you just make me angry, your lies are no protection
I can't stand being told you know I'm nice how do you think that makes me feel
are you saying you don't want it that way are you saying that breaks the deal
well I can't read your mind, I don't get how you play, there's something you're not telling
I feel like for how nice we're being it's bullshit and we should be yelling
I feel sad about how you said no, though in the kindest way you thought you could
I'm emotional and contemplative and can only think of what would
and can't now and of how you should have taken a chance on me and seen
what might've and what maybe I know I am becoming and can be
Your rejection makes me think of primary school, a particular school excursion
when I gave a girl a friendship band as incentive, evidence and persuasion
of how I've been trying for so long to be a nice guy, genuine and sincere
but every time I'm just myself it gets me nowhere and my heart just seems to sear
I guess I'll still see you at times though I don't know if friends we'll be
and I know for a long time to come I'll wonder what if about you and me
to you I'm sure I'll just be a memory of when you felt good or a passing flatter
But I hope one day when you feel alone you consider how much to me you mattered
I dreamt I was dead and of what you said about my coming to end.
17 Feb 2008
In this dream I was a corpse on an autopsy bench, they were taking my body apart.
Removing my organs, dissecting carefully and slowly, suddenly they stopped at my heart.
They observed with curiosity and screamed get a biopsy, they believed my heart was infected.
They knifed my heart from my chest and removed it best as they could placing it upon the bench.
They looked it over and found that up closer it was clear it was riddled with cancer.
As they debated the cause I awakened a hollow corpse and proceded to answer their questions.
In my life up to my death; many lost loves I'd kept, many moments of love turned sour had invaded
My reasoning somehow seemed to make sense to them and on my behalf it took little persuading.
In the next part of my dream I was suddenly beside you, still empty but holding my heart in my palms
You said what have you there and I said like you've ever cared It's just what I've been bearing the whole time.
You asked did I die from a broken heart like a fairytale story gone wry or a bad move script line.
I looked into your eyes they were almost as black as mine and retorted broken ain't right.
I spent so much of my life letting carcinogens attend to what I thought was the cure for my aching.
You said well it's not my fault you're like this and I said well ignorance is bliss. Never the less you're truly mistaken.
I took my dripping blood lump of heart back to the surgeons and said well it's no good to me now.
They said well rest in peace and we'll try at least to let time have it's way and heal your heart
I lay myself down and softly spoke all the best, I've let years try and mend the damage done.
The last part of the dream I recall before waking was the sound of the doctors joking how I thought that you were the one.
In this dream I was a corpse on an autopsy bench, they were taking my body apart.
Removing my organs, dissecting carefully and slowly, suddenly they stopped at my heart.
They observed with curiosity and screamed get a biopsy, they believed my heart was infected.
They knifed my heart from my chest and removed it best as they could placing it upon the bench.
They looked it over and found that up closer it was clear it was riddled with cancer.
As they debated the cause I awakened a hollow corpse and proceded to answer their questions.
In my life up to my death; many lost loves I'd kept, many moments of love turned sour had invaded
My reasoning somehow seemed to make sense to them and on my behalf it took little persuading.
In the next part of my dream I was suddenly beside you, still empty but holding my heart in my palms
You said what have you there and I said like you've ever cared It's just what I've been bearing the whole time.
You asked did I die from a broken heart like a fairytale story gone wry or a bad move script line.
I looked into your eyes they were almost as black as mine and retorted broken ain't right.
I spent so much of my life letting carcinogens attend to what I thought was the cure for my aching.
You said well it's not my fault you're like this and I said well ignorance is bliss. Never the less you're truly mistaken.
I took my dripping blood lump of heart back to the surgeons and said well it's no good to me now.
They said well rest in peace and we'll try at least to let time have it's way and heal your heart
I lay myself down and softly spoke all the best, I've let years try and mend the damage done.
The last part of the dream I recall before waking was the sound of the doctors joking how I thought that you were the one.
I hate your assumptions. They’re like lumps in my throat.
17 Feb 2008
STOP assuming that what you read's got the seeds of hate and despise
stop telling people what you think I'm saying, you're telling fucking lies
if you want to know what I've truly to say, then ask and you'll know the truth
there's much about me you're in the dark on, more than you know I've got ruth
you can heal from sticks and stones but words break more than bones
for all that you read, my words are less arrows than they are to atone
I know for me what I write isn't to say from my sight about what happened to her and I
It's more to sort out my heart on my world around me, I hate that you think I'm otherwise trying to imply.
So hold haste to your insights and don't utter another nuisance or console
this paragraph or three is to caution your failing conscience and immature soul
If my words are too vague and you can't help but feel plagued with possibility
then woe to you for your greedy taking, you'll soon meet my ulterior hostility
STOP assuming that what you read's got the seeds of hate and despise
stop telling people what you think I'm saying, you're telling fucking lies
if you want to know what I've truly to say, then ask and you'll know the truth
there's much about me you're in the dark on, more than you know I've got ruth
you can heal from sticks and stones but words break more than bones
for all that you read, my words are less arrows than they are to atone
I know for me what I write isn't to say from my sight about what happened to her and I
It's more to sort out my heart on my world around me, I hate that you think I'm otherwise trying to imply.
So hold haste to your insights and don't utter another nuisance or console
this paragraph or three is to caution your failing conscience and immature soul
If my words are too vague and you can't help but feel plagued with possibility
then woe to you for your greedy taking, you'll soon meet my ulterior hostility
on the banks of the south I was the odd one out.
16 Feb 2008
As I walked from the casino I realised they were five who
didn't know who I was or who I became.
To them I was but for a haircut and shoes just the same.
The years not having changed anything, but rearranged some habits and habituating.
All the years they passed stagnating I was remolding and recreating.
Some change I hate, but I know is inevitable
and I debate how much I show I care that they're not my people.
I don't want to preach to them under my sophistication steeple.
I just want to be understood and not seen as a weakling.
Still for all of my efforts I can't help but wonder why I'm seeking
their approval and nod when I know I could remove them and not
have any doubt in my mind I could move on and be fine.
Cause I have real friends who get me and care and will let me
speak to them wisely and never know that once upon a time
I complied just to satisfy. Who to me will be nothing but nice.
As I walked from the casino I realised they were five who
didn't know who I was or who I became.
To them I was but for a haircut and shoes just the same.
The years not having changed anything, but rearranged some habits and habituating.
All the years they passed stagnating I was remolding and recreating.
Some change I hate, but I know is inevitable
and I debate how much I show I care that they're not my people.
I don't want to preach to them under my sophistication steeple.
I just want to be understood and not seen as a weakling.
Still for all of my efforts I can't help but wonder why I'm seeking
their approval and nod when I know I could remove them and not
have any doubt in my mind I could move on and be fine.
Cause I have real friends who get me and care and will let me
speak to them wisely and never know that once upon a time
I complied just to satisfy. Who to me will be nothing but nice.
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