up

the nightmare.
tossing and turning on a bed to soft.
why can't these springs provide a firmer setting?
get out of my fucking head.
makes me wonder what the hell I'm doing.
what am I doing?
a moment of pure clarity finally came.
the sweat that had formed across my brow faded.
I could finally sleep once more.
..
thank god (Dog).

























(and I still hate the thought that she might be sharing her smile with someone else)

09

Warm water
that's how it all will fade
...
and the tornados that she has inside scare me
but don't let her know I told you that

this is

absolutely beautiful.

‘Why do you write?’ This is a question that I often ask myself. And typically when I’m in the shower and pretending that I’m famous and being interviewed by NPR or the New York Times or something like that — c’mon, you know you do it, too.

But it’s a good question. And the answer I give is usually the same: ’I started writing because I felt alone and sad one day. And it’s one thing to tell people you feel alone and sad. And it’s another to tell them a story about loneliness and sadness.’

Because I like to think of writing as well, one, catharsis. As a way of purging out all those nasty feelings you get from the daily pangs of life. But I also like to think of it as a means of finding out that you’re not alone in this world.

Because there’s something about a story that people connect with – be it a book or a piece of journalism or even a blog post. And whether we (as writers) like to believe it or not, every one of us embeds a little bit of ourselves into our work to make that connection.

And so when people write back to me like they did with my post on depression, and tell me about their own experiences, I feel just a little bit better. Because at least I know that that greatest fear of mine — that I’m all alone in this — isn’t true. That everywhere people are going through the exact same thing.

And there’s an incredible amount of relief in that.

But it’s also just not all about the authors. I think readers are searching for something similar when they read. I know when I first met Charlie in The Perks of Being A Wallflower or Holden in The Catcher in the Rye, I felt connected to them. And the fact that so many other people felt the exact same way gave me comfort.

So I guess the important thing to remember is that you’re never alone when you write (or read, for that matter). As long as you have books and can put a pen to paper, you will always have company.

And that. That is all the reason in the world to keep on doing it.

found on http://dashboardcitizen.com/2013/11/26/why-do-i-write/

so this is how it ends

it's an unfortunate ending to such a beautiful story

but somewhere along the lines it always goes astray

I'll miss the laughter we shared

and how you made me felt

sometimes though it's time to move on

and it looks like I was the one who was left behind

self-pity has never been an outlook I express

so I quickly filled the void

with any vacuous sex

and hollow-conversations that remind me often times

of you.

the way this drew to a close could've been very different

if simply you had cared

or shown any sort of concerned effort

but if you have to ask for someone to care

then is their effort truly genuine?

I'm not some ring 

that you can choose to wear

when I look back on it I still think of

the hood of the red car your shoes scratched up

or when we to Raven's Run and held hands atop a mountain-ledge

our lips touching for the first time

and I felt something very different

you warned me early that this wasn't your strong suit

but I pursued anyways

and there is so much more that you remind me of

but it hurts to remember

because of how emotionally invested I was

which was the downfall, more for you

than for I

this writing has fucking sucked, and I realize it is no longer a skill I possess. but sometimes articulating the thoughts that plague me late at night helps me rationalize a situation.

I miss you. I miss the living fuck out of you. I fucking hate myself for missing you. Fuck. You came around only to knock me down. And I'm not alright with this.

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