Anxiety, My Friend.

Anxiety and I come hand in hand

He tucks me in at night

He’s there in the morning too

He’s the sugar in my coffee

He’s the threading of my clothes

He’s the sweat on my brow

Anxiety tells me he’s my friend

He tells me he will never leave

Anxiety can be there when no one can

He tells me only he can help

Tell’s me to hold my breath

Stop breathing easy

Anxiety doesn’t like to share

He can have many friends

But not me

Oh no, not me

He scares them away

Keeps me for himself

Anxiety isn’t overly kind

But yet, he’s always there

He’s constant

I like constant

Constant seems safe

It feels easy to be with Anxiety

To let him in on rainy days

But it’s so so hard to make him leave

To make him go away

He always wants to stay

The bruises he leaves are real

Not visible- but real

He thinks it’s fun to press down on my chest

Likes it when I can’t breathe

Likes it when I gasp

Likes the splotches of pink on my cheeks

He likes to make me squirm with unease

Likes it when I shake

Oh he likes to see me shake

Anxiety and I come hand in hand

He’s the itch that won’t scratch

The flood that won’t recede

The song played on repeat

Not enough he says

You’re not enough

Anxiety and I come hand in hand

His nails leave crescent marks across my hand

His grip’s so tight

So painful

So constricting

Anxiety and I come hand in hand.

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Why?

They ask why

I never write of love

Why I never write

Of happiness.

And to that,

I don’t reply.

Because,

I’ve been asking

Myself that for

Quite some time

And no one has replied.

Maybe I should say it.

Maybe I should  tell them

That I never write of

Love

I never write of

Happiness

Because love never wrote

To me.

Happiness never wrote

To me.

Sunday, November 20, 2016

I hide behind

The colored spines

Of books

With different people

With different lives

Far more adventurous

Than mine.

 

They say I’m shy

They say I’m kind

They say people like me

Are hard to find

But what they don’t know

Is that there’s a whole

New person that

They’ve yet to find.

 

I’m passionate.

I feel the things I feel

Much too deeply

A blessing?

Yes.

A curse?

Yes.

I cry a lot

But I do it for the art.

I do it with a full,

Heavy heart.

 

You’ll say I’m quiet.

I say observant.

Because

How can one study

While making noise?

How can I learn

What makes you tick

With passing silly

Pleasantries

About your day?

 

My silence doesn’t make me

Shy,

It makes me observant.

My passion doesn’t make me

Too emotional,

It makes my art.

Having a Coke with You by Frank O’Hara

Having a Coke with You

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them

I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse

it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it

 

This is arguably one of my favorite poems of all time. It’s so beautiful and simple. I heard about this poem from the movie adaptation of Beastly that my friend and I were obsessed with for the longest time in middle school. I love listening to the video of Frank O’Hara reading this poem himself, it’s really awesome to hear how the poem is meant to sound with all the right pauses.

August 21, 2015

Carelessly falling

Crashing through the surface of time

Weightless, tumbling through the darkness

Searching for the light

Blinding at first but soothing to touch

It’s bittersweet

A time like this

The beginning of the end

When a different life begins

Breaking the surface

Only to submerge again

Similar to earth

This familiar sense

With twists and turns

And unreachable ends

Don’t think – just be

Don’t think – just fall

It’s worth it in the end

Break the surface of the dark

Land in the light

Caress the unfathomable bliss

You’ll wonder why

All your life

You’ve been afraid of something

As beautiful and simple

As this

Diary Of An Oxygen Thief by ANONYMOUS

“I liked hurting girls. Mentally, not physically. I never hit a girl in my life. Well, once. But that was a mistake. I’ll tell you about it later. The thing is, I got off on it. I really enjoyed it. It’s like when you hear serial killers say they feel no regret, no remorse for all the people they killed. I was like that. Loved it. I didn’t care how long it took either, because I was in no hurry. I’d wait until they were totally in love with me. Till the big saucer eyes were looking at me. I loved the shock on their faces. Then the glaze as they tried to hide how much I was hurting them. And it was legal. I think I killed a few of them. Their souls, I mean. It was their souls I was after. I know I came close a couple of times. But don’t worry, I got my comeuppance. That’s why I’m telling you this. Justice was done. Balance has been restored. The same Thing happened to me, only worse. Worse because it happened to me. I feel purged now, you see. Cleansed. I’ve been punished, so it’s okay to talk about it all. At least that’s how it seems to me.”

Absolutely fantastic. I love his brutal honesty. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at the same time. I would highly recommend this book to anyone. It’s a quick and worth while read.

thoughts on linda (again)

I miss my grandma less everyday. But, I feel her loss more, too. Strange.

I do miss spending my days at her house. She’d kick my ass at WAR. I miss walking through the grapevine with her when I was little. Don’t eat the green grapes, she had said, they’re bitter. She’d pull my sticky, sweet, grape juice covered hand and lead me to a bunch of sweet, deep violet grapes.

I hate those grapes. Absolutely detest them. I always have. They had seeds and the skin was thick and bumpy. I ate them anyways because I felt like the coolest shit having picked them myself.

I’m not going to lie and say that she didn’t put the fear of God in me, though. I’ll be damned if she didn’t.  A fly swatter to the ass was always an option if we acted up. My sister likely has acute PTSD from it.

She didn’t smile a lot in the end. I think she was in a lot of pain. It was health issue after health issue those last few years. But when she did smile, she was with us, she was with family. People she loved. And, my God, was her smile beautiful.

I don’t go to grandma’s house anymore; it’s just grandaddy’s house now. I haven’t walked in that grapevine in years. The rose grandaddy gave me in her stead the night she died is still in a vase on my bedside table. It’s brown and wilted. Dead.

Mom sprays an old bottle of her perfume when she’s missing her a bit extra some days.

No, I don’t miss her as much, now. Two years time has helped with that. But hell if I don’t feel the loss of her more, knowing that I’ve started missing her less.

That didn’t make sense did it?

Screw you, this is my journal.