Complications

You always said it'd never be the case,
or you would say that it wouldn't be "you" and I
understood. I believed and agreed.
Don't turn around now and say something
is different now, because it never was.
Son, there are other things better to do -
go out, explore, have fun. Have a picnic
under the open-aired sky,
sun ablaze and perforating rays
transcending space, and shining down upon you.
More often than not when you speak, it's hard to believe
everything is different now, or is it?

Demasno

the first couple minutes after i woke up
were filled with blissful ignorance.
and then it hit me like the hand of my abuser :
it is march fifteenth. five years to the day.
today, like all march fifteenths,
is filled with that deep kind of emptiness..
that, "maybeicouldhavedonesomething,"
even though after five years of reflection,
i know nothing could have been done differently.
rest in peace, dennis.


.

HCDBoys Fansite | Myspace Video

And with all the reflection,
I notice that the lyrics that begin this song:
"Memories sharp as daggers, 
Pierce into the flesh of today"
Are absolutely telling.
Today, March 15th is known
As the Ides of March,
The day Caesar was assassinated.
And it is related to today
And Dennis, and forever will be. 
This song, this song.

...

I never want to be a pronoun,
I never want to be her...
I just always want to be your babygirl,
I want to be your Annie.
I want you to be proud of me,
I want you to be proud of you,
I want life to run smoothly...
And when the waters are rough,
I want to navigate the seas of life
With you. 
Anything can and will be gotten through
With you by my side, if your heart and mine
Will it to.
My heart is pure and willing.

"I've considered what I'd be like if the ocean poured in from both of the coasts, and we set sail to find out just where our boat would go... But I don't think that I'd want to know, cuz it would just make time so I could see your smile with our brand new life in tow."

42

Left my friends for sweet nothings,
But got literally nothing -
Well, not literally but almost....

Let's pedestalize those  who are already dead
And forget the type of lives they led
Because everyone knows you're a saint when you die.

And it's incredible that paintings come to life
When you read into them what you believe -
Resounding, heartfelt palpitations.

Shuffling through door, quickened pace,
No attention paid to lowly worms
Who are crushed beneath the pressure.






[i am really not happy with this post in any fashion. will probably edit at some point.]

I don't fit in with your new friends.

Methodologically entering information
password once, re-enter password for confirmation
(purposes)
birth date, birth month, birth year --
is this even me?
Blink once, party's over, but no end in sight
no flow, no scheme, no rhyme,
no attention, no retention.
Thoughts melodically escaping sensual paths,
sickly suspensions and trapped stalagmites
dropping crystalline nectar,
dripping waterford desires.
Longing for beauty and for simplicity,
one or the other, not both --
together, stand united
alone, trepidations unfold and multiply.

Your information is invalid,
your machine is obsolete.

Grandma's Rule

Butterfingers and Skittles used to coerce me into going to Church, into believing in God, into sitting still, into staying silent. Any squirm, question, outburst, trip to the bathroom, or heavy sigh would merit a warning: "We won't be going to Walgreen's after this if you don't shut up!" So I sat there, feet swinging, daring her to notice my internal emotions manifested in angry, subtly violent oppositions, punishing the kneeler for my oppression.
But then there was that morning that Dad looked older than usual, his eyes sunk deep with worry lines and discoloration... his expression was not the usual warm one with which we were greeted in the morning. He sat us down, sighing heavily like I would when I was forced to sit still or do something I didn't want, and told us, "Your mother and I... We, well... We are going to get a divorce."
The words hit me (us?) like a realistic nightmare, my (our?) stomach(s?) dropping, my (our?) heart(s?) stuck in my (our?) throat(s?)... And yet, we still had to trek to Church as a family. We got there and sat in the back. I sat on Dad's lap crying, Mom snapping at me to just shut up.



At that point, even Butterfingers and Skittles couldn't make me want to be there, couldn't make me believe in such a cruel God, couldn't make me sit still, couldn't make me muffle my desperate sobs.