Big Broken Things

I need to fold my clothes. All of them.
I need to wash my sheets.
I need to throw bad food away.
I need to scrub my shower.
I need to vacuum all the floors.
I need to do 40 sketches.
I need to put a portfolio together.
I need to write a speech.
I need to reread the pieces for world lit.
I need to pay to the bills.
I need to put the shoes away.
I need to buy candles.
I need to be awake by 6:00 am.
I need to be at work at 7:00 am.
I need to have school.
I need to have to go back to work until 9:00 pm.
I need to breathe.






bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. But here I sit.

One by land, two by sea.

The reason I really don't like you?

It's that when you talk, you are talking to this thing deep inside of me. And it makes me grim. You aren't even saying things to piss me off, really. Your voice makes me go into full solute mode and I lose myself. I hate that. If I could be funny for you, or sweet for you, you would understand. Although your thoughts do provoke mine I can't even react because I'm too busy dealing with the cannon ball on my diaphragm that you've caused.


And simply that, and only that, is why I don't like you.

I lost my mother to a psychiatrist.

I think me and my dad fell out of love with her at the same time, though.

And she never had time for me; and she never had time for him.

If she wasn't writing poetry or sketching dreams of angels and demons

She was with David. Her psychiatrist who made her a bit odd. 

And time made her a bit old.

All the love she used to have was being channeled to her higher power, to God.

Channeled by this short geeky man.

A balding, religious hypocrite. 

I hated knowing that they were praying for me.

Because I didn't want their prayers, I wanted my mom.

But I lost my mother to a psychiatrist. 

Stranger Danger

In this story, I always think of myself as the villain. And it's not my fault because nobody intends to be the villain; everyone dreams of flying and saving the day. And some days I do soar, but mostly I'm the villain.

Task Master Procrastinaster

The following this are ways I have procrastinated today:

• fixing a kickass grilled cheese
• organizing all my food cabinets
• washing my boots
• taking pictures of all of my artwork in the house
• running for an hour and a half
• contacting a person on facebook I haven't seen in months
• taking 2 showers
• making my living room into a private dance club
• making an Album of my artwork on facebook because a friend asked me to
• taking a nap
• thinking about my want vs. will
• 15 minutes of self hatred followed by a 15 minute pep talk to myself
• syncing phone 
• changing my outfit 3 times
• reading all the nutrition facts on the items in my refrigerator 
• feeling the carpet while laying on my back
• stretching 
• humming new melodies into instrumentals
• making a new blog entry

I guess I will do my work. Or eat sherbet. Only time will tell. 

Isn't it sad?

Art.
Art
art

Artist.
Artist
artist

I hate these words because they steal validity from me.
What does that make me?


The constraint of those words make me nothing.
I am nothing.
I will always be nothing, these words all to thank.

i don't have a name for it

Fucking alcohol.

Angry Hornets Live in My Chest

It's the way I want to throw every child into a wall.
It's the way I scream at people on the sidewalk in my head.
It's the way my stomach feels like acid and my lungs like static.
It's the way I forget to breath until I'm purple.
It's the way everything get's hazy and I can't recall the last few minutes.
It's the way I slide into the floor like butter.
It's the way I feel so fragile, like bursting into tears at any moment.
It's the way listening to anyone gets painful.

And I'm purple. My hands are shaking. I just can't.






I just can't.
Handle anything.



kas joaefeiangalskdgoeadcm,s.a sdfg

Fuck everything.