i feel hollow my hands are small
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Before dawn, she crept near the fireplace trying to control her jagged breathing. She struggled to calm her nerves as she watched her captor’s chest rise and fall peacefully, unaware of the inner turmoil she was facing now. The hearth had long since gone cold and the blue light of early morning only amplified the chill in the air.
She knew they were somewhere in the mountains, but that’s about all she knew. She had been unconscious most of the way to the suspiciously homey cabin where they currently resided. She had a feeling that they were squatting on someone’s timeshare, but she hadn’t had the chance to ask too many questions. It had been easy enough to get out of the rope tying her hands and feet. She supposed he had expected her to be out for much longer from whatever he had injected her with. Heroin addiction hadn’t done her much good in life, but it had given her a high resistance to tranquilizers. Now all she had to do was move past the bulbous, hairy man and out the door without making a single sound. The nightmare that had not yet begun would be over. She wasn’t naïve enough to think that this man had anywhere close to pure intentions and she knew she would rather go down fighting than probably raped to death in the Coloradan wilderness.
With grim determination, she carefully rose to her feet, begging her joints not to crack. The floor seemed to moan in protest with each step she took, but the bear-like man did not stir. She eased open the latch on the rustic door and inch by inch pried the door away from the frame, flinching as the hinges squealed. Without daring to look back, she maintained her quietude until she had made her way across the porch and onto the solid ground of her freedom. She began to run. There was no telling when he would wake up and she was not about to kidnapped a second time in the same weekend, at least not by the same guy.
Her life had never been the same since she had let herself nod off that first time in Billy’s basement. His mom had been a junkie, and worst of all, a junkie with money. She received enough alimony from Billy’s dad and with the house paid off, all she had to do was not overdose. A junkie’s dream and a son’s worst nightmare. With Billy and his mom, things had been good for a while. She had thought that was what heroin addiction was like. Not so bad, right? Free heroin and safe place to do it. Until Billy’s mom got a bad batch. Luckily and unluckily they hadn’t been there with her when she used it.
The alimony stopped coming in and his dad had no desire to support another two junkies, especially without the court’s mandate. She and Billy had tried to make it work, but he got caught working as a drug mule for some local gang members and he had no choice but to take the rap. She had visited every weekend at first, but eventually she knew that 30 years was too long to love someone through a piece of safety glass. Without Billy or his family’s support, there was nowhere for her to go except the streets. And with the streets came danger and each passing day wore down her claim to dignity. Even being abducted wasn’t the worst thing that happened to her that week.
She ran until she was out of breath and then walked for what felt like hours until she saw the main road, but she knew that a filthy-looking junkie wouldn’t attract the safest attention.
There was a boy, who, as many boys before him, believed he was destined for something more important than the petty needs of the people around him. This attitude stemmed from the youthful notion that there was a certain benchmark for happiness that everyone someday achieved. He would find out soon enough, like all the rest of the boys before him, that there is no point in any life where any man can be satisfied with his lot.
This is not supposed to be a nihilistic sort of idea. Instead, it is the acknowledgement of the sincerest root of motivation. If one had all the time in the world to live life and no end to muse over, would anything be of real importance? Death is an impersonal necessity.
As people get older, they realize that life is nothing more than the meaningless moments billowing together until a storm brews, peaks, and fades away. Ignoring the details means disappearing into the fog of metaphysical reality where fools delve in order to feel superior. What benefit is there to superiority when there is only one fatality?
There is no time like the future and no end like the past. The present is the culmination of a breath and a sigh. All the poets and all the priests kneel in front of the same muse but are ignored like all the rest. To sing is to scream gently as to sleep is to dream fiercely. There is no greater power than weakness invoking strength and no greater loss than strength inspiring weakness.
There was a boy and then there was a man and then there was a boy and then there was a man and maybe one of these days they'll figure it out before it's too late
Look at me! Look at me! I want you to take me there. I want all eyes on me. I want to be so unprepared by the amount of attention that I get, that my face actually turns tomatoe red (like it always does). I want people to stare. I want them to be like "I like her, she's cool". I just want certain people to notice. Espically that certain guy I've been crushing on since the beginning of the year. Is that so bad?
His palms were chapped and aching as he continued with the relentless tempo of his shovel cracking open the earth and displacing it next to the growing chasm. He didn’t dare slow down for fear of the grim-eyed Moustachios doing more than staring through him.
They were creatively referred to as Moustachios because of their penchant for scraggly handlebar moustaches and the pistachio shells they littered everywhere, even at their crime scenes. The cops thought they were funny at first, but they soon had their hands full with the disappearances and bodies cycling through the city. All they had to go on was the pistachio shells, but it was hard to incriminate any single one of them. When the heat got on one of them, he skipped town and another identical Moustachio would take over his corner. Nobody knew anything, that’s what the cops heard all day. The truth was that nobody wanted to know anything and people strove to be as oblivious as possible. Store clerks would argue viciously that any theft of arms and ammunition was an accounting mishap and that their stores had always been fiery, bullet-riddled ruins.
But he wasn’t a mustachio. He was somebody who made the mistake of knowing, of breaking the status quo of mutual oblivion. He didn’t want their drugs, money, or women. He wanted to go back to a time where cartoon villains weren’t making people disappear and people didn’t purposefully ignore the disappearances of their closest friends and relatives out of fear, or greed, or both. He knew what had happened to his brother. And he knew what would happen if he rigged the pistachio delivery truck with the fireworks he had stolen from Don Carismo’s shed. And he also knew that people would be too scared to even look at the colourful explosives.
All he had done was wreck a van and delay their delivery of pistachios for a day.
And now he was digging his own grave. He wondered if Torrence had dug his own grave, too. He wondered if he had used the same shovel and had the same two Moustachios watch him unearth his eternal resting place. Was he close-by? He supposed it didn’t matter as he heaved himself out of the pit. His blond hair was matted with sweat and dirt and his face was burnt red from the sun. The expression on his face as he stood in front of the Moustachios was one of delirious grief.
He was ready.
I wish I could just learn to get the fuck over things, because when am I not nauseated and on the brink of some sort of episode? When am I not making people miserable with my unhappiness?
swallow sadness long enough and it becomes poison
all you other people without hearts seem to be doing just fine so i thought i'd join you in the land of the dead-eyed
--chillin' on the dock of mnemosyne, would i miss it instead if i dove into lethe? ondine doesn't know.
that's kinda the point
"How terrible to live where a word can never be unspoken and a gesture can never be unmade.”
A TRiUMPhant new president, great Rock'n'Roll, war in the streets, celebrating constitutional citizenry and NO ONE posting journal entries here at Song Meanings?
My goodness - what happened?
Did they up all of your meds or something?
The oil lamp cast its noble glow,
while shadows darkened all around,
on leaders in the global know
whose darkness by its light was found.
Just then, the lantern's leaky wick
flared up. The whole benighted place
ignited like a Wiki-Leak
inflaming each tyrannic face.
The Media pitched their low-ball gloss
and tried to polish up the mess
by spinning such a global loss
as sure electoral success.
♥ ⛧ ☭ ⚧ ♥ ✿ ⚢⛧★ ⚥ ♥
I'm about 99% sure that my mother saw me with this girl I met about 2 weeks ago. I've talked to her since and she hasn't said anything so I think she must want to ignore it and pretend it didn't happen, either that, or she thinks what happened to me as a kid turned me lesbian and she feels too awkward/guilty/embarrassed to confront me about it. I'd be a little more worked up about this if I wasn't half in love and on a steady stream of dosage increases. It's actually a little bit funny, I'm sure seeing her youngest daughter giving head to a butch lesbian nearly gave her an arrhythmia. As it is there's been some eye contact issues.
No joke. I am elated.
I got published in New Yorker!
From the August 29 article
Donald Trump, Poetic Muse:
While some poets are tentatively positive (“Call me a chump / But I’m with Trump”), the vast majority register negative reactions to Trump and his candidacy. These include shock (“Today I woke up and smoked / A cigarette of something illegal / And I freaked out / Because / Donald Trump is running for president”); scatological disdain (“Trump dumped on his rump / Hair lumped in a clump”); determined opposition (“We must now thwart the hatred”); escapism (“If Trump wins / I’m moving to Iceland / While he wreaks havoc on the states / I’ll be in Reykjavik eating steak”); and cleverly rhymed condescension (“The mallard was rebuked by Mitt; / adversaries began to bray. / The ducklings murmured: guy’s unfit / to be elected anyway”).
The article continues, and quoted me again here:
Not all the poems about the Presidential candidates pick a side. One, called “Dual Airbags,” simply bemoans the choice at hand:
“It’s a bitter pill (more like pilloried) / So shall we now be Trumped or Hillary-ed?”
Both poem quotes were taken from my Hello Poetry site.
(Hey Song Meanings - wouldn't you like to get bigged up like Hello Poetry got? See if you can become as user-friendly as they are !)
W.H. Auden (1907-1973)
As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
‘Love has no ending.
‘I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
‘I’ll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
‘The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.’
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
‘O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
‘In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
‘In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
‘Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver’s brilliant bow.
‘O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you’ve missed.
‘The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
‘Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
‘O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
‘O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.’
It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
I'm not sure why I still lie so much about it. One day someone will know without me telling them. Everybody back home stills calls me crazy, which used to hurt a lot worse until 4 different psychiatrists and therapists told me it was pretty much true. You just can't get as hurt by an insult you know to be true. I'm cold and distant? True. Talking to me gives patient people headaches? True. My writing is such shit it borders on unreadable? True. I'm the biggest liar since my own goddamn father? Yeah. If I never did anything I didn't think I was good at I'd never do anything at all. I've spent my life trying to tell people something without saying it out loud, I can't be more honest with myself than shithouse metaphors and similes allow.
There are holes in my body. Big, gaping chasms in my heart, as wide as a quarter across and as deep as a pocket knife blade; what look like gopher holes in the flesh of my brain. An indescribably large pit in my intestines, and, believe it or not, 5 little valleys the size and shape of fingers on my right bicep. They all beg to be filled in, sewn back together, glued, tied, anything. Some of them came like a crack in a windshield, one of them came like a knife through soft butter. I think that one is bottomless. I like to ignore them but sometimes what isn't there hurts worse than what is.
i have to write a 15 page screenplay this semester. my 3 acts are due tomorrow morning. i waited for this class for so long and now i have no idea what to write.
my professor is the sweetest man i've ever met. it's his last year of teaching and i can tell he wants to pull some Dead Poets Society shit. he sends us e-mails everyday, telling us that creativity is not as easy as math. get rest, life is more enjoyable. be patient with yourself. he gets tears in his eyes every week because he tells us all about his past and his loneliness as he grows older. it's sobering and it's weird because i want to make him proud but know i will probably throw together an alien B-movie horror script so i can scrape by with a C.
i've been living nervously, but happily. it's almost a year with my boyfriend. he wouldn't mind me writing about him but keeping with my old paranoid songmeanings tradition, i'll call him J.
we live together, we do almost everything together. split the rent right down the middle. go to fort fisher in the morning and stare down sand crab holes. take shot for shot til we fall asleep on the floor with all the lights on.
we've been through a lot together, he's been through more alone. i've had to deal with police knocks on my door, trips to the courthouse, giving him rides to weekly meetings. i don't know if he's getting better, but if he does i'll be there. everyone tells me i'm so good for helping him, for standing by him and that i'll make him a better man. that's not what i'm trying to do, i'm not one for fixing. i get off track a lot but i'm happy, i'm happy waiting for it all to pass.
I don't see my friends much anymore, i moved to the other beach, but they still keep my heart full. I'm still inspired by the same things--the east coast sunrise, broken windowed neon lights, long walks at night where i probably shouldn't be walking. smoke from cigarettes I shouldn't be smoking. eccentric gibberish from my dad who can't really talk anymore. the first burn of coffee on my tongue because I'm always too impatient to wait. I still romanticize everything and like K says, it will be my downfall. it has been since I was young.
i'm scared that as i'm getting older i'm getting more dependent on medication, on chemicals. i don't see my family as much as i want to, and when i do i wonder if i should even be there. i want to take trips, but i'm scared i'm wasting my time at a restaurant job so i can pay bills. letting older men speak down to me because i didn't bring their bread out fast enough, letting people who pay me take advantage of me because i'm a broke student. i haven't read vonnegut in a while but still i know, so it goes.
even this post is a form of procrastination, but i know that i need to write my consciousness to clear my head. a bunch of superficial lines about my life, like i'm talking to the former me sitting in my room blowing smoke out the window after school. two years later my mom admitted to me that she always knew what i was doing up there and just wanted to leave me be.
i'm excited to get out of this town after 5 years here, but J is on probation for 2. i can wait. but everyday i feel the itch of where i'm gonna end up, much like the high school me dreaming about the beach. and i wonder if my whole life will be spent trying to be somewhere else, getting tired, and going. I'm ok with it.
i'll post an update on my screenplay. it'll probably be about aliens.