may twenty-fourth.

sweaty limbs entangled like vines on a chainlink fence,

tongues, fingers, hearts slipping into deeper caves.

some get lost in the folds and moan,

digging, pulling, panting, get me out.

she is not heard.

darkness is broken by streams of light

revealing secrets in every shaded corner.

skin on skin.

smooth, supple, sweet.

his hands explore her milky body.

she wonders if this is what

his dreams are made of.

the lights go out as she stumbles her way

back into the carnage.

a hand reaches out, grabs her arm,

pulls her down into the labyrinth of limbs.

she lays there with her eyes open

until darkness becomes familiarity

watching her love melt into liquid bliss.

her body is banged up, bent up,

becomes numb as the dark, saturated shadow

releases his pleasure.

her eyes are closed,

as she searches for

the lake of purity.

A few more untitled/probably unfinished poem.

1.

The rain comes down hard

like tiny diamonds

falling from invisible clouds.

I am sitting on grey concrete steps

Inhaling, exhaling

toxic smoke.

I took up the habit,

for you.

So I would get used to

your scent.

You have been gone for

longer than I allow myself to believe.

Now all I have are

black lungs.

Beauty is not Aging

My hair looks like little bits

of grey wire,

poking out of every cuticle

on my head.

These eyes hide between the

wrinkles on my face.

My lips are stained with

years of laughter

and sorrow.

My chin and neck are becoming

one.

My breasts have sagged,

they now rest on the stomach

that once carried her.

The moistness of my youth

is all dried up.

I no longer bleed like the

rest of you.

These legs are thin,

weak. Old.

When did I stop being a Woman?

you broke my heart you fucking asshole.

Thank You.

a late night thought.

her bleach blonde hair

and sour cherry lips

leave him wanting

one more hit.

her arms slither like

snakes.

long, thin, frail.

frailty is beauty.

she plays catch with

her eyes,

but she will never let him

tag her.

Incompletion.

Well, diary, it's been a while! I recall writing an entry where I stated I would stay committed to this journal and it seems I have neglected that statement. That sounds just like something I would do. I realized the other day that I never really stay committed to anything. I spent my childhood begging my parents to enroll me in all these different classes; tap, jazz, kickboxing, Ukrainian dance, guitar lessons. Each time they would say no and tell me that I wouldn't really stick it out and I would get defensive and tell them "this is different!", but it never was. I'd always end up dropping out. The same thing happens with my writing, my ideas. I always quit (well maybe not quit, but there are definitely long breaks in between my flowing thoughts). My question, why am I a quitter? How do people find their inner motivation? My roommate is always so motivated. On top of all her school work she still manages to blog, knit, make art, etc. I don't understand how people do it. My lethargy takes over me completely. Sometimes I wish I could just hide in my bed all day. Pull the covers over my head and just sleep all day and night; night and day. But I can't do that. I have a life to live. I just need to find motivation, inspiration.

A few poems.

1.

Young teenaged hearts

fumbling to mimic

one anothers heart

beats.

Hers strums slowly, gently

like weeping willows

on humid summer days.

His pulses quickly

boom boom,

like heavy thunder

hiding in grey skies.

All these years it took

to realize,

she thought,

our notes are on different

pages.

Summer turns to fall.

The thunder has stopped.

2.

Car lights from outside

in the crisp winter wind,

taint my faded walls

with shades so dark i cannot tell

where i have placed my tongue.

Shadows win a triumphant battle

against the lying lips i have grown to know.

Alone,

i stand on frozen ice

above me

transparent clouds mock what

they witness.

Plastic stars lead me to false meaning.

A photo of You and i

sitting under lightning struck skies.

Your useless hands upon my shoulder.

i can barely feel your touch.

Your lips part.

Stale words spill from your tongue.

I have studied your script

for too long.

3.

I have spent countless years

holding your hand.

You have me trapped.

I am not me when I am

with or without

you.

I have let my life pass on by,

like watching car lights

zoom past my window.

How did I get here?

I promised myself I would never

let a man take me over.

And then you came along.

So now I am stuck in your web

of empty threats.

Let me go.

Body Language.

Hide in the small of my back
where the world can't see
but I can feel you
always.
Slowly creep up my spine,
sneak up around my neck,
whisper soft words
into my ears.
Crawl into my mind.
Explore my thoughts
where you learn all my secrets
and control my emotions.
Migrate towards my mouth,
cover my lips in you.
I want to feel you
until the moon lights the sky.
Fall down my torso
onto the floor
where you slip under the door
carrying my heart.

Mixtapes.

So I don't really have any one specific topic to talk about today. I figured I should post something because I haven't in quite a few days. And usually when I get out of the habit of doing something I'll just stop altogether. And I don't want that. I'm dedicated (to this blog). And I will write! Yes, I will write.

Do you know what I miss? Mixtapes. When I was younger I used to have a couple penpals and we would make each other mixtapes of all the songs we loved at the time. It was kind of neat to see how similar our taste in music was, considering we were all scattered across North America. Music is a language everyone can understand and relate to and it's just oh-so-beautiful. Some of the girls would cover the tape case in little doodles of hearts and flowers and boys&girls kissing. The boys would always just print really small in black ink pen. Mixtapes can be so personal(ized). That's the fun in it all. I used to try to create themes with mine. Love, heartbreak, dance, nature, adolescence. Mixtapes are like spilling secrets, but in a safe way. So I was thinking about these tapes and how I missed making them and I've decided that I'm going to try to start it up again. A friend told me you could get walkmens at the dollar store (might not be true, but I'm going to check it out). Then I started to think about http://www.postsecret.blogspot.com/ and I read how some people leave postcards on busses and someone in need finds it and it makes a big impact on their life. So I sort of want to put all this love and hope into my mixtapes and buy a couple walkmens and just leave them somewhere. Maybe on a bus, or in a coffee shop, or bookstore. And then maybe someone in need would find it and it might make them smile. Even for just a second in time.

Alright. So I guess I did have a specific subject to talk about.