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.

Untitled.

There is a man pacing
back and forth
mumbling numbers
and dates
of memories unknown
to him.
He watches busses pull up.
Doors open.
Shoes shuffle
off and on.
He looks at them,
sees them.
He is invisible.

A girl stands,
watches a man pace
back and forth.
She wears headphones,
music pulsing in
her ears.
She cannot hear
his mumbles.
Her bus is coming.
She follows the crowd,
takes her place
in line.

The Pacer
steps towards the
edge.
He jumps.
A crash.
A crack.
People are screaming.
A pool of blood begins to
expand,
filling every crease
on the road.

The girl is standing,
Frozen.
Staring.
Her legs will not move.
She feels warm liquid
drip, drip
down her cheek.
Raising her hand to her face
she wipes away
her red tear.
A piece of his flesh
falls from her cheek.

She vomits.

Coffee and My Thoughts.

Dear Diary,

Just kidding. How old were you when you got your first diary/journal? I remember getting one when I was about twelve. It was purple and it came with a lock and key and everything. I rarely wrote in it for fear that someone would break into it. Then my friend gave me one for my fifteenth birthday and I had just fallen in love for the first time so I began to write in it religiously. I still have that journal and every now and then I pull it out and laugh at how naive I was back then. I probably still am, but it's interesting to me to see how my thoughts and attidude has changed over the years. It really is a good way to get to know yourself better. Sometimes I don't even remember writing those words and I have to remind myself that I'm reading about my life, rather than someone else's. And now I have a blog. A journal for everyones eyes to see.

I always despised the word diary. I always felt that it put me into this category with girls who were too emotional. I would always imagine that I would write about a boy I had a crush on and my little brother would steal it and read it to all of his little friends. I didn't want to be a typical girl. And then I realized that I was just a girl. I was talking with my roommate last night and she pointed out how girls are always apologizing for the way they are. If we cry over something, do something wrong or speak our minds we always end up apologizing for it. Since when did it become wrong to feel emotions? It made me realize that 'man' still is the more 'powerful' one of the two sexes. They never have to apologize for the way they are. If they cheat on you it's somehow your fault because you're either sexually neglectful, or too emotional. Argh! Men never have to make excuses for the way they acted, or for what they said. I mean, yes, women have come a long way, but we still have a lot further to go before we are seen as equals. And honestly, I'm pretty sure that will never happen. Anyways. I hope you realize this is all generalized. I don't actually think this about every situation. I'm just getting worked up about this. I'm sorry.

And on another note, I would like to share a poem by Robert Browning which I have been in love with since the tenth grade. Enjoy.


Porphyria's Lover
The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me — she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!

An Eventful Evening.

It's Halloween night and I'm dressed like Madonna and sitting on my hardwood floors, drinking vodka and pink lemonade, waiting for my friends to arrive. I'm trying hard not to think about you so I turn my music up louder. I never realized how alone I actually was, but I guess that's why you'll always find me with a drink in my hand.
The buzzer rings.
I jump up and head for the door. I'm happy that my little apartment will soon be filled with laughter.
I let my friends in. They are dressed as an "emo kid", a dead president, red-riding hooh and an Irishman. We share some drinks and some laughs, then call a taxi and we're off for the night.
We arrive at a pub. It's fucking cold outside and there are half naked girls smoking cigarettes and trying to look sexy. They look like idiots.
We walk inside, up the stairs and I head straight to the bar. A couple familiar faces say 'hello'. I smile, hold up a shot and drink it back. Warm liquid falls down my throat and coats my heart with a warm sense of belonging.
More and more people arrive. Everyone is drinking beer, taking shots, and laughing. The boys are flirting with the girls at the bar. A couple of us move to the dance floor and shuffle our feet and sway our hips.
I follow my friends outside where they light a cigarette and even though I'm not a smoker I take a few drags. My head begins to spin as the nicotine runs through my veins. We hop into a cab and make our way to our next destination.
We've made it inside and it's dark and Indie music fills my ears. My heart beats in tune with the bass as I'm standing at the bar. I realize I've lost my friends in the sea of people and the heal on my shoe is broken. I'm stumbling into people, asking if they've seen little red, or Bush. A few of them turn their backs on me. My head is spinning and a song I like comes on so I start dancing with the boy next to me. We end up kissing for a bit, the song ends and I walk away, remembering I'm on a mission to find my friends.
The night is ending. People are clearing out. I've lost my phone, both my shoes are broken and I'm walking around barefoot on broken beer bottles. I'm assuming my friends had left a long time ago and I must be crying because an older guy asks me what's wrong and I start to pour my feelings out. He helps me look for my phone, but we are unsuccessful. He offers me a ride home.
We get to my apartment and I'm not sure if I even invited this guy in, but I find us sitting on the edge of my bathtub washing my feet and he's helping me pull glass out of my feet. We go to the couch and he starts cutting up lines of white powder. I don't even think about what's actually happening. All I know is that I've lost everything and right now coke doesn't seem like such a bad idea.
He takes rolled up dollar bills and snorts up one line.
"You go", and he hands me the bills. I have no idea what I'm doing and I'm more scared how this will feel going up my nose more than anything else.
I snort a line.
It doesn't actually hurt. I just get this weird taste in the back of my throat.
We do a couple more lines and the next thing I know I've told this complete stranger my whole life story and nothing seems to be upsetting me. I'm actually..happy. I glance at the clock and realize three hours have gone by. He's touching my hair and his hands are rubbing my knees and my body is cringing at the thought of him kissing me. I ask him to leave and he does, with no complaints. He wants me to call him and I laugh because I no longer have a phone.
I lock my door behind him and stumble into my dark room. I fall into bed and shut my eyes.
Rest now.