and the odds.. all seem stacked.
|Sep. 29th, 2007 09:01 pm "close your eyes, count backwards..."|
lyrics fucking rock.
& so does this band, hailing from Santa Rosa, California...
"Counting Backwards" by the Velvet Teen...
maybe tomorrow marks the end
of this painful phase we're in
maybe the sunrise shows the way for us
maybe the stars that fill your eyes
are the stars that have been
leading me my whole life
just to end up with you
but when you get too close
i run and hide
close your eyes, count backwards
i don't give up
without a fight
here i come, i'll find you
and love, i'm yours
if you'll turn me out
when you need me, i'll be there
we hide and seek, but always leave
hand in hand
maybe this chapter marks the start
of no more broken hearts
maybe the letters all spell out happiness
maybe the words aren't always kind,
but they're never meant
to make you feel alone,
just to stand up to you
and i'll carry you
if you promise to carry me
we'll carry we
it's a simple thing
you and me
you and me
Current Location: hiding1 comment - Leave a comment
Current Music: my breath in my ears
|Aug. 17th, 2007 11:51 pm ...past in present...|
past in present,
our time was a gift
of weight upon my shoulders.
shadows of your eyes on my lips,
I cannot wipe clean
the stain you leave
on my skin
when I think of you.
soaking in self-pity,
a wallowing mess.
trying to swim with hands tied.
this pool of my own pride
drained by my hand.
this body in motion
has become my last stand.
this is my last goodbye.
past in the present,
I can't see you without hurting,
your present in my past
lingers like hunger.
this past in present
I shoulder your ghost, steeling my nerves to bear the guilt
of what I wrought.
this world is cold without
this is just one physical manifestation of
past in present
this conjugation of regret,
my stubborn heart
Current Location: alone1 comment - Leave a comment
Current Mood: tired
Current Music: feist "I feel it all"
|Dec. 18th, 2006 01:15 pm venting|
yes, I agree. venting is venting. so, if that holds true for you, can it not hold true for others? I can change my mind.
I admit I have made mistakes. there is no innocent person on this planet.
all I can say is that I'm learning from my missteps, & that I am human.
but I am not the liar I was before I met you. you don't even know.
not that this will change your thinking at all, I know you're far too stubborn for that.
I'm saying this to remind myself, because when you & your friends gang up on me, messaging my friends "not to trust Lee", & things like this, it kind of gets to me.
& you'll say "well, you went & talked to Jesse about me..." & I tell you, I didn't start that. I never had the intention of turning anyone against ANYONE. I was hurt about the things he said you said. So I said some things you said. that was wrong. but I was venting. however...
my blog I posted on myspace was NOT for public dissemination. I had you on my preferred list by accident. that, however did not give you the right to share what it said with other people. or show them the blog. if i wanted THEM to read it, I would include them on my list.
I knew they had heard about it at least because there were key phrases repeated. I'm not sure which one happened.
but I was venting something that I was told were said by you.
I am more than allowed to vent my feelings, as you have told me you are.
you are better off by yourself, & so am I.
everything happens for a reason, I know.
this is not an obsession Lindsey, I've got so many other things going on.
good luck with all the stuff you're doing. I hope you get the things you're after.
maybe we can meet on some middle ground & at least be civil.
Current Location: san anselmo9 comments - Leave a comment
Current Mood: sad
Current Music: lou reed
|Aug. 23rd, 2006 09:17 am quiz me|
Click here.Leave a comment
Take the quiz.
Post your results.
( See dusky_jewl's results.Collapse )
|Jul. 19th, 2006 10:35 pm|
love Leave a comment
is not to be manipulated to gain.
it cannot be turned off,
if you have this for your children
you will not abide them sleeping outside your shelter
because you do not agree with their lives.
is not present if your hand only rises with your children
love is not any of these things.
love is a shelter, a space
built with hands, raised in the heat of the glory
for the endeavor toward something worth breathing for.
what people fight wars, all in the name of.
held for folk, town, country & group.
these things are mute, unchanged.
we can crawl across them
spread our eyes upon their surface.
looking for the crack in the logic spread before us.
this is not finished.
|Nov. 13th, 2004 10:51 am pickled (on me)|
feelings, mine feel as if they were
canned in a sea of vinegar and savory spices
years spent sleeping, dreaming of horrors
in my own personal prison.
clear glass makes you feel as if there is nothing between you and your pickled neighbor,
sister and brother.
when you reach to them, thats the part that burns your nose.
the harsh, fumed-truth. it knocks me out
when my hands hits that glass, see.
this place i lived, inside my skin. for so long
i thought i was free.
i am a pickle, in a sea of vinegar and savory spices
waiting for you to stab me with your pickle fork
and bring me into the bright florescent light
of your kitchen.
and i come to understand
that there is so much
i am scared to be.
this wasn't fate, only circumstance.
i rub your brine off my skin, from my hair
removing every tainted trace of
Current Mood: quiet3 comments - Leave a comment
Current Music: ani difranco, "Willing to fight"
|Nov. 10th, 2004 03:33 pm the youngest murderer in the state of california|
THIS IS FICTION!!!! I am taking a creative writing class.. this spilled out. let me know if you like it, please... I need input. thanks so much...
Closing these eyes, it doesn't wash away the sight burned into my mind. I am eight, in a house a quarter of a block from the pacific ocean. Hydrangeas bordered the two-hundred foot driveway paved with loose gravel.
It is late on a weekend night, if i recall correctly. No one was there to hustle me to bed, and it was past nine in the evening. Entirely past my bedtime.
What alerted me to the commotion was the yelling. My adoptive father's red hot angry voice sharply cutting the din of my mounting worry. With me being in my upstairs room with the door closed and Wilson-Phillips blaring, it must have been really loud in the bathroom, where the fight broke out.
My cousin Steven, four years older than my sagely age of eight, was my hero. He always knew how to use the impressive Lego set we had to build fantastic ports for space ships and freighters bound for Bangkok alike. He was the best at dodgeball I had ever known. He was just the coolest, the best older brother that I could find. He loved to skateboard and he would bring home skating magazines for me to read to him, he wasn't such a good reader. Which was fine by me, Ray, because I was born to read. Simply was addicted to reading and at that point I was reading high-school literature. Steven didn't bother with reading a lot of his homework, he never understood the questions. We'd work on them together.
Steven was a great kid born to a woman who had no care for him. Well, she cared that he was alive when the welfare folks came 'round. She knew she'd get a sizable bonus added to the unearned dole she received monthly if she had him. He was one of four born to her. That was his best use, it seemed. To buy her more cocaine and the party life she had grown rather suited to.
This woman happened to be my father's oldest sister, who was a good ten years younger than his 43 years. So he took him from his neglecting mother and absorbed him into our family. Well, that's not exactly true. My mother and I loved him. I get the feeling, now, that my father never loved him. Always an outsider in our family, in my father's eyes, Steven always caught the brunt of my father's rage and daily abuse. This night was not a lot different than other nights, nights spent running from his tormenting anger.
It seemed to my eyes that he enjoyed finding fault with Steven, as if this could wipe his gloomy childhood from ever existing. Wouldn't that be nice? I would love to just wipe out loads of things from my memory. Him, my father, being the biggest thing I wish I could simply delete. I see now that this incident I am slow in recanting, was really the beginning of the longest, coldest cold war that I have ever known. Deep within my heart, my father died to me that night.
Steven had allegedly not washed his hands after taking a shit, which, unsanitary as it was, did seem to be a common practice for him. This was one of the biggest peeves my father had: uncleanliness. If you hadn't washed the dishes to his 'distinguished' tastes, boy you'd be in for a beating. Verbal or physical, the devastation wrecked upon the guilty party would rain from the clouds. The world would stop turning. The sun would turn it's heated light away from us. Or so my father thought, as long as he opposed the matter at hand.
That minor offense pulled me from my latest lego reverie. Well, not the shit exactly. But the beating Steven got when the shit was discovered and the sound of his choked screams of please, no! Pulled from my bedroom, I descended the stairs at breakneck speed, three at a time. Taking the left at the bottom of the stairs, I screeched to a halt in front of Steven's room. The scene is one I will never forget.
Steven was sprawled across his flannel comforter, his cheeks flaming hot with tears coating them, thick as oil. His hands were clutching the comforter, either to pull himself from the grip of my father, or to brace himself for the next assault, I am not certain. On his left knee just behind him, towering above like Shiva, the goddess of destruction, was my father. Clutched in his right hand was a Saucony shoe, poised to strike. It was not be the first of that night, as the same S shape that emblazoned the shoe now emblazoned my Steven's ass. I screamed at my fuck of a father to "get offa him, damn you!" I growled, holding my right fist tight to my side, afraid of the anger tautening my muscles.
"you fucking shit, pick on someone your own size" I spat.
"get outta here, you little bitch get out!" He threw the other Saucony shoe just left of my head.
I ducked,falling to the ground. I regained my feet, picking up Steven's well-used skateboard. It was a battered board, with only a tail, no nose. An old fashioned wooden board, made with thin layers of wood sandwiching glue, under intense pressure. It felt heavy and satisfying in my hands. Turning to square off with my father, I held it by the wheels, the tail resting lightly on the tip of my shoe.
"I asked you nicely to leave him alone, father. I don't want you to hurt Steven anymore..." I faltered, losing eye contact momentarily. I had looked to Steven to see if he was okay. Thats when he tried to hit me.
He saw his opportunity, and he lunged at me with all his fat hairy weight. Being so fat and slow, I saw him coming all right. Flipping the board to rest its bottom on my chest, I pushed out with all my might. I was just a mite, but I was mighty enough. The tempered wood made contact with his balding skull with a muffled thud. He lost his forward momentum and crumpled like a deflated balloon. I never saw him so crushed. Savoring the moment, I rushed to Steven. He thanked me, over and over. It was no big deal, I said. You would have done the same for me, I said to my Steven. He hugged me close, quieting his sobs until he had stopped crying.
"that sure was brave wasn't it?" I gushed, proud of my standing up to him, someone over five times my age. For the first time.
My Steven's eyes left me, resting on my father's. I had not looked at him since I hit him. I didn't think I hit him that hard though. At least not hard enough to cause the kind of blood that had flowed from his head wound.
Steven was the first to speak. "He isn't breathing. Is his chest moving?" He held his breath to steady himself and watch for my father's labored respiration. I saw no movement, his hateful breath frozen inside his chest. We watched for what seemed a fortnight. Or it seemed that long, when my mother entered. She had been out in the backyard, fertilizing a tree that bore blood-red seeds. What's the name of that tree? You know the one...
Sorry. When she saw him, she looked to us, and then to him. The him laying on the floor. Mom felt for a pulse and found none. Despairing, she drew her glasses from her eyes to catch some faint glimmer of breath upon the glass. Nothing emanated. Nothing about him moved.
She looked from Steven to me, and back again. My mother drew a pained breath, looking intently at me. "What happened here?" she quieried.
"Who did this" She sighed. Not waiting for an answer, she continued: "What does it matter? You two did something I should have had the strength to do years ago: kill the bastard."
Realizing the choice that hung in the air, she asked it: "Who will be held responsible for this?" It seemed rhetorical and I didn't answer.
Mom nodded, understanding her responsibility. Calling her sister, she loaded a bag of my things. "Hurry now Steven and pack a bag" She instructed him. He dutifully did as he was told.
"Where are we going, mom?" I asked, worried.
"You guys are going to Auntie Carroll's. And I am going... Away." Her resolute stance and tone of voice gave no chance for rebuttal. I hugged her once and then again.
When Auntie Carroll finally showed up and loaded us into her Volvo, I got my last look at my mother. She was handcuffed hand and foot and was being folded into a police car.
And that is how I avoided being the youngest murderer in the state of california.
Current Mood: calmLeave a comment
Current Music: Poe, "angry johnny"
|Nov. 10th, 2004 03:24 pm heart and helpless hands.|
i want to dream
of anything but my twisted childhood
days filled with horrid names
flung at me like daggers.
the sharpened points of his words ring out even now,
with many rooms and towns keeping his seething anger from me
i shiver and shake, my sweat chills this fetid skin
his venomous words dripping like water from my fingers
how deep can i take these lies into myself
before my insides rot 'til they are my outsides
steaming hate cooks me evenly like a roast
dreaming of oceans of salty, soft water
and no more abuse
Current Mood: gloomyLeave a comment
Current Music: Lhasa, "Los Besos"
|Sep. 13th, 2004 02:01 pm new days, new days.|
hello, space and time. my sociology professor says that every social problem has a time and place. my problems are not wide spread, as a social problem would be, but. it does have a time and a place.
i am really queer. no problem there. its more like my girlfriend who has the problem. she isnt attracted to me. we've been together for 2 years, and 7 months and our sex drives have never ever matched. i admit, i love sex. i'm not obsessive, but i enjoy the passion and the joy that can come from such exertions. the way that i feel when i feel wanted. that EVERYONE feels when the sun of their love's passion is beaming, shining upon the beautifully naked skin.
so this problem with her and me is not new. other than that issue, we are as different as oil and water. initially, this was what attracted me to her. the mystery, excitement of someone who was entirely foreign. i loved that. but that isn't so good anymore. or useful, or the reality of now. she is no longer a mystery, just a stubborn girl who is afraid of her body. god, i wished i had seen through this, long ago.
i have wanted to leave for some time, but i am job-less and have no where to live.
now, wait. this makes me sound like a heart-less parasite, a leech on a loving woman's leg. and it is true. 'lou' loves me. in her way. i've had enough of feeling ugly. i dont remember the last time i felt her looking at me and wanting me. its debilitating. I used to be so confident and easy. yes, some of it was a ruse, but at least i used to be able to fake it.
to pull my trembling heart off the sawdust-floor and ask to dance with women i would never usually talk to. At least before, i didnt feel beautiful, but it didnt hurt so much to not feel beautiful.
there is a reason. the next entry.
Current Mood: nervousLeave a comment
Current Music: Janis Joplin's "catch me daddy"