@#%&UISTNHGY OT^%#!*(()*#$@$%^*&(^%#RUIU#@UF#$*%$#@!Q!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thats how im feeling,
Thank you very much.

Ok
That is it.
The end
Mission Failure
System Down
Housten, I think you are the problem.
No more of this chasing you crap.
You don't give a damn about anyone but yourself,
And I am wasting my time giving myself to you.
I cant be your cheerleader anymore.
You lied to me, you broke a million promises,
And you treat me like a stranger who you never loved.
Who you never even knew.
Go ahead.
Pretend you are someone you're not.
You're a bold faced liar,
And your friends don't know the real you because you don't even know who you really are.
You walk around with this depressed, meancholy, fell sorry for me attitude,
But you bring it on yourself.
It was your fault that I let you in once.
My fault that I let myself go on loving you.
My heart is tired of hurting.
I am tired of fighting.
One of these days,
You are going to wake up,
And wish you had let me catch you.
Hopefully for me,
That is the same day I will be waking up next to the guy who did.
Stay away from me.
That's it.
Bye.

Why I Do What I Do

Why do I write? Someone asked me the other day. I did not have an answer for them. "Because." I told them. Now, if I had asked a question, and someone responded with "because", I would have wanted to drop kick them. I hate that word. That word means one of two things. It either means you don't actually have a reason, and you're just spitting out the one thought that comes to mind, or you have a deffinite reason, and just don't care to share. Laziness. That's what it is. And in any case, "because" does not apply to me. I do write for a reason. But it is not one deffinite thing. Not that I can fully express. Now, however, after I considered it, I thought of what I should have said.

I write, like most others, to draw connections between the past, the present, and the future. I write to make sence of the things that didn't make sence when they happened. I write because it's the only way I really know how to keep a solid record of time. I take what people call black and white, and make a mess out of things, creating this big blob of grey. It's like squirting paint on a canves. Imagine it. The sound it makes, squeezing the bottle until nearly all it's contents are on the stretched vinal. Then take your hands, and rub them around in the cool, sticky paint until the white and black are no longer two seperate colors, and instead, they are so blended together that it is a big puddle of grey on the canvas, and on your hands. Who wouldn't want to do that? Yes, it gets a little dirty at times, but even still, it's a good kind of dirty. And finally, I write to bridge the gap between reality and the imagined. What we feel, and what we do. Between truth and lies. Because there is no set definition of reality. What we feel rarely coresponds to what we do, and there is truth, even in the lies. I write to show pain, happiness, pride, fear, helplessness, and love. I write because often, I cannot find the words to speak it. Because nothing, to me, seems as real as when it is writen down on paper, where I can see it. Where I can show it to the world, and hope they understand, too. Where I can draw the image with words, exactly how the sky looked that night that two young, innocent, and sweetly nieve kids lied on the grass, holding hands under the crisp autumn moon. I can express the was his hand felt in mine, warm, and fitted like a puzzlepiece. I can show you how the ocean smells just after the rain, and the way that salty, miosture holds onto your lungs peanut-butter to the roof of your mouth. The sound of a friends voice, raised in song, so full she was almost in tears. The taste of hot spaghetti prepared moments ago in a kitchen where time stopped and the only thing that mattered in the world was that the sauce not boil over the brim of the pot. All of those sencory things, that you would never get to experience if I didn't write them down. And all of those things that I am afraid to forget. I write because the people are too great, and the life is too precious, to be forgotten.

Dawning

As the summer fades,
and slowly,
Comes to a close,
I realize something.
I will never get those days back.
As I am here, trying to keep up,
The world is hurdeling around me,
Doing laps around my breathless body.
Yesterday, I was two years old.
I was dreamind wide eyed,
Into a kalydascope,
Dinosaurs spinning around,
Glitter and water dancing around them.
Now, I sit here tonight,
Typing on my computer, and no one is listening.
No one hears what I am saying.
And no one would get it even if they did.
I am sitting here, talking to you,
Or the invisible, non existant something,that I have chosen to call "you".
I have to make plans.
I have to live my life.
Im going to have to leave home, away from the comfort,
And the safety,
And the acceptance,
And venture out into a world that I don't understand,
And that scares the hell out of me.
I AM afraid.
Not because I'm growing up.
Because I'll never grow up again.

(exhale)

This waiting is making me crazy.
I know you are trying to decide between me, and someone else,
And it's killing me.
I wish it was something you just knew.
It's my fault. I told you to take your time.
Of course, for once, you listen.
It really doesn't matter.
I've already proven to you, myself, and the rest of the planet
That I am not going anywhere.
I tried to move on, and it felt wrong.
It wasn't there.
I realized, I don't care about him the way I care about you.
It was impossible to even think of him in the same brainspace that thoughts of you were once stored.
A great friend once told me,
"Once you truely fall in love,
You will never fall out"
Well, let me tell ya,
It's a blessing and a curse.
I wish I didn't love you.
I hate that I love you. But I do.
And I just want it to be over.
I need you to either take me back,
Or tell me you can never see me again.
Then I need you to dissapear.
Because I will always love you.
And seeing you hurts.
And while I'm here waiting for you,
I'm getting used to being lonely,
And that's what scares me the most.

Another Sun Soaked Season Fades Away

It's almost over.
The sun sets one last time,
Heavily below the endless blue.
As the weather begins to turn,
And a breeze begins to chill,
Longing fills my soul.
Where did it go?
Was I asleep?
How did we miss it?
A season like a flash of lightning.
First it's there,
Breif,
Beautiful,
Distructive,
Then it's gone,
And only the ember remains.
My sunsoaked soul burns for you.
Missing you, even though you are right here.
All summer I waited,
All summer I prayed.
And I can go on waiting if that's the rice I have to pay.
But as the sun sinks one last time,
And the gold, orange and red
Turns to grey, blue and white,
As the cold begins to set in,
As reality brings lonliness like a ton of bricks,
I'm asking you,
Begging you
One more time.
One more chance.
Don't venture into the dry season alone.
Not when you have warm, open arms right here wanting you.
I'll share with you my invinsible summer.
But until you come back,
My summer song can't sing.
Come with me to a place where seasons don't exist.
I can show you...
Oh so much.
I am reaching out,
Out into the vast, endlessness of summer.
Back into the memories,
Back into the sun,
But it is getting farther and farther away.
And it isn't reaching back.
Goodbye, summer.
Maybe next year...

For Someone With My Last Name

I've been thinking of you for a while.Trying to understand why you don't care.Why you never come to visit.Why you barely know me.Why I have to come to you every summer, and act like it's all okay.When I get to thinking about that, I hate you. Or I want to hate you. Then I think about who you are, and end up hating myself. Hating myself for not being able to hate you.

You're an artist. Those hands have destroyed so much, but the few things they have created, have been amazing. I know I got it from you. I know that the creativity in me, the ability to see like an artist, and feel like an artist, that is because your blood is running through my veins. The imagination in my heart, no. That comes from someone else. Somewhere else. You never taught me. Never once did you take me aside, and help me understand myself. You never showed me how, or even let me observe you. So I know that my heart, and my mind does not come from you. That is the part I have control of. But it's in my blood. In an undeniable way. Someone just pointed that out to me, and it all made sence. The blood in my veins is blood I am ashamed of at times. Or blood that I wish I could be ashamed of. But it's there, and it's because of you. So I guess I should thank you.

Coolhand Luke

I walk in, and you grin, and make some offhanded comment about how I'm late, or look confused.
I smile, roll my eyes, and sit down next to you.
You pretend to be gruff, and grumpy.
You joke, and tease, and act unapproving of my lifestyle,
Of the spaztic way I think, or dress.
You don't often say much, and what you do say is pessimistic.
You rarely make direct eye contact, but when you do, you hold it there.
And I can't help but notice that it is all very familiar to me.
But I can't quite put my finger on it.
Then something goes wrong.
I get knocked down again, and you show up, without even being asked,
To pull me back up.
You go from distant and harsh,
To gentle and sweet.
You're there.
And I know what it is.
You're my Luke Danes.
We're just friends,
But we're not friends at all.
We love each other,
But we can't stand each other.
We need each other,
But niether one of us will admit it.
We tryed to be more then friends, and we failed. You bailed out.
You were scared.
Your life was too complicated.
And I waited.
I tried moving on,
But it wasn't right.
Now you're back again,
And you say you're on the fence.
You have two roads to walk down,
And one road to choose,
And I know you'll take your sweet time.
But when it all caves in,
And the rain starts to fall,
And everything starts to end and begin at once,
You'll find me.
And I will be here.
You're my Coolhand.
And whatever role you choose,
Friends, or otherwise,
I will be here.

Confusion

Which Way is up
Which way is down
Which is the quickest
Escape out of town
Things fall apart
And spyral and sink
It happens in seconds
So I try not to blink
Nothing else matters
To me anymore
Nothing is helping
I can't find the cure
If everything ends
And nothing can stay
What is the point
Of trying again???

Now, maybe you'll see that I am right here. Seriously, who else would sit and listen to their ex talk about his failed relationship with his previous girlfriend. Who else swould say, "I'm sorry she hurt you" and actually mean it. Who else carries that capacity of love to you, and is cool with you being honest and upset in her arms, knowing that you say you don't love her anymore? Come on. How long are we going to do this? Cuz I could go on forever, but I need to know if I have to.

Okay, that's it. I swear! WORLD, stop telling me to get over it! I am not going to get over it any time soon. I am not going to forget and move on. I am not going to walk away. I am not going pretend I don't love him anymore. I thought I could. I thought I could set a date, and after that, all would end. I wouldn't miss him any more. Well, crazy thing, I was wrong. I still miss him, I still think about him constantly, I still want him back, and I still love him! It doesn't matter that he broke my heart into a thousand teeny tiny pieces, that he lied to me, that he broke his promises, and that he moved on to some freshmen within two weeks. It doesn't even matter that he doesn't love me anymore! I DO. And until I stop, adding to the problem by asking me when it will happen, and telling me I need to, and constantly mentioning his name WILL NOT HELP! So cut it out. Cuz I'm slow, damnit!

The days for me have been a blurr of noises, colors, and emotions.
Nothing has been clear, or vivid.
Nothing has made sence.
I've been losing all that I stand on,
And I remain, helpless to stop the maddness,
Watching it crumble from beneath my feet.
Dust rises, and ashes fly.
My blue eyes have been grey, from all the smoke they have seen.
Anger and confusion has been building like a tsunami inside of me,
And I can feel the water rising in my chest,
Quickly drowning me.
Desperate to escape this prison,
I make a mad dash for the surface,
And hope to find some air there.
What I find is you,
Back again, just in time.
Like a super hero,
With a cape and a lasso,
And you yank me back out of the darkness.
You tell me you've been worried,
And you drown me again in music,
Like the old days, before things got complicated.
My friend, you saved me.
Again.
And now, I am wandering slowly back toward my imaginitive reality.

Note to Self

A-HA!
Did I just see you smile?
No freakin' way!
You can still do it.
Let me take this moment to say...
Told ya so!
See, life's not so bad, is it?
Yes, he broke your heart.
But It's not over.
You've still got a lot to do.
A lot to see.
And you've got a group of friends who would walk through the fire for you.
Who love you.
And you would be LOST without them.
Keep writing!
Keep singing!
Keep dreaming!
KEEP LOVING!
Remember that you are reckless,
That you are NOT crazy.
(well, not certifiable, anyway)
And you are not gonna be alone for the rest of your life.
Cheer up, lil miss sunshine.
The world is a good place.

Finding the Edge

There is a town off of Route 70, and it sits quietly between two big cities, and the ocean. Tourists from miles around flock to the coast to spend their summers on the white beaches, and sink away into the famed Jersey lifestyle, where blue waves crash on the shore, and the smell of salt water and magnolia drift on the warm, dense air like that's where it was hung. But no one can really understand it's beauty unless you experience it from the inside. In this town, there is a house. A little green house, to be exact. Years ago, it rested on sand. It was the perfect place, just far enough away from the shore that the traffic from the tourists didn't clog the road, but close enough that you could see the fireworks from the boardwalk every tuesday and wednesday night all summer long. It was a safe haven from the outside world, and the harsh persistance of reality. Now, in this house, there was this girl. She was small for her age, and full of wonder. It was the one place she could always count on, when her world was constantly shifting, and taking on new forms. She had memorized, by age four, every square inch of that house. She knew it like the back of her hand, and retraced it's shape and content every night before she fell asleep. She knew where her toys were kept, and how they were always there, in the same place, nomatter how long she had been away. She knew where her grandmother kept her secret stash of after-dinner mints, that she knew she was allowed to sneak every now and then, as long as her mother never found out. She knew where the teddy bear sticker was stuck to the wall, at the highest point she could reach, and she knew exactly how many pencils were in the junk drawer. She knew all the secrets, all the kinks, little details about every item in that house, and every item on the outside. She even knew where to leave the carrots that she fed to the rabbit that lived in the vacant field across the street. It was the one place in the world that she felt no fear. With time, everything changes. Everything becomes less magical and perfect that it once seemed. Now, the streets of that town are narrower. The buildings are grayer. And the ocean is saltier. Everyone rushes, and yells, and beeps their carhorns.That house is faded. Not as bright as it used to be. And that little girl is being forced into the dark age of reason and reality. Someone took her grandmother away from her, and now, there is no one to share secrets with. No one to tell her stories about the Pineys, and the Jersey Devil, no one to sneak late night after-dinner mints with. Someone came in and moved everything around. They threw away the couch, and the coffee table. They emptied out the junk drawer. They repainted, and retiled, and undid everything. Nothing looks the same now. And nothing feels as safe. She can't stay where she is, because she never felt accepted there, and she can't go home, because she isn't even sure that exists anymore. She still goes back to that town, to that house. Late at night, when she is drifting off to sleep, she can sometimes hear the childish laughter of a little girl that once lived there. A little girl with blonde hair, and deep blue eyes. Now, she is just a ghost, stuck in a time she refuses to let go of. The sound of her tiny footfalls echo off the tiled floor, and her fingerprints recover every inch. I should tell her that things have changed. That if she were to look closely, and move on, that she would see nothing is how it used to be. But she seems so happy, so oblivious, and I remember how I felt when her soul was inside of me. So, I smile while I listen to her whisper stories into the invisible ears of the haunted walls, and I watch as she stares listlessly into the night from her special tree in the front yard . I let her be, and close my eyes as the memories engulf me. Someday, I will let go of that child. Someday, I will allow her to grow up, and face the facts. But not now. She is too young. And still has so much to see.

That's a Rap

This is the end of the road.
I won't sit here and miss you any longer.
I played my part,
I tried desperately to get you back,
And you walk by me as if you never knew me.
You don't know my name, and you sure as hell never loved me.
So screw you. You're a jackass, and you're wasting my time.
Time that I could be giving to someone who wants it.
You're damn straight, I'm angry.
A step beyond, if you wanna get technical about it.
But it doesn't matter to me anymore.
You are a !@#$%^&*()^%%%$@#@#!#@%!
And if you walk out in front of a train tomorrow,
I might stop having the bus dream. :)