Grizzly Bear - "Ready, Able"

This video is so... fucked.

I'm scared to reach out (bringing back insanity)

for the fear of pulling something unwanted back is too strong.

I have my eyes held tightly shut.

I can't tell where I am,
and I can only guess as to where you are.
It's the guessing that getting to me.

I'd like to know where my other half is and if he's alright.
But I know that I indefinitely gave up
all privileges to that knowledge.

I hold my eye so tight because the rest of me is unraveling.

---- Ah, Fuck it. ----

I should just embrace it.
Grasp all the swirling pieces of myself, all this shit:
then
Jump off a cliff and hope to God I fly.

And I'll say farewell to the love drug
my pants are staying on honey bunch
- so go back to fucking your friends
and go to bed alone
and while you're at it
- go smack your head full of reality.
(This can be obtained through excessive contact with a brick wall)

You're living in your dreams babe.
Time to wake up,
your sweet mommy's not holding your hand anymore.

The moral of this story is:

I'm above giving into my bodily urges

After all, "I'm a fucking bird" I tell you.
So: goodbye, farewell, I bid you adeu!
And I'll float off like Jeffrey in his hot air balloon.

no sleep tonight.

Do you know that scientists still don't know why humans sleep? They believe it is to conserve and restore energy, but sleep actually doesn't really decrease metabolism all that much. Anyways, I can't sleep tonight. I need to get back in working order. Plus, I don't want to dream anymore screwed up dreams.

Too Tired to Sleep, Too Hungry to Eat

Inside of me is a need.

For the touch of your flesh,

I find the substance from

which I feed.

Sustenance gathered from

pools of lust.

I'm a slave to something

I never needed before.

What can I do?

I can no longer lie in wait.

With my eyes always open,

they turn slowly to dust.

Give me something to do,

other than pine over you.

Today, my dog ran away. Helplessly I left my house with a leach in one hand, my cell phone in the other. It was dark. I followed him for twenty minutes along the road and another fifteen through the forest. As I was just about to give up, and bad thoughts crept through my mind, he ran towards me. He came close enough to allow me to grab him. I felt like crying, but I didn't because I am a warrior. THE END... and that was my day.

Here it is.

I find it easier to write my thoughts down when I have nothing to do. When my mind is occupied with thoughts of another kind, I will write frantically -but, with a cause, which is unlike now since I am writing about writing about nothing in particular- and make no sense. Maybe I'll write another poem about life in general or a story about growing up and how it is so hard. By now you have probably realized that I'm making fun of myself. If you have not, then sorry for wasting your time.

I hate how my friends never write on their blogs. I wish they didn't have lives and were more like me!

I complain a lot. I complain about complaining a lot. I think that by pointing out my flaws, somehow that makes them ok. It probably just makes them worse.

I'm going to cut and paste some poems that I wrote for english because I'm too lazy to write some more stuff. -I totally forgot that I started writing a book/novella last summer. I'm probably never going to finish it- I just got an awesome idea for a book! Since there are millions of half-finished books out in the world, I should take some and make a book out of them. The stories would never end, but there would be dozens of blank pages after each story so the reader could just write their own ending... that sounds awful. But, here are some of my half-finished stories so I can pretend that I wrote something on my blog.

This is my favorite half-finished story because it has attitude! Here's I Sold My Soul For Drug Money:

Chapter I – Laced Intentions

“Hi. My name is Johnny.”

“To be honest Johnny, I don’t give a flying fuck. Here.” He shoved a medical mask into the boy’s hands. Johnny didn’t hesitate to put it on. Then the man motioned for the boy to follow. Johnny could smell it in the air; the mask couldn’t prevent it from getting to him. It made him hate himself. The need was killing him and there was no doubt that it would be successful. So, he gave in to it, like he always managed to do after the doubt kicked in and followed the man down the hallway, one that looked like in belonged in a horror movie.

“Your family is dead if you told anyone where you are and what you are doing. Then…” The power that he had over the boy went to his thick head and he paused for a second to intensify the words to follow, turning around to poke his thick finger into Johnny’s gut. “We’ll come after you.” The large gun in the man’s hand told Johnny that this was no empty threat. And with that, he saw himself, bloody and limbless, crawling down this very hallway after being subject to the torture of the big man in front of him. That was enough to silence him for the next millennium.

With his mouth-sewn shut with invisible thread, Johnny matched his speed to the long strides of the man until they reached a large room that was so smoky that the ceiling was practically nonexistent. The first thing that set him back was the amount of people working. Not a sound was heard while they were in the hallway and even now, of the approximately twenty people in the room, not one lifted their head from what they were doing. Johnny could see that this had nothing to do with concentration as he looked back at the gun, one that he knew the man would use and had likely used before.

I guess I have to explain to you how I ended up here, the twenty five year old high school drop out, druggie and loner. It’s that one word, the one substance, and one of the many ways to screw up your life. A very expensive “pass time.” I’m telling you, it’ll explain everything. It reveals the reason behind the twitching, the coughing, the hallucinations and the whole mess that comes as bonus gifts in the package of a cocaine addict. Did you find it in that last ramble? Well here’s another clue for you. Cocaine, cocaine, cocaine and goddamned cocaine.

I’ve been told that if I had finished high school and gotten a “real” job I wouldn’t be an addict, but how does that make any sense? At the risk of coming across retarded, let me reiterate, cocaine is an expensive pass time and mostly only people with “real” jobs can afford to get high off it. But, men like me would sell their soul for a single line. Sadly, what I learned, my soul was worth shit.

“Snap out of it, you dumb fuck.”

And snap I did, as the butt of the gun was jabbed into my side. I tried not to cough up my lungs, while the big man giggled as if the whole “causing internal bleeding” idea amused him.

Once I managed to find my breath, I asked, cautiously, “When can I start?”

“The Boss, in other words “the guy you don’t want to fuck with”, will tell you.”

Nodding, not looking into his eyes, and managing to hide the tears, I once again followed the stupid, ass-faced motherfucker deeper into the depths.

Chapter II – Wasn’t Always a Fuck Up

I may have dropped out of school, but you first have to understand that I grew up in a perfect family in suburbia. I’m not entirely sure if all suburban kids turn to drugs… but now that I think about it, that wouldn’t surprise me if they did. Well, who else would be able to afford the expensive ones?

Meet my mom:

“How many carbs are in juice? Maybe I’ll stop drinking liquids altogether.”

“Mom, what about water?”

“Of course I’ll drink water. I’m not stupid.”

“You are stupid enough to screw the mailman.”

“Yes. And you are smart enough to keep your mouth shut.”

Meet my Father:

“Are you happy son? Cause I didn’t buy you that new bike so you could cry on it.”

“Dad, I think I might be depressed.”

“Son… rich people don’t get depressed. Now go for a ride while I work late with my secretary.... Son…”

“Ya Dad?”

“Good things come to those who keep secrets. Things like tuition to a prestigious school.”

“What I’d like is a soul to sell.”

“You have a soul son. Just like me...”

“…and mom?”

“I’ll pay for the therapist.”

(to be continued....?)

This is a poem that I finished last summer with the intent of giving it to my mom and dad, but I decided against it...

We are all deformed by our views of perfection - a poem

Look at me as I am,

I am your daughter, the fuck up.

You can’t see me if you don’t know what you are looking at.

I may be a tarnish canvas, but you’ve never seen the painting beneath.

Never cared to look, did you?

I’ll give you my heart on paper -- you can eat my soul.

That’s why I give it to you,

I like the pain that you give me,

You like the pain that I get.

Judge who I am before you get to know me

Get to know me, then judge who I have become

You knew me, I changed, the end

I can hear your brain throbbing

Throbbing

Throbbing

Robbing me of wordssss

I can see your eyes darting

Darting

Darting

Starting this sweat

Dripping into my veins

I love you, but I made a mistake.

I write about your forgiveness,

But have yet to receive it

You didn’t forget.

You are there, up on your throne

I am here, all on my own

No one fights for my reputation

I never fought the losing battle that I began

All I did was fall, I have yet to get up

You have your hand on my shoulder

It should be comforting that you’re there

Your warmth should make the coldness in my lungs cease to exist

Your hand is strong

I try to get up

But you are holding me down

I panic

You smile

I cry

You smile

I look at you for help

You smile

I scream

You laugh

I give up

You laugh

I stop breathing

You laugh

I am dying

You laugh

I’m gone

You shake your head

It was my fault you say

It was my fault

It was my mistake

It was my deformity

And that was the end

I was at an end

My mistake made a fucking end

It ripped through to the other side and spilled my guts for the first time,

Sorry, my mistake

Read my suicide note

It will tell you everything,

Just not anything you want to hear.

You never wanted to listen

I told you so many times

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

But, you didn’t believe me

You held my hand

I couldn’t see you, but I knew you were there

You held my hand

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

You held my hand

I couldn’t see, I couldn’t hear

But I could feel the heat of your stare.

The disappointment burning through my lucid skin.

Skin soaked in the aftermath of my mistake.

The mistake that put me here,

With all this voices talking about me,

I’m here!

I’m here!

Aren’t I?

I can speak.

I think… I just wanted to say…

I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.

You let go.

Dr.Footlove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bathroom

Now, I'm not a person to jump to conclusions about people. And, I let this kid have a decent chance of earning my respect, but when this little freak starts to touch my feet, one thing that most people should know about me is that I fucking hate when people touch me with their feet or touch mine, I just flip. It started with sitting down with me. He then began to touch my feet with his and I told myself that it was just an accident, then I moved my feet. It was when the little twerp followed them where ever I moved them when I got pretty freaked out. I moved them to the couch. His hands found them and my feet found the floor once more. I moved couches, he moved to the floor. Thus, to my feet. His head was on my feet... I moved my feet. He ordered me to put my feet on the floor. I refused. He pulled them off the couch. In the course of doing so, managed to bruise my little toe :( I told myself to stick it out and let the freak at my feet so, I gave in and let him at my feet, at move that I regret now, thinking that it would get out of his system. What an idealist I am. Anyways... he tickled them until they practically bled. He was angry. I went to the bathroom, "I'll be waiting for you..." Stayed in the bathroom for as long as I could manage. Got back. He offered to massage them, ordering me to put one on a chair. No. SOOOO WRONG. I complained of bruised feet... not a total lie. And that was that. My Aunt took me home. And that was the day I met my cousin's six-year-old footloving friend.

Getting Used to Failure and Doggy Heaven

It may have something to do with growing up but I've found that disappointing people and failing doesn't bug me that much anymore. I have learned that my family is telling me lies. Mostly about my writing. Now, that are realizing that I have turned myself in a direction that with probably leave me homeless and husbandless. "Don't you like Science or Math?" Nope, too many numbers. I just finished the story I published a few seconds ago and I got my mom to read it. It's about the equality of animals and my mom didn't buy it. She probably just thinks that it's the ramblings from a vegetarian, crazy teen aged girl. Just a phase. Well if this is a phase, then who's to say that being a religious fanatic isn't a phase? I get angry at religion. When really it's the people that I am angry at. Religion just let's me hate something that easy to hate. My mom, that is something that i can't hate. I am determined to write, even if it means homelessness. O, and there is a doggy heaven, but all dogs are allowed. There's none of that heaven or hell bullshit. Just heaven.

What Does if Feel Like to Feel?

Have you ever thought about the origin of your feelings?

What if I only know what love is because I feed off of others?

Or if I only think that when something dies I have to cry? That it is normal.

If I never truly missed anything?

Just felt that it was what was demanded of me.

I'm really fucked.

What if I only swear because it sounds cool and gets a reaction... not because I'm angry.

I'm a product of your imagination.

You created me.

I feed from you.

You are my mother.

I am your child...

If you learn to hate me. You are just hating yourself.

I'm writing because I'll implode if I don't. Not explode. I'll never explode.

You will never have a piece of me.

I'm a figment of your imagination and you'll never prove my existence.

Like a UFO or an alien.

But back to this.

What are you feeling.

What am I feeling.

We can't put words to it.

Because these feelings are not ours.

They don't belong to us.

And the people that came before us don't know either.

God will tells us won't he?

Won't he?

In time they say, but

time is running out of gas.

We are all running on empty.

But, as long as we are full of feelings we will keep running on the gas of those who taught us to feel. Until. We stop.

The feelings stop.

Feel what?

I have no idea.

I guess confusion.

There is always confusion.

Feelings kill us... and diseases.

Diseases are fun.

We are running on opium not gas.

Talking to animals and forgetting where we are going.

Only to find ourselves where we least wanted to be.

Back to the questions and finding that we passed all the answers.

We are all going somewhere.

Where. We will never know.

Not even when we reach that somewhere.

Do we have souls?

Maybe a long time ago.

But we lost them trying to find a point.

They got bored and flew away.

Will we ever find an origin to these feelings?

I know I wont, but at the same time... I've wasted too long searching.