Silver reverberating heart
You've out-grown me
Tonight
You out-run me
But I
Chase you still
I chase you still

Past the corridor of the city's dark 
slumber
Past the pleasures of the fixated
damned


Your magnetism deteriorates my final
inning.

I'll go
s l o w.

I'll go
sdrawkcab.

Imperceptive to
your
stance
I'll slip to you
as the sun 
to
the
horizon.


Silver wretched,
alongside the start of an early-morning
your meek murmurs are
visible,
tangible,
like
sunlight from the window passing through a glass picture frame
that creates a spectrum across the steam rising above my coffee 
placed atop the kitchen table.

Silvering wretched,
with your faint-cloudy-murmurs I 
agree,


The sea is the best place 
To be 
Wondrously
Free.

I track you down,
ever so desolately


pale skin, blue bones
renounced
upon
breeze
reeling
tides.

Humble,
dismissive,
tranquil.

My regard is not toward the thoughts you
think
I intend not to dismay your delicate
appeal.

Silvering opulent,
be lenient 
even if just for the sake of 
Yourself.

Tell 
me
so

I want to know

Tell 
me 
how 
you
Feel.

Reverberating silver heart,
come, converse with me,

Give me your gossip
Tell me your stories

I
want
to
know
how
you
felt.

Truth is, I think you're great. And I don't even know you.

All she wanted was nothing in return.

Currently reading: Windblown World,

the journals of Jack Kerouac from 1947-1954.

I've never peeked into such a beautiful mind before his. 

Your mind had a soul of it's own, Kerouac. A mad, strange, inflammable soul.

Wherever I wander in my peripatetic life,
 I'll make sure to keep alongside a spiral notebook and a pack of cigarettes. 
All in honor of dearest you, of course. 
Ennui, I'll never accept it. 

Things would be different if I loved you.

FRIDAY JUNE 15, 2012:  fuck it. fuck it all.

Circa 1 9 6 5,

Circa, my little existence. 

To hope is admittance

Feed before beginning

Double-sided cynics

Reflected images 

Don't be so selfish

Leaving the image 

Follow it far

To find where you are.

people don't understand. somehow, that's what makes it worthy. 

I'm a lost beat in a generation that I don't belong.
This accent isn't my own, and nothing is really just nothing.
On drunken nights I feel you, your words stumble upon my sight ---
And I feel. I feel...Static, ecstasy, loneliness.
This beauty which you claim of blossom fields and grey empyreal
It mimics my inner-manic. Estranged voice that dauntingly whispers:
Don't claim to the beauty you see.
Satellite heart, you're losing your signal, again.
I'd build a ladder to the sky and climb every star, past the moon and beyond, if I could.
I've tried, you know I've tried. Although I refuse to recline, denial itself fixates truth: 
I'll never be able to fix you.
To quench your thirst, to ease your pain, keep you awake...
I'd make you stay, forevermore upon your desire, you know I would.
In my mind, I'll hold your hand without interfere.
And if tears do in fact dry on their own, I'll cry yours along with mine until they do.
Feverish trembling of reminisce will not exist, not here.
Outside these city walls, a place afar from calendar days and neon glistening hours
We will dance atop telephone wires.
The soles of our feet tracing back to the sound of that very first call.
gliding, floating, drifting...recklessly, carelessly, quixotically.
And if we fall, imagine that imaginations fly.
It's been said, as they say, that everything, everything ends.
We are not everything, however. We are merely ourselves alone.
You and I, it is just you and I, dispersed, coffee of the sea.
For no reason other than our own, we rage in reprise 
as metaphors among caffeinated tides.
We are not infinite, immeasurable, imperishable.
Our ancient dead bodies have long been buried in one-an-others heart.
We are our own. Constant as the silence of sound.
Ceaselessly, immersed in the slumber of our dream.

You'll always be beautiful through my eyes, Ian Curtis. 
A   l   w   a   y   s   .

"I was not trying to be shocking, or to be a pioneer. 

I wasn`t trying to change society, or to be ahead of my time. 

I didn`t think of myself as liberated, 

and I don`t believe that I did anything important.

 I was just myself. I didn`t know any other way to be, 

or any other way to live."

- Bettie Page,

Truth of the matter is: I'm quite a difficult person to fall in love with,

And it's quite difficult for me to fall in love.

So let us not fall, but keep our stand.

It's much more simpler to keep a stand on love.

"For my mind that absorbs the things I have read,

is confused when my heart wont aline with my head." 

What are you so afraid of?

Why are you feeling scared?
What's the worst that's gonna happen?
Standing in the meadow,
with sunlight in your eye,
and a sense of so much sorrow.
You say maybe a plane will fall from the sky,
maybe your lover will lie,
and I before your eyes.
It's too early to say,
it's too early to say goodnight.
It's too early to read,
it's too early to read by the firelight.

l'amour fou.

le collège. a note I once wrote : 

Psychology 101. 8:03 AM. Start of class. My face feels frozen, my hair is dirty, 

the professor reminds me of the Irish grandfather from an old Disney Channel movie, 

Luck of the Irish, I believe. (It's not that old of a movie, actually. More or so from my childhood era. Thinking it thoroughly, though, the 1990's does sound rather ancient.) 

It's silly how even in college I have yet to extinct the habit of facing deer-in-the-headlights 

every time someone opens the door, enters the room. "You bring in yourself, you bring in your totality." Did I mention he used the word "chic" earlier? He must be gay. 

He seems ever most enthralling. M'alright, m'dear, I'm ready to get my mind fucked with knowledge now.  Hasta next period, Mead. xoxox, sincerely yours, girl with bic pen.

Take me there, and stay with me, too.

I want to spend my blurry days
and obscure nights with you.

m a g i c a l .

"I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, 
the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was — 
I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen,
 hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, 
and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling 
and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds."

- Jack Kerouac