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Speaking Quietly

How do you measure sound?


in bars?


in phrases?


in rhythm?


How do you measure hope?


in expectancy?


in longing?


in prayers?


How do you measure love?


in hugs?


in words?


in fights?




Across the sky he painted clouds filled with colour. And when it rained deep crimson drops would seep from their soft cheeks. Turn you face dear sun.

lights

sickness

I feel like I might be sick.


I'd cover my mouth, but my hand smells of something bitter.


I want to run until the skin on my feet tears.


I want to tie myself beneath the water, I want to hold my breath until I let out a sigh - and gasp - the liquid cools.


I want to lay on the road and wait for a miracle.


I want to go sleep and wake up dead.


I want you to answer.


I want you to leave me.


I miss you so.


But I hate myself.


I blame you. Why? Because it's easy.


It's easier to be angry at you then to accept that this is my fault.


Please answer.


I miss you.


I want someone to listen.


Anyone.


Where are you?


This room is too warm.


Where are you?














I'm home.

Run little birds

Argentina

if you hear me

Heavy Hearts

So here I sit: stumped.


Stumped about life.


No.


That's a lie.


I'm not sure I'm even ready to think about 'life'. It's an excuse.


If I believe that I am stumped about 'life', than it gives me reason. It gives me reason to be strong, to strive, to cry, to make excuses, to lie.


And it is okay, because it is my truth.


Well, perhaps it is not exactly my truth as in something so universal and whole that every waking moment I am alive some grand and wholesome phenomenon; but, it is my ideal truth.


Ideally I love my mother, I don't get hurt by the things she says, I don't crave friendship, I'm in a completely happy relationship, I'm good friends with my brother, I feel comfortable around my friends, I miss school, I believe anorexia is an eating disorder, I don't even remember the things you've said, it was never my fault, I have a mental illness, he touched me in places he should not have, I have control; of my feelings, my life, my past - I do not fear the future, I have it all worked out, I don't care if no one reads this, I don't care if I have no one to talk to, I don't care if I know that all of those things that happened, happened because I let them. No I don't care about the whispers, I don't care if I never am able to perform.


Ideally, it's not my fault.


The only problem with this lie is that I've never been able to convince myself.