TBH.

My mind is my mortal enemy. It keeps suggesting things I know not to be true. I speak like poetry, words flowing from my lips when I know they are all lies. I am deeply conflicted. I am a hypocrite. I am afraid. I fuck everything up. I don't want to be me. I don't want to follow the path I've set myself on. The truth is, that I am nothing. I pump myself full of life, when all I do is slowly die inside.

Marc is great. When I'm not with him, I secretly wonder if he's examining my flaws and finding reasons to hate me. I know I worry too much. I know he likes me. I'm so afraid to let myself open wide and let someone inside because history is just a reflection of the future, isn't it? I like him, but I don't want to ruin him.

People think I'm so fucking happy all the time. I'm not. I'm so depressed, I don't even remember what happiness feels like. The small things keep me going, and I'm definitely okay with that. Whatever works. Whatever keeps me alive. I want to find out my purpose. Is it to bring words to the world? A new perspective, a fresh face? Darkness resides in all of us, I just feel like I have a deeper understanding of mine.

I repeat myself like a broken record, every mistake I just make again. I want to tell you everything, but I'm afraid you'll just end up running. Slow and surely? Or do I just zip my lip and let the moment last? I feel like I'm ruining everything with every word I say. So much in common, yet galaxies apart. My star shines dimly in my heart, but doesn't that just mean it's waiting for it's moment to shine?

I smell like him. Like his skin. It brings back memories of every action and how it could've been improved. I overthink. I roadkill. I move too fast and I get so scared. Easily invested into projects, I feel like I over-love. I over-share. I over-indulge. I don't know what I am, I just feel like an animal. A baby cub, I fumble stupidly over new found projects. I have not yet learned the world, but I already know of it's pain.

I have so many flaws and it's all I can ever concentrate on. My breathing becomes shallow and I struggle to find a reason to keep going. I try to grasp anything at all that comes my way, thinking maybe this will be happiness. It never comes true. Will I ever have a happily ever after? I am a secret cynic. My stripes hidden beneath the folds of my fake smiles.

He makes me smile. But how long will that last?

I have learned to fake it.
Smiles are so easy when nobody cares.
I am not good at hiding my feelings,
they come pouring out,
but I've managed to bottle them up.
Did you ever notice
that it does not reach my eyes?
Or were you too busy waiting
for my sad story to be over so you could tell me all about your day?
I don't care.
There.
I said it.
The fact that you're happy
is not making me do jumping jacks
If I had a moment of peace,
I would cry.
But I can't.
So I keep it all inside.
I don't know if I can hold on much longer.
I'm slipping..

changing with the seasons.

leaves dying and a cool breeze
the dead things on the ground
reflect what i feel inside.
this is not a metaphor,
it is an observation.
foolishly wishing for more alone time
but not wanting to be alone.
i hate my thoughts,
i hate my hopes and dreams,
and i tend to focus solely
on only that of my past failures.
i am unhappy.
i don't fucking care.
i'll watch the leaves die,
hopefully by the time
spring comes again,
i'll be able to feel something again.

worshipping the devil.

inside this skin is a temple
and i am devious, as always
sly looks inside the pews
like "what is she up to?"
thick blankets, bringing me down
try to come up for air
and you're pushed deeper.
my love is like a fire iron,
red hot
and nobody wants to touch it.
engage me,
ask me what i want,
show me how it feels,
tell me you're in love,
that in this night, i am yours.

when the leaves die,
they fall,
covering the concrete jungle with their carcasses.
can you hear them screaming in the wind?
i am trapped inside this temple,
begging for the freedom outside the stained glass windows.
hating the walls that hold me
and the tacky decor.

Writer's Block and Growing Up (with capitals).

Writer's block sucks. We all know that. But the first step to becoming a real writer is to write every day. So I'm trying that. I'm going to see where it gets me. Maybe my creativity will start flowing again. At least that's the most desirable outcome. We'll stay on the positive side and not discuss all the others. 

Well, good news, everybody. At least for me. I'm Growing Up. Maturing, if you will. I'm nineteen years old and I'm finally accepting responsibility and getting my life on track. I'm paying bills, trying to find a full time job, focusing on getting back to school, moving out, buying a car, etcetera, etcetera.

They tell you that high school prepares you for the real world, but nothing prepares you for the real world except the real world. And although John Mayer would disagree, there IS such a thing as the "Real World." Not crappy television, but actual reality. 

Shit's more difficult than I could've imagined. I didn't know what aches and pains were in high school. I didn't even try in gym class. Fuck gym class. I thought high school was hard, wow, did I get a nice smack in the face from reality. Life is hard. Everyone says it all the time, but it never really sets in until you understand what they're talking about.

Nineteen and nobody.

Wow. I haven't written for a long time. It feels so weird to be taking up the keypad once again. It's weird, ya know. The things in life that keep you going. They're always the little things, the ones you hold on to in a death grip. In my heavily tanned death grip, I hold on to a few simple pleasures of life. A best friend, herbal, orgasms and Netflix.

Amanda Lynn Ross is probably one of the best things to happen to me in a long time. She gets on my nerves sometimes, but I fucking love the woman. She's witty and charming. Hilarious and completely unclassifyable. She's the beat of my heart, this lady and I'm so happy to have her. She fills me up with best friend juice on the daily and it helps wash away the heavy stank of livin and being poor.

Herbal, is just that, completely herbal. It washes away the stress all stored up in my muscles from the long day and it cleanses my system of self deprication I've stored in there all day. It's part of my daily diet, along with Dr. Pepper, the second water, and Doritoes, which are a staple in any good American's diet. I particularly love herbal because it helps clarify my senses, purify them in a way. Everything I think and feel, it feels like it's the first time it's ever happened. Except sex, because the first time always sucks.

Speaking of orgasms, I have them. As often as possible. Sadly enough, usually by my own hand. It's the little things, you know. A paycheck instantly dissolved a few weeks ago entirely into Alejandro. A debonair young orange, battery-powered speed of thunder. He instantly dissolves every worry or doubt I've had all day that the herbal can't take care of. He knows all my sweet spots and know's exactly what to say or do to hit them. What more can a girl ask for from a lover that has no heartbeat? Not including vampires, of course. (If that's what you're in to.)

I.. am in to Netflix. A lot. It pushes all my dirty buttons. For being a legitimate site, that's pretty fucking incredible. I can watch what I want, when I want, as much as I want--for a low, lovely price--and not only that, but I get everything I wanted that I can't have instantly, sent to my doorstep, 3 at a time? I'm in love. If I'm in the mood for a little menage-a-trois, I can watch lesbians fucking each other in a variety of different ways. If I'm in the mood for a little Robert Downey, Netflix asks me, "which way?" Even if I'm the mood for some David Duchovny, Netflix won't tell anybody. Netflix is the ultimate dirty little secret. Nobody really knows what's in my queue, and I like it that way.

With all this great shit in modern America (including the internet), it makes it easy to slip into nonexistence, at least for a little while. Everything's not always perfect. I find myself choking on depression so thick sometimes, I forget how to breathe. Breaking down in to tears is getting less and less fun. To quote one out of the duo of hottest girls in America, "Nobody likes to, but I really like to cry."