Sugar and spice and everything nice,
and lust, and pain,
and bitter refrains,
and love unrequited,
or returned, then lost,
or felt too deeply
no matter the cost,
and beauty so pure
as to make us weep,
and the type of darkness
that won’t foster sleep,
and hope and despair,
and obsessive need,
and everything else
our pens might bleed.
That’s what poetry’s made of.
This land is your land and this land is my land, sure, but the world is run by those that never listen to music anyway.
I found the following words, in the following order.
Thanks, psychological crossword puzzle.
I officially feel like a guilty suicidal alcoholic door for no reason.
Most of the laugh tracks on television were recorded in the early 1950’s. These days, most of the people you hear laughing are dead.
So, I’ve been feeling a little embarrassed to post anything since my last little rant about my feelings. Um. No more of that. I swear. It’s narcissistic enough to believe that people want to read the bullshit an insecure 15 year old spews, you guys don’t need to hear more about my pathetic idiocy. So, don’t think twice, it’s all right. We’re moving past this, okay? :)
Um, part of me is worried I’m going to start running out of Bob Dylan songs to label my rants as, and then part of me is like, “who am I kidding? It’s Bob Dylan. He’s written more songs than all the posts on this godforsaken website combined.” Eh. Maybe it’s a bit of a stretch. Oh well. :p
Lots of silly faces today. I guess I do that when I’m trying to get people to like me, or in this case, regain their respect. Well, maybe I can distract you by talking about something more sad than me (I know, practically impossible, right?). School. Urg. Comin’ up tomorrow. For English we were supposed to read a “classic” book and then watch the movie version, then the week after we get back a comparison essay would be due. I decided on 1984 by George Orwell, it’s actually been on my reading list for a while now. Despite that, it’s still sitting, untouched, on my bedside table on the last day of break. Yes. I am lazy. I know.
But I’ll probably read the majority tonight. And, hey, the actual essay isn’t due for a week, right? Ehehe…. I’m going to fail this, aren’t I? Yeah. Probably. Alright. Whatever. So, point is, what’s your favorite book turned movie? Which was better?
I feel broken. I’m scared. I can’t stop crying.
I wish I could stop feeling this way. I wish that love made up for it. But it doesn’t. Not when he’s in a different country smoking pot and god knows what else. I’m alone. In a house of people (drunken and hate-filled as they may be) I’m alone.
I love him. And he says he loves me, but every single other person I know and have trusted and have loved has been two-faced. I thought my dad was sweet and funny and always made a point to be noble, and now I realize he’s a selfish ignorant angry man who’s wasted his life and blames me. I thought my mom was funny and nice and sarcastic but always warm and loving, and now I realize she’s a bipolar, distorted, malice-filled, emotionally disturbed, verbally abusive alcoholic. I thought my first best friend was a beautiful artist who, while a little self-obsorbed, honestly cared about everyone, and loved with all her heart. I realized she was a mindless, uncaring, gossipy temperamental girl. The list goes on and I go back and forth of thinking these drastic differences between people. One day I’ll think my mom’s an angel and the other I’ll come to the understanding she’s the devil herself.
And the most likely reason for all of this is because I am insane. Maybe none of this pain and torture and anguish and mental abuse comes from other people. Maybe it just comes from me. Happiness comes from within, right? You can’t depend on other people or things to make you happy. That was always my motto.
But that’s also why I hate verbal abuse. It’s so hard to pinpoint. I get lost in everything she says. I don’t know what’s what anymore. My sense of reality and what’s good and what’s bad is out the window. I can’t tell if I’m the crazy bitch or she is.
But then there’s my boyfriend. I love him. He makes me happy. He blocks out all the bad. When I’m with him, nothing’s wrong. But now I’m addicted, and since he travels so much I’m having withdrawal. And this withdrawal is like a 40 year meth addict. I’m shaking and crying and freaking out. It’s obsessive and I feel creepy.
Fuck. Why is everything inside my brain so complicated?
I can never read all the books I want;
I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want.
I can never train myself in all the skills I want.
And why do I want?
I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life.
And I am horribly limited.