Sunshine

I'm in a dream

In a dream I'm on a beach, lying there in the sand

It's soft, so fine and gentle on my skin

Every grain and every inch in unison, wrapping and covering

In a dream the breeze off the nearby waves

wafts, delicately displacing single strands of hair

and they fall across my forehead and in between my eyelashes

In a dream the perfection of the sun beating

on top of my skin, the sand, the hair, eyelids,

overtakes all other sensation and I am overcome with warm bliss

I'm waking

In waking, the sand comes together part by part,

each individual piece harmonizing into

thread counts and rumpled comforters that enclose and keep

In waking, the salt scent drifts into shallow breaths

the rhythm of lapping water on shores

is being born from lungs instead of depths and blue

In waking, the sun gracing me

remains consistently, there is no change in waking

the tingling and joy, the taste of happiness on my lips stays

I open my eyes.

I kiss you good morning.

Exercising the Muscle 1: what tyler joseph might have sounded like when at eleven y.o.

"what have I done" means

"who have I been"

instead of "what if"  you want

        "remember when"

regretting the chances that you didn't take 

promises, mistakes that you didn't make

it's useless 

to do this 

your mind becomes ruthless

you're rolling around in these circles just proving

to you and to everyone else what you're doing is 

staying

stagnant

not moving 

just waiting

start pacing

then turn that pacing to walking

and turn that thinking to talking

and turn that talking to doing

what are you waiting for let's get this moving

when you come back at the end of the day

your apathy, lethargy all thrown away

you've done something, oh, and you know it

you look in that mirror and you own it

For All the Times in Life When You Climb a Tall Ladder to Find Another, Taller, Steeper One

We walked into this big theater,
the stage all ready for us,
and we were nervous, sweating,
but so ready to perform.

We ignored the clamminess of our fingers
and ran them through our hair.
Our feet were cold but we kept on walking
and broke into a sprint.

And then we got comfortable.
We learned our characters,
we learned the lines and ways to contort our faces
to make it look right.

We did all that show after show
and got it down,
until the curtain finally closed and
the run was over.

We finally made it into the lobby,
hugged our families,
They gave us flowers and greeting cards
with money inside.

We went home and counted our winnings,
let the flowers die,
and we took a step back to admire ourselves;
how far we'd come.

Now I'm looking at it,
Watching it all like a blurry movie with the volume too low,
But still just looking on like,
"What the fuck were we all thinking?"






Note: I really have no idea what the hell this is or where it came from. I thought of the last stanza, liked it, and had to come up with a poem to go with.

I'm Thinking: An Anti-Ode To My Brain

I'm thinking I need to write more,

to somewhat relieve my brain of what I'm thinking.

I'm thinking all the time,

and it sometimes feels as though my head will explode

at any given moment.

There are just so many thoughts in my head

so often

that it gets to a point where

I cannot sort them,

or separate them,

even enough to just pick one

and focus on it;

(I get lost when I try too hard.)

So many hours spent like that:

trying,

to no avail,

and d r o w n i n g

in t h i n k i n g

Though I feel as if

writing more would help,

I have to question the notion.

WHY WRITE?

So I can look back on the broken fragments of my raging stream of conciousness and be ever-reminded of probable mental illness?

So I can relive these furious neurofrenzies that, while suffering them, I want so desperately to get out of?

So that these racing, irrational, and neverending thoughts and fears and emotions and ideas will be allowed to live in yet another- now tangible- form and infect someone else?

No. For none of these will I write.

For relief, however temporary.

I will write, if for nothing else, then for momentary escape from this too-open, yet too-crowded prison cell atop my shoulders.

Because I want instant gratification, and because my greatest blessing is also my greatest curse, writing may be able to help me.

Ode to Bush

Sixteen Stone.

a weight, or a promise?
perpetual, lyrical, acid trip
keep my car running.

inspire my mother
and find that assshole brother...

i just want them to see it once my way,
unknown eyes produce real lies.

take this as you leave it
in your quest to find that demi-god.

sometimes the reddest lemon can produce the best bees.

you can always call me when you're down.

Retirement Plans.

Nobody reads this blog.

So I'm not gonna post anymore on it.

Bye.

Story Starter I

AS we pulled out of the old, cracked driveway and down Gott Drive, I watched little yellow 1653 shrink away into nothing. You’d think I would have been crying or something of the sort if you knew that 1653 Gott Drive had been my home for the past 15 years, also known as my whole entire life. But surprisingly even to myself, not a single tear slid down my face that whole drive. That whole 36 hour drive. All I could think of were the things that you don’t really notice while you’re in a situation, but once you’re out of it they all come back like they were the best things in your life. Things like the smell of the backyard after the grass had been cut, or sitting on the cool basement floor on a blistering hot day, listening to Maggie’s endless stories of her trips to Paris and Rome, or anywhere else she had decided that she’d travelled to the past weekend. They were the things you don’t really pay much attention to, but as I sat there remembering them and knowing they wouldn’t be there anymore, I started to think maybe they were the best things in my life. And I was driving away from them all in a stuffy little white Nova.
“AND it really was made out of pizza, Lane! It really was!”
“That’s cool, Mag, sounds yummy,” I said to my little sister, who had started in on one of her adventure stories. I didn’t mind listening to her, and I didn’t even want to know what the reaction would be if I were to ignore her or tell her that everything she said was untrue. Like that the Leaning Tower of Pisa wasn’t really constructed of stacks of pizza, or that the “Statue of Libby” wasn’t modeled after her best friend Libby Richardson.
Crap. That was another downside. How was little Maggie supposed to cope without her partner in crime? I don’t think she really realized yet that she probably wouldn’t see her again, or there was no way she would have been this giddy. What was with this girl? It had already been 4 hours in the car with no stops and she was still going strong.
“Lane, where is the eye-full tower?” she asked. I told her it was in Paris, and she asked me where Paris was. I told her France, and she asked where that was. It probably doesn’t require a high degree of intelligence to figure out what she did when I told her that France was in Europe.

Author's Notes: I really don't know what the hell this is. I just haven't had English class for about a month and haven't written anything so I kinda just let this flow out of my brain just to exercise my writing gland a little bit. :) Yeah, it's pointless and I probably won't develop it any more for lack of knowing what to make it a story about, but tell me what you think anyway. Thanks.