Hello. I hate you. I hate you more than I'd like to admit. I hate when people call you sweet. I hate that you can draw. I hate that you like the same books as me. How DARE you like what I like. And how DARE you like it incorrectly. I hate that you were one of the first to say hello to him. I hate that you have a special place in his heart because you were one of the first to be his friend. I hate that no matter how much I care. No matter how much of myself I dedicate just to make him happy: I will never be the person that said "hello" and brought him out of depression. I hate what makes you special to him. I hate how people think you're smart. I hate that you go about life lying: only smiling and getting good grades. I hate that you exist. I really do. But you know what... I love that I know pain and joy at levels your straight A brain cant fathom. That...is all that keeps me from wishing your poor naive soul dead.
Hello. I would like very much to have dinner with you. But not just have it: lets make it. I'll say "toss me an egg" and you'll reply "you wont catch it" and you'll be right. I'll blast stevie wonder and John-Travolta-it-up and do the twist. I'll grab your hands and force you to join me. You'll bob while i laugh. But then we'll stop. We'll ignore the music. Our silence will never be awkward. You'll pull me in for a kiss and I wont stop you. But the pan will sizzle and we'll quickly pull apart. The food will be terrible and i'll enjoy every bite.
The saddest tragedy in life is when depressed-you falls in love with someone. Deeply and tragically in love. You have the pain and sorrow of yourself and the pain and sorrow of what your pain and sorrow does to your love. You have to be happy. For them. If it kills you: you will be happy. You live in constant fear of losing them. Driving them away with your sadness. You'll be too much for them. They'll stay with you for a while: out of guilt and pity. But one day: they'll crack. And once they crack, they'll run away and never come back. They will be free of you and happy. Now, you are still trapped with yourself. But now you're all alone.
While on a walk in my neighborhood: I'm not watching where I'm going because I dont need to. I know where I am. My eyes are on auto-pilot and are just making sure I dont do anything obscenely stupid. While I can see everything, I'm not actually looking. And i'm not thinking. I am passively concious and actively dead. Nothing goes through my mind until I look up. The stars, I once believed, are holes in the sky; allowing the brightness of something greater to shine through. And the infinite difference between seeing and looking has never been so clear.
I can feel myself messing everything up. Behind glass, I am watching myself ruin the last few good things in my life. I scream and warn myself to stop but I can't hear. I don't want to be stuck. I don't want to be alone.
It all hurts. It stabs me over and over again and just when I think its over, the knife twists. There are happy people and people who get happy. There is the sadness of sad people and the sadness of happy people. If i am made up of ten levels, on most days, my outer level and two below that would be fine. But there are always the deeper levels tugging on the ones still okay. Trying to bring them down to their level. One day, I will have to admit defeat. The three fine layers I have left will have no more strength to fight. And when that day comes, everyone will know.
Do you think in pictures? Is there a little man typing up all of your thoughts on your mind's TV screen for you?
Do you see black and white? Or colors more vibrant than those of reality?
Is your mind's font Times New Roman? Or the dreaded Comic Sans? (My guess is not the latter.) Are our minds limited to just seeing? Perhaps you can see her scent or watch his taste. For me, I do have a little man typing my thoughts for me. They project onto the movie screen and scroll horizontally in front of images. Beautiful images. Gruesome images. Pshycotic images.
The little man inside my head has seen and read and written far too much. But he promises to not share with anyone.
As I walk your way and as her back faces you she looks to my eyes without even trying to hide her digusted look. I never trust cute girls. I would rather tell my secrets to someone open about their evil. These cute girls...with their layered outfits and scarves and ballet flat shoes and accesorized wavy hair...they have the darkest sides. Underestimated by everyone. If they like you, they will make you feel special, related to, understood. And hey, maybe they'll even take your guard down for you and get you to laugh. If a cute girl likes you, everyone knows. But if a cute girl dislikes you...only you and her know. Why is that? Because cute girls like to maintain their innocent reputation and therefore it cannot be known that they too hate. My least favorite type of person is one that masquerades as angelic for everyone to see but saves their demonic glares and eye rolls for just one person. Without leaving a trace of evidence.
I want to lie in my bed, in my underwear and feel cold sheets on my back. I want to feel as though I'm not in bed because I have nothing better to do but I'm in bed because I DESERVE to be. I feel guilty when I lay in bed. Who am I to relax? Who am I to avoid work? Who am I in general? I want to be plagued by night mares and write beautfiul poetry and make beautiful art and have people understand my innermost fears. I wish i could watch the nightmares of every one I know. Especially of the people i hate. Not to gain power over them. It just would be nice to know that they too have fears.
He sleeps for preparation and walks as though he's searching.
He thinks like only he can solve and words rush like he will never speak again.
He listens with desperation and sees with more than eyes.
He kisses as though he's parched, holds her so she's never lost.
He breathes her in like he will never breathe again.
He'll touch as though he's never felt; he'll love because the time is now.
Man. Why is it that when i try to write it doesnt work?
Frustration. What will i call this? Is it a poem? A rant? A schpeil?