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he said to me, "if i were a robot, i'd still be amish and i guess suicidal too" [entries|friends|calendar]

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updates? [25 Mar 2007|04:44pm]
once my poetry project has been graded and returned by my lovely, albeit bipolar english teacher -- i'll have a ton of poetry to post for uh. whoever reads this to enjoy. [:

postsecret is inspiring. [25 Mar 2007|04:44pm]
(PostSecret is inspiring, haha)

I want to do more than just exist. I never want to be the woman who cares more about gaining weight than dying. I want to age gracefully and die old after a long life of fulfilling dreams and disappointments. I'll never ask for the sky, just someone to enjoy it with me, to enjoy life with me. I don't care how many people I love so long as I love. And we will hold hands everywhere we go until we're 90 years old and after that? We'll hold hands in spirit.

I want to stop being the person that builds up walls and instead be the one to build roofs others find shelter under. I want to be remembered if not for doing something great, then simply living. Fuck nihilism! Living doesn't need a point, just motion. Just the motion of you walking place to place, looking out the window, waiting for joy to drive you away to a place so much better than here.

But here's great too because at least I'm living. I'll take Shakespeare down to the park and we'll hang around for awhile, sun on our face and wind in our hair, enjoying the beauty of words.

And maybe you'll stop by to breathe and bask in the milk of life because it happens gradually and suddenly, you're afraid to live.

Dear Life,

It's so nice to see you again. I've missed you so much.

<3 Shea

rambling [25 Mar 2007|04:43pm]
"I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all the kinds of things you can't see from the center." - Kurt Vonnegut

To whom it may concern: It is springtime and I haven't eaten a substantial meal for the past two days. My appetite likes to run away from me every now and then. I guess I don't treat it as well as I should. I am confused and mildly intoxicated by circumstances out of my control but I am happy.

I feel wildly euphoric at sporadic moments but this is not to say that I am satisfied. Being contented is a wonderful feeling but it is also one I avoid -- it pulls me into an unambitious sort of lullaby and its evanescent nature never fails to disappoint me. It flutters here and there. To anyone who know life, there can be a very unfortunate place for anything to be when you need it.

Some people peg me as a talkative person and they are rather accurate in this description but I'm not so sure they realize how much I dislike that I've come to obtain this quality. When I was a quiet person, I said only the things that were important (or at the very least, relevant.) When one becomes a talkative person, they find themselves vomiting everything unimportant in vast amountsand struggling deeply with an ability to speak on the important.

There are colors bursting and burning inside my lungs as if they're trying to escape but they get cold feet when I open my mouth. The fire goes out. Nevermind, nevermind. Don't worry about it.

The whole thing is just awkward. I want to hibernate for months in hopes of it making sense again but it's springtime and I haven't eaten a substantial meal for two days.

we don't mean anything we say [25 Mar 2007|04:42pm]
People in general tend to inspect things more closely when they find themselves unsatisfied but I'm learning quickly that it is often that insatiable curiousity to over-evaluate events, people, emotions, words, love, etc. that makes everyone so fucking miserable.

Have we really been driven to the point where a compliment isn't just a compliment anymore? It means they want something from you -- stuffed flattery, lipstick dried on yellowed tissue, the Call Me! slowly fading to gray, your hands in their jeans, their lips on your neck, cheap and vile and easily disposed of -- something.

Everyone has a double meaning to what they're saying and if they don't, they're subject to the same evaluation as those who do imbue words with double meanings because everyone is so frightened of being forward nowadays. I understand the fear that comes with the enigmatic qualities of people, the frightening concept that maybe this person you're pouring your love into is a hollow shell. Shallow, ostentatious, cold, sick but most likely? They're scared too.

Fear is of the worst feelings in the world. Fear, greed, power will eat you up inside until you're too scared or too apathetic to do anything that would bring you the things that would make you truly happy.

I used to be active in promoting trust until trust is broken but I'm propelling into pessismism. Somewhere, I've lost the phrase I love you and I can't find it anywhere. I've lost it in the tangled vines of the falsity, resentment, and a loss of faith in humanity.

Can someone renew my faith card please? I think my idealist is overdue and I'm wasting plenty optimism on struggling to breathe. It seems every story has a tax today and I'm worn down from the sugar pills I swallowed this morning. My headache hasn't gone away.

But I'm not the only one who's lost it. They have too.

Maybe having no one to say it to puts us of practice.

[06 Dec 2006|06:15pm]
Oh, what sick satisfaction
that twists and turns and breathes within me.
While my heart is mending,
     needles and thread, pulling, stitching.
yours is breaking.
Oh what sick satisfaction
that twists and turns and breathes within me.

[: [21 Nov 2006|07:42pm]
elaboration on former poem.

The scariest words I have ever heard were also the most beautiful, also the most powerful, and also the most painful. The words: "I love you." Or, better yet, "I'm in love with you." Nothing will confuse the mind more than this matter of the heart but, then again, I'm not so sure the heart knows what it's doing in there either.

The hand on my hand could not console me. His eyes were reaching for something in mine but I'm not sure how I know this, seeing that I was looking straight through him and found myself distracted with the traveling sun that was shining through some buildings. The dancing skyline seemed to be an animation my imagination created, desperate to have something to focus on before I turned my head and found something else. I thanked God for ADHD as the hand left mine.

He stared into me with an ominous voice and he said, "I guess the only thing you're good for is running away."

And I ran.

flawed [17 Nov 2006|09:52pm]
pale skin
large nipples
round stomach
small nose
humble breasts
large thighs
and a complexion
that won't quit
battling me.

yearning for confidence,
searching for security, but
too distracted by the fact that i am flawed.
1 tossed| defenestrate?

flush [16 Nov 2006|05:09pm]
I stuffed my pockets with kings and aces but I've lost the game anyway,
and now I'm sitting here in a pair of underwear so eager to fall off of my body in front of an opponent I know nothing about,
and now he's surveying me with perverted glances and skillful hands that urge me to forget about you,
and now I've lost another round, my last piece of clothing escapes me and moves through the door all by itself,
and now I'm covered only by the shell I've created and existed within for so long,
and now my petals fall to the ground, in slow motion and
     cards are all around us as we move together in the dark.
     cards are all around us as i forget about your heart.
     cards are all around us as we move together in the dark.
     cards are all around us, cards are all around us.
and now I'm sorry I forgot about you, I'm sorry I forget sometimes
and now I'm sorry that you're crying, dear, I'm sorry I forget sometimes.
and now I'm sorry that I told you, dear, I'm sorry I forget sometimes.
and now I'm sorry I forget sometimes, I'm sorry I forget sometimes.

I stuffed my head with lies and fallacies but I've lost you anyway.
and now I'm sitting here with my hands over my head praying to a god I don't believe in and a saint I know nothing about,
and now I'm scrawling notes across my skull and I'm pretending you didn't find me out,
and now I've lost the only thing left that wasn't a game in my life,
and now I'm breaking the shell I've created and existed within so long,
and now I realize there's nothing inside, the emptiness falling out in slow motion but still
     cards were all around us as we moved together in the dark.
     cards were all around us as i forgot about your heart.
     cards were all around us as we moved together in the dark.
     cards were all around us, cards are all around us.
and it was just a game.

run. [15 Nov 2006|11:13pm]
he stared into me with his grave voice and he said,
i guess the only thing you're good for is running.
and i ran.
2 tossed| defenestrate?

today. [14 Nov 2006|06:52pm]
second stab at slam poetry, 3 minutes, 2 seconds.

pin drop
i am a dreamer.

can you hear a pin drop?
if we listened close enough, what would it say?
i sometimes wonder if we're all too busy bathing in our ignorance,
our 40-hour weeks and our television, or
living too deep inside of our heads like hermits with sticks and staves to ward off visitors that come a'knocking,
more often, too far out of them -- neglecting them,
leaving them to their hybernation,
left untouched by mental stimulation
until, that is,
until you wake them up.
i sometimes wonder if we shook our minds by the shoulder,
and we whispered in their ear,
we told them: wake up, honey, you're gonna miss the train,
     chugga, chugga, chugga, Choo! Choo!
if they would open their eyes and allow the gears inside of them to move slowly,
gaining momentum, slowly,
or if they would simply,
slowly roll over and pay no mind to the clack, clack, clack
on the railroad tracks
and the sweet, somber songs of the passengers
     an infant suited in red cries for another sip from his mother's breast,
         music echoes through small headphones, the lyrics to your favorite song eradicated and all you hear is a beat.
             a beat is enough.
                 married couples arguing, lustful lovers making out, all you hear are accusations and a smack, smack, smack as their lips meet and part.
                     all you need is the beat.
so sometimes, i wonder, if when that pin drops if the bugs hear it,
and when we stomp about above their homes, if they throw raves beneath the ground
and sometimes, i wonder, if when that pin drops
if Science matters at all and the intensity and pitch and decibels and the ability of the human ear,
and what it lacks, or what it doesn't, i wonder,
if they even matter at all.
and maybe
just maybe
we need to wake our minds up.
and maybe
just maybe
if we do wake them
and we take a moment, a sweet moment, of our precious time and listen:
listen to the pin drop
whether we hear it
or we don't,
and understand what it tells us then
we will experience something truly ethereal and beautiful,
and our souls will fly outside of the corporeal jail they are trapped in
in pastel, fluffy, spiritual, and shapeless masses that leave behind sticky, sugary residues
and you'll close your eyes and you'll say,
this is what freedom feels like.
and with liberated souls and invigorated minds,
uninhibited we will wander in our cotton-candy state.
and, intangible, corporeality cannot grasp us and tear us away.

rambling? (somewhat recent) [14 Nov 2006|05:41pm]
i want.
i want to be a man of evil proportions and charming demeanor.
i want to hold you under my thumb
and wrap you about my fingers.
i want you to sing songs of joy about how glad you are you didn't die before we met,
swear i really do love you
i just can't leave her right now.
what the fuck is with that, honestly?
but you'll sing it to me.

i want.
i want to be a father.
(expelling an eight pound infant from my vagina just doesn't interest me, sorry)
i want to cradle you in my arms
and sing to you lullabies i don't quite comprehend the morbid meaning of.
"down will come baby, cradle and all."
what the fuck is with that, honestly?
but i'll sing it to you.

i want.
i want to be a revolution.
i want to be the people running through the street with torches.
i want to be the torches.
i want to be the match.
i want to be the fire.
i want to be the message.
i want to inspire music, i want them to sing about me.
but i'm a logical fallacy and
what the fuck is with that, honestly?
but they'll sing about me.

i want.
i want to be anything other than what i am.
lazy, bored, day-in, day-out.

most of all.
i want to be remembered.

9th grade, hah. [14 Nov 2006|05:40pm]
i remember this being how i pictured my future marriage, genders reversed.

The Author's Wife

Let your mind run free along purple trees,
let your creativity sway with the wind.
You will then dare tell your maiden so fair,
that your heart belongs to the pen.
She will let silver tears grace her cheeks,
and you will push her away once again.
And you will say to her, "Darling, I bid you farewell.
For my heart, it belongs to the pen."
1 tossed| defenestrate?

the unabridged version of a slam poem. [14 Nov 2006|05:17pm]
Still in need of work, there's a few kinks here and there but it's a good firs stab at the whole slam poem arena I think.

Just Quit

Let me tell you about the child who walks to school every day,
at a slow pace in fear of falling into a pit of lions, teenagers with fluffy golden manes and jagged teeth.
The child who finds the school they attend the most miserable place in existence,
the child who is teased relentlessly, incessantly.
Ugly, fat, stupid, whore, slut, poser, faggot.
Just quit.

Let me tell you about the child who smiles at you every day, waves at you, talks to you
just to have you turn the other way around and ignore them, laugh at them, treat them with inhumanity,
spit such venomous words that they go home and pour tears into their hands
asking their mothers why, why everyone hates them so much.
Should a mother have to answer that?
Ugly, fat, stupid, whore, slut, poser, faggot.
Just quit.

Read more...Collapse )

somewhat recent. [14 Nov 2006|05:13pm]

Entangles your feet,
dusty roots hold you hostage,
it blossoms and manifests inside of
attics and closets,
parasite-like resentment feeding on corpses
and when the corpses rot to skeletons,
when the stink of rotting flesh has left this musky room,
the parasites go hungry, empty.
No rhyme or reason for feeling this way,

Spite has an ugly face:
one we've all been haunted by,
one we've all haunted with.
Yellowed teeth bear a snarl,
rotting flesh, bloodshot eyes--
This is no artist,
this is no actress,
this is no model,
this is no perfectionist,
there is no beauty for this beast,
no grace sleeps here.
And where grace does sleep,
       yellowed teeth
       rotting flesh
       bloodshot eyes
             lurk near
and lay seeds for green and greed to grow
where grace will find Her grave
and know trepidation, know fear.

Spite has an acerbic soul --
Selfish, jealous, proud, pretentious, artificial?
Lonely, overwrought, skeptical, insecure?
To know the victim and the victimizer--
Who should we feel more sorry for?

forever ago (or so long ago, i don't even remember writing it) [14 Nov 2006|05:10pm]
stripping her of her dress,
he strips her of her innocence,
he takes what is her youth,
petals falling to the ground.

teaching her how bodies work
he teaches her to step on stones,
that are her dark departue
from an absent childhood.

it feels to her like gentle peeling,
blinding, fabricated feeling,
an avaricious creature
shredding her virginity.

when she looks into the mirror,
watermarks conceal the naivety
she has refused and she refuses
and she feels herself shrink where growth is expected.

in contact with so many
and so few.

awhile ago. [14 Nov 2006|05:10pm]
painting portraits of a woman in a depth of despiration,
watching colors, feelings stir as you pass across her trepidation.
in her face there is a voice, in it: hear the earth quake.
she shakes, she shakes, she shakes.

mourning love, lost and rejected, falling into degradation,
sucking off mere shadows of the victims of her adoration.
in her tongue there is a feeling, in it: watch her heart break.
she shakes, she shakes, she shakes.

watching skies made from amethyst in a period of conversation,
lipstick on the window, she fakes arrogance and ostentation.
in her face, there is a dimness, in it: watch her fabricate.
she shakes, she shakes, she shakes.

haha, omg. 8th grade. [14 Nov 2006|05:03pm]
yeah, okay. so yeah.
this is long, long, long ago.

A Childish Enamorment

My eyes search the ground,
My cheeks swell with crimson,
My heart skips a beat,
As I abandon all reason.

My voice stammers through,
Thick purple curtains,
Quiet yet lurid,
Brave yet uncertain.

My wits seem to scatter,
And with one tired thought,
My vision turns skew,
My stomach forms knots.

To watch you and smile,
To yearn for your hand,
To love it and loathe it,
To not understand.

How annoying it can be,
To have you within reach,
But left without the drive,
To express emotion in speech.

And so my eyes are left searching,
My cheeks are left red,
My heart is left skipping,
As I run off to bed,
To dream about you,
And curse you for being,
A sort of friend,
Just not really.

long, long ago. [14 Nov 2006|04:58pm]
To my dearest friend,

One who is weak in will is weak in mind. One who is weak in mind is weak in heart. A heart does not deserve a beat if it beats so faintly that no one can hear it. A mind does not deserve a thought if it cannot be communicated in confidence. A will does not deserve strength if it allows itself to die without a fight. Swallow your pride and grow a spine. Speak against me! Refuse me!

Praise me no more. I will shelter you no longer. I refuse to be the mothering hand to comfort you. I will not stand by and allow you to depend on me. Do not trust me to resist manipulating you. Be wary. Be frightened. Be paranoid. Putting faith into all you cross is a foolish thing to commit to. Why do you insist on being weak? Why do you insist on using others as tools to validate your existence?

I have been watching you. I have been watching you smile and laugh and bow to every man who holds your hand. Do you dare cross the road with out a parent to hold you? Can you jump over a puddle without the fear of asphyxiation? No, you can't. You need someone. You expect acceptance from those around you, and yet, you can hardly look at yourself in the mirror and accept who you are. You are a leech, a parasite, feeding off of attention.

Go, you histrionical whore. Go to your man, he's calling you. He's planning your week and telling you when and where and how to do things. Don't tell me this is your choice. You do not choose, you do not lead. You follow. Anything you believed, any shred of personality you had left, is rid of now. It has been plunged into the muddy grounds of this earth alongside hopes and aspirations. Maybe you will join them, one day. Maybe your soul will be reunited with its purpose.

Would you like for me to deliver your eulogy? Do you want me to spit praise upon you? A sweet sentiment for your corpse? You have been dead to me since the first instance in which we agreed. What will you do now, corpse? Will you rot away without a word? Or will you rise again? Speak against me! Refuse me! I want you to struggle. I want you to abandon apathy and contradict me. I want you to murder me.

I swear I'll love you if you do. Just grow a spine, vertebrae by vertebrae. Just grow a fucking spine.

Signed: Your darling mother.

where have all the mediums gone? [14 Nov 2006|04:40pm]
I'm too normal for the weird kids, too weird for the normal kids. Too trendy for the nerdy kids, too nerdy for the popular kids. I'm too optimistic for the cynical kids and too cynical for the optimistic kids.

long ago. [14 Nov 2006|04:38pm]
Like pigs, we push our faces into troughs of degradation.
And we understand we're young, but fear we have no time to be alive.
We are selling our privacies, dignities, and opinions
for love we hope will save us from persistent negligence.
We've lost our will to hold on to the very things that make us human.
We've lost our independence.
We aren't strong women, but strong wo.

Our eggs gain nuclear properties as they travel through our ovaries.
Japan is phallus shaped.
Harry Truman, make no movement!
Pregnancy is a tragedy, a catastrophe, a contretemps.
Coition is debauchery, the lust for love and malcontent.

A nine year old girl is strolling through Walgreen's.
Pink nail polish on her fingernails:
it matches the pink bow, and pink tank top, and pink shorts.
Those fragile, little fingers wander boxes of condoms,
(all shapes and sizes and colors and textures)
sitting in immaculate rows
"Ribbed for your pleasure!" it beckons.
Stupid fucker got his first pubic hair and thinks that he's hot shit.
"Don't worry, I'll be gentle," he assures.
"Ribbed for your pleasure!" it beckoned, and it beckons still.

Grow up, knocked up, fucked up, and died.
This is what we've become,
and this is what we are.

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