Inside Her Dreams

Often I've thought that my imagination would get the best of me. I create relationships and friendships in my mind that won't happen or can't happen, just to feel the joy of the moment. How I have wished since before I was in high school for some of these things to happen to me. Friend sleepovers, friends in my house in general, a boy who was devoted to me the way I've seen my friends boyfriends see them to take them to school and pick them up. Everything was forced when it did happen. I can't say anything bad or traumatic happened to me, but when things did happen, they were too little too late. I feel as though my life was full of drama, but maybe because I wasn't happy. I was too entrapped of the ideas and wishes that I had in my head, that my real life was horrible, lonely, and boring in comparison. I needed to shake things up and make things interesting, whether I ruined my life or other people's lives. I lived so jealous of what these other girls had- they really were girls, while I was something in between girl and boy, not completely feminine, and not masculine either. No one told me I was pretty, and when they did, it sounded like the barks and calls of dogs. My few friends from high school moved away, and my friends outside, I barely see. I told someone who I liked once, "I'm not your friend anymore, but that doesn't mean I won't run your memory dry with stories in my mind. I'll let my mind wander until I'm over you." Romance was always just so scary. Not like I was given the liberty to experience it. Friendship, my mother always told me, was overrated. My boyfriend, can be great, but the idea of romance was burned off of his soul years ago, if it was ever there. So why do I feel like I missed out on something? Why am I so lonely? Maybe my dreams are just the thing that keeps me down from being happy. I've always been the person to see the glass half empty.

Mirror

And the girl who told her reflection to never give up
Gives in
Her soul will keep chipping away until it's just a particle of dust
Floating
"I won the battle I've fought for years now
But that did not end without casualties"
Yet the stranger tells her he sees in every footstep the pains of sorrow
She keeps on believing in one thing to follow her deity
The patter of her feet stop in front of the mirror
As she gazes one more time
Tearing, confused, and eager
Clawing against her own womanly arms
She kisses the mirror and blankets it with black satin
Yet her own mind wants to leave her body
She doesn't want her story untold.

Affection

How does it feel to be loved from a distance?
I'm sending you messages corked tightly in a bottle
Long away from the other sides of the seas
With the pleas of a thousand beggars asking for their fix

Oh well, I think I stated my point already.

I know what it is...

To be lonely.

Today at the dentist I met this boy that was doing my teeth x-rays. He was just my age but he worked as that, his excuse was "I'm just a beast!" All we had in common was our age, but he kept talking and talking to me about how he has been here for about 4 weeks and talked about how boring it was in his home down south in some city I don't know. He told me that his family came up and they were there around 5:30 am, but i didn't have a story to tell him. I felt like I was omitting myself from the conversation. Instead I laughed, and smiled, but had no smart retorts. I was his friend for the twenty minutes we spoke, and I felt a little bad almost that I couldn't be his friend longer, although I am very skeptical of having friends, or giving people my phone number.

Later on at work I met an old woman who was buying 14.99 dollar sandals. she tried to joke with me about how it would be amazing if someone just came up to her one day in the winter inviting her to a cruise. She repeated it two or three times, with only a smile for applause.

It wasn't until a few minutes later that my heart sank for how mean I was being to her. I know how it feels to try to talk to a stranger when all you are doing is being kind or trying to pass the time in this lonely world with a smile or a quick companionship. Why was I being so cold hearted? These two people just needed someone to talk to, and feel friendly, the balloon blowing from your heart when you know that you have made someone happy and it makes you genuinely happy. Maybe the fact that despite all of the attempts of friendship and kindness there is always that anger and hatred in the world that grows inside of people over time, until it is a large emmassed oak in the forest of humans in the world.

What makes a story?

I love short stories. I used to be able to write. I never wrote short stories though, I almost never had the ability to, without turning them into longer stories that I could never finish.
Now I have no motivation, or feel that I have no inspiration or creativity to write as I did. What do I have to write? My life has become so mundane, and honestly, quite pessimistic/passive that I don't give many things long thoughts anymore.
I never felt that I had the ability to write so well as to be published, or anything of the sort. I haven't finished reading a book in a long time either.
when I write, I don't want something cliche. Last time I wrote something, it was an 8 page letter about some psychotic girl who drove another psycho girl to suicide, went to her funeral, and bathed herself in the blood of the dead girl. Creepy I know. It wasn't even written that great.
I kind of miss being pulled into drama,because drama and dreams often gave me reason to write. I don't have the time or energy to anymore, nor many friends of mental worth to actually read with the expectation of them finishing reading or understanding it.
What makes a good story? Must I write or have I become too normal and plain? Too boring?

I feel like Sylvia Plath's story "The Wishing Box:

My Dreams Were All Dead And Buried

My dreams are speaking too much to me about my subconscious fears.
Anyway, I got to see the baby and my family, I love them so much.
I'm so low on money it's crazy and depressing.
I hope to live a great fabulous life, but who knows, I just have to persevere.
I'm so tired.
I don't have time for poetry right now.
Goodnight.

The Hollow

With the slightest
touch
You're ablaze
yet
There's nothing left in
the ocean

A rippled wave.


Reach out for a hand
Drawing back.
The exchange of words
Often slack.



From

nothing.
To

something.

Pulse and pressure
Take

these.

Off me.
Do I measure?


Something will always be missing
When it comes to this
Is it the lack of interaction
Maybe what's left
is


Significance.