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.

Hello again

I haven’t been very active, but the truth is that even with such space in time, it seems that there isn’t much to say. Even if I did say a lot, there is no more meaning in the word. I believe that the only time something impacts you so strongly should be kept to yourself. What’s more intimate than an actual real life journal to write in and express your thoughts? I haven’t written a poem since November. Not because I don’t care about poetry anymore, but because everything seems so damn cliche. A few months from now and it will just be a silly memory or another little thought and blog posted into the millions of people in cyberspace to browse through or not even see. Originality has never existed, but re-interpration lives. Everything is recycled from the past, and there is no doubt that something you are going to has been experienced or will be experienced by someone else at some point in time. I am not a pessimist nor an optimist anymore. I try to look at life as what it really is, although I do love to day dream of what ifs could haves and would haves. But I know reality now, and believe me in the past year I have suffered a lot, but not enough. I have suffered more than my peers who said I was rich and spoiled, I am dirt poor, living off someone else. I have dehumanized myself just for money and pretended to be a dumb pretty girl just to get extra tips to serve men their liquor. I feel as though I have been slowly desensitized and often miss the extreme emotions I would go through when I was younger. I am not sad nor am I happy. I am persevering and that’s what counts. People change all the time, yet I feel I am the same. I am trying to mature much faster than my friends who are years older than me.

Revenge

Karma is not revenge. Forgiveness can be revenge, but karma is fate itself. I do not control karma. I can see how I feel about something, and I can allow myself to forgive, and or forget about something.
The worst part is that some people ask for revenge. Some people expect you to be rash and irrational, evil and angry. These people I ran across asked me why I wasn't mad, and got irritated by my docile answers.
Honestly, sometimes people are able to forgive. Me as a person, I forgive too much. On the other hand, with these people, I did not let them back into my life like I usually do. I let them go, and leave, and they can go on live their lives without me. I can live without someone such as them. Either way, you were probably too full of yourself to think you deserve my hatred. I do give them props- they did inspire me to write.
There is only one person that I wouldn't be able to forgive, but I have yet ot find out the truth. Later on maybe.