Getting Right

In attempts to avoid folding within myself
I sit numbly
Your possible rejection of me
Collides into a forgotten, yet nostalgic fear
Creating unforgotten insecurities
Memories of the past start flooding in
But the boulders are too high and sharp
The lack of words become deafening
I just want to cover my ears
And cry out of relief
Over holding in the washed up emotions
That I tried so hard to flee from
Spending countless days and hours
Looking in and Distracting from myself
Getting over someone, and
Getting right with me.

Something

“Stream-of-consciousness writing a la Jack Kerouac is a meditation tool. Writing about regrets over the past or fears of the future, no.”

Feelings hypnotize unsatisfied ruler of my brain. Please don’t come down here there is really something wrong with my brain. Today, at least. Well, most days. Unconventional, unacceptable as “normal” let me apologize now before you decide to run away. Sometimes I wish I could run away, take a vacation and escape from the pounding confusion, lifting the fog that’s in my head. I used to be afraid to showcase these things, people wouldn’t understand. But still face to face I have to pretend that I belong in this world with these socially acceptable behaviors. I really have no idea what to do.

Haircut

I had a dream. I stole a bunch of money from grandma. Mom found it. I gave it back, but still kept some. Leigh drove back to get it.
Cut.
I want a haircut. Bad.
I’m at the Peakview house with mom
She knew I wanted to steal pills.
She had a new Louise Vuitton purse.
I asked if she would buy me a haircut,
She said no.
And I was confused.
because she had a new thousand dollar purse.
There was something evil in the house.
I tried to board it up,
make it go away.
It gave me chills.
We left and saw a hair dresser,
but it was late.
She said my hair was too long
I could only be comfortable
if I put it up.

Writing

Placing words into what you feel
Cause the layers of your core to peel
Whether it’s  Anger that distraughts  you
or Confusion that betrays you
It’s Anxiety that simmers within
The good angel seems to never win
It’s the Sadness that overwhelms for no reason
and Loneliness seems to be it’s closest cousin
Sometimes all of these things that are unseen
Seep out of the pores altogether, making it Mean
A scene never meant to be seen
The only Context that gives it most Meaning
Is putting the text on paper, so Rich, so Gleaming
It does its part to soothe the Heart
and transforms it intrinsically into Art.
It takes your inner bag of shit
and becomes the Number One Smash Hit.
Or you can keep it to yourself in private
To make your journal utterly vibrant
No way is Right, no way is Wrong
As long as you make it sing like a Song.