The music fades in.
I feel my heart sink, plummeting to nowhere inside me.
It begins to pulse and pound, following each drum beat perfectly.
Blood flows in and swirls, gains its corruption to the sound of every guitar cord.
My fleeting heart forces the vile, infected red serum out into my body.
It fills my veins, and as the lyrics scream my blood vessels tingle and pop.
The viral blood rushes faster and faster inside me as he sings my damnation.
The bass strings pound in my mind, and with every strum salvation is lost.
This sound, this music which bonded itself to my soul long ago floods me.
And as my nerve endings drown in the verses, the lack of melody bridges the synapses in my brain.
Memories infiltrate my mind, and the constantly cumulating emotion in his voice becomes too heavy and crushes me.
I let go, and indulge.
I revel in the pain, the happiness, and the tears this musical poison has brought me.
You win again, Sir.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Pavement and Surprises
I wish I could say that the road life takes never surprises me. I wish that perhaps I could say that the fact that life surprises us no longer surprises me. The real truth of the matter is that life takes us every which way. Some people describe this as a roller coaster ride. I suppose I'd have to agree with this considering I feel that amusement park rides are death traps. On a side note, I do not find the thought of plummeting to my death while thrill seeking on some man made monstrosity of steel amusing. People easily walk in and out of our lives. It is hard to find a way to make them stay; or a way to make yourself stay for that matter. Time is sculpted by the people that fill its great void, and we find ourselves interwoven in the rough canvas drop cloth covering our masterpiece. Somethings are redundant in life. I'd love to say one door closing to another one opening is not true; but the damn reality of it is that it is proven to us every single day that the phrase reflects the way of life.
Across the ocean of pavement, the boat rises and falls with the waves.
Inside the boat built of relationships, the people are tumbled on their heads.
Across the ocean of pavement, the boat rises and falls with the waves.
Inside the boat built of relationships, the people are tumbled on their heads.
When you sleep
You sound so vulnerable and fragile, and the impulse to slither my arms around you is completely irresistable.
The desire and need to lie with you while listening to that soothing, steady beat is enough to make everything melt away.
"Come here" is often the first thing I whisper once your breathing slows.
The typical mumbled response and rustle of you moving makes my heart swell, and a content smile spread across my face.
I delicately speak your name, and hold my breath.
Once I am certain no response will come, I close my eyes for a bit and just listen to the wonderful stability you provide.
In your celestial slumber, you become my priest.
With every inhalation you make, I spill confessions from my tongue.
You are aware of my every heartache, every apology needed, every tear.
I have told you everything, and your heart cleanses mine.
With every exhalation you make, I pour desires from my tongue.
You are aware of my every dream, every want, every need.
Your sleeping heart is my dream box, and I constantly crave to hold it each morning when I wake and each night before I sleep.
As I settle in to the blissful, restful trance that is sleeping with you, I lightly speak the words " I love you" and kiss you.
No matter how deep your slumber, you always return the love mid-doze.
I sleep, and my heart holds yours as if it's in prayer.
Wishes ignite.
You're the perfect dream.
I sleep, and my heart kneels before you to heal.
Bless me, Demetri, for I have sinned.
Your forgiveness is painfully miraculous.
The desire and need to lie with you while listening to that soothing, steady beat is enough to make everything melt away.
"Come here" is often the first thing I whisper once your breathing slows.
The typical mumbled response and rustle of you moving makes my heart swell, and a content smile spread across my face.
I delicately speak your name, and hold my breath.
Once I am certain no response will come, I close my eyes for a bit and just listen to the wonderful stability you provide.
In your celestial slumber, you become my priest.
With every inhalation you make, I spill confessions from my tongue.
You are aware of my every heartache, every apology needed, every tear.
I have told you everything, and your heart cleanses mine.
With every exhalation you make, I pour desires from my tongue.
You are aware of my every dream, every want, every need.
Your sleeping heart is my dream box, and I constantly crave to hold it each morning when I wake and each night before I sleep.
As I settle in to the blissful, restful trance that is sleeping with you, I lightly speak the words " I love you" and kiss you.
No matter how deep your slumber, you always return the love mid-doze.
I sleep, and my heart holds yours as if it's in prayer.
Wishes ignite.
You're the perfect dream.
I sleep, and my heart kneels before you to heal.
Bless me, Demetri, for I have sinned.
Your forgiveness is painfully miraculous.
Irrational
The whole situation is completely irrational.
It's just as frenzied and moonstruck as you make me.
The feeling is so overwhelming at times, and I would never modify it.
All the things I wish I could say would never properly leave my lips.
The desire to repeat myself until it flows out correctly is maddening.
The frustration of thinking "I love you" isn't enough to portray how I feel is all consuming.
There is no account of why or how it happened, and I do not even wish for an explanation if there could be one found.
I am painstakingly and entirely intoxicated.
I have never known a love-drunk quite like this before.
I despise feeling like a flighty, foolhardy girl.
I have made zero attempts to ever cease it.
I lap it up elatedly, and roll it over my tongue like a rare, expensive wine.
I wish I didn't feel so chagrined in admitting it all to you, but even the soft, bashful blushes you induce aren't enough to stop me from things like this.
I'm left to ponder what exactly is so distinctive and exceptional about you.
The answer is Everything it seems.
My tolerance of it all is infinite.
You provide a comfort and gratification found no place else.
Despite all the fear and doubt, I just closed my eyes, held my breath, and dove head first.
The water feels fine.
I wanted to describe you as the water surrounding me, keeping me afloat.
I find it much more appropriate to refer to you as the necaterous breath of air inhaled when breaking the surface after having been held under far too long.
I think absolutely too much, and I consistently pray you do also.
I'd love to beg you to say what I'm thinking and feeling, and you own it.
I like to hope there is no need for you to do so because I already know.
It's just as frenzied and moonstruck as you make me.
The feeling is so overwhelming at times, and I would never modify it.
All the things I wish I could say would never properly leave my lips.
The desire to repeat myself until it flows out correctly is maddening.
The frustration of thinking "I love you" isn't enough to portray how I feel is all consuming.
There is no account of why or how it happened, and I do not even wish for an explanation if there could be one found.
I am painstakingly and entirely intoxicated.
I have never known a love-drunk quite like this before.
I despise feeling like a flighty, foolhardy girl.
I have made zero attempts to ever cease it.
I lap it up elatedly, and roll it over my tongue like a rare, expensive wine.
I wish I didn't feel so chagrined in admitting it all to you, but even the soft, bashful blushes you induce aren't enough to stop me from things like this.
I'm left to ponder what exactly is so distinctive and exceptional about you.
The answer is Everything it seems.
My tolerance of it all is infinite.
You provide a comfort and gratification found no place else.
Despite all the fear and doubt, I just closed my eyes, held my breath, and dove head first.
The water feels fine.
I wanted to describe you as the water surrounding me, keeping me afloat.
I find it much more appropriate to refer to you as the necaterous breath of air inhaled when breaking the surface after having been held under far too long.
I think absolutely too much, and I consistently pray you do also.
I'd love to beg you to say what I'm thinking and feeling, and you own it.
I like to hope there is no need for you to do so because I already know.
Words
I can't hide.
Giggle.
Laugh.
Tear.
Blush.
Everyone notices the smile that occurs when it's your number on the display.
Sex.
Lust.
Tension.
Fire.
Sometimes, when we are done with that I feel like everyone knows my dirty little secret.
Silly.
Brilliant.
Thought-provoking.
Caring.
I can't deny loving you exactly the way you are.
Distance.
Jealousy.
Differences.
Types.
Nothing seems to shake how I feel, and I am pretty confident nothing will ever change it.
Pong.
Everquest.
Green.
Growls.
Phones.
Songs.
Wolves.
Whispers.
Smirks.
Blankets.
Red.
Spongebob.
Teddy Bears.
Pillows.
Pictures.
cartoons.
Secrets.
Moans.
Noises.
Phrases.
Socks.
Couch.
Frebreeze.
lol.
love.
kissys.
right-side.
voices.
heart.
affection.
gyros.
potatoes.
hoodies.
bands.
car-dings.
cherry pepsi.
doritos (yuck).
rock.
Wicked.
bagels.
pirates.
It's amazing how incredibly long this list could be if I didn't stop myself right now.....
Do random, everyday, silly things cause you to think of me and smile?
Oh, I so love you far too much.
Giggle.
Laugh.
Tear.
Blush.
Everyone notices the smile that occurs when it's your number on the display.
Sex.
Lust.
Tension.
Fire.
Sometimes, when we are done with that I feel like everyone knows my dirty little secret.
Silly.
Brilliant.
Thought-provoking.
Caring.
I can't deny loving you exactly the way you are.
Distance.
Jealousy.
Differences.
Types.
Nothing seems to shake how I feel, and I am pretty confident nothing will ever change it.
Pong.
Everquest.
Green.
Growls.
Phones.
Songs.
Wolves.
Whispers.
Smirks.
Blankets.
Red.
Spongebob.
Teddy Bears.
Pillows.
Pictures.
cartoons.
Secrets.
Moans.
Noises.
Phrases.
Socks.
Couch.
Frebreeze.
lol.
love.
kissys.
right-side.
voices.
heart.
affection.
gyros.
potatoes.
hoodies.
bands.
car-dings.
cherry pepsi.
doritos (yuck).
rock.
Wicked.
bagels.
pirates.
It's amazing how incredibly long this list could be if I didn't stop myself right now.....
Do random, everyday, silly things cause you to think of me and smile?
Oh, I so love you far too much.
Smells like Home
The smell of domestic beer and coffee drafts around everything.
So odd and sinful the way it seems to match.
Hometown and Heavenly mixed perfectly.
Chalkboard signs and local paintings wrap themselves around the rooms.
Some of the paintings hauntingly resemble teenagers from my childhood.
It's a warm heartache found in the wood warping of an over used building.
No other place to go; Here I am 8 years later in the same place, even changed as it has.
The music invading my mind is so blue and indie.
The brass ashtray is some flea market prize much like the rest of the mismatched garage sale furnishings scattered around me.
The strangers in the table down from me drink their kids away.
The mystery out of town man wandering the room finally takes a seat with the couple.
Maybe I should've executed some southern hospitality to the guy instead of ignoring the way he circled my table waiting for an invite.
I'd much rather just watch everyone be fake and introduce each other to their representitives than put my mask on.
How odd that a few of these folks manage to ruin their karma in a place with a setting to promote soundness.
Upon closer inspection of the walls, these paintings are not haunting at all, but truth.
A candy kid I knew back in the day has his named signed in the corner.
There is no need for me to read the sales tag, I know most every face he has painted here.
The celebrities that defined our teenage years, and the teenagers themselves are captured forever with spray paint on canvas or wood.
This entire place embraces the culture and convictions we thought we were fighting for in a small town of nothing but religion.
It's almost amusing how at home this feels.
I thought I had outgrown this feeling.
No one should ever be too old to feel at home and at peace.
Before it changed repeatedly over the years, it was almost this.
We use to sit every weekend ten feet to my left.
We drank far too much coffee and lounged in large leather or wicker furniture.
Now I watch guys the age I wish I could be again play chess.
I have every intention of finishing this beer, my house blend in this cup, and beating them at a game before the band starts.
The place quickly fills up, possibly because there are six tables and a coffee table to fill the space provided.
Outside might be nice to escape the small crowd of people that I do not care for, but the loss off my Bob Dylan serenade would be depressing.
Some things about a "bar", no matter what you try to call it, remain the same.
I can't help but snicker at the familiar beer arguement already taking place.
Domestic is so tasteless.
American might as well be water.
European is so colorful.
Imports are so flavorful and sophisticated.
Everyone drinks for the same reason, therefore the arguement quickly becomes pointless.
It should not matter what it taste like when you swallow your fun and sorrow.
Perhaps that is my problem, maybe I should care what my laughter taste like as it sloshes in my mouth.
Even more so, maybe I should be concerned if my bitterness tastes properly going down my throat.
I'm sorry I lack the ability to give a fuck about such things.
Damn, this place smells like home...
So odd and sinful the way it seems to match.
Hometown and Heavenly mixed perfectly.
Chalkboard signs and local paintings wrap themselves around the rooms.
Some of the paintings hauntingly resemble teenagers from my childhood.
It's a warm heartache found in the wood warping of an over used building.
No other place to go; Here I am 8 years later in the same place, even changed as it has.
The music invading my mind is so blue and indie.
The brass ashtray is some flea market prize much like the rest of the mismatched garage sale furnishings scattered around me.
The strangers in the table down from me drink their kids away.
The mystery out of town man wandering the room finally takes a seat with the couple.
Maybe I should've executed some southern hospitality to the guy instead of ignoring the way he circled my table waiting for an invite.
I'd much rather just watch everyone be fake and introduce each other to their representitives than put my mask on.
How odd that a few of these folks manage to ruin their karma in a place with a setting to promote soundness.
Upon closer inspection of the walls, these paintings are not haunting at all, but truth.
A candy kid I knew back in the day has his named signed in the corner.
There is no need for me to read the sales tag, I know most every face he has painted here.
The celebrities that defined our teenage years, and the teenagers themselves are captured forever with spray paint on canvas or wood.
This entire place embraces the culture and convictions we thought we were fighting for in a small town of nothing but religion.
It's almost amusing how at home this feels.
I thought I had outgrown this feeling.
No one should ever be too old to feel at home and at peace.
Before it changed repeatedly over the years, it was almost this.
We use to sit every weekend ten feet to my left.
We drank far too much coffee and lounged in large leather or wicker furniture.
Now I watch guys the age I wish I could be again play chess.
I have every intention of finishing this beer, my house blend in this cup, and beating them at a game before the band starts.
The place quickly fills up, possibly because there are six tables and a coffee table to fill the space provided.
Outside might be nice to escape the small crowd of people that I do not care for, but the loss off my Bob Dylan serenade would be depressing.
Some things about a "bar", no matter what you try to call it, remain the same.
I can't help but snicker at the familiar beer arguement already taking place.
Domestic is so tasteless.
American might as well be water.
European is so colorful.
Imports are so flavorful and sophisticated.
Everyone drinks for the same reason, therefore the arguement quickly becomes pointless.
It should not matter what it taste like when you swallow your fun and sorrow.
Perhaps that is my problem, maybe I should care what my laughter taste like as it sloshes in my mouth.
Even more so, maybe I should be concerned if my bitterness tastes properly going down my throat.
I'm sorry I lack the ability to give a fuck about such things.
Damn, this place smells like home...
Damned
I realise I confuse everything and fuck it up.
I would say I'm sorry, but I have had to say it so much in my life that at this point it might just be an empty habitual promise.
I never meant to ruin your life...or my own for that matter.
I fail at life, and that is funny because it really is true.
Self worth is pretty non-existant at this point.
Don't do what you normally do.
I promise to fix it or just disappear, pick one.
Sorry.
I would say I'm sorry, but I have had to say it so much in my life that at this point it might just be an empty habitual promise.
I never meant to ruin your life...or my own for that matter.
I fail at life, and that is funny because it really is true.
Self worth is pretty non-existant at this point.
Don't do what you normally do.
I promise to fix it or just disappear, pick one.
Sorry.
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