So what major are you?
"I'm actually sldkjs df but sdlfdfsdfksf and sdlfkjsdfssfsdf sskdlfjskkkkjjjsssfj what about you?"
Oh well, I'm ............... for the $$$$$$$ but I wish i could just ( ).
"You wish you could (more)( )."
Yeah I wish I could just ( ) and $$$$$.
When I talk with people.
how much our conversations suck.
CAN WE HAVE A LEGIT conversation
What do you dream about? Daydream, in between thoughts. Lets get scientific about this
How about this. In a bout of frustration, I'll write a poem like my others that sounds ironic because it makes fun of itself and sounds like its being delivered in monotone with short pauses and intonations to leave room for forced laughter and smiles (always accompanied by furrowed eyebrows). That should fix it.
OR how about this
Instead of talking to myself (writing)
Lets just say what we feel. say what we think. as far as i know, words are indispensible. shits free. We all have weird thoughts.
I mean these conversations dont have to be...... hella serious
Heres me right now: I'm sick of walking around in a cubicle. I carry a small office in my backpack that the business people of the 1990s would have considered to be futuristic. On the level of Star Trek, and the like. Captain Kirk would have ingrown hairs on his bald fucking head from pure jealousy.
Its cool Kirk, you're right.
Its really cool.
I'm fuckin lucky. But it feels like this isn't quite right.
The more we build, the higher we build, the more we exclude, whether or not we mean to. Exclusion will only lead to more exclusion, until we exclude ourselves. Like Hitler, who killed himself.
It makes sense, a schizophrenic man told me.
I built a wall between you and me
Because it's easier that way
A wall of untold stories and stolen glances
I have no faith in my words
Or in yours
So I hide behind my wall
(more) Because it's easier that way
under the illusion grand:
your power of position stands
immutable & permanent.
perpetual / no longer sit /
impervious & anchored-sound,
for your amusements now resound
(more) to peel & chip away that mask
(so firm-reliable, fixed-fast)
--tenacious; with its charge: disguise,
as clear crystalline blue, those eyes--
obscures / no more / dependable,
reveals you up against the wall.(less)
Four walls, in my mind,
There is a place,
Covered behind doors and doors and doors,
In this space,
A single flame, that always burns,
Sometimes I imagine the walls collapsing,
(more) Like dominos in a line,
And I always wonder if the fire will spread,
But it never does,
Or I just never know,
I never get quite to the end.(less)
Steady at your back and unlikely to draw a knife on you, he'd always understood that a wall was what you wanted behind you in a fight. One less angle of approach for you to have to worry about.
Walls were a good place to make your stand, just(more) so long as you weren't backed into a corner.
Then again, he hadn't thought that some chick would be able to weaponize a wall against him. But around the third time his skull kissed the bricks, he decided it might be time to reevaluate.
His eyes were swimming and he charged at her, grinning maliciously when she ducked out of the way and he came around, well aware that now it was her against the wall.
He charged at her again, this time intending to give her a taste of her own medicine.
At the last moment she spun out of his way with a dancer's grace, and he hit the wall headfirst, like a bull who had just missed its matador.
He felt something in his neck crunch, and he dropped like a stone.
Panting, she stood, hands braced on her knees as she watched her opponent warily. She lifted a trash can and brought it down as hard as she could on his head, a small smirk settling on her face as his blood painted the bricks of the wall.(less)
Rick had no momentum. His parents hoped with his degree in Literature that he eared at the ripe age of 33 that he might start moving. Rick was sitting in a small apartment blowing smoke rings from his friends last crop. He trimmed for extra crash, waited in line(more) on task rabbit, and would do the occasional chore for a rich friend. His wallet sucked and women never put up with his broke ass for more than three months. "I'd rather be poor and up happy than rich and miserable." Depending on the conversation this maximum would change to, "I'd rather be single and unhappy than married and miserable." Rick seemed to be just as scared of what he might accomplish in life as much as failing at it. Valium to sleep and ward off the panic attacks, weed for inspiration, and whiskey to drown out the reality of his life when it got too loud.
His girlfriend was married. This worked because her husband was kind of cool with it and because he'd go a week or two with no obligation. He might swing by Mission bar on 23rd st and pull something soft, drunk, and lost home. Enough to keep his mind off his dick for long enough to send out a few resumes to jobs he wasn't qualified for.
It's not that he hit a wall in his life, it was more that he just stood in front of it scared of what lay on the other side. Rick's eyes level with the graffiti. The wall looked thick to him, polished with no cracks, and he swore one of the shady characters sprayed onto it's surface looked like him. Jeans, hoody, and a Giants hat. Staring back at him alone from the rest, not moving, legs locked.
Suppose a sentence starts a way you didn't expect. There's a damaging way to place un-careful words, stories you made up, ideas that you felt. Between yourself and the page, how many hurdles are there?
You build many phrases, awkwardly bundle in clauses together; semi-colons stutter your speaking(more). The prose is all wrong but the feelings are quite right. There's something between you and language that filters everything because you can't quite explain why your lunch felt like sunshine or your nightmares smelled like rotting dreams.
You say you were happy, or your dream was sad.
It's so much less accurate, but you forget, sometimes, how much gets filtered through. How much never passes.
There is something between you and language, you and words, you and sounds and voices and letters and you can't quite figure out why. Your mother tongue or someone else's, something hangs between mind and matter, because the outside world is a dangerous place and good words bury you like good cemeteries bury people and time buries everything.
Words and nothing more.
To protect you or them, you don't know, but someone snidely remarks something is only a word and you're afraid you don't understand. Words are only walls, but also masks and they reflect everything. There is everything more than words, but nothing less than them and nothing ever cuts so deeply as a well crafted one. They're hard like rocks and soft like spring evenings and rainy mornings.
Something is lost in the translation, you know, but the meaning is somewhere there behind it, and in truth, you write because you hope to understand how the wall was built at all.
I tape new photos to the wall
to fill the hole you left behind you,
photos of bright paintings and my little brother's drawings
and strips of booth photos from parties and outings.
I tried to leave the walls blank,
(more) maybe to mourn you,
to respect the space that used to be yours.
But the walls screamed white
and the walls screamed empty
so I had no choice
but to fill the hole that you left.(less)
She grits her teeth as she reaches for the next near-imperceptible depression, digging her nails into the rugged stone as best she can. For one terrifying moment she's certain it's not going to hold; either her hand would give out or the wall would crumble, something that'd send her(more) tumbling down to the start - this time, with the handicap of a twisted ankle. Once she's sure she's safe, she heaves a sigh of relief and continues upward.
She's about twenty feet up, maybe forty from the parapet overhead. She's tired, she's filthy, she's bleeding, but she's so very close to freedom. Once she gets to the top, and she will get to the top, all she has to do is leap to one of the various watchtowers set up outside specifically for those like her. They're easy to construct and easy to dismantle - an apparatus specifically for quick and discreet exits much like the one she's currently executing. Once they obtain the patrol schedules they're guaranteed to remain during the shift changes. Which means she has maybe ten minutes left before they start disassembling it.
She pushes onward, determined to make it in time. After all, it was either that or death, and she was far too stubborn to die so soon.(less)
Can you help me tear down the wall in my mind? I can hear you there on the other side of my wall, but I cannot reach you. I desperately crave for your love and care, but I can't seem to allow you to come through the wall. The(more) wall I've built so carefully in my youth. I want to scream "I love you!" from the top of my lungs, but I can barely even look up as you tell me you're mine. But what is this I see? A hand? A foot? You're sitting there on top of the bricks, smiling down. Your hand's reaching down, but I'm afraid to take it. As I feel your hand in mine, I'm glad I took it.
So here we are now, at the top of my wall. I thank you for your kindness in saving me. I'm finally able to sing those words you've longed for.(less)
Alma leaned up against the wall of the girls' bathroom stall. Normally, she'd do it to listen in on the drama that always inevitably went down, or was shared - and certainly, there was some drama going down. Stacey Martin had been asked out to the prom by both(more) Roy Soleil and Pepin Short! And she didn't know who to choose! Alma knew she should find this sort of stuff trivial and beneath her, but what could she say, high school gossip was one of her guilty pleasures.
Not today, though.
Today, the shock of what her girlfriend, Victoria, had just told her was overwhelming Alma's mind and body. She had a lump in her throat. She didn't want to believe it - that Victoria had superpowers? She couldn't believe it, but she showed her. Showed her how with a snap of her fingers, she could still a windy day, and turn it back with another. How she could summon twisters. How she could FLY.
It wasn't such a huge jump, then, when Victoria revealed that, by extension, her friends could do it, too, with their own elements. That snap in Sara's hands could summon an inferno to burn down the whole school. In Leonard's, a tsunami-high column of water. In Carlo's, thunder and lightning. It was the sort of thing Alma never thought she'd see outside of a comic book or cartoon, but here it was.
Forget Stacey and her "impossible" prom decision. The juiciest drama on campus today had nothing to do with romance. But only Alma - and the people involved - knew it. And they were the only ones who ever COULD.(less)