Ala Sandman

They say that there are times in life where we must either change, or die.

Does running away count as changing?

I'm a genius

It all makes sense. Finally. Maybe those pills and that headache and the way my knees gave when I stood, shook the delusion out of my system; a slow breaking and mending of blood and bone.

I'm not that love of your life-lie that you can't forget or forgive yourself for leaving -or hurting, for that matter. You seem to be perfectly fine, forgetting and leaving and hurting, over and over and over again. I really am just that back up you run to everytime you need to confirm any bit of self-worth that arrogance of yours lets slip; a test of tears and stupidity. "The girl (you) run to whenever (you) need to feel special" "a lifesaver."

And what happens to me? What happens when I need to feel? What happens when I can't find the strength in me to stay afloat, when I can't seem to weave my way through Manila traffic?

Nothing.

And that's..okay..really, it is..everything is just..okay..

Phrases, phrases; like phases of her faces

fingers stumbling, backspacing into casual conversation
left reeling with so little of myself to hold onto..again, that is
feet bumbling into a strange pitter patter of a trance,
lips pursed into a cold, hard secret
front limbs dangling by a shoulder, each

taken apart from the inside out, slowly, all too familiar in form

I need

..to write; free of complications, assumptions, aggravations, and Assumption, really -that close-minded convent can just break into two and drop straight dead to hell, as far as the freedom of speech activist in me is concerned..to write; like a soft kiss dropped onto the curve of your perfect cheek, like an "iloveyou" left tingling on your neck, like my hands sinking and floating and running across that skin..to write; like a promise beneath sheets, and giggles and sighs that never get far past the walls -or so we'd like to think, like my fingers laced in yours -but never for too long.

And this is why I fall into fiction, time and time again..because I've gotten too used to weaving in and out of lives like Manila traffic.

The convenience of forgetfulness

Times like this I wish I could indulge in vices other than alcohol -although some Vodka'd be good, too; and not hate myself.

For now, I'll indulge in you..and the half smiles you manage to get me to remember, in the secrecy of one-sided conversation.

Straightjackets are so in this season

I'm the girl who's played the supporting role; I'm the one who'll slam into the spotlight. Want to uncomplicate things? Tell me you love me. Wait no don't..I've walked into this scene, before. So don't..you can't; your sketch says you never say anything you mean. You just run to me when you need to feel special -not that I mind..all I'm out to be, is part of your life.

Go ahead, drive me insane.

Well this is dumb dumb dumb dee dumb dee dumb. Well what do you expect? Where's that little brain of mine, why, flying off to Frisco with a single luxury line passenger on, everytime -three guesses who.

No, not her. Not her. Not him!!

Oh lookie lookie, you've already driven me way past insane..silly little pieces of my system that you've shot straight through, off to Frisco, jetstreaming with you.

It's called The Notebook syndrome

A love suns couldn't set and rules couldn't right..I keep what I promise on single-starred nights. Almost a year since my head and my heart were all too viciously torn apart.

On breaking the hiatus

Maybe I'm a sucker for punishment; maybe you're too dense to care. This could very well be evident in the way I parade the shitty end of the stick -or the short end of the shit stick. I'm well aware of how I'm not alone in this struggle against consequence; there are enough complications to go around and I might've spoke of them best when I admitted I think..I really think I literally went insane..

When exactly are the Fates supposed to conspire with me? I've gotten sick of how they've missed their cues -and I swore on so many wishing stars that I'd uncovered a whole new plateau; one that didn't deal with tear-stained pillows or nostalgia or suffocating screams into an empty house.

Stupid, stupid girl; you don't waste wishing stars on swears.

Blogspot hiatus

See you when I see you.

A total wuss

I'd tell you the truth -the whole truth and nothing but the truth, if I was the slightest bit sure that I could get you to forget about the world. Why can't it be as simple as

.."I adore you more than anyone probably does..because I do cartwheels in my head (and somersaults in my stomach) at the slightest touch, and remember everything you say you'd rather forget. Sometimes I wonder if you know how amazing you are, and I always wish I could be the one to remind you of how amazing you are. Do you want me to? To adore you and cartwheel and somersault and remember and wonder and wish? Please tell me you do."

.."I do."?

Why can't it? Because I swear I do..adore you and cartwheel and somersault and remember and wonder and wish, that is..and I can't keep it up, much longer..not without you and not with these aching shoulders and flimsy ankle.

In other news, I still cannot..deal with these demons.

All or nothing

Clap, clap. I don't want to do this crumbling and grumbling and stumbling all over my words. Right now, all I've got sticking to my teeth are fear and inadequacy..not the sweetest aftertaste, you can imagine.

I'm out to hit

This is all the poetry I can't fit into conversation
-I hate the way you make this feel.
Because you know there's this one question
I'm losing grip over, completely
and sometimes I think I'd die
to give you that straight-shot answer.
I should tell you I'm tired of cover ups
and I'm sick of how it's never your name
-or mine, but that's a whole new miracle.
You'd think the world would hear right
or give it up;
but all I'm out to do is tell you, somehow.
Would it kill you to know that I..
I think you're more than all I want?
I'm sorry but I think you're the
comet-tailed shadow spark,
the one that hit that mark, head-on.
And I'd apologize for a million other things
-a million other things that I think
make you more like everything
(or more than everything),
honestly..
cause who am I, now that everyone's watching?
And all eyes are on you, no doubt.
How do I get to you, now?
Would it kill you to know?
Cause it's been killing me, nice and slowly

Y'know what,

I think..I really think I had something to say..but I left it all back at "don't worry." Would it be so wrong of me to say "worry"? I'd love to tell you to worry..just because I'm out to win. But it's wrong of me to want to sound so selfish. People never tell you to worry when they secretly want to make you

..worry, that is.

Watch your back, because one way or another..you'll have to. I'll see to it that you do, because this is a pendant of you and how I'm hoping it's a game of me, too. Worry. It's silver, and it's gorgeous and priceless -like that last smile you'll ever catch.

I'd tell you, now; loud and clear, tell your friends, tell the queen -if it's off with my head for this little scene; nothing would make a rotting corpse so happy as to make you worry like you're alive. So worry. All of you, please. Because I'd kill to keep this breathing. And I'm serious.

Some people don't know what they want out of this lifetime..sometimes I think I do and sometimes I think some people won't understand, some people never will, some don't want to, and some shouldn't.

Scream it into sense

I caught the blue light.It killed all need for sleep.
So now what? Now what? Now what?
Now, what?
I'm running out of answers
I could use some of yours.

Purge, for lack of explanation

Lights dim, curtains open. We cut to the chase; a raw, mess of things. To the left are the amateurs who proceed to stutter their lines into nothings -one word is heard, the audience is left unfeeling, the others reeling. She pauses. "This can't be right"; a royal mess of things. The colors flicker before it's back to black and that infamous deadly silence. There are no lines, no cues, no songs on the old piano. It's that infamous deadly silence, cutting through her reserve and slicing into rehearsals. The lump in her throat tells her to shy away from the spotlight into a hard and fast exit, stage right.

The final stretch

Please don't mind us;
we're just trying to keep
a thing called isyus
alive.

Hello, please, neon light district

You've got every inch of silver up in you, to shoot me down..and if that isn't enough, I have this sinking feeling I'll be guiding your hand towards the trigger on that very night.

Pick up the phone

She's out to write, like a soul in torment..with words like butterfly wings. Whatever, wherever, whoever she may gather must be drawn into her, completely. She's out to write, like a man possessed, like a woman in love and a child being flung into reality..before she forgets, completely.

There are no detours, no roads cut off or locks left unopened..all there is, is today, and time, and her lack of memory; none, that is, to spare for ignorant fools' ill-spoken criticisms. We, after all, are creatures of time, subject to regret and forfeit..all she has left in her are words meant to leave a mark (or scrape one or two off her conscience). Words to encompass all emotion, to escape all shortcomings, to ease all hurt and highlight all of that lack of memory..which, in easy comparison to all, are enough.

Fall into fiction

I'm thinking about it; about that night and the words that may have slipped and the times when gravity compensated for my lack of control. I'm thinking about them, and thinking about you. It's cold and raining, and I'm thinking about you. My hair's a mess, I've got one earring, and I'm thinking about you. Coldplay's, well, playing..that bridge in Clocks; I've got a book entitled "Wendy" staring me in the face, and I'm thinking about you. My cellphone monitor's a bright blue, but it's not you..and I'm thinking about you. I'm a little too lonely out here, my mom drove me out with "Gone With The Wind", and frankly my dear, I give a darn..about you? Is there any reason left to doubt?

Because right now, I'm ripping my senses to shreds..I'd much rather come apart at the seams than be this way; pathetic and hardly strong enough to maintain my resolve. I'd sworn to give you up so much more than once, but all I need to do is think about you.

You and your bright eyes and how I would've told you, last night. You, with that feel-good smile, the one that gets me everytime? Yes, you! Yes, it's pathetic (it always has been) and it's true; how it'd kill me if you knew.

Note to self

No more fcuking alcohol.
Ever again.

I'm cheesy; it's disgusting

Tell me when you're here, I can't see past regret. Tell me how I wrote "Welcome to Hell" on the front porch, that night. Look around at all we've done; infinities to dissolve ourselves in, I suppose? Those friends that resemble harlots, screeching profanities like oxygen in the air..the ways we can't find to fix everything we've claimed to misplace.

What's with this world and secrecy? I'm sick of it, and crazy, besides. .I'm never in it for the scandal. But all I've got are a couple of worn out wings and a closet full of cobwebs to keep 'em in.

That oblivion wrapped around your skin

Is this pathetic yet?
Well, that's what I do best.

It's all we've got

..secrecy, to live and die in;
in place of people we'd learn to exist without.

It's bad enough we get along so well

Why do we have to raise Hell upon ourselves? What inner demons posses us to keep ourselves chained to this numbing limbo; this unbearable in-between? Why do we tell our souls not to love? Why do we forsake "what if"s for compatibility? I'm tired of assumptions, I'm tired of stealing glances, I'm tired and tired and tired, and sick of being tired!

Where is that comfort in your secrecy? I must digress, I see none in my own..but in every second that I may, through the subtlest means, steal away; there, I see the spaces above contentment, beyond pacification.

For that, I will curb my assumptions. For that, I will be a thief, a master of the trade and legend in its skill..regardless of fatigue and discouragement and frustration

You don't have to be like this

Why're you so stubborn, and why won't you let me in? I'm all over every emotion you lash out, like a sad little girl doting over dolls. What're you afraid of? I'd take care of you; of everything..isn't that obvious? Don't I, already, whenever you tug back the slightest bit?

..all you have to do is jump. I, on the other hand, have to keep this impatient little pump in my ribs alive and beating.

This conversation never happened

I am ready to burst, at the seams.

This can't be healthy

I honestly think I like you more than I've ever actually liked anyone, before. You don't even see what you do; my heart in my stomach and my stomach in knots. I can't even get to you the way they do. What do I have to do to get inside of you? I'll do anything..be anything, to be yours.

Who am I kidding, I already am yours..you've got me, undeniably.

It's been months of calling you amazing, from afar..and, somehow, the months don't matter half as much as one smile. Everytime.

So here's the script

A black SUV is out, in the rain; the poor thing, with its headlights suffering past sleepiness. Jack is inside, tap tap tap, drumming his fingers lazily along the dashboard. She's been in there for hours, now.

Maybe he'll watch how every raindrop that crashes onto the window swerves and collides into the others. Maybe he'll try and predict which one the latest member of the crew is bound to fall into. Maybe she'll finally get her sorry ass and jet-black hair out of that whore-house.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Jack..whew, some party", she sighs, out of breath. It's a happy sigh; the mere fact that she had the courtesy to apologize meant she got what she had come for, a nice sloppy kiss off that cute boy at gym class or that girl with pink highlights at the bowling alley, Jack never knew anymore, Jack couldn't keep up.

"Anya had a whole shitload of drinks..not those cheapo ones we score for our little get-togethers, mind you. Real hard hitting, throat burning, fine stuff, y'know? God, she's loaded. Those kids get anything they want like that" (insert synchronized snap.)

Just like you. "Mmm? Did you say something, Jack?" Nothing.."I love you."

La vie

Watch, as songs drift into the air. Past the turn tables, a fragment of a voice will call to your bottom lip. It is a wild shadow of a girl who never learned to dream. She was, though, once convinced that she had felt the very edges of a starry-eyed man's cloak. Daydreams never count for anything, especially considering she has fifth period Bio.

Excuse me, I have no reason to keep. You do little more than add to my lack of sleep. If it's talk, then talk; I see no reason. I have none, after all, to keep. Or so we say, indifferently.

You have no idea; no desire to inquire

..a steady build-up of everything I've learned to take in, so convincingly. When'd we lose count of the people we regret? You're everywhere, now, what am I out to do with you? I've finally done it. I've finally shot up every blushing pulse.

All the options in the world, and here I am..with a complete lack of feeling.

Listen;

I'm caught reeling, so regrettably,
between the annex of time and space.
Beyond the seventh seal
of a heart unaccounted for,
there is a drumline of nothings.
It is the third.
And the fourth.
And the fifth.
Listen; I'm stacking them up so effortlessly,
with no sense to care.
There are beats,
but none ever strike hard
right past the left shoulder
..and I have no wish to leave any mark whatsoever.
Bruised limbs, soul long worn-out beneath sheets,
they find all consolation in the lack of idle time.

She's a shooting star, that's all

Here's some advice; don't go picking a fight.
You'll be lucky to make it out alive.

It'd drive you mad, hatter

Secrecy..the open arms we find ourselves cradled in, when faced with a sudden lack of confident disclosure.

Watch yourself..I'm out to block the shot.

One poof of the waffle crust

Something wasn't right in the way that he spoke. She couldn't hear past his sentences, or read between his words. Nothing poured out like old literature and wine skins; nothing made her see oceans and galaxies of stardust and Spanish chocolate. He, of course, was perfectly acceptable -more than enough, in all her friends' eyes (and he was, undoubtedly, in their eyes pretty often)..but there are certain times and certain hearts wherein that in itself is hardly, well, acceptable. It wasn't his fault, of course..it is never one's fault to be born with that thing between your legs.