unfinished, incomplete & unworthy

currently restless & this sort of just... came out.

This life can be a rat race
& I've lost almost all my bets.
Sometimes i just cant face it
& I spend all day in bed,
thinking this life is full of strife
& how I just wish it would end,
that's when I think about my friend
& when I first heard the words "he's dead."
My brother had so much to give
but he just couldn't stay ahead
of his emotions,
his depression,
& the ghosts of past mistakes
incessant wailing in his head.
It must have been unbearable,
so my sun chose to quit instead.
His heart could not endure the pain
that some mindlessly shed,
his mind could not see relief ahead
in anything but death.
They say only the good die young
but words are just a waste of breath,
attempting validation
for a loss that makes no sense.
It's no beautiful tragedy,
no "better place" pretense,
there's no filling the vacuum in space
created when he left
except with this sinking feeling permanence,
spreading out tangible emptiness.
I know this abandonment is permanent.
Though I pray you found the peace you sought,
all I have left to hold is grief,
memories that time has worn & faded,
& wishes for your safe release
into love that lasts forever,
a love reserved for the deceased.

maybe one day i'll come back to finish this...

the bad boy complex

what drives desire? perhaps it is a chaotic blend of percolating pheromones & society's covert conditioning that attracts one person to another. desire may be purely chemical or emotional but regardless of the driving force, the complexities are evident.

i've recently realized that despite these natural, hormonal factors & my own experienced, logical analysis of prospective partners, the attributes of the ones i most desire hardly ever compute with the total sum of parts of the ideal mate i have created in my head. i have been faced with these circumstances on multiple occasions & each time my mind has shouted distress signals which my foolish heart ignores as it laughs in the face of danger. one might even think i am a glutton for punishment. my tastes in men quite often reflect the self-destructive streak that so prominently characterizes many of my actions & subconsciously subscribes to the Good Girl Vs. Bad Boy mentality. even with the terms "good" & "bad" being loosely defined, it all seems to spell out TROUBLE in the end.

in fact, i do make informed decisions & keep in mind what is best for me, but oftentimes the wrong decision seems much more appealing. so who am i to pass judgment or blame on the subject of my affections when they fail to surprise me & cannot surpass their natural disposition & continue to be precisely the person i expected them to be? the choices i make are my own & i am the only scoundrel that should be held accountable for them. i know what i am getting myself into. i know exactly what these tremulous waters have in store for me, exactly what dangers lurk beneath the soul's surface... even so, i hope not to bash my head against jagged rocks as i dive headfirst into calamity.




they say a clear sign of insanity is doing the same thing & expecting different results.

check

i tend to make lists when i want to get things accomplished. the list must be written on crisp, clean paper; clear, bold declarations of my intentions written neatly & succinctly. the list is to be displayed prominently in an eye-drawing location to serve as a constant reminder of the tasks at hand. my lists serve to ease my anxiety, although sometimes they only perpetuate my feelings of helplessness; there is so much i need to do & most times i feel as if i am incapable... but usually, compiling a list gives me a sense of control over my life. i feel empowered as i write down my agenda, planning realistic goals to achieve. i envision them as obstacles to overcome, missions to complete, or enemies to vanquish. they are made more permanent on paper, tangible. i review my list frequently. i add notes to my bullet points, an addendum here, a revision there. i write & i rewrite & revise & rewrite... until the time comes that, with great satisfaction, i cross them out. one thick line. a whimsical check mark. baby steps for an adult.

personal satisfaction

i want to write a lot more often than i actually sit down to do it. i guess i always doubt that i have something interesting to write about. i've never attempted the short story & frankly i dont think i could even do it. writing to me is more cathartic than anything, i write to get things off my chest & usually it turns into ambiguous rants about my life. i used to write poetry, if you could even call it that. i always felt extremely uncomfortable sharing it with anyone other than rosanna. my thoughts seemed to revealing to risk sharing with anyone other than my best friend. that was a long time ago, i cant even remember the last time i tried to work on a poem or some sort of prose. my life was way more dramatic back then, or at least it seemed that way when i was 18. i remember when my friend vera & i would sit on aim & write together, lyrics for our fantasy band, that is how i started writing things for myself. looking back, it was all very cliche.

two nights ago, i wrote my ex a long myspace message telling him the whole truth about how i've felt since our breakup & our attempts to remain friends. i dont think i have ever regretted clicking the "send" button so much in my entire life. i meant everything that i wrote, but i realized that writing it out was all i needed to make myself feel at ease with the situation. as it turns out, through some sort of myspace miracle, the message was never sent out into the inter-verse. i think it was life's way of telling me that i dont always have to affect someone else with my emotions for them to be validated.