melancholy-dreamer

I. i like to pull the sheets over my head and terrify myself with thoughts of success. is this how the great poets felt?  i wonder. were they, too, dominated by feelings they didn't understand, emotions too big for words? is every work a magnum opus on a greater cosmic scale than the last? and i feel suffocated by my own expectations and the knowledge that i can meet them. i am crushed by pretentiousness; bohemian ideals rip my soul to shreds. in those early hours, my muse flees on moonbeams and my heartbeat flutters in iambic pentameter but the words don't come. beautiful thoughts do not make one a beautiful person, and writing self-indulgen

it was a year ago last tuesday when you went away. i miss you so much, so much it hurts, but what can i do? we are done and you are gone and grass is green and the symbol for gold is au and these are all facts and wishing the sky were purple doesn't change a damn thing. everything feels wrong because you are here but you are also not. your ghost is around me all the time, in the memories seeping out of the cardboard box that's still in the hallway waiting for you to pick it up and the picture of you in my wallet that i can't bring myself to get rid of. (you know, i did always love a man in uniform) i think that you'll be happy t

this started as an itch         a nagging feeling that made me squirm but it grew into a pull that I couldn't ignore         [I feel like metal pulled to an MRI machine] for a long time the ache was sweet and numb         like the hazy effect of novocaine and morphine but now it just [hurts] makes me look away         [when did my feelings become like the accident victims brought into the ER?] you used to make my heart go crazy         a roller-coaster between         tachycardia         bradycardia         beating slow and sweet and fast and warm but now I don't know what I'm doing because you make me so angry som

I think that this is going to kill me. After all, how can people live when they just keep cutting away pieces of themselves and throwing them on paper to see what sticks? How can I be whole when I feel the missing part? How can we keep going when we don't have the thing that fuels us? How do I keep it together when this notebook and all the writing in it is just pieces of me? I have fallen from that place I want to be, sunk to these levels of hopeless musing and pathetic cliches. When did I get here, this state where everything is disgusting and nonsensical? It must have been when I first loved you.

Sometimes it hurts me to look at you because I cannot stop imagining how we could be. Pictures flit across my brain, and it hurts because I know it will not be. I have wished to be a few years older or for you to be a few years younger. God, have I wished. But I know that if wishes were horses, these still wouldn't come true. I feel like a child planning her dream wedding. I don't know any of the specifics of it, but I know you are there, waiting for me at the altar. I wish this ache would leave, but it seems that it is here to stay, burrowing into my chest more deeply every day.

They say we associate smells and sounds with memories. I wonder what I will feel, walking down the street, when I hear you laugh. What will I do when I smell you or feel a stranger in denim brush against my fingertips? I think I will stop in the middle of the sidewalk and relish the ache in my chest. I will inhale, breathing in deeply, and feel the cold air, permeated with your scent, stinging my sinuses. I will close my eyes and feel you hug me, I will feel you take my hand and adjust my frame. I will feel your hand at my waist as we waltz slowly. Then my eyes will open, all of my senses heightened. I will see you out of the corn

What is it about you that compels me to speak? You make me wordy and long-winded, these pathetic praises flowing from my mouth like bad Chinese food that won't stay down. They don't make Pepto Bismol and 7-Up for this, verbally upchucking almost every thought of you that crosses my mind. For a while I lose my appetite, but them I am hungry again for more. I have become a masochist, pleading for punishment. I am only torturing myself with this. I cannot stop. What kind of twisted relationship has this become? The worst part is that I know you love my poetry, almost as much as I love to hear about it. But these are the pieces of me

I see you through rose-colored glasses, all of your faults invisible through this haze. There are a few things I cannot stand about you, although I would never change them. I wince every time you crack your knuckles. I can't believe how happy you are all the time. You completely tower over me when we hug. You never seem to hear me when I speak. You always bring out the very worst in me. I become loud, obnoxious, and tactless. I hate this version of myself, this malfunction. Around you I turn hateful and jealous, even though I don't have the right to be possessive. I have no rights when it comes to you.

You put the spring in my step, the happy tune in my whistle, the tremors in my hands, the butterflies in my stomach, the smile on my face, the extra twirl in my dance, the blush on my cheeks. You make me ecstatic, giddy, joyful, excited, dizzy, euphoric, elated, delighted, gleeful, glad, pleased as punch, gay, cheerful, and a thousand other words that cannot describe my happiness. Around you I feel foolish and awkward and drunk on your presence. I feel embarrassed and strange and absolutely wonderful. I am on cloud nine, walking on sunshine, over the moon, in seventh heaven, on top of the world, in paradise with stars in my eyes