Following the pathetic suit of the hundreds of other blogs having begun in this fashion, just let me warn you that this is nothing. Really, it's nothing. That's the only reason I posted it in the first place, because that's what I think of blogs in general: nothing. So, here goes.

Tonight I am taking the liberty of exploding my mind and all of its useless content onto your computer screen. [ Charming, no? ] And, on that note I just have to know what level of dysfunctionality is deemed acceptable in American society today. No, seriously. I've just stumbled upon the thought that sometimes people are crazy and we accept that. Why? More importantly, why is it okay for some people to be crazy and frightening for others? I think it's all deathly frightening. The thought of being beyond the point of self-control on any level of the word's definition: I'd rather be anywhere but there. [ Then again, I'd rather be anywhere but here. Who is to judge? ]

Moving right along, have you ever, while fumbling up to your own doorstep in pitch darkness, been more afraid of that which lies ahead of you inside your own home than that which lays beyond, in the unknown? Just a thought on late-night entrances, I suppose. Is the error in the scenerio or our perception of it? Is there an error at all?

Finally, what are we all hiding? I find it amazing the dirty little secrets every family, every team, every single person hides daily. It's exhausting, really, but amazing at the same time. It's amazing the charades that we all carry on, the sacrifices we make to do so, and the grace and elegance we exhibit in the process. How many holes are in the walls at your house tonight?


"Even good girls have secrets, ones their best friends must guess. Who do they turn to on lonely moon-shadowed sidewalks? I'd love to hear them confess who they become when night descends" - Crank by Ellen Hopkins

Somewhere beneath the smiles
are shadows,
burried in tears,
and shoveled into heaps of fear
hidden in corners.

[So many places to hide secrets,
but nowhere to hide my smiles.]

And deep beneath the laughter
I know there's truth,
truth I buried in shadows
I simply couldn't face
in light of my light.

[Too bright. Can't breathe.
Your "oblivion" suffocates me so.]

And deeper still there's a figure
long since forgotten,
long since seen the light
of truth, or smiles,
or God-forsaken laughter.

[It's not So cold when the lights go out.]

Sweetie, I wish I could have
found the words to explain that I am
[deathly] afraid of the dark.


Inspired by a conversation with a boy... a situation... an all-too-familiar let-down.

I write. Recently I wrote. Here it is: my grandmother is a fish.

Standing there, towering above her feet
I swore her words were falling into my lap
lips completely still; corpse-like
as she gazed at me, through me,
at nothing--

[and I swore I wouldn't cry,
and I didn't ]

Raindrops collected on my legs,
my arms, my very soul, everywhere
except my crimson cheeks.
Her eyes were cold.
My heart much colder--

[sometimes ice has a sobering effect,
sometimes opposite ].


I was twelve and she was real
and nothing mattered outside
the moment's bitterness,--

[ i was bitter ]

--denial.

And beneath the pretty letterhead,
amid the small-talk and muffled laughs
all too gaudy for my constitution,
lay the cold hard facts against
my deliberate submersion into oblivion:

Cancer.

[ok, I admit that red bandannas broke my heart
last week
and It isn't sewn quite yet ]


If only I were as brilliant as the man who inspired this. Kudos to anyone who recognizes my allusion in the title. He's brilliant. Inspiring [obviously]. I'm trying.