rachelbegins: (Default)
I never said it was a good poem.  It's rough, it's uneven, it's ugly but it's honest.  And for that reason alone, I want to remember it.  This is for Nic, for Shan, for the few.  They know who they are.

catch my letters in a butterfly net,
try to pin them down but they flutter
into place on their own, wistful and
begging for you to just let them go,
to just trust them to lead you in the
right direction, despite the mist that
has covered your eyes.

and they fly, they still, they fall
into words and phrases that you
can't bear to look at, that you cover
with your hand, force your eyes to
the  sky.  but the words, they burn,
they are persistent and with that
same dull doubt you put your hands
to your sides, cast down your eyes
and read:

'forever is a notion that we will never
understand, something we will never
live to see.  but for now, it's enough
just to know that I've got you and
you've got me'
rachelbegins: (I'm not good or real)
So, according to my doctor, I have bronchitis, strep throat, and possibly mono.  I'm also not allowed to go back to school until, at the earliest,  Wed. of next week.  This isn't as surprising as you would think, seeing as I've been puking and coughing and just dying in general for days now.  More like a week, really.   Still, this is pretty much crap.  The first day of play practice is Wed. of next week, and if I'm not well enough to go.. well, I'm going anyway, but I'm gonna be really pissed off about it.  Just for the record.

Nic is about to finally get himself a car.  It's a Celica, with band stickers on the back and a 'Miranda' sticker on the window.  I'm kind of in love with it and we're friends with the guy selling it, so it's only $750 dollars.  As soon as he buys it, I'll put up pictures of me standing on the back because I'm lame that way.  I wanted to take it down to Charlottle with us, but Nic doesn't want to risk it.  It is an old car, after all. 

Guys, I finally filled up all my user-pic slots.  This is a big deal for me, I normally just use the same picture for everything.   I feel like I should use the space if they give it to me though,  so.

I'm working on like, 5 fics right now.  None of them are even half-way done, and I kind of hate myself for that.   When I say that I write all the time, I'm not exagerating in the least.  My pen is always to the paper, my fingers are always against these keys.  I don't know what else to do with myself, so I let the words fix things.  However, fic is a nice break from all my crazy and now that I'm not writing as much fic, I'm writing a surplus of poetry that doesn't make any sense and I hate that.  I like my fic, I miss it.  

It's late where I live, and I should be getting my rest since I'm so deathly and all.   But today, I slept until 3:30 in the afternoon, so I'm not even tired.  I should use this time to work on fic or something, but instead I'm gonna watch Will & Grace and pretend all my fic doesn't exist so it won't be mad at me for not writing it.  This is sad and crazy, but what can I do.

On that note, NIC:

He's my favorite.

And now I'm off to sleep.  <3

rachelbegins: (Default)
the warm spaces between your fingers
feel like infinity to me and I'm drowning
in the depths of your dreams. the tear of
water in my lungs, the tug of razorblades
scraping skin. it's the illusion of shadows
when things go bump in the night and the
guidance of stars that are just satellites,
leading us all in a circle around infinity
that just loops back to being lost in the
eyes of needles, unseeing and not caring
about whether you make it through or not.

pinpricks bleed drops of tears and you
cry acid, they leave trenches in their
wake, scars you'll never be able to forget
and the past is never far enough for you to
let it go.  chew on your nails until they bleed
and taste the salt with broken eyes. let it
leak into old wounds because you still feel
like hurting yourself for things you never had
control over.  tear yourself apart until you
don't know how to put yourself back together.

it's the feeling that your heart is smudged
around the edges and you don't know how
to make it into something beautiful. the
disappointment you feel eating an orange
and then biting into a seed, and well, I'm
content with being the paper plate you spit
the seeds onto.  I'm waiting here until you
finally decide that you need me again.

but there's an edge to your voice that
cuts through my control like the skip
of a record, throwing me off and making
me feel nostalgic for those days when
it was easier to breathe and I didn't
constantly feel like there was a knife
lodged between my shoulder blades.

it's the reassurance of speakers pulsing
against your fingertips in beat to the
only thing that can save you, it's you
and me and keeping the windows down
all year, feeling snowflakes against our
cheeks at 30 miles per hour, it's taking
the perfect picture right before the batteries
die and it's the soft weight of you on my
mind that can always keep me grounded.

or maybe this is all an illusion that I'm
afraid to let go of, maybe it's losing the
lyric book to your favorite CD, even though
you already know all the words, afraid of
forgetting what you swore you never would.
the strobe lights of ambulances at 2 in
the morning and feeling detached from any
kind of sympathy,  falling with your eyes
closed because even when you know they're
waiting, you can't look to see the rocks.

you are such a natural at being loved that
maybe you don't take the time to learn how
to love other people.  that could be your
biggest downfall or the last boost you need
to make it out of this alive.  whether it's good
or bad or we never know the difference, I'm
still waiting in infinity with my fingers keeping
yours company until you make up your mind

June 2009

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