I'll talk and you'll talk, are we going anywhere?

I've noticed how conversation is so fickle. One moment it's up, the next it's down. Conversation also isn't just words, it has a certain flow to it. At one point, in every conversation, there is a key line, that sets how the rest of this dialogue will continue. After that point, it may alter some, another important point might be plotted, but it's still all been spawned from the special hit. I wonder why I've just realized this, I wonder why I'm bothering to say this. I don't know, maybe this will help with this play I'm supposed to finish. Anyways, sitting here, on a failure of a morning, conversation would be pretty nice.

"And I’ve been in your dreams
When I can feel that your mine
But you’re drifting away"
{Crazy Love, Monsters Are Waiting}

Thnk god

Everybody-
Writer's block gone. Good thing too. I've been itching to let loose some energy on paper. Now I can stop fidgeting with my Camera instead, which usually results in this:




Good thing that's over.
-Yaba

Missed the 10

Christmas eve
is not for me
The smell of dark
of longing
Fills the air while I walk these streets
All dirt and snow
All smoke and brine
My feet step slight
While my breath is weak
I'm screaming inside of my head
I wish you were here
Today of all days
So we could laugh
About the dull face
Of the streets washed with dead spirits
But I guess you're not coming
It's not strange, just severe

A message from moi

I've got a writer's block. I mean, I guess that's what I'll call it. I can still type. I can still talk. But poems? Those have all basically died and gone to hell. It's driving me crazy. Starting september, I had this amazing rush of excitement from compulsive song writing. Now, I think the barrel of creativity is completely ending. I can't think of anything, in short. The only way I'm about able to type this is cos I'm careful to not delete anything. Or reread it. If I do, I'll probably get mildy frustrated, and then save this as a draft. I wonder how it will turn out. If this is freaking crazy weird, I'm sorry. Reginald Vincent (the man in my head) has gone on vacation, and I doubt he'll have any great works of art coming out soon. Maybe the snow slows things down, dampens spark, maybe? It would be a sad conclusion, but at the moment I don't feel like blaming anything else. Beh. Laura and leah, have all begun to write amazingly. Laura is just a better writer than me in general, which I accept. Leah, has started to do these freeverse blips. And, just to get that out there, I SUCK at freeverse. Can't do it. Might have used to, at some point, but whatever gene or talent thing that was is now gone. Leah's writing is beautifully simplistic, and shockingly honest. I can't believe how authentic it feels. Laura is just too good. Clever. Complete wit. I just talk. I dunno. Eh. Gah. Beh. Bye.

Maybe i'm unconscious

Tired.
I wonder why the night is dead
And all these sick thoughts in my head
Sink in and out of order
Changing style
I've never felt this way before
Like thinking is a reckless chore
So maybe I should fall asleep instead?

Tired,
goes the rabbit
Dead,
goes the mouse
Creak,
go the floorboards underneath
the house.

Meow,
goes the pussycat
Rawr,
said the monster
I'm hoping for good dreams tonight, or all of you will suffer.

"...All of you will suffer."

what does it say?

There was a girl from Springfeild who was
asked to the prom by a guy who really, really
hated her. He did it on a dare, and the girl was
unaware of it. She used all her money to buy
a dress and a flower for his jacket. The dress
was as white as a cloud in a dream and the
flower was a red rose. She waited on prom night
for him to pick her up. instead he and his friends
drove by over and over while she waited on the curb,
holding the rose in her hand. Her dress
billowed in the wind and sucked up all the dirt
from the tires as the boys called her a ferret
and honked so all the neighbors would see.
she couldn't take it and the next time they drove by
she jumped out in the front. She went crashing through
the windshield and her dress fanned out in the
impact, suffocating them all. The rose

was not

damaged.

life line

Lucas: lol

its been 20 mins

i cant live without talking to u for 20 mins

all my mind could muster

Heyoo Ms. Ladyface
Don't you look so fine
Hey there little lady face
Would you know the time?

Your eyes are made of copper
Your lips shine bright as dimes
Hey there Ms. Ladyface
I'd love you to be mine

Come over here, I'll kiss you
Dance on over, my love
Walk away, (and) I'll miss you
Cos you're the brightest star above

Heyoo Ms. Ladyface
Have you got a man?
I want your love so badly,
Dear, try to understand

I watch you every day and hour
Searching for the clues
Hoping that you'll notice me
Something you never do

Come over here, I'll kiss you
Dance on over, My love
Walk away, (and) I'll miss you
Cos your the brightest star above
Yes you're the brightest star above.

Squares

Square after square after square after square after square after square after square after square after square after square after square after square after square after square after square.
Do the faces change? Do we think or feel? Or are we trapped?

Something I found on my arm.

It was late, I was tired. All I remember is waking up to find this, scribbled in pen on my left arm.

When I stare out my window
And look at the rain I think
"Damn, what a forsaken snowstorm."

Yeah, no idea what I could have been doing. But I guess sleep is wonderful in that sort of way.