The Hole In My Stomach and Perhaps More

I've always been known as a worrier. My mother, my whole life, has been telling me that I worry too much. But finally its catching up with me. I'm eighteen and I have an ulcer...apparently this is something that may have happened before and I had never noticed. You see I had food poisoning last week and my stomach became very sensitive, especially since I wasn't eating much, so now this ulcer is super noticeable. I was doubled over in pain for most of the past few days, and had to suffer through my classes. The only good thing that has come out of this entire ordeal is that I've lost a few pounds. Ray has been fantastic, making sure I get good sleep, and anything else I need. Weekday mornings we normally wake up kind of early to get Anthony ready for school, but when the alarm went off on Wednesday Ray told me to stay in bed and try to get some more sleep. He did everything that morning. As far as today goes its much better. Funny though, everyone keeps asking what I'm stressed about and yet the only person that knows besides my mom is my ex-boyfriend.
Truth be told I'm too worried to tell Ray, perhaps making this hole even bigger.

finally new

I do believe that I confuse myself more than anyone else. But when it comes down to it, its always the same-It was never enough.
And thats the simplicity of it all.
The irony is now I refuse it to be as simple as I pretend, as simple as I try to make it, as simple as I claim it is. So now its all a jumble, and I can't fix it.
Perhaps its silly of us.
Do you think?


--in a little while, we'll only have to wave

perhaps i'm going insane

in an ocean of thoughts
that doesn't seem to end
and i wonder when i'll hit another shore
or maybe there is no more
maybe i've hit them all
rolling on these shores of sanity
where i should have stayed
but instead i've rolled back into this ocean
and is this ocean of thoughts truly an ocean
of my own insanity?

in loving remembrance

a slight wave of heat
over my brow
reminds me
of the anxiety attacks

the ripple before the wave
listen
you can hear, you can hear
it crash on me

a small whimper
a loud scream
you'll always know
remebering the terror

how frightening
how desperate

Straight from the source- My journal.

Private concerts that I didn't ask for. Trains in the distance. And my love is fully absorbed in himself and his music. I listen, whole-heartedly, wishing I could write. So, now again, of course I'm here. Practicing writing, dreaming of days when I'll have a pile of these. Beautiful photo albums. Heartwrenching diaries. Brutally honest journals. Dull, boring, exciting, fantastic. I don't care. I love. Love-existence. Existing fully, perhaps on itself. Times like these I know I can breathe and be full. Artistic, gorgeous. Wrapped in our sheets and love. Regardless of what other people say. They've really got no idea. (He shifts his music, I shift my body, both to be more comfortable and content) It's too bad that no one can see how it is. With me and him. There are sometimes when I don't see it either. But when I look at him and feel my smile, its no ownder I'm still madly in love. I say still, because this isn't a normal thing for me. I'm so consistent in my changing. So consistent that normally nothing lasts long. I've grown to love life that way but I find myself "settling" comfortably, happilly. Because I can see myself in ten years, still madly in love with him. I don't see it any other way. And I'm glad. I can do this. I believe in myself, in this love, in him. And I know he believes too. Not to say I've lost faith in change. Because I haven't for sure. I still believe it can happen and that it will always happen. But perhaps, not in the way that I love him. Because I believe in consistence with him. Patterns, schedules, that althought they may change my partner remains. Lovingly, happily. And no matter how much I dwell on the fact that no one else can understand, I still very strongly believe in it. And for once its good to believe in something. Especially something like this in all its beauty and all its terror.

To: You

I'm starting with this moment, and I'm giving it to you. You can have it. My mind is full. So you get all of that too. You get everything. Everything in this moment. Lucky you.

ill?

My body aches, it's amazing,
how it feels.
Broken and sick.
My heart beats,
incessantly,
annoyingly.
It's hot
and I feel the heat
flashing over my face
in uncontrollable waves.
Waves that will make me nauseaus
and parch my throat.

dream and breathe

Deep breath. Deep thoughts. But with no time to breathe I haven't been thinking. Haven't been writing. Luckily I've been dreaming. Perhaps not clearly and no where near lucidly, but at least vividly. I remember them, enough to try to make sense of them later. So I know I'm breathing in my sleep.

face to face

And now we come face to face with the creator of our asphyxiation.  It climbs over our mountains to feed on our small valley, lighting the night sky with its embers.
We smell it, we see it, we'll feel it.

dance metaphor for life

when my toes are bruised, my ankles swell, and my soles are sore i will still dance. when my feet bleed, my heart bleeds. but pain is only temporary. and i will still dance. my feet, though not beautiful, have character. they've lived, and they are strong. beauty is not strength, strength is beauty.

you know who you are

One day I'll say it anonymously, and you'll know its me.

mother

a broken plate with shards of glass that sticks to the soles of my feet. a crying child with empty tears that stick to his rosy cheeks. a temper without hesitation that twists the insides of myself. a patient hand with tiny cuts that twists when picking up glass. and it was all just a moment with angry breath and a tired child.

pompeii

Ashes are falling from the sky, and I think of Pompeii.  Smoke shades the lights, red is now the norm.  Smells like a barbeque, lost trees and dying brush.  It feels like last summer, and perhaps the summer before that, because it happens here.  We'll smell it in our sleep all night, smell it in our hair forever, we'll feel it on our skin, we'll feel it in our lungs, and it will short our breath- fire.

and the boys were lame

Venice, not Santa Monica

A boy
who thinks too much and tries too hard
the wrong way on the highway
a few missed exits
and here we are
foggy skies and cigarette smoke,
sunglassed eyes and the sun’s not out
the cool mist on the sea
is beginning to creep through the street
it hides the people with their beach trash art
and the music keeps playing
battles between every store
he’s still here
but i wish i were alone
my hand is sticky with humidity and he smiles
because he wants to hold it
i’ll put on my smile mask
and turn the other way

new chapter.

The blogs I've posted here are only in terms of my new chapter in life.  I've left out the old, the depressed.  If you're interested in those its a myspace thing, not here.

another

And another online psuedo diary, when I've never honestly kept one.  The thing is though, there's no reaosn for this unless I include older entries.  Which I will.  But let it be known that this date was the true beginning.  Welcome to my existence.

Lancaster is not California.

Beats. Kerouac. And what sounds like a book on tape. Lame acting where there's no actor. All about California, but what else is new? I know the difference between here and everywhere else. And that difference? Here its ours. Not really, but it seems so. And we believe it. That's all that matters. Here is ours. So what is here? Third Street? Hollywood Boulevard? Or is here just thirtieth and K? You don't know, I do. But I wouldn't tell. Because Lancaster isn't California.

power

Mountain tops, power lines, unreachable to us. And in our attempts to reach power we will knock down mountains and destroy our humble valleys.

terrible

days when people tell me how beautiful i am. days when people laugh with me and make me feel funny. days when i smile and everyone smiles back. these are the days i remember how terrible i've been.

uhm

Another Hood creation on a day thats been forgotten. And now more space and a dieing pen. I spilled ice water in my bed. But who else would care and why would I tell? Writing has lost its quench and my throat is still dry, my pen too. I want to cry. Some emotion. But not anger. With my Ludwig Van soundtrack and not a single tear. So much I could cry for, dead pens and my ice cold bed. Hot hands and tired eyes. The could be summer turned winter cold today. Unknown thoughts hididng back there. Back where? My head, duh. No more space for myself and too many months to hope with much thought. A hole in my stomach and I've no idea where it leads. Short sentence. Short thought. Welcome to the planet. Welcome to existence. Welcome home? I want something. An unknown desire that pulls at me: cautious of cliches, and no longer writing for writings sake.