3:40:00 AM

good morning. good night. is it really a good morning? well, it was a lovely night.

i remember a few months back. i was sitting outside my sister's classroom waiting for
her to get out of practice when i turned to my left and this is what i saw: two cute sophomores staring at their reflection in a classroom window. oh how cute and in love they looked. i was so jealous. i instantly thought to myself and whether or not i ever had that. whether or not i was ever truly happy with any one individual i had feelings for. the answer i had for myself-no, i don't i have ever experienced such content happiness in the most positive connotation of the phrase.

you know what. i cant even continue this past train of thought. i'm too angry with the voices of ignorant adults bickering in the other room. they seem to always make me feel annoyed and the complete opposite of feeling at ease. i have to constantly be aware, just to make sure that things don't turn violent. the static is always there, the anxiety of the variations of anger is always there. the annoyance, the dumbfoundessness of every single phrase they spit out of their mouths is utterly astonishing. you'd be amazed if you were here. you'd be just as angry as i if you were here. if anyone was here. any audience could hear this for five simple minutes and understand it all. the hostility. the pain. the anger. the disappointment. everything.

i'm dizzy, i have to lay down.

nevershoutnever

sparks inspiration in my heart.
"all the small time people with all their big
remarks don't got jack to say.."

"you might think i'm incapable..you might think i'm a fool.."

let's just drop down quotes, yeah? i don't feel like thinking but each and every one of these songs leave residue on my heart. an additional layer to the yarn surrounding my red heart. the kind that you can make with your pointer fingers and thumb. the kind that, with the simplest finger gestures, means so much, yet so little if the people change.

the wind is calling for you to move your basket so the flowers don't fall. can you see through my looking glass? or shall i rock until i get lucky on my wooden horse? or, wait should i sin until i receive a vision from god to be different, then try to become a preacher, and at the very last second, change it all the become an artist? i could do all of those things, and i will. but in my own twentieth century structured literature. thank you joyce.

if you look closely to the skin on my hand, it looks like a desert. is it barren as well? or is there some sort of life to it all? can hands reflect the heart as they do age? if so, could mine truly be all dried up? or just in need of a little watering?

i love never shout never. he makes me believe in fantasy and true love, and soul mates and all those other cliche` façades.

"i'll sit back and i'll watch the show, and i'll make wake and watch the stars as they collide"

"i don't breathe the way i used to"