The third beginning, spontaneous yet again. My fingers are growing tired of writing unexpected goodbyes. Hoping that this one as all the others, you might be able to give your fingers a break. If all goes well, you finally feel as though you won’t have to perform the walk of shame back to the cave. The cave that you seem to have a love-hate relationship between. When you open that blank page and your pen begins to act, your spirit knows what you are about to overwhelm that sheet with.
Sometimes I wonder if my journal weeps or if my journal can no longer take the melancholy I leave it with. I dedicate it to those pages because I sure as hell know I cannot hold onto these devastating but seemingly routine heartaches. It’s no wonder we aren’t in tune with our emotions, why feel? All it will leave me with is misery.
I’ve come to the conclusion, that all I will continue to become is a professional at writing about idealism. What some of us don’t even know what we want nor can identify what we want. Unfortunately, you’d think that being in tune with your emotions so much would be something everyone would desire. Sorrowfully, as I have grown older, I’ve learned that humans have been so destroyed, damaged and consumed by mirroring those around them. Not even aware that isn’t who they are, this isn’t who they want to be nor even thinking of the consequences of their actions. Not only for themselves but, for those around them.
So many LGBT youth and young adults, don’t realize the pain we cause one another, how bad cheating, lying, deception, abandonment fucking hurts. Leaving these kids to fall to the wayside, broken as if you left a pipe bomb in their bed seconds after you came, like you didn’t leave them dis shelved enough? Think about that. Now you have blood on your hands.
An open letter to you, and to the next person that comes along.
In the wake of enormous cataclysm, it hurts and then we forget....most of us.
melting but, pulsing like icicles during a mid-winter storm.
every night between three and four in the morning, just before the light shines through my window.
What no one tells you about Lana Del Rey and Codependence relapse in your twenties.
An open letter to the one his forever love.
I'm almost over midway through my twenties, and I'm more lost than I have ever been.
A swan was never meant and should never have to sing solo.
swans weren't meant to sing solo.