writer's block for my mouth.

I can feel words forming with all of the little cells in my blood, flowing and ebbing through my body, but they get lost somewhere in my veins. Somewhere in the clutter of hope, they get stuck. I'm betting they're in my lungs, building a clot until I can never speak again. I want to force them out, even if these words are rolling down my cheeks in a stream of salt, staining my face. I don't care I just want this void to stop growing, I don't want to feel this way - apathy, hopelessness, whatever it is I just need to get it out. I have to write it until my fingers curl with pain, until my eyes weigh heavy with sleep. I just need to find this peace of mind. There are two minds in me, the one with wits, safe under my skull, and the one my heart has secretly been growing, cultivating a war between my logic and my hopes. I'm the queen of wishful thinking, no doubt about that. I'm probably crazy.
frig.

I just need a good sigh, I just need too exhale all these worries and build my stable ground.
I don't want to depend on anyone anymore. I've come to understand, especially these past weeks, that what I wanted could be more of a headache then anything else.
I'm not searching, rather I'll just move about with my life, putting the pieces of myself back together, sorting out my past to create my future. I really honestly do want to end up in Boston, a bay window overlooking the city, leaning on the molding, hands wrapped tightly around a coffee mug and a glance back to see whoever plato's intended "other half" snoozing on a bed or something.
bleeeeeh.
I contradict myself don't I?
I need to sleep, 8 a.m. classes means 6 a.m. bus rides.

no wonder people are afraid to show their kindness, it's because people rip it apart and chew it up until there's nothing left but a cold guarded person.

I refuse to fall away with the rest of them, I won't let hope or sweetness die.
I can't.

mother fucker.

Everyone around me has what I want.
what the fuck life? get on board already.

And I'm starting to feel like a god damn machine then a human being, I think people have forgotten what emotions are, and when I say no, I fucking mean NO.
No one respects my emotions, no one respects my words.



stay cold.

write write write.
write until these hands are shaking, these fingers are sore and my eyes weigh heavy.
fall like bricks.

I want to find sleep.

I'm looking gross lately.

Everyone left behind me has someone, when is it going to be my turn.

I feel so disappointed in myself.
Woke up this morning with a set of swollen eyes and 3 bucks short.

I keep saying tomorrow is a new day, but soon tomorrow will become today and I'll have no tomorrows left.

quite honestly, being alone isn't as frightening as I thought it'd be.
I think I like it, I like figuring out all my own desires rather then pleasing someone elses', for now.


Doesn't mean I don't miss it, I'd give anything for a set of strong arms that care.

“Best not to mix the past with the present. The present paints the past with gold. The past paints the present with lead. When I run backwards I feel the desperation rise. Best for me to hurtle headlong into the present. Never look back. Maybe catch on fire if I do it right. That’s all there is-the Right Now. If we don’t plant ourselves in the front row of the present, I predict that if any of us reach old age, we’ll be sitting on the front porch thinking, “Damn, shoulda burned all the temples. Screamed, danced and dragged life through the coals”. I align myself with life’s brutal headlong lunge towards Death. I am in motion at all times. Waging war with Exhaustion. Winning some and losing some.”

--Henry Rollins


http://www.formspring.me/britannyx

see, it's been around forever.

what do I like to do;

think.
sleep.
wonder.
imagine.
be around people.
write.
read.
contemplate.
sing.
play.
be outside under the night stretched sky.

i don't even know.

ask me any/everything

http://www.formspring.me/britannyx

actually, fuck it.

I miss myself more than you.