oneword.com

I wake up to do better, but I keep forgetting that by the middle of the day. I’m all gung-ho at six AM – gonna get up and do better. Then I press the snooze and sleep until nine.

Posted By Hyperbole On 06.07.2011 @ 2:48 pm

Today my face is painted on. I’m not painted, but the only features I have are. I have no eyes that you have not put there. I have no nose but the one you brushed on my skin in navy oils.

Posted By Hyperbole On 06.06.2011 @ 5:32 pm

My mom is buying frames to make into mini chalkboards. I want one, but I don’t know how I’ll get it back across the country to my school dorm. What a dilemma.

Posted By Hyperbole On 06.04.2011 @ 4:30 pm

Radiohead is stuck in my headradio. I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo. I don’t belong here. Why you gotta be so mean? Whoops. How’d Taylor Swift get in here?

Posted By Hyperbole On 06.03.2011 @ 2:30 pm

You have this backpack, right? And it’s all full of the things you’ll need. But then you start packing them empty spaces full of rocks. How dumb is that? But that’s what you’re doing every time you do something to make your life harder – like befriending me. I’ll just be a rock in your pack.

But I’ll definitely rock that pack.

Posted By Hyperbole On 06.02.2011 @ 10:12 am

“This is the most boring word ever,” thought the water as it flowed out of the canister that smelled of copper and river minerals and over the keyboard. “I’ve lived in a canteen for months and there isn’t much you can say about ‘em that’s interesting.”

Posted By Hyperbole On 05.27.2011 @ 9:53 am

Ha ha, today was the Rapture. We all felt the true meaning of wrath, didn’t we? It’s so interesting when people who don’t have all the information pretend that they do . . . wonder how Harold Camping is enjoying his second Rapture.

Posted By Hyperbole On 05.21.2011 @ 4:09 pm

You’re a slave to my long eyelashes and the mole on my cheek that could just be a speck of eyeliner, except it’s shaped like a little pentagram if you look close enough. Loving me is conflicting whiplash. I’ll throw you every time I blink.

Posted By Hyperbole On 05.18.2011 @ 7:32 pm

There’s a hurricane warning until 12:15 tonight. If you’re in an actual house, go to the lowest level. If you’re in a trailer, sucks to be you. Hopefully you’re a pretty fast runner. Otherwise you’re pretty much dead. Just FYI.

Posted By Hyperbole On 04.27.2011 @ 7:45 pm

I like ‘em strange – I like that intersection of bizarre and universal that steals your breath while you’re trying to hit the high note. Way up in the planetary unknown.

Posted By Hyperbole On 04.26.2011 @ 10:23 am

Bashing down the structured staffs – thrumming thunder guitar and scraping screech violins. And lyrics that don’t make sense sung by vocalists who can no longer speak.

Posted By Hyperbole On 03.26.2011 @ 10:12 am

There are a hundred different flavors in this whispering campaign, however, with your new perspective on steampunk that might not matter much. With your aviator goggles, bustle and bomber jacket you’re all set – what use could you have for scintillating chocolate-flavored whispers with sprinkles and a dollop of whipped cream on top?

Posted By Hyperbole On 03.24.2011 @ 5:23 am

Waking up with a gasp that shoots deep into my soul, in a cold sweat, with the shakes and a line above my eyebrow that won’t go away – don’t worry about it, it’s just policy. Nothing to worry about – personal policy.

Posted By Hyperbole On 03.22.2011 @ 10:29 am

It’s snapping at your heels and it’s too late for this. It’s too late – three AM – and it’s too late – the train has left its station. It’s snapping at your heels, but you’re too late. So kick it in the face and move on.

Posted By Hyperbole On 03.15.2011 @ 7:50 pm

I’m so obsessed with your snake-blue tentacles. They wind through my every waking thought. I long to feel them wrapped so-tight-I-can’t-breathe against my skin, but no matter how I hunt you with my butterfly net, you’re always out of reach and I’m left singing myself to sleep.

Posted By Hyperbole On 03.12.2011 @ 6:50 pm

There’s a dead bee on the back dash. It’s cut in half, but they’re together still so I guess it counts as a whole bee even though it’s been halved. It’s been there forever, but since bee bodies don’t stink, I guess that’s all right.

Posted By Hyperbole On 03.08.2011 @ 2:47 pm

Your talk is so cheap. You brag and act all informed but you’re really quite stupid. Why would I pay for what you have when I’ve got two upgrades better already.

Posted By Hyperbole On 03.01.2011 @ 7:57 am

Cut your throa- I mean hair, like a barber. With your big razo – scissors, of course, scissors. All shiny and silver. Yeah, just like a barber. Locks of love, I mean lots. Lots.

Posted By Hyperbole On 02.25.2011 @ 8:14 am

You done good for yourself. You real smart, real wise almost – like some ancient shaman. You real sage, even. You got the wrinkles to prove it and you eyes – they real trusty, your eyes. You done good.

Posted By Hyperbole On 02.20.2011 @ 6:06 pm

Starve myself so I’ll disappear. Cut apart and reconfigure my face. Dismember my personality so I can invent another me. Like an art show. Zoomed-in pictures of pieces, none of which wholly belong to any whole thing.

Posted By Hyperbole On 02.18.2011 @ 7:11 pm

I shifted uncomfortably, the heavy wool scraping across my skin. It was warm outdoors – you could tell from the blocks of sunshine that shone through the windows – but inside it was cold and uncomfortable.

Posted By Hyperbole On 02.17.2011 @ 5:18 am

His eyes flare as we stare each other down. I can’t tell if the flames are anger or something else – something more intimate. His face is expressionless and he’s fighting to keep it that way. I wish he would say something because I won’t be able to keep my composure if I break the silence myself.

Posted By Hyperbole On 02.16.2011 @ 9:15 am

Melted ecstasy dripping down your fingers to settle in little pools of rich, brown sweetness in the cleft of your palm. Lick it all up.

Posted By Hyperbole On 02.15.2011 @ 4:16 am

I’ve got a needle, don’t be alarmed. I’m just gonna stick you in a thousand places and fill your veins up with colors we can’t see in this spectrum of light. When I’m done, you’d sell your our mother to get my needle back in your arm.

Posted By Hyperbole On 02.11.2011 @ 7:32 pm

You’re suck a freaking coward, hiding behind your athletic’s-issue sweatshirt. You talk about queers and killing people for their sexuality and you make me sick. You make me want to strangle you with your own dirty jock strap. Insult my gay friends to my face and I’ll make sure you regret it.

Posted By Hyperbole On 02.10.2011 @ 9:40 am

I don’t like taking medication. It makes me feel like chocolate syrup is being IV dripped into me and clouds are being implanted in my cerebral cortex. I don’t like those big horse-pills, all shiny black like beetles that do their best to choke you on their way down.

Posted By Hyperbole On 02.07.2011 @ 4:12 am

I push the button but nothing responds, nothing works like it should. No synapses fire. I push the button and no one responds, nothing mutes. Nothing turns on.

Posted By Hyperbole On 02.06.2011 @ 6:31 am

We talked about suicide in my creative writing class the other day. Someone argued with me – he said people randomly go out and kill themselves. I wanted to shove something up his nose and out his eye socket. You can’t talk about suicide like that because you never know who is in your class – there could be some like me. Someone with history.

Posted By Hyperbole On 02.04.2011 @ 7:49 pm

Fly me to the moon in a big black rocket with giant boosters shooting flames down the sky. Crew that rocket with the undead, all green and blood-drinking and such. It’ll be flippin’ undead awesome.

Posted By Hyperbole On 01.25.2011 @ 5:23 am

Hay no problema. It’s been solved. I’m loving life, could you say the same? Come on up and see me – we can jabber in Spanglish about our President and his Brazilian problem. No tengo una problema – it’s been solved.

Posted By Hyperbole On 01.24.2011 @ 7:38 am