gcooke
If only I could go through the same metamorphic transformation. Perhaps one day I shall cocoon from this hideous monster into a beautiful butterfly.
One last breath before I sink like a stone in the sea. My approach to life has always been this forward- let what's going to happen happen, for life's not in your control. And when your stone has sunk to the bottom of the riverbed think back on how grateful you are for even being there. Always, always, always be grateful for being here.
This idea's I have are nonsense. None of them are real, articulated thoughts. None have meaning, the meaning is just assumed by the reader of these words. That is the craft of writing; I let these words flow from my head like a bee during a beautiful summer day, and it is when these words reach you, a flower, that these letters and words start to form meaning.
I was never going to be in love with her. I was probably never even going to date her. But we had spent months of time simply talking; was it wrong that I thought I was going to be rewarded for such behavior? But as I sit at this table at some party with some kid and watch as she is swept away but some stranger, I can't help but feel robbed. Let's just take this one drink at a time.
Tomorrow will be another day. These past few weeks, months, years, seemed to have all been swept up together into one. But tomorrow, yes, tomorrow I will realize all I have done. I will be thankful for those and that around me. Life will reveal her mysteries to me and my boy life wonder shall resume. Yes, tomorrow is another day.
I watched that stranger take fire. Embellished in the flames, peering from a distance as those close to him were charred from the searing heat. If we could help, if we could find some way to smother those flames, to revive that cheap, fragmented life, to reanimate those ashes, we would. But the fire took the boy over, and the flames that we strangers thought would die out swept over him in one final wave and he disappeared just as soon as he had come.
I let the meanings fall from my head to my finger tips, push them through the ink in my pen and watch as they come to life before me. Sometimes I believe it's the strongest way to let my emotions escape, other times I believe it's just a way to forego confronting myself.
One more step in the right direction. Our bodys awkwardly turned towards one another, recognizing what our simplistic minds can't. We're divided by this wooden table, as I reach for straws and you fail to give them to me. How worry-some I was at sixteen.
Every emotion is tangled, while I weave myself further into situations. Conflicting complications surround me on all sides burning the life they trap. Everything is always breaking apart while I burrow myself into this web of lies and deceit.
It's a trap.
She wears her fathers old sweater like battle armor. Every menacing comment directed jarringly her way recedes from her weary head into the seems of that old rag. It reminds her of her fathers snow covered grave and the strength that was lifted from those tombstones that one February afternoon.
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writing since 2011 · 29 entries · 27 days shown up
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the words Graham reaches for
wordsnowbeautifulsummeranotherheadawakeloveagowonderrocketmissflamessweptmeaningalarm