Lonely.
Ever felt so lonely that your skin is cold with it?
Nobody to talk to who's really going to listen.
Nobody to listen to. Nobody who really wants your conversation.
It's a continuous circle of silence.
Even when the room is crowded, you're hopelessly alone.
Ever got to that point when you answer your own questions? Of course you have. Who hasn't?
But having full conversations in your head is different, right?
Feel like you're aimlessly going from one area to another, just because that's what it's supposed to be like? How about the false smiles? For me it's a completely false sense of security. But it's there nonetheless.
Smiles and laughter hurt just as much as tears, but people don't always see that.
Should you see it?
Should you know about the madness that secretly invades an individual persons mind? I don't think you should.
How could you know,
Unless they're telling you.
Feelings
Let me rap to you real quick...
I wanna take you around the world, show you the sights like field trips
I wanna go down on you if you'd just sign the permission slip
I wanna explore your museum, take occasional visits
Take a look at your exhibits, enjoy the good and the bad, not ones you have to mention
On a scale of 1-10, you're worth more than a dime-ond
Your beauty is worth more than any rock that I could find
No amount of pressure I add to any rock could create the perfect diamond to show that I want you to be mine
I wanna get to know you for the first time, again
We may have grown up together but still
I wanna rub your feet, massage your back, you name it
Stay up all night talking, does that seem like a deal?
I wanna make you feel special on any given day
Not just Christmas, or Valentines, or Mothers, or your birthday
You mean more to me than simple gifts
A smile on your face gives me more strength than when I pray
I'd show you my feelings rather than try to tell you something that's so hard to explain
Cause I, I, I - I love you like a fat kid loves cake
You're sweeter than any flavor that I had the pleasure to taste
The amount of icing on another won't make me sway
I wanna hold your hand on the beach and kiss you under the sun
Make love under the trees
Give you a special treat, chocolates the flavor of the week
Don't worry about no other females just stay focused on me
Your love is like crack, how addictive it can be
Dear Diary,
Day 1:
"Keep a Diary”
Check. I guess.
I don’t think it’s stupid anymore.
Kara said I should keep you.
She said that it could be important.
I said there were more important things then keeping a Diary.
I wasn’t wrong.
Kara is more important than you.
She brought you anyway.
Look which one of you is here now.
I miss her already.
I was going to use you to keep a record of the established safe houses-
or inventory or something.
Something useful at least.
This right here: This is not useful. This is wasting time by writing in a book.
I should be doing something useful.
Bennett is out trying to catch rabbits.
You know why? Because thats the kind of thing that people in movies do.
Hunt.
Bennett doesn’t know how to hunt!
I don’t know how to take a life!
I did’t mean too!
It’s glassy eyes-
Foul breath-
It just kept walking-
It did’t stop-
Kara ran at it…
She full on ran at it with an axe and it did’t even hesitate!
I did’t know what I was doing.
I still don’t.
Bennett sure as hell doesn’t.
I read somewhere that in situations of extreme disaster, your instincts kick in and you don’t notice things.
Who ever said that is wrong.
I notice my surroundings more.
I mean- Listing for them of corse…
…But I really do notice my surroundings more now.
I never noticed how bad my handwriting looked before.
I never noticed how cold the ground was before.
I never noticed how hungry I get before.
I never noticed how much an open wound could bleed before.
I never noticed how quite it was without Kara before.
I never noticed how cruel the silence was before.
I never noticed how weak I was before.
I never noti
Little Miss Perfect.
Little miss perfect.
Someone get her a ribbon.
She well damn deserves it- with all that she’s given.
She runs a mile, when she’s too weak to walk.
She can’t scream for help; she too gone to talk.
“I’ll eat when I'm perfect” she chose to decide,
as she uses a fork to push her food to the side.
“I’m fine” she sighed,
she clarified,
all of the accusations she denied,
Her ribs stick out,
“The pain with subside,"
“I’m not perfect yet”
She’s hardly alive.
she said it’s okay,
turns out she lied.
Little miss perfect, that’s who she’ll be;
with her bruises running from her thigh to her knee.
The numbers define her-
She has nothing left.
It’s the perfect’s effect-
To leave her bereft.
She’s trapped now.
There’s no going back,
She’ll keep on running ’till her vision goes black.
"I’ll be perfect.”
“It’ll be worth it.”
She's going to get there...
...but what will she forfeit?
She’s trapped now:
In her perfect prison.
For the love of god-
Someone get her a ribbon.
Stay.
The sound of the journalists high heels clicked and echoed as the they hit the floor. She was nervous.
I could have pictured the conversation that lead her to this point; “It would be the brake in your career!” “you’re always saying how fearless you are, now’s your chance to prove it”.
I wonder how much convincing it took to get her here.
Talking to the 'dangerous monster’ the one who’s tied to the chair.
The journalist wore a blouse. it was green.
My shirt was torn.
She rode here in a taxi.
I was dragged in.
She sat down across from me.
I was already tied and handcuffed.
She asked her first question.
“Did you have an relation to the victim”
She was the most important person in my life,
she was the one I would turn to,
she was the one I’d give my life for,
she was the only thing I cared about.
“No comment”.
The journalist blinked at me.
She pulled out a notepad.
There was a silence in the room, you could hear a pin drop,
you could feel the hatred.
“I see you are going to be incorporative” The journalist commented.
Good job, sound angry, mask your fear and act like I’m not the only chance you have to get your writing printed.
“I see You’re going to be passive aggressive”
She tapped her high heeled foot against the ground.
It’s almost funny,
She’s sitting here.
I’m tied up across from her.
She’s trapped here with me until I decided to talk.
No one is free.
No one except Kate.
The journalist cleared her throat.
“Did you have any relation to the victim- Kate Dashmen”
I winced at her name.
“N-No”
I’m not a good liar.
“How did you first meet her?”
She’s a good journalist.
“Ever been to Oxford on a Sunday?” I asked
“How is this relevant to the case?” she stated, neglecting to answer.
“…Because that’s where I met her. On a busy street. Kate wasn’t like the others…”
“How so?” Asked the journalist, not looking up from her constant scribbling.
“Katie was the only one who dropped the lighter”
The scribbling stopped.
The lighter.
“She…The… Was this the same lighter?” The journalist asks
The very same, the one thats heavy with guilt, the one she used to light her cigarettes, the one that sits in an evidence bag. The one used to take her life.
“Yes”.
There was yet another silence. The scratch of pen on paper. More silence.
“Were you close to the victim”
Yes.
“No comment”
“Did you have a motive?”
…did I have a reason to kill her?
I’ve played it out in my head a hundred times.
She had smiled, she meant no harm.
It wasn’t her fault.
She did’t want to leave.
'All things come to an end’ she had said.
She did’t want to leave.
She did’t want to leave.
She did’t wa-
“No comment”
The journalist was trapped in the visitors room with her noncompliant killer.
I was trapped in the chair with my guilt.
Kate was trapped in the room with the fire.
Kate left.
Kate left.
Kate did’t want to leave…
She had told me about her new job-
A great opportunity, in far off New York!
A good job in a real publishing office, and isn’t it great?
She did’t want to leave me.
She did’t want to stay.
She would’ve gone to New York.
A good job in a real publishing office, and isn’t it great?
Kate will never leave that room.
Kate will stay there forever.
Kate will never leave me now, I had thought as I locked the door and took out the lighter.
Kate isn’t here now.
Kate left me.
Kate is free.
Kate is still in that room.
“Do you intend to answer any of my questions?”
“No comment”
There goes her big break. She will never get her story, her chance for a good job in a real publishing office.
The journalist sighed and started to stand up.
“Don’t leave."
IPhone Funerals
When did human lives stop having mass
and death started to mean
inactive profiles
frozen in a digital coma
instead of empty spaces
in breathing rooms
and the scent of incense
flowing over
the people who remember?
It's not bad
I think.
But it's so sterile
to send digital flowers,
instead of real ones.
