A MODERN DAY HAMLET

To be, or not to be -

In the world, an absolutely disgusting place.
And I’m talking about most of the human race:
Us girls and guys who do nothing except smoke drugs
and use sex in the place of love, kisses and hugs.
Everybody is so God damn apathetic.
Through all of this, we just smile - it makes me sick.
I am one of the “most”, but I refuse to be
anything less than what I have wanted for me.
And this, I never wanted. So, maybe it’s time
to teach them a lesson, time to take back what’s mine.
Don’t stand in the way while I blow out my candle.
It’s not your birthday, and believe me, I can handle
the end all by myself.

Be all my sins remember’d.

You said nine.

Fuck this shit. I can't even write anymore. It's as though some monster took over my body and swallowed my ability to write. I can no longer put words on paper. This blog is a mess. But, I love it more than life itself. I love when I started it - before I had anything to say. Isn't it ironic that now that I do have things to say, this blog has become empty and barren? I love Matt. He probably loves me too. That's why it's funny that we aren't talking right now. He's over the phone line, through the wire, in his own house. And we are disconnected. All of this by his own hand. Or, is it mine? I'm tired of touching him. He never touches back. I'm tired of it except for one thing - I could never get tired of it. The way that it smells as it comes closer to my face, looking at all of the little hairs, the way that the sack feels between my fingers...and mainly the kisses that come afterwards. Actually, believe it or not, I did orgasm today. I wrapped my legs around one of his. His knee pressed up against my soul. Bingo. By accident.

No one.

A lonely frog sits by the tidepool and waits. He's not exactly sure what he is waiting for, but the sight of his scribbled reflection is enough to keep him rooted in place. Ripples are forming on the whirlpool, but he still sees the same faces inside. He picks up a bamboo straw. Instead of sucking, he blows out with all of his emotions. Problems come spilling out, that to others seem light as air. All of the fish underneath do not understand why he associates with this air anyway, this thing that is poisionous to them. But, he knows. It's the only thing that is keeping him alive. He's confused too. Because back when he was younger, he did see things through their eyes. He breathed through his heart. He knew nothing of that other world. He lived in a place where people swam together, and their biggest fear was not making it upstream. He wanted to tell everybody of the things he saw above water. He wanted to tell them about the princesses that were constantly kissing him, and then crying when he didn't change for them. He wanted to tell them about the little kids who were constantly touching him, calling him cute, and then dropping him to the cold hard ground within seconds of catching him, naming him "slimeball". He wanted to ask the fish if they knew what it was like to be called names everyday and be a disappointment to everything beautiful. The biggest secret behind all of this though, was the fact that the frog really was a Prince in disguise. He just didn't change because he wanted to see who really loved him. Who would accept him as a toad? The answer came to him as he ran out of breath.

No one.

A wordy description of how much I love you

I think that I love you as time rolls round in sands
of hours and glasses, worn to see your face, hands
holding cups, cheering to your name, the one I
love more than any other, the sound that makes me sigh
and murmur out hand holding and kisses until
I'm wet with a mouth so dry, cold and hardened still
while wanting to run- right into your arms, you
are the only man that matters, for me it's true.
you are the sun, the moon and the stars. you're every
last thing that will one day be ours.

I love how he
moves me.

Bruised.

I think my wrist is broken. It hurts like a bitch. I need a hug. He wouldn't hug me today. Then he hugged me so many times that I thought I would suffocate. Who am I to critique someone's work if I don't write myself? I have no feelings. Butterfly's wings are wet. They are wet long before the snowstorm. Snowflakes cake their wings, and it isn't the cold that bothers them. It doesn't even matter that they are wet snowflakes. What matters is that those pretty white frozen kisses can really weight now that pretty butterfly. Girls just wanna have fun. Or they want hugs. Not so much frozen kisses. I want a Cucoon. Wrap me up in your love. Then, I can eat your dust again. I can kneel down, shed my colours and eat your dust. Please. I'm tired of being a butterfly. I want to be a caterpillar. I rushed into this transformation far too fast. It's still winter. I missed my chance to snuggle up with you. I went straight to frostbitten kisses and nose running deep. I'm tired of the lonely. I really could use a hug. Who the fuck ever said that waiting was better? No one. And that's the problem. My butterfly wings are chipping off, while other people tell me to get ready for spring. And all I can think is, where is the love and the warmth I was promised? I'm not somebody that waits. But I could have at least relaxed enough to sleep with you until the coast was clear. There's far too many of us butterflies along the coast right now.

Freezing to death.


If I died tonight, would you miss me?

He doesn't.