Purge #1:To Fly:This is her:Once, not again:

Purge no.1-circa august 2006
I wish I could find words as tired and new as I feel. Most things that escape my lips are tricksome sayings that have their own useless connotation. What I write is not always what I mean. My words live their lackluster life on this lonesome, lineless page and here they will also expire – finding no one interested in them.

They breathe for a time and then die. They find themselves useless and self-indulgent. They mean nothing any longer. All emotions can only briefly be understood before floating away uncaptured and undocumented.

There are seven major emotions. Psychologists have proven it - generalized on a grand scale. These are only the enduring, the hard-fought. There is nothing that can be simplified to seven general things. They have ignored all that we lose because we do not have a gift of words that can accurately describe them.

I will not read this tomorrow-I will study it. I will take it and hold it beneath the sanity of daylight and see that between these hastily scribbled words there is a fractured reality. I do not live where most do. I live away from them and deep within myself.

I have long since lost the strain on which I had been expounding and now write because I am pretentious. I pretend that these words mean something. I also pretend that once read they are the perfect excuse to my foolishness. There is no excuse that can be hidden by insanity.

I am not insane. I am looking for an excuse.

I am depressed. I use it as weapon. I wield it to declare that I belong with all the angsty teenagers. I hold it before me to deter any responsibility that may come my way.

I no longer have my excuse. He has shown me that I am self-indulgent.

Apologies can only be used every so often. Not all will be forgiven . . . especially not the fifthsix time.

I am the devil in disguise.

I hurt you because for once I can. I can reach out and hurt like they did to me.

This is her-circa 2001
The four walls were where her reality stopped. Dreams were scattered across the walls and the ground was painted on the ceiling. She entered through one door and left through another – not that she left much. No clocks sat on dressers or hung from the walls. Long ago, photographs had been taken down. The only calendar in the room was two years old and still opened to December. Papers were tacked haphazardly along walls – bits of poems, memories of stilted conversations, thousands upon thousands of ideas. The curse of a writer – to be writing bits, pieces, always writing stopping at words never eloquent enough a brick wall never the time never the ideas the ideas always came but the will the will will just stop.

The confusion of timelessness, always broken by the rise and set of the sun. The blissfulness of darkness, always broken by the fear of loneliness. The coldness of a bed. Sheets always pulled back, inviting but only one comes. She sleeps only when she has to.

But sleep is a haven. The people in her dreams were real. They loved, they hated, but they were unpredictable. They amazed, but were real. Dreams were something to believe in if nothing else seemed real. Was it wrong to love the person in her head more than anyone else?

The door opened and reality streamed in. Bits of paper fluttered and rested against her dream covered walls. Things were logical – within set blocks of time she memorized and used equations that brought about the same thing over and over. Pettiness became her ball and monotony her chains. Drowning in a sea of irrelvelance. Hemingway for an hour: subject verb subject verb subject verb, a confusion in logic. Imaginary numbers that were real, flaws in the system, and the lies.

Stumbling, reality stops and the four walls of plaster become lead. Lead, the strongest of all, stopping stupidity and repeated questions. System in confusion.

Naked. She lies face up, looking upwards at the earth. Grounded by looking up. Naked, but clothed. Raw emotions pour overflowing and more words are scribbled, but never finished – scared of the end. What's after the end? Endless music, afraid of the silence. What would it harbor? Insight to the end? Afraid to see what stands so clearly in font of her. Constantly, filling the empty silence with words. But Naked. Exposed, but covered, smothered – but always naked.

There is nothing wrong with her. She's everything that she's (they've) wanted to be. Her own pomes – never finished. Papers of clichés. Everything/nothing that is the same. Jeans on the sky, shirts on the bed, socks on the easel – a tapestry of everyone, of everyone but her. Be yourself, be the person that everyone like but be different, and be the same/different, everything/everyone is an individual in a world of clones.

Broken, Naked. Lying on the floor (sky) and looking up (down). Everything and nothing. Lost logic scattered on the floor, scattered dreams painted on the walls. Losing grip upon unconsciousness in a world of drugged alertness. But whole. In the four walls of lead with dreams painted on the walls there is something right, but something wrong. In the pieces of scattered poems lies a person. Reality may end but within and without life goes on and marches endlessly. Season may come and seasons may go but she's there. She's there in the bits of writing and poems and drawings. Sort through the shit and find her – find the answer, find the solution, but find the end? And what of the end? What's after the end? When she's there and the painted dreams narrow to one and when it all stops – the end. She's there somewhere.

Once, not againcirca:new year's 2005
She was trying to suffocate herself in the obligatory horrid hotel bedspread. She then pretended to sleep because she felt that moving required the motor skills that currently ceased to exist. Yet her eyes were unable to fall closed because of the can of red bull she'd downed in hope that it would somehow carry all the effects of the dangerously transparent everclear.

The happiness was harder to act so eventually she substituted exhaustion for the ever –present oblivion that lurked in the dark corners of her mind. Now she was encased in a very private blackness and the exuberant noise of the friends that had arrived. She stood separate from them and so did he, not only because of gender, but because of the distinct tension that solidified between them.

Lust thrilled through her. Not necessarily for him but for any who would accept her open invitation. She thirsted far a touch, it did not even matter if it meant anything or not. She was sick of this rejection and unintentional game. He had mentioned it and excited her and then just as quickly smothered her.

She despised the ground that she stood upon. It was quickly sliding out from under her feet. Her fall was inevitable. She wanted to hurt him back, knowing that should wouldn't because some part of her could not deny or ignore the buried fondness.

Laughter bubbled around her and she joined in the thrilled screams of her friends knowing that her screams were an outpouring of frustration. He knew it too because they had locked gazes for a brief moment in the midst of the melee and understanding passed between them.

'It's not you,' had surfaced and she saw the lie and the truth within it. It was her that had him questioning everything. It was her that had caused this awkwardness. It also wasn't her because he wanted her but was unsure. She was, though, the beginning and the end to that statement.

In silent pain she endures the sleepless night. She stumbles thickly through her job all the while declaring to the air that it does not matter because it matters too much. She despises him because he makes her feel stupid and simplistic and lustful. He doesn't understand. He doesn't feel her need. The loneliness that resides in her heart had been briefly satiated and now again it naws eternally. She had been so close to one of the things she never thought could fall upon her unworthy frame.

So she will do as she must. Ignore the now and go to the beginning to start again. Hide her frustration and wait. She will not wait for eternity but she will stay for as long as it seems necessary. She has learned her lesson. Love was not for her to find. Happiness was not meant for her. She will hold her pain close within her heart and wait for her direction

these are mine, steal them and die---or at least give me credit for them