ease these bones

the class i thought i would have the least problems with i am struggling with the most. creative writing. i can do it. i can write creatively. but i don't feel like that is the purpose of the class, but the purpose is to play with the processes and techniques of other creative writers. i guess what i'm having trouble with is not mimicking the styles, but more or less accepting that the process of shadowing is creative. and the fact that being creative means wanting everyone in the room to hear how you construct your words seems a frail definition to me. my comrades surrounding me want to talk about how the poem makes them feel, the senses they felt. i have never felt a more private experience than to absorb the sensations of a piece of writing through your eyes, skin, mouth. as you merely read it. but everyone wants to compare their experiences and laugh about it. i guess if the english majors are supposed to want to talk about what helps them write, feel and read i shouldn't be an english major. i don't know. and they are so dramatic. does that make good writing? i'm so confused. i guess i'm dramatic too. but i don't want everyone to know i am, maybe that is the difference.
in reality, i could to school forever if i could.

we're gonna wash away

I like washing before bed to clean the insomnia before it creates a film on my face. I rub the boy out of my eyelashes and let him run off of my face. I scrub the panic and worry from out of my teeth and most importantly I wipe away everything and dry the dreams so nothing ever distracts the rest or can disillusion the sleep. At all.

If anything would work

sometimes I wish there was a cure for mental hunger. Can I have some mind food please, it would mean a lot to me. To see you randomly will swirl me roughly thanks.

im not mad

you know i'm not mad about people who are saying awful things about me, and trying to hurt me. i was mad before, and i was hateful. and i know now i cant be like that. its bad for me and its selfish. i am strong for my sister and my frail little sense of self and so she can grow up. i don't know how to believe in a god anymore, but i figure if i can it will be a good investment. i can try really hard and believe in something bigger than god so that in turn i am believing in god, too. and so i will ask him to make the lives of the envious and lustful and hateful full of love and help them to love themselves so they will not have to hurt others. and i will not hate others. though they hate me.

aftermath

this artist struck me as so hilarious and fantastic I could barely decide on a picture to show you, but alas i decided on toothbrush and paste after sex. i mean it really was an obvious choice.

getting ahold of your free time is way harder than you make it sound laying bed planning it all out. i suppose that is where i should be acquiring the motivation rather than fearing it.

leaps and bounds

i wish i didn't have so much to do. i wish i didn't have so little to worry about. if i could get out of here i would, and forget who we are.

serious patience

that is intense. i want to see more of this!!
source: http://gprime.net/images/sidewalkchalkguy/

how to train a broken heart

its not that i'm not happy now. its not that i'm not happy without him. thats not it at all. i guess i cant really say what it is. and its not like i give a shit anymore. i mean he could fall off of a cliff tomorrow and i still wouldn't care. i wouldn't regret not telling him anything or miss him or just simply be changed by the loss of his existence. in fact i'm glad i didn't say everything, glad i don't miss him, and thrilled that our existences don't disturb one another anymore. well i guess its nothing, then. but i know that its not. its like that empty feeling. and i'm not angry when i see him even though i sometimes say something rude about his appearance or his stupid jokes. and i don't even feel better. just the memory i would suppose that i hang on to. i don't want his friendship, his interest, or a place in his memory. its just that feeling i had, the intensity i felt, and the frayed ends i've left. i'm hoping i can eventually let this go or i might have to murder this memory.. somehow.