I guess
sometimes
we get so
simple-sated
wine-serrated
dis-a-complicated

wanting no more
inner-fustrations
fascinations or
illuminations

waning in the
dank spotlight
of dull conformity
lullaby-ality
sedentry pedagogy

we're wasting
this thing
that strains
against all things

the thing that
carries our soul
in it's bowels

carving away
at our headace-stained
feverish placidity,
anominity, tranquility

intuition dies



>> don't know how to end this or what it is, it just happened. Mispelled words and made up ones galore. The placidity of life is death. To die is to live without intuition or heart. That's the ticket.

( Clarity )

( La Famiglia )

Wow, I just realized this was all from last semester. =/

( Summer )

( Sunflowers )

( Death of a Martian on Mars )

( Expiration Date )

I thought of something. It was a one-line. "You can't rationalize pain". Sounds like a story to me. Also, reworking it, it become poem-like: "You can't rationalize regret, you can't pigeonhole pain". I want to write a story on depression, if only for the fact that I know how to write something so deeply destructive emotionally that the binding of Prosac Nation or The Bell Jar would start to cry.

Recently, there have been boys. Many boys, many possiblities and non-possibilites. I'm not sure what to do. I hope everything will work itself out. I do feel quite lonely sometimes.

I'm buried in work, buried alive. I feel like Hans from Beneath the Wheel.