Therapy Sessions

    Not literal therapy sessions, but metaphorical. Unless you consider writing therapeutic, and I do so..I don't really know, seems like I can't keep a cognitive thought in my head.
   
    I've got a new obsession, a sudden need to write lyrics, a forgotten and found love of Sharpies and snowglobes, and half a mind that's hell-bent on learning how to play the guitar.

    Feels like life's gone from winter to summer in three months' time, it's weird but I kind of like it. And maybe the weather will do me good and I'll thaw out a little, at least around the edges. Time to get back to real life, good books, hanging by the pool, and writing the day away. Can't wait, really, reallyy can't! (Technically, I'm capable, I just don't want to.)

    I don't know what this is, I'll let you decide. Happy reading, I'm either going back to http://trollbeadsuniverse.com/global/en-us wanting or headed off to REM dreaming. We'll see..


Therapy Sessions

The quiet to my loud,

The calm to my storm,

The everything to my empty.

And it’s here that I find you,

Or do you find me?

Nothing is ever rightsideup,

When spinning upsidedown,

Hanging on the edge of a cloud…

Let me get lost in sight, sound,

Everything imaginary.

Give me a taste of hard reality

Between ashes and cotton candy.

Opposite ends of the spectrum,

Knowing sound and hearing silence-

Shut up, you say.

 Listen.

Let me remember to forget,

You know I’m colorblind

In matters of memory,

It’s nothing, really.

And everything’s in perspective now,

The words I never say

Written all over your face.

Tread carefully,

Ink bleeds and glass glimmers,

Breaks.

     
   

Aha?

      This whole figuring-myself-out thing is kind of interesting, I think I like it. It's weird, I've been finding little bits and pieces of me in songs, in pictures, in lines from books.

      So, I think it's time for a writing update...I haven't written anything real in more than a week, it's really, reallyyy sad. But here's the latest scrap of maybe-brilliance:

      Trees

      Watch the mirror ripple, don't you make a move, now, don't you think about blinking or breathing, dear. Close your eyes and I'll close mine. There you have it, there it is. Endless, haunted eyes scanning the distant skyline. Wild locks of dark dirt and deeper chocolate. Nails, growing like weeds amongst the flowers of this imagination, this delusion, this reflection. Save these seeds of madness from taking over, reach out a hand and take mine. I always forget to remember that we're one in the same. Maybe I don't wanna see, maybe it's because you look more alive than me, eternally frozen and cold, just waiting for the next move. So what'll it be tomorrow? What was it yesterday? You remember, right? Funny, cause neither do I.