Just tumbled words about on page, mean nothing to nobody but the person who speaks them. Speaks nothing to somebody but the person who choses to hear them. Is something to those who only decide it should be.
Is it strange if I long to memorize your eyes and all that they capture? How different they seem through the eyes of a lens than through the lenses of my eyes. How I long to know the story they tell, how I long to hear your words escape your mouth in any form, in any string, just so I can hear you speak and know your brain.
You tick, like a clock, I must know the inner workings! What cogs make you work? An insight on you could be a reflection of me and knowing you I hope to know myself for only you have been able to show me who I am.
Too often I seek answers in this dark tunnel but it is questions I should ask. What happens when you do not answer, is it me that cannot hear? Or you who turns from me?
Too often I want to be in your grasp again, too often I want to be home in you. Somehow I have found comfort in my travels, excitement in the seeking. Adventure is what my soul needs but too often I long for home in you.
Is it strange if I want to carry your burden? I want to feel your weight in my arms, you are the only burden I choose to carry. For now, I feel weightless, in some sense I do not like it.
I hate when you think of me in a dark place, I am in light every day and even if some "monsters" are not always kept at bay I like where I am. My heart is home and there it will stay, do not pity me. Do not think I complain.
I wish I could draw the twisted things my mind sees but my Hand cannot connect to the paper. Damn you.
I like peeling dead skin, so I can look at the grooves that identify me but are no longer connected to me.
My eyes are very pretty, I wish you would tell me that sometimes.
We call people who differ from us and have a hard time living in society Psychotic, this seems derogatory to me, I wish it did to others too.
I censor myself because some swear words just always sound mean when they come out of my mouth
I hate calling anything I write a poem, even if that is what it technically is. I don't know why I hate poetry so much (unless it's written by David McWane).
Sometimes I wish my life was important enough to author a book, but even I would be bored reading it.
People always tell me life is not like the movies and can never be, only recently I began to wonder "why not?" I am ashamed only that it took me this long to question.
I like hearing advice from people but too often I realize I hate taking it because it almost always leads to actions that aren't myself, and then I feel bad for betraying me.
I like using playing cards to read tarot, but I never tell people what they say.
I wonder if some of the secrets I keep in my head are more for other's protection then mine.
I want to be a character, it will be a life long quest, one that I sometimes fear will destroy me.
If I never feel at home anywhere, where will I end up?
I used to fear my friends would commit me to a mental institution, then I began to fear no one would care enough to even notice or try.
I don't fear either of the above anymore.
I still cry for the dog I lost five years ago and no matter how much I believe in fate and things happening for a reason I am still pissed she was taken so early. To this day it remains one of the very few things in life I think is unfair and unjustified.
Sometimes I really want to get another pet because I honestly DO think my cat is lonely.
It brakes my heart when you sound lonely.
I like the way you sound tired, even if I make fun of it.
I miss you. I think in the end I really just wanted to say that.
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