Revelation

He's just not that into you..

Shit! Not again,
My heart sinks every time I hear that little voice because I can ignore it if I dare...but its always true.
And always you, beautifully enticing and surprisingly persuasive, mute that voice.
Loud and bold are your empty advances, lost chances, almost romances...
But this time...
I'm not that into you either.

The Day You Walked By

Would you believe me if I told you I was insecure?
That I second guessed myself after I sent the text and waited by the phone for a response.
I am not always as strong as I seem, in fact sometimes I feel quite weak...and forgotten.
One day I'm a leper, the next day I'm spoiled rotten.
Would you believe me if I said my feelings change like the tides?
And that the only day I almost cried was that rainy Monday when you walked by, head high, talking to some guy.
The contents of the conversation were irrelevant, still you chose to ignore my presence, and it sent a chill down my spine.
You found it so easy to push me aside, how could I cry?
Tears wouldn't change that Monday.
Or every Monday after that when I stood in the same spot you saw me in, staring at the people walking by.
Hoping that maybe in that spot I could become invisible to them, like I was to you the day you walked by.
Hope. Such a childish fantasy, I should have outgrown it by now..
But it is the last strand of a perfect romance and I clench it in my fist, knuckles turning white, refusing to loosen my grip.
Don't judge me.
Don't you dare judge me.
You are me.

Timothy and Joshua

I have two friends named Timothy and Joshua.
They are Cuckoo Heads.
Two peas in a pod they are.
As looney as a tune and as wacky as snow in June.
They're brothers till the end and partners in crime.
And they can sneak up behind my chair and scare me every time.
Timothy hates Velveeta, but he knows silly bands like a champ.
Joshua loves baseball, he probably even goes to baseball camp.
They are two of the best friends I ever could have known.
And when I look back to when we first met, I see how much they've grown.

Powerless

I need to stop trying to ignore it.
Tucked away in the recesses of my mind, in a box labeled “stuff” is you.
I had to do this.
I needed to hide you from myself, smash you in a box with a conspicuous label and shove you under a bunch of things I never look at.
See I'm not one for pain.
It grips me like a huge wrench and grinds me into a helpless, crying heap of flesh and emotions.
I hate it.
And this “relationship” (that's as far as I'll go to label it) is like pain on a stick beating the life out of me with every new day.
The problem is that I thought it was over.
I thought if I just got over you, on to another one, that I could ignore what was always there.
I can't.
Its becoming more and more apparent to me that I loved you all along.
All along.
I couldn't explain the fascination at first.
Maybe like a new toy or a good book.
But it grew into admiration, adoration, agitation.
Do you know what it's like to love unconditionally? Unrequitedly?
Of course not.
But I do.
To love, and to wish to be loved back.
To expect to be loved back.
To believe you are loved back.
Is like waiting for a train that will never come.
The tracks are rusted, the station deserted, yet the eager traveler stands at the edge of the platform peering into the distance, convinced the train is just over the horizon.
Its pathetic.
I was pathetic.
I can't promise I won't be pathetic again.
But I will try.
I hate the way you make me feel.
Powerless.

Hedonism

Hedonism. Pleasure over pain. A lifestyle worthy of the gods. That's just it. Are we worthy? Are we mere mortals worthy of a lifestyle created for the pursuit of pure pleasure? Pleasure that surpasses any pain we could ever experience? Well, whether we are worthy of this lifestyle or not, we, as human beings, chose to live hedonistic lifestyles. This choice is made in infancy when we are taught that we cannot have each and every thing we want whenever we want it. As babies, our first contact with the adult world is through our pleas for attention and the immediate and accurate responses they receive. As we grow and are able to fulfill our own needs, we are no longer the center of attention and must cope with the fact that we are susceptible to the trials and tribulations of the world. This hurts. It hurts like hell. We are instantly shoved from our fluffy little clouds of perfection and plummet thousands of feet into reality. At least thats what happens to most of us. Some are able to float on those clouds for awhile longer, but the longer they float, the harder they fall.
Here is where we decide to be hedonists. Because we realize that we cannot possibly have each and every thing we want whenever we want it, we decide to focus our energies on the things that bring us pleasure while simultaneously allowing us to forget the pain. Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll are all tools of hedonists. But we can add money and power to the list too. Now, arguably so, everybody can be considered hedonists. Who doesn't want to be happy? But its deeper than that. Hedonism is a way of life. A philosophy if you will. A simple idea that determines the way a person thinks, acts, reacts, and defines themselves.

Is this bad? Is it terrible for someone to live their life for the sole pursuit of personal pleasure? Arguments can be made for either side, but I, for one, believe nothing can be wrong with a little happiness. :)

Respect

Confusion. Disillusion. Disregard.
Silly me. I thought that maybe in a household that supposedly honors the hierarchy of age, I would have leverage over one younger than I.
Not even leverage so much as respect.
Is it too much for me to ask?
When I go out of my way to create a positive relationship with you.
Maybe that's the problem.
Would it be easier to demand respect of you if I hadn't worked so hard to make you feel equal to me?
If I treated you like a nuisance, a bother, and therefore an insolent useless factor in my life, would you be more apt to treat me with respect?
I have noticed you have a certain disdain for authority, and as a rebel myself, I respect that.
And I respect you.
Regardless of the many disrespectful, dishonorable and despicable things you do to me.
Am I a fool?
I should think not.
I take pride in the fact that I remain civil and respectful to you while you deliberately flout my authority as your elder, even as a human being.
I suffer these injuries from no one silently.
No one that is, except you.
Maybe its because I find it distasteful that I should even have to ask you to respect me in light of everything we are.
Or everything I thought we were.
Or everything we pretend to be.
Lies.
All of it.
You do not love me.
You do not honor me.
You do not respect me.
And now, finally, I know it to be true.

These Hands

Born empty-handed
The verve of life snatched from my bosom.
I die empty-handed.
Stolen from the cruelty of a society uninterested in my lack thereof.
I witness life at its fullest empty-handed.
These hands, filled with only lines and scars, stretch outward toward the sky and receive each drop of light as if it were the last.
These hands reach down into the Earth and are warmed by the life of the soil.
These hands beautifully craft masterpieces, made to be felt and not seen.
Seen, but not heard is the lattice-work created by these hands, large enough for those hands to lose themselves in.
These hands empty as the clear sky, with intentions just as high. These hands were made to fly.
And fly they will.
Across the pages of papers, essays, novels, poems, prose.
Across the lives of the young, old, wealthy and destitute.
Across the hearts of the good the bad and the ugly.
These hands were made to create.
Watch them work.