zebra dust.

how the warmth of love surrounds you, makes you wake to the world. given a little hope glued as your sleeve, surrounded by little things and smallest light, and gravity forgets in the grass.

the youth in us

shown to me by 23, and it made me cry.

small little hurricane

I just hate this. Who says we shouldn't care, that whoever cares the least holds the power. Who says power even means a single damn thing, to anything. All I know is that it is impossible not to feel, not to care.

And you're only here for the taste of gravity. You leave me waiting. And if I showed you one pure thing, you would be fed up, you will be gone. So I just keep thinking, a hurricane beneath this colour of blue, adjusting my slouch in bed, killing the sheets.

wouldn't the wind.

sentence structure envy and lucks of stroke. you could clean, but you're just letting the house fall apart, cat noises smash plates. a day to be, means a day to not think or feel, biting your tongue on all the wrong reasons, scared to let it go. and wouldn't the wind bring you any closer... but it's just another argument between blood, recycled adjustments to sunlight, sketched in a new green, fingertips tripping at bone.

rough and unsteadied.

i am at a stand still, dangerously. i've said that i don't deal well with stopping, i don't like waiting. work is stable, gym is stable, but on the whole, these things mean very little.

sometimes i just don't understand people. i am very quick to be myself, so i guess that can be off-putting, in the day and age where... yeah. i don't really know. i'm finding it really hard to write again, or put it to page. i have all these surging thoughts, some really brilliant things i would like to share. it's just incredibly tough to show that... they are recorded, and removed.

i am just really excited for my day off work tomorrow, but it shall come, and then i won't, and i will just go to gym until i feel calm. the one true thing... i have to keep in secrets, for now. i guess all we can ever hope for, is that one chance. with everything we do and encounter, it's the singular idea: we just need one chance. to shine, to show, to be.

i am going to be working on a new project... i really want to hear from the world. i believe you have great things to feel, and words to put to the sky, soon.

let me know

it's hard to write right now. not because of sadness, it's, grass at reverse angles. there's so much colour and light, and i'm scared. i know i sing out, that beauty comes to all, but when that yellow bird comes down, how do you even touch it? it turns to pieces. but the answer is already within me...

this is tonight in words.

soon as you find it, you feel it.

all in time, as

Grow old with me. The best is yet to be. 

Robert Browning

our youth

When we were in our youth, we had dreams that we could fly, we had friends that weren't invisible, and love that never died, and as we grew old, and felt the pain, we always knew the truth, that love would heal, if we stayed true, to the dreams of our youth. 

Neon Trees; Our War (spoken)

in steam between

i had a shower, which reminded me of a lot of things. i was thinking, about how people make their happinesses. i pull my sleeves up over my hands, and lie on the floor of the bathroom. it's quiet, you can just drip. but, the shower itself. as i've said, i think people should have showers before they attempt to make any mark in the world. the steam will steal you away, it clears your eyes, it warms your heaviness. could any act of malice be set in steam? it'll just go.

i'm counting the amount of space between paragraphs, horrible. i am brimming with ideas, daring streaks. i don't think i have the voice for them yet. this is okay. i am moving in decimal places, the cold across a tile, the colour of the ring.

any way you run, you run before us, black and white horse, arching among us.

skin games.

i've been writing my nights on neck lines, stolen from thieves never followed.

tiles and, fever sets free and

so a few days pass and i guess i've been participating. i miss chelsea, the word 'participation' makes me think of her...she would know why. but i write this, tired and strange. i can hear my throat clicking, the slow flare of paralysis. but i am not unhappy...i've been happy. so this is just the violence of the dreamer, starved for sleep.

i need to write some things... i've got these ideas, ridiculous and bold.

but something is blocking me... and i can only think of articles. but they accredit it all to depression, and i'd like to think of it as a need for sleep. there is a choice there.

there will be more.

(i still feel that photography makes me less happy than it is intended to. you turn your eyes on me, and i am a shifting line of sparks. you need to look a little softer.)

p.s. keane's new EP, night train, colours this. the shadows are sad, but they buck.

'cos when your back's against the wall, that's when you show no fear at all.

wicked blood.

books of girls.

he hunched over the wheel, biting his teeth, laughing between pills of smoke and movement, the jolting lull of traffic, sunshine and neck lines. somewhere near the driving mirror, a spider pierced his metal skin. there were always spiders. two new books pressed to the passenger seat, a clean tribute amongst junk and visions of himself, where, he held a conversation, one that no longer quite existed. but he was nervous and happy and violent, like the strange taste of old stamps, the touch of wet grass.

Catcher In The Rye...I'm very selective. You're pretty (I'd never say that.) You are right, Maybe it was a desperate ploy. Ha ha ha. the crunch of white lines, could have been whole birds, small people who would disappear and ease his actions.

Maybe I will buy this, It seems strange. he had bought them, running fingers across the covers, moving the afternoon before him. he could taste things he didn't understand and it was exciting.

he spoke to ghosts for the rest of the day.

you are the only puzzle. you are worth

I was writing about the night, about how it divides us. And now it is here, a clean cut, and you've got to find your fire, or fall to shadow.

And, these moments—this moment—it is, and always has been, mine. Because I know so well (and I won't swear, because I have pledged not to swear this week) this is what life gives us, the puzzle, so out of focus, but shining just enough, that little streak between, that divides us.

You can wait for answers, think there's safety in the blackness, or you can brave it, take enough, to die within it, in absolute wholeness.

You can find the new perspective, the one you don't want to look for.

You can know your wounds, the ones you press to page, to distance.

You can try. you can live. you can fail. you can be.

Right here, absolutely in flames, trying really hard not to swear, in honouring the pledge, but life wills you to swear for it, for it is worth just that little much.

swearstopping

I was reading the newspaper today, and stumbled upon an article regarding SwearStop; a week's event to raise awareness for schizophrenia, and help provide a little perspective. can you go a week without using profanities? put your polite words where your mouth is, and give it a go. ;)

http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=111330222224554

or, check out the website for more information, and how you can more directly help.

www.swearstop.com.au

all the same (free hugs.)

the weeks.

where did all amazing life go, you tore it from the skies...
when you presented forth, my whole suns, cast down as to stone,
what stole hubris from craven throne.

get back up

i hate when it feels like i'm losing my voice again, feeling lost again. i want to write a lot of things, but it all closes up, like i am back at the start of this. i hate him for a lot of this. but you can't just break down or give up... the darkness isn't binding. so i've just got to write, until set alight here. listening to conor oberst and the mystic valley band, finding calm.

so, i don't know when i'll forget. until then, it's this tribute of knives, keeps cutting. i love so big, that the lasting pain just keeps lingering. i still steal glances, like a fool for wounds.

i feel a little lost every few days.

for when we're standing there.

i am a revolution, in the smallest, shitty details. we are triumphant, in our grandest follies.

tired birds

You just drift, sitting in traffic, wiping a stain from your jeans, watching the lady with the cigarette jaw, the violent hum of the truck, the cold slow weight that is all about.

I am worried something has been mortally wounded, and that maybe I won't ever feel so strongly again. I know it is ridiculous—it is ridiculous. So maybe, this survived brighter in my hopes, than in actuality. And maybe, I am just tired, to wonder about anything at all.

people are my suns

whenever i crawl into bed and all the darkness is creeping up and picking at my limbs, then i just get back out. and there are so many wonderful fucking things waiting. and you just have to brave it all and let it all in and remember. just right now, this is another moment, that i want to remember to feel this. i want to remember.

thunderbird.

the making the floor creak

I just keep thinking, I just keep hiding what people are saying. it's no wonder why I am so disconnected in my own little world. it's okay sometimes because i understand it. but it gets a little sad, when I just want to talk someone, but I cannot. I find it really difficult, especially online. some people think it is easier, but it is impossibly difficult. it is removed, and I can only say a few words. I can't ever stare at the floor, and the spark is robotic and far.

I want to share some views, but I feel drained and sleepy. gym is the only constant safety I have left, right now. I know it all keeps moving, and there will be more, but for now, I wish there were more.

we make fucking sound, to be overly strange in that, or else silent, and—fuck that.

dead light

but we are only stealing sparks, consuming lovers' names in the dark.

deep of us

my eyes were stuttering

where you held me under the water

and only secrets go

to your freckles those faults I whispered

lost in breath stolen

violent darkest blue.

armour glow

I was in bed crying, and the night was really bad, but I started to read The Perks Of Being A Wallflower again, because this is next to my bed, and always makes me feel better. I wish I could explain it, but I think only Chelsea understands. It is just, you only need small things, and everything else goes away. And it made me warm, and I thought of music I wanted to listen to, and things I wanted to say, and things I wanted to do, and how the crippling darkness can't fight that much of an armour.

The characters feel like the best friends I ever had. And I also suggest listening to Basement Parties by Matthew Pond PA while reading. I changed the lyrics in my head, because it feels more pretty, more sad. I think that is the way of things.

I'm tired of going to these basement parties, where everybody wants to leave their bodies, I'm hiding in the bathroom with no witness, I'm speaking through the door about some sickness, we don't mind silence, we don't mind sitting, I can be quiet, you always hear me.

untitled II (rage film)

I am so sick of having to turn all sadness into something, take all my wrists, and cut them until they fold into structures. they are prisons clawing at my head. they adjust my glass until it catches the light. I move my eyes so close to the world, that it all becomes a blur of spots.

I am hurting so much. I didn't want to—I fucking refused. people will always leave, and people will always tell you, people will always leave. so there is no point in feeling hurt, because it will be, over and over. and I can't, but I am, and—fuck it—fuck it—fuck it—fuck it.

I need to escape it. I need some safety, but now things are rapidly dissipating, the rain retreats, and there is little point to screaming at the sky.

I miss you, you fucking, horrible, bastard.

I miss me, always disappearing.

untitled.

i wanted to write, but if it's fake then what's the point. i was quiet and torn but i was okay. i could hide in the shower steam, know my body to be a lizard. a new tail to cut off until thursday.

i pin my hopes up. with violent butterflies in my head.

in the aeroplane over the sea.

halfway war

I am listening to letting up despite great faults, staring through the sunlight, trying to capture the voice of this moment, but I am feeling a little bit stifled. I am a little hurt how quickly people can replace love with hate, but I guess that's the persistent balance of natures. and I assess the structure of my actions, and I really do not believe I acted with any venom in my arc. I told accurate truths, because what else was there. I kissed someone else, because you cut me free. I have stayed quiet, because i know to. I am honestly not sure when I should speak.

signs

this is still amazing, every time.

everything is full of gods

i was going to write this morning, stirring from a hangover, drinking from my sweater, feverishly cured. it is cold and grey outside, which sometimes makes me feel better. it feels quiet, and when the rest of the world is quiet, i feel okay in stopping. i can pull my sleeves up over my hands and just smile. it feels like blankets are draped through the air, keeping me safe, keeping me quiet.

but, i am stirred. I was always claiming this year as my animus. I can't provide its fingerprints, but I know it is there. I have waited to move. I took my notebook, my weapon against a violent world, and I created this. these are my colours, and my name. these are my fireworks, shot into the festival night. I've murdered every evening for a voice. I believe i can create one smile, for someone like you, all matted in expectation. when we just want to float, and finding greatness in that.

this one code, this one sunday. I am moving, and I have been moved.

and, twice

I am finally home, at 5.38, a.m. it was a good night, when friends came through, and made everything okay. that, and running into someone. one of those chance meetings, where they slip away, just as you reach a really dizzying moment. I spent the rest of the night searching, but they were only for that moment, then clock hands and dust.

which makes me think of hot tub time machine, surprisingly: maybe the universe will bring us together again.

and, I challenge anyone to listen to little wonders by rob thomas, and not feel a world move through you, a shiver of a smile.

but I cannot forget the way I feel right now, in these small hours.

once.

i realise now that being single does not mean being alone. i am single again, but i am not alone. i don't have too much more to say than that for once. just abandon all form for vodka.

you can always start again.

leaf rots the lover leaves

i don't know where it all goes from here. but i will be small and strange enough, i will be brilliant. i'll only go looking for today, which is where all the happinesses hide. fuck every other day, it's only dead leaves. fuck every other plan, it's only lines on maps. fuck every other you, it's only faster.

all we know, thieves.

no one really appreciates anything, they just want to steal glances. we smile at the sun like it gave a shit in its sunlight. we'll hold your hand to hear our hearts mapped a little more.

keep singing.

i'm always spinning through the slots allocated, i guess. happiness and horror, alone and at your elbows. the madnesses mesmerised like notepaper i can't quite fold. not the way i'd want. i'd want to be happy, i'd want to always be helpful. even if i am invisible, i want to paint over that. i want to post the question to a paragraph, not to paralysis. i still can't shake the letters away.

everything suggests to be better than this, sing only in yellows. but i keep it's chair clean and die under the table. i am largely avoided, because you don't know how to approach anything like what i am. i'm only anything like what i am because you avoid me. i can't be short and sharp. just a short project or a sharp smile. i'm tired.

it's strange, you say you don't see the electrical storm, as I swallow the contents of my desk, finding no way.

tempest shot through the eyes

Tonight I should be able to dredge up the ocean, like the night sky, glittering with everything dead and gone. I should be able to bring down mountains, reduced to pebble and seed. I should be able—

I work my best when I am coming to pieces, all the electricity arcing around my head, fire on my tongue.

You have to realise, there is more to life than a lot of things would tell. Our brains glue so thick to the small days that fall around us. But you have got to cut free. You have got to climb so high for clarity. Whatever is striking us down, never really enters us. We keep our sparks, the only stars still alive. Winking between storms, we keep floating.

So I stand on the edge of three months, and dark days. Three months that could mean a career, something shitty and sustained, a few coins to keep my pockets busy. Dark days that I don't have the answers for, not yet.

first day of my life.

second wind stops.

i can't commit to this misery, i need to reject it, force it off. i know i am stronger than this, have already taken arms up against so many nights before. i just need to calm; that taking no action is the perfect colour of movement for today. whatever comes to light, that's just how it is. the four winds take me.

the hurt to feel.

i'm strange and sick and so fucking unique. that is what i give. you could not meet anyone else who cares as much as i do for every little thing. i try in my way, to get you to smile, for all i could. though this world limits me and poisons me and makes me quietly brave. but i see you, like all the song lyrics ever could. everything they paint is, right there. soft coughing whispers around your hair. what no one else sees or knows or will ever know because they don't have their windows down or their sweater on or that mix tape with the kid colours and the inky letter shaped smile. i wait. i stare as i'm waiting to find. but the more i care, the more i give a damn about you, the more you destroy. like you were afraid of any fucking brilliance.

and the world comes sweeping back in and i lose any steam i've gained here and i can't write any more but i'm still sad and you still don't know. if anything, you move a little more away. any expression beyond those shitty slutty smiles is wrong and wracked. i can't fucking stand it. stuck in a world that doesn't give me a damn. give me your fucking fire, at least. hate me, so i can give you all my fucking love. break me like a cure all. care at fucking all. understand that all madness balances out the infinite possibility of beauty. hold my fucking hand. then you would understand.

if you could feel louder

I am scared now, and you don't even know, and I don't know if i can tell you. I am strange, and I am brilliant, and I can hold lightning. So why am I so afraid? That you will leave?

Lightning, it flashes so brightly, but fades away, it can't protect, only destroy.

I think the whole world is so well dressed, and shitty. I think they are so ugly in their masks, with eyes of the storm.

You feel this one way, that just leaves me to ruin. You hold your teeth, calculated and abandoned, dizzying in splendor, and then you leave. Why do you leave? Or why do you feel so falsely, these stunted kindnesses?

I want to ignite. I want you to die, if not for my pills of smoke. Like it was, with the little smiles. But it's already missing, moving through these cold, sad distances. Do you even know? Or are you racing me there? When I only want to destroy you because this is burning a hole in everything I understand. I wish you would come back. Hold my hand, slowly.

earthquake

The poison is back, immeasurable tremors in my teeth, violence on the blood line. And I want to destroy you for everything you are. You are never enough, not for me. I will go back to the darkness, swimming in blood. Milk isn't helping. Music isn't helping. But I enjoy it. This is the problem: you try to control the rage, and you are cutting off your head.