I am not my brothers, I do not have to fail, I am not my brothers, I do not have to fail. The mantra repeats itself. As my heart slows and the urgency to act rashly dissipates, I gently remind myself, They did not fail. They struggled and succeeded. I wish I believed my words.
Deep down, behind my anger and frustration, I think that I know the truth, and I envy them. For one, cut after cut, self-inflicted punishment repeated itself until he helped himself. For the other, hit after hit from a bong, drugs consumed and dictated action until he realized his desire for something more real. But me? I am lost in the wake; my parents want only to succeed once with any trouble. I hope to grant them their request because I do not think it was asking too much of God to have a daughter who did not hurt or defy.
Yet I am consumed by the flames of my own want.
I want to mutilate.
I want to act out.
I want to live.
My entire being aches to be able to step away from their expectations and ridicule.
****

I know they do not mean to hurt my sense of self. I know instinctively that they act to protect me from the world and the horrors that reside outside the walls of our home. And yet… I find my only refuge to be away from them. Hiding within the confines of my bedroom, I am struck with a sense of calm and peace. I wish I could carry these feelings with me far outside the reaches of these four corners, but instead, I find that I have to steel my nerves to even attempt walking to the kitchen.
I am shattered by their words.
I feel beyond inadequate. Why am I not enough? Why can’t they love me the way I am, without implying that I am anything less than I could be?

Fright

Oddly enough, I thought I had moved past this. Needing to vent my feelings to no one. Or someone no where. Apparently, in the face of adversity I revert back to what I know to be time-tested stress relievers.

Almost always, I only post my "poetic" thought ramblings. However, my self-control no longer exists.

I will be completely honest and say that: it is not helping this time.

I am not being dramatic. Or maybe I am?

I can be that. Dramatic, I mean.

I want to be coherent and understandable and understanding and loving and reassuring and that person who everyone expects me to be when faced with shock.

But I'm scared. When the shit hits the fan, I might lose a friend because I was protecting another. And I might hate myself a little for it.

A lot.

And my mind is running in circles and I want it all to just not be.

I want my voice back.

Sometimes I worry for my metal state.

And then I remember that I've not done anything wrong, but I still feel guilty.

Does that make it worse?

I think it does.

Swirling confusion surrounds me from all sides and I do not know who to turn to.

Promises tie my hands behind my back and gag me.

I feel helpless and hurt.

I want to help.

My arms cannot move.

My mouth cannot speak.

Why do we only care enough to say, "That's a pity"?

Humanity fails itself over and over again.

"Never Again." (At least, not until someone decides they want to do it again, because we're not going to stop them.)

How can they have faith in us? How can they not hate us? I do.

And I'm a part of it.

Faith

Do you remember when I was little?

I used to hold my arms out to the sky,

and tell myself that I would let God take me, just because.

I would let him lead me. Anywhere.

Do you remember when I was little?

I used to believe without question,

that my prayers would keep us safe,

that we would be okay.

Because you said so.

Do you remember when I was little?

I used to think that those words would keep us here.

Together and happy.

Do you remember?

I used to think it was enough,

"Dear Lord, Thank you for a wonderful day. Please take care of us while we sleep tonight. Amen."

Do you remember when I started to question?

When words were no longer enough to keep me believing?

When I started to question myself for questioning my beliefs?

Do you remember how I used to be?

Unwavering in conviction and knowledge.

Too young and naive to know what mattered.

I want that. I want that now.

That faith.

Remember me?

Remember me please, when I am gone.

When I have left you to find a better place to be.

Remember the hugs, and the kisses,

the words spoken softly and sweetly to comfort and love.

Remember the jokes we shared,

the hurtful gossip we avoided,

the friendships both questioned and strengthened.

Remember the advice given and the thoughts aired.

Remember the ideas that bloomed into something greater, into reality.

And remember me for who I was and not who I have become,

because who I have become is not me.

Not the me I want you to remember years from now,

that me is lost.

But she will be found.

That is where I am going.

So please I beg of you, remember the me you loved.

Do not forget the person who was your confidant.

I am here.

But I question,

Will you remember me?

On my return,

will you remember me?

Latest Read

This post is just to say that I added a box on the left entitled "Latest Read" I'll be updating with the title and author of the latest books I've read, but only if I think the book is worth sharing, if it's not good I won't make you suffer. =P Hopefully you'll enjoy them as much I do.

Sorry if you don't...

Here's hoping that inspiration will come to me soon, I feel a little empty when I don't have a good update ever once in a while, it makes me feel like the words have left me.

Questioning

Head

aching.

Mind

spinning.

Eyes

wandering.

Holding

back.

Calling

out.

Wanting

more.

Prayers

unanswered.

Question

existence.

Downpour

Pouring down my face,

running through my veins,

calming me, soothing me.

Rain hitting the roof,

day after day after day,

making me wish the sun would stay.

Patterns comforting me,

allowing me control,

and yet...

I am captivated.

The shear unknown nature of the rain,

the uncontrollable nature,

with only one constant,

The sound of the rain's current flowing past my window.

Gone

No words floating,

No more inspiration,

Nothingness envelopes.

Unfeeling unforgiving numbness,

Questions my motives,

Confusing me beyond the point of caring.

Wanting a reason,

to fight back,

to resist the pull

threatening to drag me under.

Needing to exist for something more.

Frustration

The frustration penetrates ever pore,
every bit of my being,
and yet you stand there unfeeling,
unwilling to understand your faults.

Maybe I am at fault too,
but at least I am willing to accept my part,
unlike you, ignoring us all.

I cannot help but wonder.
Wondering where we went wrong.
How it got this far.
How we let it.
How you will survive without us.
How you will move on,
meet new people without insulting them.

As your friends, we are each others rock.
Steadfast.
No matter what, no questions asked.
Always.
Forever.
But there is only so much we can look passed,
only so much others will readily accept.

These stereotypes reflect so poorly on you,
and by association?
Me.
Her.
On all of us.

Unacceptable.
Prejudice is something I refuse to tolerate.
People always judge me because I am 'multi-racial',
and because I have chosen to fully embrace it.
Because I choose to look different,
with my clothes and my hair and my attitude,
my sarcasm, my pessimism, my realism.
They judge me without even thinking twice.
And to prove them wrong,
I make it a point to exceed all expectations they have thought of.

Because of that,
because of how people have treated me,
I refuse to allow you to judge them,
and if you do?
I refuse to acknowledge your claims.

To you, skinny with no chest means no self-esteem;
to me, it means a fast metabolism.
To you, fat with a huge chest means no self-confidence;
to me, it means someone whose genetics have decided for them.
I know people that defy every stereotype you will throw at them,
even if you will not admit it.

But please, do tell,
What does that make me?
Where the hell do I fit in your stereotypes?
Tell me.
Please.

I hate how you can judge everyone else,
but at the same time say they will not apply to those around you.
What does that say about us?
That you know you cannot judge us,
not without proving yourself wrong,
or insulting us to prove yourself right.

"Little girl with a messed up past"?
FUCK that.
She is more normal than you willing EVER fucking be.
Do. not. judge. her.
Especially because her parents are divorced and her father remarried a women he loves.
Do. not. judge. her.
Especially because you do NOT understand how she copes,
that she is okay with the divorce,
that she accepts it,
and that she loves Janet.
What kind of heartless wench would call her past 'messed up' just because her parents do not live together anymore?
In what society would half of your comments be acceptable?

Please.
Explain.
I'm willing to listen,
but I highly doubt anything you say can make me forgive you
for all the damage you've caused to my sisters.

Because that is what these girls are to me,
not just friends.
Sisters.

You used to be one too, remember?

Content

Sick.
Stuffy, congested, disgusted.
Achy all over.
Waiting for the infection to pass.

My head is throbbing,
The sensation isn't new,
It feels like it's been forever,
Since my head didn't hurt.
Thankfully the pain is fading,
And maybe some day soon I won't feel it.

And yet...

Even sick,
With my head aching so painful,
With my body so completely at odds,
Practically falling apart,
I'm perfectly content.

There has been no yelling.
No fighting.
Nothing.
Only peace.
Calmness.
For once the peace is not just one of my dreams,
It is not just in my head,
It is real.

Laughter fills the house,
Joking lewd comments are thrown back and forth,
Hysterical work stories are told,
All the while,
Smiling.

How long this will last,
I know not the answer,
But I embrace it while I can.

Out of my Head

I know this is a lot choppier then anything I've ever written before, but this is almost completely unaltered from what came out the first time around, it's just what's floating around in my head.
Maybe one day I'll go back and refine some of these ideas into something more real, but if I don't I'm okay with that too.

Enjoy:

You have got to be kidding me.

I think I might like you.
I think I might hate myself for it.

Maybe I let my mind wander to you.
But only once.

Okay, twice.

But it means nothing.
Not a thing.

Right?

It can't. I can't.

This is not how I function.

Unacceptable.

Why am I trying so hard to push any thought of you away?
Why is it so hard, so impossible, to do?

God knows it kills me to even write about you where I know you'll never see it.

Fuck.

This is ridiculous.

This is not how I act.
Not how I react.

It can't be.
I can't.

I thought it was over.

Running, screaming, pushing, fighting.

Listening to them,
Hoping one day they'll listen to me.

Running away from the hurt.
Hiding away from the grief.
Locked away somewhere safe.
Retreating to a happier time when there were smiles,
No fights,
No regrets,
No disappointments.

Screaming incessantly.
Not my own.
Harsh tones, harsh whispers, escalating.
All escalating.
Louder.
Always louder.
Until I can no longer drown them out.
Nothing is loud enough to hide behind.
Only left to drown in the sorrow.

Pushing myself.
Removing my body and my mind.
No meditation will take the noise,
No medication will bring me sleep.
I push ahead.

Fighting again.
Nonsensical.
Inconsequential.
Frustratingly emotional beyond words.

I falter in my work.

I falsify my happiness for theirs.

For today, it is enough.

0 to 79, to 83,

Christams Eve in a field.
In the shower.
On a pool table.

Only two years away.
Is that what I'm supposed to be?
How I'm supposed to act?

I don't understand,
How do they not feel dirty or unclean?
Was it love or even affection?
Or was is just lust?

I cannot understand their desicions.
Why would you do that?
Act that way?

Passing others around as though they were toys?
Shouldn't you at least be able to remember who they were?
Names?
Faces?

Is this the norm?
Are you all like this?
How am I supposed to feel comfortable with this?

If this is how I'm supposed to be then I refuse.
I don't know how to start,
but I'll wait a little longer.

I refuse to behave like I don't care.
I saw your face,
you were embarrassed, and I don't want that.
I don't want to feel that regret.

The cold envelopes me,
pushes in from every side;
surrounding me, overwhelming me.

Feelings akin to fear and dread rush through me,
filling my veins,
flushing out any stable mind set,
spiraling me down into unease and something greater.
Something worse.
Making me tired, weary.
Breaking me down.
Pushing me farther away from shore.

Reaching out, holding on,
hoping for the passing that will bring the light.

Numb.
Eyes unfocused.
Head throbbing.
Ears ringing.

No, there's real sound.
Answered.
"Hello?"
Tentative voices.

"Sister?"
I voice I haven't heard in months.
"Brother? What time is it?"

"...9:30 my time. So. Oh, 12:30 your time."
First greeting in months.
Emotions running haywire.

I give up.
I give in.
No anger, only happiness.

Quiet.
No music.
No sound.
No creaking floorboards.

Contentedness overflows my veins.
The silence is overpowering,
Too loud for my ears,
But I embrace it.
Joyful for the feeling.
Joyful for feeling at all.

No fear.
No apprehension.

For once it is welcome.

Morning Visitor

He barges in.
Loud.
Obnoxious.
Childish.

It's his way of saying,
"I love you little sister"
and
"Have a good day"

He doesn't know how to share.
Feelings bottled up.
Scars reopened.
Addictions continued.
Until he overflows with grief.

How long?
How long until he's better?

No one answers.
No one knows.

I'd help him if I could.
I try to tell him.
He's too proud for that.
Hiding from me.

I wonder

I hate what I've been reduced to.
Forced to hide behind these masks.
Cowerdness overtakes my very being.
Shaking me senseless.
Forget the confidence I relentlessly project.
More masks.

But I force it upon myself.
It is I who hides the hurt. Who hides the pain. And the want of something better.
You would too. I think. Who wouldn't?

I don't relish in the events of the past.
I wish they would rewind themselves.
I wish I could forget.
I wish I could forgive.

I wish...
I...
I wish this.
And I wish that.
Fully knowing my wishes are in vain.

But I still hope for that day.

When the pain will fade.
When forgivness will come.
For myself? From myself?

I wonder.